This Beautiful Omelette (Blog #92)

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Four years ago I was living with my friends Justin and Ashley and had just started dating my ex, the one that strongly encouraged me to go to therapy, by his actions, not his words. I remember one weekend in June spending most the day in bed with him, watching movies, eating pizza, feeling like we could build a life together. Justin and Ashley had just gotten a new puppy named Artemis, and we all went out on the back porch, played together, ate donuts for breakfast.

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis, taken that day. Artemis is a boy, but he was named for Artemis the girl, the goddess of the hunt in Greek mythology. Obviously something like this can cause a lot of personal and psychological damage, as evidenced by Johnny Cash’s song, A Boy Named Sue, which is about a boy whose father names him Sue in order to make him tough. I imagine Artemis has caught a lot of crap from the other boys around the hood and at doggy daycare for having such a feminine moniker. But I honestly don’t think he’s bothered by it one bit. So way to go, Artemis. Do your thing, honey.

This evening I had dinner at Justin and Ashley’s. They still live in the same place, the place I called home for so many years. Tonight their living room was filled with stuff from their office and my old room because they’re in the process of rearranging furniture, organizing. Justin apologized for things being in chaos, but you know how it goes–you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette.

As Justin was showing me the changes, we came across a poster board that some of my friends and I made when we were on the yearbook staff in college. Justin and I were friends back then, so we put his photo on the board with the words, “Heartbreaker?–Or Broken-hearted?” (Feel free to cast your votes in the comments below.)

Looking at that photo tonight brought back a lot of memories of Justin, like the first time I heard him play Chopin, the time he dyed his hair to look like a leopard, or the time when I finally came out to him and he said, “I know. I was just waiting on you to say it.” Even though all those memories and many more happened over a long stretch of time, it’s easy for me to slam them all together, label them “Justin,” and take all the time we’ve spent together for granted. Considering the fact that Justin’s been working on a Duck Dynasty beard for several years now, it’s nice to remember that I knew him when he had a jaw line, back when his face saw the light of day on a regular basis. It’s nice to be reminded that some people are in this thing called friendship for the long haul.

Normally Justin and Ashley leave their two dogs outside while we eat dinner, but it started raining tonight, so they brought them in. Since Artemis is four, Justin said he’s “well into middle age” in dog years. As that would be twenty-eight human years, I guess that means that I’m well into middle age too. When the hell did THAT happen?

Here’s a picture of me and Artemis now that’s he all grown up and won’t fit into my lap anymore.

When I lived with my ex, I remember being so confused. We used to fight all the time, and I don’t fight–with anyone. I remember raising my voice, even yelling at times. We always ended up arguing about stupid shit. Why wasn’t he in more of my Instagram photos? I tried so hard to have an adult conversation, to explain calmly, Uh–I’m not in ANY of yours, but the only thing that would get his attention was when I’d start crying. I’d be in bed, knees to my chest, and then he’d finally be attentive, listen, and say he was sorry for being such a shit. (I added that last part.) “That’s when he’d act like a human,” my therapist would say later.

One of the things I love about Justin is that he’s an absolute audiophile–he loves music–loves to listen to it, loves to talk about. So tonight after dinner, Ashley went to bed because some people work for a living, and Justin and I sat in the living room and listened to honest-to-god vinyl records. Justin’s got this glorious vintage chair that sits low, pulls you down into it, and refuses to let you leave. It could have belonged to anyone’s grandfather, and for two hours I sat in it, drank beer, and drowned myself in the sounds of Tom Waits, Sting, and Simon and Garfunkel. It felt like going to church. (What! Your church doesn’t have beer and Tom Waits?) Of course, Justin and I continued to talk, that sort of easy conversation that bounces back and forth between the serious and lighthearted, the kind you can only have with someone who’s stood beside you when you were broken-hearted.

When you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better.

Sometimes I wish I could go back and talk to myself four years ago, tell myself that it’s going to be all right, that I know things seem like such a fucking mess now, but I promise they’ll get better. I remember right after the breakup and starting therapy, my dear friend Tracy said, “Chaos precedes creation,” meaning that out of the turmoil that was my current life would come something beautiful. Sometimes you have to break a few eggs if you want to make an omelette. Of course, when you’re actually in chaos, there aren’t enough words to make it better. So maybe if I could go back and talk to myself, I wouldn’t say anything at all, but instead crawl in bed beside myself and give myself a hug.

They say that time heals all wounds. If that’s true, I think a good therapist helps speed up the process. Of course, I know there are many roads to healing, and that’s simply the one I’ve been on lately. In A Boy Named Sue, the boy in the song searches for and finds his estranged father, intending to kill him for giving him such an “awful name.” But after a tough barroom fight with his son, the father says he understands his son’s anger but “it’s that name that’s helped to make you strong.” In this sense, I’m grateful for the all the fights I had with my ex, all the chaos and shitty things that happened, all the time I’ve had to heal. Of course, I don’t think Sue’s father or my ex deserve any trophies, but someone had to crack the eggs to make this beautiful omelette.

Just like I can look at pictures of Justin and see how much he’s changed and pictures of Artemis and see how much he’s grown, I know that I’ve also changed and grown beyond measure. Physically, I look pretty much the same as I did four years ago. In terms of geography, I’m still in the same town. But on the inside, where it counts, I’ve travelled great distances.

Sometimes I think I’m a whole new person, someone who didn’t exist before, like I went from here to there on a map. But in terms of authenticity, I think “here” is both where we start and where we’re going. Authentic is how we’re born, and we travel to “there” when we start changing who we are, letting people treat us like shit because we want them to love us. In that sense, I think most of my work the last for years has been a returning, a remembering of who I was really born to be. Just before I left Justin and Ashley’s tonight, Justin played one final song by Simon and Garfunkel, and I think they said it best. Gee, but it’s great to be back home.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want.

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On Being a Broken Record (On Being a Broken Record) (Blog #91)

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This afternoon I swam laps. Mostly I kept getting pissed off that my new goggles were leaking, but I managed to swim thirteen hundred meters, which is three hundred more than a few days ago. As I was getting ready to leave, in the locker room, there was a kid running around, maybe waiting on his friends. I’m guessing he was about seven, but hell, he could have been twelve or thirteen. I mean, everyone’s getting Botox these days, and it’s really hard to guess someone’s age. Anyway, this kid kept singing, “Singing in the shower,” a line from a song by Becky G. Just that one line, stuck on repeat. Over and over again.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

Singing in the shower.

I wanted to scream. Geez, kid, learn the rest of the freaking song!

This morning when I woke up I felt skinnier. I’m guessing you know how it goes when you’re on a diet, exercising. You get up one day, and things feel a little tighter, a little lighter. Maybe the scale doesn’t agree with your assessment, but you know–something’s different. Well, the first thing I thought was, There you are, Peter, which is actually a line from the movie Hook starring Robin Williams and references Peter Pan, and not my personal Peter–thank you very much. Anyway, in the movie, Peter Pan has grown up, and he returns to Neverland a middle-aged, overweight lawyer. Of course, none of the Lost Boys recognize him, until one day when one of the boys takes off Peter’s glasses, looks deep into his eyes and says, “Oh, there you are, Peter.”

So I guess it’s a good thing that the line popped into my head this morning. Eating better, exercising, and down several pounds, I’m starting to feel like my physical self again. Also, I feel like I should mention–my armpits don’t smell like bleach anymore. (This is something I blogged about several times over the course of many weeks, some funky body odor that showed up and wouldn’t go away.) The problem has been better for a week or so, but I’ve been cautious to “speak too soon.” But for whatever reason–better diet, Gold Bond Powder, Holy Water–it seems I’ve been healed. Thank you, Jesus. I smell like myself again.

There you are, Marcus.

This evening my friend Marla and I attended a book signing for our friend Anita Paddock at Chapters on Main (a local bookstore) in Van Buren. (Anita’s second book, Closing Time, was recently released.) I told Marla that when our house burned down when I was four, my parents gave our kitchen cabinets and some bathroom fixtures to a family friend who, at the time, lived and worked in the building where Chapters is now. The cool part? The cabinets are still in use, in the coffee shop section of the bookstore. Even better, the baristas handwrite fun and encouraging notes on every cup of coffee. Pictured above, my cup tonight said, “Love Yourself.” I joked with Marla, “Not a problem!”

Tonight I went for a walk, something a friend recently referred to as a “midnight ramble.” On my way back, several blocks from home, I patted my stomach and actually said out loud, “There you are, Peter.” Of course, even though it was after midnight, there were two ladies sitting on a front porch right beside me. Geez. Of all things to say when talking to yourself. There you are, Peter.

Since I got home tonight, I’ve been thinking that I’m a lot like that kid at the pool this afternoon. I’ve got this phrase on repeat. There you are, Peter. Singing in the shower. Whatever. Once I heard the mind referred to as “an idiot box,” meaning that it just repeats itself over and over again. I guess it’s harmless, albeit annoying, when it happens with a song lyric or a movie quote. But of course, it can happen with anything, so a little phrase like–I’m just gonna shoot from the hip here–“you’re fat” or “you’ll never get a date as long as your armpits smell like cleaning chemicals,” can do a lot of damage when it goes on–and on–and on.

There’s a technique my therapist talks about called Broken Record. It’s basically used to enforce a boundary with someone you care about who simply isn’t “getting it.” You boil your boundary down to a one-liner and keep repeating it. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And no matter what they say–ifs, ands, or buts–if they scream or yell, your answer is (calmly) always the same. I won’t talk to you when you raise your voice. And if you have to–I’m leaving/hanging up now.

We teach people how to treat us.

I think the idea behind Broken Record is twofold. First, we teach people how to treat us, what’s acceptable and what’s not. Second, people learn by repetition, and it can take a while to re-train someone, to let them know your rules of engagement have changed–for real this time.

Sometimes my therapist and I talk about positive affirmations, which are pretty big in the self-help/new age world. If you don’t know, positive affirmations are simply positive statements you write down or say to yourself that you want to be true in your life. For example (as mentioned in a previous post), I, Marcus, and a brilliant and prolific writer. Or as my coffee cup suggested tonight, I love myself. So you just say that over and over again, letting it sink into your subconscious, which apparently is a slow learner. In essence, you have to Broken Record–yourself.

Personally, I have a love/hate relationship with positive affirmations. Sometimes I think they’re wonderful, and sometimes I think they’re a bunch of shit. But as evidenced by the phrase I’ve had on repeat today–There you are, Peter–it’s obvious that I’m already talking to myself, my mind already has a record on repeat. So the question is, would I rather be playing the record that says, “I’m fat, I’m fat, I’m fat,” or the one that says, “My God! I’m stunning, I’m stunning, I’m stunning”?

I vote for “I’m stunning.”

The way I see it, everything you tell yourself is an affirmation. It’s just that somethings are a hell of a lot more positive than others. And if you’ve been telling yourself one thing–something negative–most of your life, it’s going to take a minute to turn that truck around.

Sometimes I marvel at people like Anita who actually get a book written. It seems like such a daunting task. But just like this blog, it’s simply a matter of sitting down and writing like a broken record–over and over again. At first it’s just a word, a sentence, a paragraph. And then before you know it, it’s a thousand words. Two months later, it’s a book. Honestly, I wish it were easier. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and have a six-pack. (I mean, I could have a six-pack of beer tomorrow, but not a six-pack OF ABS.) And I wish I could write a book in a day, and learn the Argentine Tango in a day, and learn everything I’ve learned in therapy in three years–in a day.

But that’s simply not the way it works. Rather, it’s like swimming, one action on repeat. (Hopefully with a decent set of goggles.) It’s a balanced meal, a good habit, lots of positive self-talk–done over and over (and over) again.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing you can do to change the seasons or hurry them along.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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You know how they say the truth will set you free–like that’s a good thing? Well, I’m not completely convinced. For the last thirty minutes–honestly–I’ve been running from the truth. What I mean by that is that every day I sit down to blog and almost always “know” what I’m supposed to write about. Most of the time, that’s okay. But sometimes, there’s a big part of me that really doesn’t want to tell the entire fucking internet that I’m an out-of-work homosexual who lives with his parents or that I’ve spent so much time with chocolate cake over the last several years that we’re about to enter into a common-law marriage with each other. But for some stupid reason I decided to start a blog about being honest and vulnerable, which means–damn it–I have to be honest and vulnerable.

Sometimes I hate that.

Yesterday I started reading a juvenile fiction book called Wonder. It’s written by RJ Palacio and has been turned into a movie starring Julia Roberts and Owen Wilson that will be released this fall. Here’s a link to the trailer (you should watch it if you feel like crying), but it’s basically about a boy with an abnormal face and his search for acceptance, authenticity, and love. I’m not done with the book yet, but the first hundred pages are told from the boy’s perspective, after which other characters, like his sister and a friend from school, share their perspectives. As a reader, I was a bit thrown when I realized someone else had hijacked the narrative, but I was fascinated to get more than one perspective.

This evening I went to dinner with a couple of friends at El Zarape because our friend Jimmy was waiting tables and it never hurts to know the guy pouring your margaritas. That’s us in the above picture, including Jimmy, minus the friend who DOES NOT like to have his picture taken. (I personally have a lot of dislikes but–obviously–that’s not one of them.)

For dinner I had a meal called Molcajete, which is basically steak, chicken, and cactus fajitas, served in a giant, appropriately pig-shaped goblet that I referred to as The Holy Grail. Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Amen.

So here’s the part I know I’m supposed to talk about but really don’t want to. For the last week or so, I’ve really wanted a cigarette. I mean, I quit smoking six months ago, so I sort of thought the temptation part was over, at least when I’m brushing my teeth, driving my car, or blogging. But one of my friends who’s gone through the twelve-step program says temptation doesn’t work that way, that you can go months without a craving, and then–bam–one shows up “out of the clear blue sky.” (If only boyfriends worked that way.)

Well, I’ve been handling all the cravings like a champ, even the ones that have basically been so persuasive and seductive they might as well have been Zac Efron lying next to me in bed saying, “I want you. I don’t want anyone else except you.” It really hasn’t been a problem to say, “I’m sorry. You’re cute and all, but I’m saving myself for fresh air.” But tonight at dinner–out of the clear blue sky–I had a REALLY BIG margarita, something that always lowers my standards, so when dinner was over I ended up saying, “Fuck it. I want you too, Zach–I mean–cigarettes.”

But really. Look at that thing. It would probably lower your standards too.

So I went to the gas station to buy a pack, and I’ll be damned if they hadn’t stopped selling my favorite brand, so I walked out. And went to the gas station across the street. Which had also stopped selling my favorite brand. (My mom later said this was “a sign from the universe.” I hate it when people use something I would say against me.) Anyway, I went with a different flavor and smoked one and a half. I actually quit in the middle of the second cigarette, which, historically, I don’t do. I wish I could tell you they tasted terrible, like sin and regret, but I loved every bit of them. Of course, that’s the part that scares me, so I locked the pack in the trunk of a car because I figured I’d be less likely to smoke anytime soon if they were there.

This is a strategy that may not work, since–you know–it was my car and I have the keys.

The truth doesn’t suck.

Back to being honest, I have a lot of shame around smoking. I’m not exactly sure why, but it’s probably because–at this time in history–it’s rather frowned upon. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Anytime smoking has been on my list of things to talk about in therapy, I’ve always shown up with the sirens on, lights flashing. OH MY GOD, I SMOKED ONE AND A HALF CIGARETTES LAST WEEK! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? MAYBE I SHOULD LIE DOWN ON THIS COUCH. I KNOW–LET’S TRY HYPNOSIS. But no matter how worked up I get about the actual thing, my therapist is always like, “This again? Who gives a shit about cigarettes? You’ll quit when you want to. Now would you stop judging yourself already?”

I’ve been thinking tonight about how I’m a lot like that book I’m reading. I like to think of myself as one central character, like, this is my story. But the fact is that this is our story. What I mean by that is that there’s a part of me who loves cigarettes, who comes out of the woodwork when I drink margaritas the size of crock pots. Likewise, there’s a part of me that hates cigarettes, who came home and immediately took a shower, who’s typing now, who’s usually in charge. And there’s a part of me that judges myself, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t, that accepts that I’m human, that understands I need to break the rules I’ve set for myself–occasionally.

I’m learning that all of these parts, all of these characters, deserve to have their say. I mean, I’ve tried to get rid of some of them, but they’re simply not going anywhere. I might as well listen to all of their perspectives. I know that lately I’ve been listening a lot to the character that says, “Do more. Get shit done,” so I’ve been reading and writing and exercising and eating well and go-go-going constantly.” But that’s only part of the narrative. And my guess is the character I’ve been ignoring and hearing as, “Smoke a cigarette,” was actually saying, “Would you stop being such a hard ass and take a damn break for a minute?” (Must be a problem with my ears.)

I mean, yeah, I could take a break for a minute. I’d actually like that part of the story.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I admit it. The truth doesn’t suck. I mean, I don’t know that I feel “set free,” but I do feel lighter, less worried, less ashamed. Hum. Surely that’s a good thing. And maybe–just maybe–that’s free enough for now.

[Lastly, Happy 42nd Wedding Anniversary to my parents. I’m really glad you decided to get hitched, even though Dad said it was possible for me to be here even if you hadn’t. I wanted the blog tonight to be about you and not cigarettes, but that muse wasn’t talking.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Each season has something to offer.

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I, Marcus, Am a Brilliant and Prolific Writer (Blog #89)

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A couple of months ago I had two cavities filled. The next day I developed a bacterial infection on my skin, and the doctor at the walk-in clinic said it was probably because my body was all “what the fuck?” after my sinus surgery and dental work. And then–and then–my teeth started hurting. After I had them filled. Even though they didn’t hurt before. Again, what the fuck?

Well, I went back to the dentist–twice. Both times he said the filled teeth were “high,” meaning they were striking each other too hard (you know–because I was using them to chew) and therefore staying inflamed. Anyway, after the second trip back to the dentist’s office (for a total of three trips altogether), the problem got–uh–better, but one of my teeth has still been sensitive to cold and room-temperature water.

So this afternoon I had an appointment to get my teeth cleaned and was not looking forward to it, I guess because I’m tired of going to the damn dentist. I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but if we spend any more time together and he puts his fingers in my mouth one more time, I’m going to have to introduce him to my parents. Add all that to the fact that I was pissed off because his office has been harassing me with appointment reminders (I’m coming already!), and you’ll understand why I showed up today with anything but a good attitude.

But sometimes God throws you a bone. Y’all, my dental hygienist was amazing–kind, intelligent, funny–a real hoot and a half. Okay, fine, two hoots. She was that good. I’ll spare you the details, since stuff like that never comes across right when told to someone else, especially in writing. Suffice it to say she took wonderful care of me, made me laugh, AND explained what was going on with my teeth.

She said that teeth are actually alive, fed by roots. (They’re like a bunch of hard potatoes, really.) Anyway, she said that inflammation explained the problem when my bite was off, but now it was more likely that I was experiencing “normal sensitivity” due to the fact that one of my roots was ever so slightly exposed because my gum line had receded. (Hey! Get back where you belong.) So she put this vitamin compound on the root, which she said would help fortify it, give it a protective coating, and–kind of like a condom–cut down on sensitivity. (I added the part about the condom. She didn’t actually say that.)

When I left the dentist’s office, good mood restored, I met my friend Tim for a late lunch. Tim and I know each other mostly through Facebook, but he’s been a faithful and supportive reader of the blog since the beginning, so we decided to meet in person. And whereas everything went well, I’m sad to report that Tim closed his eyes for the selfie we took together. There was one photo with his eyes open, but he wasn’t smiling, so I went with smiling over open eyes because teeth are a thing today. (I hope this was the right choice. If I’d been to the eye doctor, I would have chosen the other picture.)

The rest of the day has been hit and miss. I’ve mostly been tired, and one minute I’ve been upset, and the next minute I’ve been sunshine and rainbows, even if my parents might disagree. In addition to sleep-deprivation, I’m attributing part of my mood fluctuation to working through the book I mentioned yesterday, The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. One of the exercises I did earlier this evening required that I write, “I, Marcus, am a brilliant and prolific writer” ten times. I’m serious. That was in the book. The only part I added was my name, and there was a blank for that. (If you want to try it, it could be applied to any creative endeavor. You could say, “…brilliant and prolific artist, dancer, cook, or basket weaver.”)

Anyway, when I did the exercise–and this was the point–a bunch of negative thoughts came up, things like–you’re not good enough–you’re not as smart as that other guy–you’re getting too big for your britches. Well, obviously those thoughts have been lingering around in the shadows for quite a while, but when you put them down on paper, it’s like, Shit, now what?

This afternoon Tim gave me a t-shirt that had the word “writer” in the middle of it, along with a whole bunch of other words that might describe a writer or a writer’s life, things like storyteller, wordsmith, dreamer, and mystery. Honestly, in addition to being an extremely thoughtful gift, I think it came at just the right time, the same day as the assignment to make positive affirmations about myself as a writer.

I’ve been thinking this evening that labels are really important. We can pretend they’re not, but if you tell yourself every day that you’re a freaking fantastic writer, that’s going to have a dramatically different impact than if you tell yourself you’re a piece-of-shit writer. But I think it’s interesting that most of us are more comfortable with negative labels than positive ones.

Once I remember telling my therapist that sometimes I thought I was one of the best dancers in Fort Smith. She immediately said, “Probably one of the best in the state.”

“Isn’t it conceited to think that?” I said.

“No,” she said. “It’s reality. Our goal is reality. You don’t make yourself any more than you are, but you certainly don’t make yourself any less.”

Each of us is brilliant and prolific when it comes to something.

This afternoon when my dental hygienist told me that my teeth were alive, I was genuinely surprised. I said, “I’ve never thought of them as alive before.” So that’s been on my mind all day, and now it makes a lot more sense to me why they’d be sensitive, why they’d get inflamed, why they’d hurt. That’s what living things do. So tonight I’ve been trying to remind myself that I’m a living thing too. I have feelings, rights, and talents like you do. I know that may seem obvious, but so many times I’ve made everyone else out to be better than I am–more talented–more worthy–that I think a little positive affirmation is a good thing. I, Marcus, am a brilliant and prolific writer. And I’m really not getting too big for my britches here. I’m just growing into them for once.

The way I see it, teeth are a small part of the body, but they’re an important part. So I think this has to be true for me, and it has to be true for all of us. Each of us, no more but certainly no less than another, plays an important part or we wouldn’t be here. Yes, each of us is brilliant and prolific when it comes to something, worthy of positive affirmation, and–above all–a dreamer, a mystery.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Growth and getting far in life have nothing to do with where you’re physically standing.

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Weird and Awkward Beginnings (Blog #88)

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Today was a day for beginnings. Why some days are for beginnings and other days are for endings, I don’t know. But I suppose this is simply how the universe works. One day you pick up a cigarette. Another day you put it down. You tell yourself for weeks, maybe months, that it’s time to quit, but then one day it actually is. For me, there’s always a feeling that accompanies a fresh start. I wish I could tell you that such a feeling involved angels and trumpets, a parade where suckers are handed out to people who start diets. But that’s rarely the case. Rather, the feeling I get is more like a soft hum, something that tingles and buzzes inside of me and sounds like I’ve had enough. I’m ready. Shit. No more Camels and chocolate cake.

Or something like that.

Fortunately, today wasn’t about quitting anything. (Ugh. No one likes a quitter.) Although I guess anytime you start one thing, you have to quit another, even if it’s simply quitting not doing the thing you weren’t doing before. (I’m about to confuse myself, so I’ll just say it.) Today I started swimming again. There, I’m glad that’s out in the open, along with everything it implies. Yes, I wear Speedos (the square-cut kind). Sometimes I shave my legs (and absolutely love the way it feels). Of course, as is obvious from the above picture, I haven’t shaved anything lately. Anything–at–all.

Anyway, today I swam a thousand meters–sixteen hundred is a mile–and it felt great. When I first started swimming four years ago, I liked it, but it was difficult because it always felt as if I was sucking in more water than air. But after a few years, I started to get the rhythm of it. We’ll see how the summer goes, but I really think the sinus surgery I had is going to make all the difference, since I can actually breathe now. I mean, I haven’t swum in a year, but the ten laps today seemed easier than anything I’ve ever done before.

Messages from other people are requests, not requirements.

This afternoon before I went to the pool, I got two voicemails–two!–from my dentist’s office. I didn’t even listen to the second one, but the first one requested a “verbal confirmation” that I would be at tomorrow’s teeth cleaning. This after I verbally made the appointment last week and digitally confirmed by text a few days ago. I told my dad, “I’ve forgotten appointments before, but I’m an adult. I said I’ll be there, and I’ll be there. Hell, they used to send emails too.”

Dad said, “Marcus, not everyone keeps a calendar. I don’t think you realize how stupid some people are.”

The old Marcus would have called back to confirm, but the new Marcus thought, “Fuck that. I have better things to do.” Of course, it’s taken a long time for me to come around to this way of thinking. Really, I’ve spent most my life returning every text message, every email, every phone call. But therapy has taught me that messages from other people are requests, not demands, certainly not requirements.

Today at the pool I focused on my breathing, lifting my head every odd-numbered stroke so that I alternated sides. For the longest time, I’ve only come up on my right side, and I think that’s contributed to the imbalances in my body. Of course, lifting on the left side today felt weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I probably swallowed some pool water, so don’t even try to remind me how many little kids pee in it every day. I mean, they make chlorine for a reason!

While swimming, I was thinking about how often we to run away from anything that feels weird, awkward, anything but smooth. I know I used to see that in dance a lot. If people didn’t get something “right away,” they’d get frustrated, cry, even walk away. But–and I hate this–any new thing takes time to master, whether it’s dancing, swimming, or setting boundaries with secretaries at your dentist’s office. (My next step is to call them and say, “I have an appointment tomorrow and would like a verbal confirmation that my dental hygienist will be there.”)

A couple of years ago I had three incidents happen–bam, bam, bam– that involved bad customer service. In one instance, I was treated rudely at a medical facility, and in another given incorrect change at a restaurant. (It may sound high-minded, but I HATE IT when servers owe me $9.13 and bring me back $9.00 instead, like the rest doesn’t matter.) So when I talked to my therapist about these incidents and said I wanted to write letters to all the respective managers, she leaned forward in her chair, raised her eyebrows, and said, “DO IT!”

So I did, and it felt great.

In the case of the medical facility, I believe someone lost their job, or at least got a stern talking to. Either way, the manager said that if I had to return, please contact him personally. I also got a gift certificate from the restaurant. But none of that was the point to the letter writing. The point was to express myself, to confront a damn problem for once. Honestly, I’m still not a pro at confrontation. I usually have to be pushed pretty far before I’ll speak up. In any form, confrontation feels anything but smooth. But just like my breathing at the pool, it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be because I’ve been willing to practice, even with little things like not returning phone calls that I simply don’t want to return.

This evening I started reading a book called The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to High Creativity by Julia Cameron. The book has been around for twenty-five years, but I’d never heard of it until a few weeks ago when two people told me about it within the space of a few days, which I figured meant the universe wanted me to read it. (God works in mysterious ways.) Well, I’m only a couple chapters in, but I’m riveted, and I already have homework. Specifically, starting tomorrow, I’m supposed to starting writing, by hand, three pages (called Morning Pages but will be Afternoon Pages in my case) about anything and everything that comes to mind. Sometimes called “brain drain,” the idea is that the practice gets out all the junk that’s currently blocking any creativity.

I’ll let you know how it goes, but I’m both excited about nervous about the idea. Excited because it makes sense, and I want to see how it changes my creative life. Nervous because, like learning to swim again and learning to handle confrontations, it’s probably going to feel weird and awkward for a while.

There are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets.

They say that if you want a different life, you have to let go of the one you have. You have to do things differently. Personally, I’m finding that changes that really matter are usually a process. Maybe there are angels there to help, but they don’t blow trumpets because they know beginnings are pretty much always rough and not really trumpet-worthy. But anything you consistently work at–dancing, swimming, finding your voice, creating–will eventually smooth out. Just give it a little time, and it won’t feel weird or awkward at all. No, you’ll get the hang of it, and–what’s more–you’ll have a different life, a life that tingles and buzzes–and feels great.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

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On Creativity, Writing, and Demons (Blog #87)

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Today I watched another play in Fayetteville, ate seventy-five percent of a large chicken and pineapple pizza all by myself, walked for two hours while listening to a book about narcissists and a lecture about consciousness, and read a third of a book called Blessed Are the Weird: A Manifesto for Creatives. So it was a pretty busy day, but–you know–no one proposed. And even though a lot happened, including the fact that the waxing crescent moon, which I like to call God’s Fingernail, appeared out of nowhere in the sky, I’m currently thinking that I have NOTHING to write about.

So–for now–let’s talk about my hair. (I’m currently picturing my therapist throwing her hands up like an Italian grandmother and saying, “Just admit it. You. Are. Vain.” Fine. I’m vain.) Anyway, I took the above picture a few minutes ago. Currently I’m propped up in bed, which is where I usually blog, and I’m loving that swoopy-do thing my hair is doing. Although if it gets any longer, I’m going to look like Peg, that somewhat-trashy-but-probably-fun-at-parties dog played by Peggy Lee in Lady and the Tramp.

The play I saw this afternoon was Visible from Four States, written by Barbara Hammond. It told the story of a man whose hilltop land is coveted by both a cellphone company (for a tower) and a local pastor (for a giant cross). The man’s best friend is a prison warden who’s befriended a young inmate on death row for committing murder. So in addition to covering whether or not God is real, the play also covered the death penalty, forgiveness, and redemption. You know, light-hearted stuff like that.

Having attended several plays over the last two weekends, I’ve been thinking a lot about the process of writing–why some stories are better than others, what works and what doesn’t. My conclusion has been that if the audience is laughing or crying or gets all caught up in the story, that doesn’t happen by accident. Somewhere, I’m sure an author has blood on his keyboard. But I trust that even the stories that don’t work so well were written by authors who were also trying, also bleeding.

Based on my experience with this blog, writing (or any creative endeavor) is partly a crapshoot. You sit down every damn day, almost always thinking there’s nothing to talk about, but there usually is, even if it’s way down there at the bottom of the creative well. You just have to bring it up, which is often done by pulling your hair out, banging your head against a wall, or saying, “Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck.” Sometimes, like a miracle, what comes out of the well is pretty fantastic. But plenty of times it sucks.

The more I think about it, I guess good writing is a lot like a good hair day–it’s something you can hope for, something you can work on, but it’s never a guarantee. (I hate that.) Some days the creative well is simply–dry.

But back to my hair. I really think the secret to the swoopy-do is the fact that I wore a sock cap for a few hours, which straightened out most of my curls, except the ones that were sticking out in the front. (Warning–we’ve re-entered the stream-of-consciousness section of the blog. Grab your inner tube and enjoy the ride. This is also part of the creative process. Don’t you feel–uh–involved?)

Earlier today I read a Buddhist slogan (on the toilet, if I’m being honest) that said, “Don’t make gods into demons.” In other words, don’t take something that’s meant to be a good thing and make it a bad thing. I guess I’ve been thinking about it most of the day because I have a tendency to do just that. Often in the name of overachieving, I’ll start a diet or exercise program and be so hardcore about it for two months that I’ll burn myself out. Then I’ll spend the next six months using the lack of diet or exercise as a reason to beat myself up. I’ve done this same thing with more than one type of meditation. As we speak, I have a book on cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) that my therapist gave me three years ago that I haven’t finished and feel bad about. (My therapist says I have a hangup on completion. Maybe one day I should end a blog mid-sentence.) Anyway, it’s just a book, but I’ve essentially turned it into a demon, something to taunt myself with.

I know that if I let it, this blog could become a demon too. Having set a goal of writing every day (for a year, it’s been suggested), it’s already its own kind of monster. Since I hold myself to a pretty high standard of perfection, nights like tonight–when it doesn’t seem like I’m getting any water out of the well–are difficult for me. There was line in the play today that basically said you’re not the worst or even the best thing you did. Of course, it was talking about murder, but I think it could also be talking about writing. So I’m telling myself, “I am not my worst writing. I am not my best writing. I am not my hair.”

Sometimes you really do have to bang your head against the wall and wait for an idea to come.

Because the moon has been new (dark) for the last few days, when I saw God’s fingernail in the sky tonight, it seemed to have come out of nowhere. And I guess if I didn’t know about the phases of the moon, looking at it each night would seem like a crapshoot. But obviously the heavens have a process. As for writing, I’m finding it has a process too. If I want something to come OUT of the creative well, I have to put something IN it first, which is part of the reason I’ve been going to plays, reading books, and eating pizza. (Okay, the pizza was about carbohydrates, not creativity.) But just because you’re well has water in it, doesn’t mean it’s easy to bring the water up. Sometimes you really do have to bang your head against the wall and wait for an idea to come, just like sometimes you have to put a sock cap on your hair and wait–and wait–for the swoopy-do.

I have to remind myself that hair is just hair. Some days it’s glorious, some days it ain’t. In the same manner, a blog is just a blog. But the point for me is to write, to be honest, to bleed on the keyboard–to dip into the well and see what comes out. (Today, this is it–you’re lookin’ at it.) As long as I’m doing that, this is a god–this is a good thing. As soon as I start demanding perfection or judging myself for not meeting a certain standard every damn day, it’s become a demon, and ain’t nobody got time for demons.

As it turns out, I did have something to write about–writing–although I suppose the thoughts about creativity and not being the worst or best thing you’ve ever done could apply to many other subjects as well. (In the comments below, I invite you to complete this sentence: “I am not my worst/best __________.” For example: “I am not my worst outfit or boyfriend. I am not my best test score.”)

And as for that part about being hung up on completion,

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Patting yourself on the back is better than beating yourself over the head.

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On Rewriting Your Own Story (Blog #86)

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Four years ago I completed my first and only triathlon. At the time I was working out pretty hardcore with my friend Jim, who’s pretty hardcore himself. I mean, the man’s retired, has competed in dozens and dozens of marathons and triathlons, and even today could probably benchpress in pounds the number of calories I drank in beer today. All this he does with one lung (he’s beat cancer three times), so he’s not exactly the person you want to call when you feel like whining or skipping a workout. Anyway, when the above photo was taken, Jim and I were exercising–lifting, swimming, biking, running–probably six or seven days a week. I don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much in all my life. It’s a wonder I didn’t die of evaporation.

I think I ran two 5Ks that spring. They both started around six or seven in the morning, so there’s actual, documented proof that I was awake and functioning before noon. So there. Since the mornings were cool, I decided “my thing” would be wearing knee-high colored tube socks. Looking back, I might as well have just worn a fanny pack that said “virgin” in pink sequins.

Here’s a picture from my first 5k, taken right before the finish line. I’m especially proud that I was able to turn up the heat at the last minute and smoke those little toddlers’ butts. I like to think they ran straight for their mothers and started sobbing.

Maybe sometime between the first and second race, I started having a funny sensation in my right hip. Not knowing what it was, I pushed through–kept up all the workouts. Before summer hit, I was in more pain than I’d been in before or have been since. I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but tying my shoes made me want to cry. Getting in and out of the car did too. It felt like a knife shoved into my hip, knee, and ankle, all at the same time, and it went on for months. Now I know that it was sciatic pain, a pinched nerve due to the structure of my body and inflammation in my hip. But then, even though I talked to several professionals, it remained a mystery.

So I quit swimming. Quit biking. Quit running. Quit working out my lower body.

Eventually the pain got better, manageable. Then I found a chiropractor who made it disappear within a couple of weeks. It was like a miracle (that you have to pay for). So I started swimming and biking again, but I couldn’t run because anytime I tried, the pain came back. That means that for the last four years, I’ve had to be really be careful when it’s come to that hip. It also means that I’ve also eaten a lot of carrot cake–you know–as a way of apologizing to my body for all that exercise I put it through.

I joke about stuff like this, but I can’t tell you have fucking frustrating my right hip issue has been. Even before the sciatic part, things were out of whack. Some days it just kept me from doing things I enjoyed, like racing against five-year-olds. Other days it straight-up hurt like a sonofabitch.

Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is.

Today, like last weekend, I spent the afternoon and evening at the Arkansas New Play Festival in Fayetteville. Having had a long week, I’d planned to skip the final play, Comet Town, since I saw it last Saturday. HOWEVER, I spoke with the playwright this afternoon, Rick Ehrstin, and he told me that they’d changed the play a lot since last week, cleaned it up quite a bit. (This is part of the point, I’m learning, of the festival, since it features plays that are in “the works.”) So I decided to stay, a choice that had mostly to do with Rick’s play and a little to do with the free beer being served.

Of course, the main points in the play stayed the same. An alcoholic man hires a woman to take care of his father, who has dementia and thinks planes flying over his home are comets and sounds from his basement are his dead wife. But so many little things changed. Last week there was a part in which the alcoholic complained about a previous caretaker who’d stolen from the family. This week it was gone. The effect for me was that the character instantly softened up a little, became more likable.

The author said that in one form or another, he’s been working on the play for years. As a writer, I know it’s easy to get stuck in or married to certain ideas, so I love that he’s been able to be flexible, cut out what’s not working (kill your darlings, it’s called), add in something that is. So this evening I’ve been stuck on this idea of rewriting a story, taking an idea that’s maybe been the same for years and effectively going back to the drawing board with it.

A few weeks ago I started running again, gingerly. Mostly, I’ve been walking, but running some, adding in a little more distance each week. Tonight after I got home from the play, I ran the farthest, nonstop, that I have since Jim’s Summer of Exercise Heaven and Hell.

Five and a half miles.

(Take all the time you need to stop clapping and sit back down.)

We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

Really, I don’t know whether that’s a big deal or not, but I do know that it’s a big deal for me, and it’s a big damn deal for my hip. I mean, it’s tight. I can feel that. But in the last four years, I’ve learned enough about what’s going on that I think I can work with it. And whereas I’m happy–thrilled–about being able to run again, it occurred to me tonight that before I could even run to the end of the block, I had to rewrite the story I was telling myself about my hip first. What I mean is that for quite a while, I’ve been saying that I couldn’t run, that I was done running forever because my hip couldn’t get better. Thankfully, somehow, I’ve changed my mind about that. Now I believe it can get better. It may not be where I want it to be yet, but it’s already better than it was.

I guess we all tell ourselves stories about what we can and can’t do. Obviously, sometimes there are actual limits. I’m not saying pain isn’t real. When my dad was a kid, he thought he could fly like Superman, but found out he couldn’t when he jumped off the carport. So there’s that. But so many times the limits are in our heads. I can’t be successful. Good things happen to other people. I’ll never meet the right person.

The good news, I think, is that those are just stories we tell ourselves, and we can rewrite our stories if we want to. Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is. Maybe that doesn’t mean you’re out running a marathon tomorrow, but maybe it means that you start changing your ideas about what’s possible, considering a different ending than the one you had in mind. I’m quitting my job. I’m leaving this town. No more knee-high tube socks! Or maybe instead of being so hard on yourself, you simply look in the mirror and say, “I’m doing the best I can.” Just like that, your story’s main character softened up a little, became more likable. Even if nothing else changed, surely that one rewrite would have you feeling like you’d just crossed a finish line, arms lifted in celebration, two crying children somewhere in the distance.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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Embracing My Animal Nature (Blog #85)

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Here’s a picture from when I was in Austin that I’m affectionately calling “Dasher and Dancer.” Get it? (I’m a dancer.) The photo was taken at a vintage furniture store, and I was a little sad that Dasher had a broken antler, so I gave him a hug. (Notice he didn’t return the favor. Of course, he doesn’t have arms.) Anyway, I’m back in Arkansas now, but I’m still sharing this picture because I always start each post with a picture and Bonnie sent me this one this morning.

This afternoon I spent well over an hour in the backyard, reading. Half-naked. In the hot sun. I’ve been doing this for the last couple of weeks, hoping to ease myself into an even tan, erase some of the lines I’ve acquired from hanging my arm out my car window and walking around Austin in a tank top. Well, I didn’t think I was outside too long, but maybe I was. Maybe the sun was especially pissed off today, like it had a fight with the moon last night and decided to take it out on me. Either way, I roasted like a marshmallow. My skin keeps getting pinker and pinker.

Here’s a picture I took a couple of hours ago. Something must be up with my camera or the lightbulbs in the bathroom because it doesn’t look like I’m sunburned at all. But everything that looks tanned in the picture (my stomach) is actually medium rare in real life.

First, while I’m partially nude, I’d like to say this. I don’t look nearly as bad as I think I do. I mean, I just spent three days in Austin eating tacos, fried chicken, and donuts the size of flying saucers, so I haven’t exactly felt svelte. But I stood on a scale today, and I actually lost weight while I was in Texas. Go figure. Metabolism, like Rob Lowe’s skin regimen, is a mystery. But back to the sunburn. I just took another picture, in a different room, and here’s what my skin really looks like.

Obviously, good lighting makes all the difference. Also–OUCH.

As the day has gone on, like my skin, I’ve progressively gotten more and more irritated. This evening I saw a lovely play in Fayetteville, but I kept remembering that I was alone, which almost never bothers me but did tonight. Then I went to Walmart, checked out, and got back to my car and realized I’d forgotten something, so I had to go back in, which made me want to spit in someone’s face. I’m guessing my bad attitude has to do mostly with coming down off the high of a wonderful trip to Austin, not getting enough sleep last night, cutting back on sugar today (where’d all the donuts go?), and burning the shit out of my stomach in the name of vanity.

But that’s just a guess.

This afternoon while I was frying my skin like a slab of bacon, I was reading a book about psychology and fairy tales. The book said that animals in fairy tales almost always represent our instinctual, animal nature (the id), and that the goal of becoming an adult is not to rid yourself of your animal nature, but rather to tame it or integrate it into your whole personality. For example, frogs (as in “The Frog Prince”) often represent one’s growing sexuality, the changing from a pre-pubescent child to an adult. In that particular example, rather than banishing the frog, the princess ends up kissing it, symbolically welcoming the change she is going through.

If a feeling is present, it’s probably there for a reason.

I’m not exactly sure what animal(s) would represent my irritation best, but probably a mosquito or a flock of shitting pigeons. Either way, I really like this idea of integration. I used to think that getting irritated, frustrated, or angry was bad and “not spiritual,” so I worked to avoid feeling those emotions as much as possible. (Television, whiskey, and nicotine often helped.) In fairy tale terms, I thought of those emotions as inhabitants of my kingdom that needed to be banished forever. But now I’m coming around to the idea that all the ups and downs in my mood are part of me. No one feeling should get to run the show, but everyone has a right to live here. Plus, if a feeling is present, it’s probably there for a reason.

When I think about my irritability that way, I realize that I’ve been “dashing” about a lot lately–making a whirlwind trip to Austin, sacrificing sleep in order to write, burning the candle at both ends the way I burned my skin today. And I guess my animal nature, which I’m now picturing as a white reindeer with one broken antler (because life’s a bitch sometimes), is simply telling me to gently apply some aloe vera, slow my roll, and go to bed.

Whatever you say, Dasher. (Also, Dancer loves you.)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can hang on and put everything safely in its place, and then at some point, we’re forced to let go.

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No Pants. No Problem! (Austin, How I Love Thee) (Blog #84)

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It’s 8:40 in the evening, Bonnie is driving the convertible back home to Arkansas, and the sun is setting to our left. The sky is full of blues and pinks. Some are light and easy, some heavy and deep. With each passing moment they seem to change, as my mood does. It’s the first time I’ve blogged in daylight in I don’t remember when, the only time I’ve blogged in the car, and I’m working on saying goodbye to Austin–for now. It’s harder than I imagined it would be. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it means I’m meant to be there, wearing tank tops, eating tacos, and breaking a sweat in the Texas sun–comfortably–in my own skin.

Yesterday Bonnie and I window shopped for Annie’s Pilates studio. We got a lot done, but we spent as much time goofing off as anything else. We’re probably the exact reason that some stores tell you not to take pictures, not to touch the pretty things, not to sit on the furniture. Take the picture of me and the cactus at the top of the blog, for instance. (We come as a set–wouldn’t the two of us look great in your living room?) Or take this picture (like Bonnie did).

On a related note–I don’t know if I’ve ever said this–I’d like to thank my parents for spending all that money for braces to fix my teeth. I’m sure you could have used the cash to–I don’t know–pay the mortgage. But I want you to know it makes a difference every day, and I’m especially thankful for my straight teeth every time I hold a giant magnifying glass in front of my mouth.

Here’s a picture we took at Pier 1. It’s sexy, I know. Very Pinocchio meets Mardi Gras.

After Pier 1, we went to Target, and we found the most amazing thing. We were in the home decor section, and there were a ton of individual block letters–the kind with multiple light bulbs inside each one. My first thought was to rearrange them, maybe spell my name. But then Bonnie and I noticed that someone had already done that. Well, they didn’t spell my name. Rather, on the first row they had spelled DICK, and on the second, MALL.

DICK MALL.

First, how creative–and naughty–is that? Second, where is this place? I mean, I love to shop, but I didn’t realize this was a thing you could shop for. (If it is, I wonder if they ever have a Buy One, Get One sale.) Anyway, it gets better. The picture doesn’t show it, but the third row spelled OOOH. So put those three words together–DICK MALL, OOOH–and you really have endless hours of entertainment if you just play around with how low, high, fast, or slow you say OOOH. I realize it may not be everyone’s sense of humor (maybe you would have had to have been there), but try it sometime.

After a hard day of window shopping (at the Dick Mall–see how this works?), we went to Torchy’s Tacos. Apparently it was good enough for President Obama, and it was good enough for me too. I’m pretty sure the taco on the left was called The Democrat. I know one of them was, but the left would make more sense.

When tacos were over, we checked out a used clothing store. I didn’t buy anything, but I had fun trying stuff on. My favorite items were a shirt that said Texas with a picture of the Lonestar, and a pair of polka-dotted pants that were so tight I had to sit down on the floor to get them over my heels. They might seem pretty loud, but I guarantee you that no one in Austin would have even noticed them unless they were on fire, and had they fit, I’d be wearing them right now.

And no, I’m not sure they weren’t women’s pants, but I did find them in the men’s section. I swear. As a thirteen-year-old boy told me once at summer camp, “Boys, girls–what’s the difference these days?”

This afternoon Bonnie and I went for breakfast tacos at an iconic Austin restaurant called Maria’s. I was too busy eating to take many pictures, but I did take this one. It says, “No zapatos [no shoes]–no tacos. No pants–no problem!”

No pants, no problem! I mean, this is my kind of town. Bonnie and I just looked at each other and said–

DICK MALL.

This afternoon was more window shopping, more window shopping. In anticipation of blogging on the road tonight, I left my phone, which I use as a hotspot, at the apartment to charge. So I didn’t take a picture of any of the amazing mid-century modern furniture we saw, or the crumbled beer can I saw in a lamp store that said, “I got smashed in Las Vegas.”

Our last meal in Austin was at a place called Gourdough’s, and it was perfect. Most of their items include donuts, and all their items have fun names, like Saussy Cock, Boss Hog, and Drunken Hunk. My meal was called Mother Clucker, and it was friend chicken–on a doughnut!–with melted honey butter. I took one look at it and told the waitress, “I’m going to need a side of insulin.”

You can be weird here. You can be yourself.

Now it’s ten-thirty, and the sky is dark. My laptop illuminates my side of the car. In addition to writing, I’ve been thinking about what I love about Austin. At least for a while, the saying there was, “Keep Austin Weird,” a priority that seems obvious whenever you look around and see a hand-knitted blanket that’s been hung on an overpass as art, a sign that says, “Please remove your spurs before dancing on the table,” or a bathroom door that says, “Whichever.” You look at the people and see a thousand tattoos, bodies of every shape and size, skin exposed, proud and confident. All of it seems to say–you can be weird here–you can be yourself.

In truth I think you can be yourself anywhere, but maybe some places make it easier, give you more space to grow. I’m terrible with plants (they always die), but I’ve seen my aunt move a budding plant from one pot to another because it needed more room. So maybe it’s like that for people too.

There’s a spiritual teacher, Don Miguel Ruiz, who says, “Change as fast as God.” The way I see it, that’s another way of saying, “Be here, now,” or don’t spend so much time thinking about the fact that you’re not in Austin that you forget to enjoy where you actually are. So as I leave Austin and head back to Arkansas, I intend to soak up every bit of good that life has to offer me there. Still, even now, it’s as if Austin’s calling, “Come back. Come back real soon. And stay. We’re weird here. You’ll fit right in.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Abundance comes in many forms.

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The Sweetest Sound (Blog #83)

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When I was a kid, my sister and I would spend at least a couple of weeks every summer in Mississippi. There we would stay with our friend April and her family, who used to live in Fort Smith. I remember the small town they lived in with one stop sign, where we made our fun by splashing in cheap, plastic swimming pools in the backyard, hanging upside down from trees in the front, and walking along the cotton patches while dragging sticks behind us in the dirt. It’s funny the memories that stick with you, like the feeling of the antique chair that needed a new spring in the seat, the taste of cold milk in a glass mason jar, the clink of silverware on blue and white patterned china. Even now I can’t look at a kudzu vine without thinking of April and Carrolton, Mississippi. It seems all of these things are tied together in a knot that’s so tight I can’t imagine it will ever come undone.

Recently I came across a three-ring binder in my parents’ garage overflowing with handwritten letters from April. I guess when we were young, she was my best friend, my confidant, and we used to write each other ten, twenty, thirty-page letters about every little thing that happened. As kids, we all went to summer camp together. As teenagers, April and I worked at that same summer camp, a place I called home for nine summers of my life. I don’t have the time or space to tell you what that place meant to me, but I don’t think I ever drove back home to Arkansas without crying.

For a couple of summers, April and I taught canoes together. We used to get pretty silly, so every day we’d teach the campers a different way to spit water out of their mouths. I’m sure the parents didn’t realize they were paying for this sort of education, so I considered it like a bonus. Sometime you’ll have to ask me about the water pump spit, the inverted water pump spit, and the sprinkler spit, but until then, here’s a picture of a spit whose name I have forgotten. (Damn if my pecs didn’t look fantastic.)

As we got older, April and I grew apart. Life takes everyone in different directions sooner or later. April got married, had three children, divorced. She and my sister reconnected, but April and I weren’t even friends on Facebook. A lot of people at camp used to say that April and I would get married, and even though we never dated we were so close, so it felt weird, maybe intrusive. Plus, I hadn’t come out to anyone at summer camp. I simply didn’t know how to handle any of it, so I didn’t.

They say time changes everything. A few years ago, April and I spoke online. She talked about her family. I said I was gay. She said she figured, didn’t matter. Since then, we’ve kept up in messages, not like the ones we used to send–about every little thing–but still in long, uncensored, run-on paragraphs that feel familiar, comfortable like an old t-shirt you like to sleep in.

A few months ago, just when I moved back in with my parents, April sent me a message that said, “Get your butt to Texas. You can stay with me.” Even now I’m a bit floored by the offer.  I mean, I haven’t seen her in ten years. Who says that? But I guess the answer is a dear friend. A dear friend says that.

Yesterday April noticed online that I’m currently in Austin and sent me a message that said she was coming into town with her boyfriend to have dinner and would like me to join them. So Bonnie loaned me her car (a convertible!), and I went. April got there first, and she sent me a text that said to walk to the back. Well, I looked everywhere and was just about to go back to the front door and start over. But then out of nowhere April swooped in and gave me the biggest hug.

As we sat down, it felt a lot like any reunion. How are your brother and sister? Where do you work? Whatever happened to the other counselor in your cabin? For the most part, it was nonstop like this for two hours. April’s boyfriend joined in, but it was mainly the Marcus and April show. As the night went on, I kept thinking how much both of us have changed, how much shit we’ve both been through.

Some things are timeless, safe from the grips of gravity.

Sometimes I look back at that kid in the swim trunks at summer camp, and I can still remember what he was thinking, the way he loved singing Bill Grogan’s Goat and giving the kids piggy back rides, the way he hated the mosquito bites almost as much as he hated saying goodbye to his friends. When I think about camp, there’s so much that’s palpable, but when I look in the mirror and see pictures of other counselors with other campers online, I’m reminded that “they” are right–time changes everything. My days at camp are a distant echo. I’ve been through hell and back since then. Parts of me are still the same, but so much is dramatically different. I know it’s the same for April too.

“Remember when I accidentally hit that one girl in the face with my canoe paddle?” I said.

“Yeah, that must have hurt.”

“I mean, she seemed to take it well.”

“Marcus.” April put her elbows on the table and leaned in. “A face is a face.”

And then it happened. Both of us reared back in our chairs and burst out laughing. In that moment, I realized I hadn’t actually heard April’s laughter in over ten years. To my delight, it sounded just like it did when we were children all crammed in the backseat of a hot car, just like it did when we were teenagers and we’d tump over a canoe full of kids on purpose.

Yes, twenty years changes a person. His chest falls, his waistline slumps like the seat of an antique chair. Everything fades with the seasons, the way unpicked cotton eventually falls to the ground. In the end, gravity wins, changing our bodies the way that hard times and disappointments change children into adults. But some things, I think, are timeless, safe from the grips of gravity. Among them are memories of cold milk in glass mason jars, children riding piggy back, and canoes filled up with water. But perhaps the best thing that doesn’t change is the sound of a dear friend, reared back, laughing. A friend’s laughter, after all, takes us backward and carries us forward simultaneously. Growing only richer and deeper with age, it’s a beautiful sound indeed, best enjoyed by one who has heard it hundreds–if not thousands–of times before.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to become who you were meant to be, it's absolutely necessary to shed your old skin. Sure it might be sad to say goodbye--to your old phone, to your old beliefs, anything that helped get you this far--but you've got to let go in order to make room for something new.

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