Lou/in process of writing

Against his will, Lou was forced by his parents into the museum of his past and current feelings—a place located between his lungs, but below his chin, and above his crotch. A place where everything could be touched as long as he paid his intellectual property bill on the third of every month, and what was considered intangible was tangible. Where the past and present met every Tuesday afternoon after his parents had a few belts of scotch and let him have it, but also on other days when they found what he and his friends had pinched.

He never needed a ticket and was always alone when he entered the museum, as he once and currently felt. Giant paintings hung on the walls, and modern art he did not understand was piled in corners, waiting to be swept or worshipped by glowing reviews that slipped from his ass and into the mouths of his college-educated friends.

He loved the Joy wing, where there were countless images of the same expression he had not dropped in 25 years of not having to worry about what the next day, or even the next 30 minutes, would bring financially. In Grief, he mourned his Grandfather, and it was the only place in the museum where Lou’s name was on the wall, having donated a hefty sum of tears and broken hearts. In time, he was fascinated. It was always under construction, but each piece of art was better than the last, and it was in these rooms that he found other members of his family, whom he assumed were bored and left alone.

In Joy, he was able to see how happy others were from his point of view, and in Memory, he got lost, often thinking he was in a wing of the museum he had already visited, but every employee said he was in his Memory, and Lou got more and more confused.

He felt drunk and lay on a bench. Eventually, he drank from the water fountain in his mind, and pissed all over the white tiled bathrooms that were just installed.

He was angry and put on a pair of tour headphones that did nothing but repeat what his therapist had been saying for three years. It wasn’t until he found a place to sit on an empty pew in a dark room that played films that he felt glued, or nailed to his seat, just like every other piece in this place, unable to move, and carefully chosen where to hang.

The projector played home movies that he was certain no longer existed, but remembered when they were recorded. He watched and knew what would happen next during the Thanksgiving and Easter videos of his youth, but when the house he grew up in was decorated for Christmas, it reminded him more of a strange dream he might have once had than something he was present for. He paid close attention, not knowing who, what, where, or when would happen next, and he was glad to be alone. His body released something that made him feel good at the sight of this, and perhaps he'd have something to tell one of his siblings or his Mother once he was untied or freed.

The camera bounced around the large kitchen as his Grandmother, mom, and Aunt cooked. They were asked questions, but he could not hear the audio; he just recognized their responses, expressions, and saw what they were making. His Grandmother made a martini, his mom made a child, and his Aunt sharpened a knife, but he was not sure if that counted. Beside her was a salad dressing she was uncomfortable mixing.

Lou was still covered in dark, wet salad with a dog collar around his neck. His Grandmother asked him if he believed in Jesus, his Mother showed him his sister, and his Aunt asked him how he was doing in school. She, too, was covered in old salad that eventually cut off the air supply to her mouth and nostrils, and she died. Lou watched this happen, and his father appeared and said, “One down, and two to go.”

Lou’s Grandmother wept for a few minutes, and his Mother was too busy with his sister to notice that his Aunt died in a museum art film because of clogged salad air passages. His mom did not notice many things except his sister, and he thought, “Rightfully so,” glued and caulked to the room's bench, but he started asking questions like, “Is this real life?” and “Did I have an aunt who died from old, soggy green salad clogging his oxygen pathways?” No one was going to answer this, and after his Grandmother drank her fourth martini. His Mother carried three babies in her arms, stepping over her dead older sister.

Lou kept trying to get off the bench, stretching his skin that was stuck to his pants, while everyone on the old holiday tape noticed what was transpiring and pointed and laughed at him. He was in his own museum, forced inside by his Mother and current father, who got more out of slapping his face than cracking open a Budweiser, but also unsure if they knew he could touch everything he had once felt, and unfortunately, consume him. Still, these home movies were as old as he was.

The laughter from his life, projected against concrete walls encouraged him to tear off the bottom of his pants and underwear, touring the rest of his own life with exposed ass cheeks he said were tender whenever a guide told him that they could see his little, white ass as he entered the largest wing at the property: The Wing of Love, that he still not hadn't seen a sketch of. He kept his eyes closed and saw none of the numerous pieces of art. Maybe one day, if he wanted to, but he never did. He sat in the largest room and kept his eyes closed. Everything he was afraid of, vanquished. His fears sank beneath the foundation and melted in the magma that kept Earth habitable. His Aunt said she was ok and did not die from salad clogging her pathways. His Grandmother asked if he would help her up the stairs, and his Mother let him hold his sister. Upon seeing her eyes, he realized this was his first Memory, and from then on, he would do whatever they needed. Tears ran down his face in the museum of his intangible feelings, where fear was felt, and all else of significant value was wrapped around his soul the way a five-year-old is dressed for winter when it snows. Lou was happy he could feel it, and when he saw everything he could feel, he’d let them know how lucky he felt. They slept easily from then on as he stayed up, waiting for the unexpected, and the fool he once was.