It began with bicycles.

Because my father, god help him, never taught me how to fix things.

Because even in a pair of shaky hands, there is nothing so solid as a Tool. Weight and mass and shining chrome, even through the grit of year-old grease.

Because the world can be a rusty bike chain. An orange and gray loop, around and around, always the same, and never quite right. Sticking and squeaking, and not half so efficient as it is capable of being.

Because I am what I am, instead of what I am capable of being, I ripped off the rusty right front fender of my maroon Subaru wagon with wrenches and angry arms, and replaced it, hand-tightened, with a newer-looking shiny silver one, with no rust, so that one quarter of the car is bright and wrong and immediate.

Because everything feels broken, from my stomach to my soul.

In life, we have the tools, and we know the problems, but some of us, we lack the mechanical skills to put things right inside. We were not taught the technique to find and repair those parts within that are at risk of snapping. The acidic churning in the bottom of a torso, the slipping, squeaking sounds of gears skipping in the back of the head, the coppery taste of loathing and disappointment that wells up behind our tongues. We might try to summon the strength, grasp around behind us for the socket of the proper size, but we find only frustration and impotence, steel ground down to nubs with wear and misuse. We allow our tools to clatter to the concrete floor, hang our heads, and spit. We can't leave the garage, the garage can't leave us, and we cannot find the will or wherewithal to break the patterns our parents gave us, or the mold we made ourselves.

But I can sure as shit find the oil pan of a station wagon, and with leverage and a ratchet I can rip the drain plug free and let warm oil pour over my hands in a stain that will last for days and flavor the food I eat with a taste that is both industrial and good. I may lack the ambition to probe my mind for the parts that are broken, and replace or patch them. Or to take preventative measures to protect pieces I know will chip or rust away. But I will diligently lay a thin layer of clean clear oil over the rubber gasket of the oil filter with my fingertip, before hand-tightening it three quarters of a turn, to where it is just tight enough, and will not split or crack or leak around the edges. Not for three thousand fucking miles.

Because half the things I try to fix, I end up breaking.

I will listen as I drive for silent clicks and banging sounds, and find their causes. The gear skip. The slipping belt. And I will do what I can with wrenches and drivers. Because I must ignore the things inside that scream for me to fix them with knives and hammers.

It began with bicycles. To combat an ignorance that could be attacked with manuals and socket-sets. That stupidiy can be fought with objects; it has substance, it can die. Unlike the great unknowing and unsure things that erode our undercarriages daily. I cannot reach into myself and grab hold of the broken things, but those things in the world I can take hold of, I will grasp and pull until my tendons tighten like iron, pull until they straighten to their proper form under my dripping sweat and swearing. That which is broken, that can be the tool to wrap a pair of shaking hands around, to steady them, to cut their palms a little, and make things real and right again.

It began with bicycles. But I must teach myself to build motorcycles and Mustangs, day-long projects under smoke and halogen. I must end each day with scars on my arms and the sweet smell of WD40 around me, on my hands and in the coarse bread of my turkey sandwich, fingers exchanging stains with my pen and guitar strings. So I will remember that I am fixing things. That I am immersed in something real, outside myself. That I will bend and tighten and fabricate, even long into the evening, ripping apart and starting anew as necessary. That regret no longer exists, because every mistake I make, in at least that one place, can be undone with pounding, chopping, and the gentle-fingered guidance of a threaded bolt.

Because everything that is, but is broken, is an affront to me.