It’s two in the morning, and I just woke up from a nap. After a hard day of–well–reading and that’s about it, I was beat. I did go for a two-hour walk, so maybe that’s what did me in. Maybe some days life just catches up to you. Either way, I’m not sure the nap helped. Currently I can’t quite get my brain to turn on and stay on. It feels like I’m futzing with the switch–up and down, up and down–but there must be a short in the circuit. In terms of writing something brilliant, funny, or profound, things aren’t especially looking up. I realize a writer saying that is a bit like a restaurant saying, “Come on down–our food is–meh,” but it’s honest.

As my friend Trey used to say, “Some days chickens, some days feathers.”

Yeah, today is definitely a feather sort of day. Usually I go for a walk–I don’t know–around midnight. But tonight I went for a walk at 7:30. I thought, Be like the rest of the world, Marcus. The sun is setting. This will be so picturesque. So I took off down the street, crossed over the interstate, and entered what I like to think of as a less populated area of town–kind of country, no sidewalks. Well, shit. There were cars everywhere. Why people weren’t at home with their families on a Sunday evening like God intended, I’ll never know, but I kept stepping off the road and into the ditches to avoid becoming a headline in tomorrow’s newspaper.

I should probably give in and become one of those people who wear reflective tape or blinking lights when they go out walking. You know the ones. I could even wear an orange vest, or if I wanted to really gay it up, somehow rig a disco ball to hang over my head. Maybe just stretch pants with a lot of sequins would do. Anyway, I eventually made it to a part of town with fewer cars and more sidewalks, but the whole affair gave me a lot of sympathy for animals. If they’re anything like me, they’re probably really pissed off at all the people in automobiles who have the nerve to actually use the roads for driving on. As for the animals who only come out late at night, I don’t blame them.

The book I’m currently reading is called Childhood Disrupted: How Your Biography Becomes Your Biology, and How You Can Heal by Donna Jackson Nakazawa. (That was a mouthful.) Beautifully written, the book outlines how trauma in early life can lead to chronic inflammation and the loss of healthy immune function in later life. This afternoon I read about techniques you can use to help yourself heal, many of which were familiar–yoga, chi kung, mindfulness. But there were a couple of techniques I hadn’t heard of, so I immediately went to Google in search of practitioners to visit and workshops to attend. Well, I couldn’t find anyone or anything locally, and that caused me to freak out a little, the same way I do anytime I see a recommended reading list. My friend Bonnie says I get stressed because I misread “recommended” as “required,” but either way it always feels as if “health and healing” and “the right information” are just beyond my grasp.

Oh good–a new way to stretch tight muscles. Oh crap–I have to fly to Switzerland to learn it.

Overwhelmed, I put the book down, went for the walk in traffic I mentioned earlier, and listened to another book (on tape) about a woman who had a near-death experience. Naturally, I thought, I need to have a near-death experience! Honestly, I love all the information, but I could do without the internal pressure that tells me constantly to transform or be like somebody else. The last time I saw my therapist she reminded me of the time I fasted from reading, watching, or listening to anything that could be considered positive or helpful, and it may be time to do that again. I’m envisioning spending a solid week watching Queer as Folk or listening to Come On Eileen on repeat, maybe sniffing some glue if I start thinking too much.

Now it’s 3:30, and I’m at 700 words. My brain is still nowhere to be found, things are moving slower than normal, and I think this is what it felt like in the beginning–not the beginning of the world, but the beginning of this blog. What am I going to say now? Well, your guess is as good as mine, especially since I keep getting distracted by Facebook and an article about the zodiac signs that just informed me Virgos (like me) are the most difficult sign to love because 1) we’re the most self-sufficient sign, 2) we approach relationships from a managerial position (which is apparently not a turn on), and 3) we tend to keep people at arm’s length until we know we can trust them. Well, first, that sucks but seems accurate. Second, if this sounds like a drag to any potential partners, don’t worry–I’ll take care of it–I’m sure there’s an answer somewhere on a recommended reading list.

Well, crap. I think I just proved their point.

I heard recently that no one person holds your health or life in their hands. You could be on your deathbed, and if heaven or the gods decided they wanted you to live, you would. I think this is a good reminder for me. So many times I get caught up thinking that I need more information or yet another bodyworker in order to get the kink out of my back. This sort of thinking, of course, is about as peaceful as going for a walk on the side of a busy road. But the truth is I already have a ton of information, and I’ve worked with more professionals than some people work with in a lifetime. Plus, healing never seems to be something you find at the end of a chapter. Rather, I think it comes in those moments when you’re able to break down your walls, let love in and out, and therefore stop keeping both others and yourself at arm’s length.