The Mystery Isn’t That Simple (Blog #580)

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Today I interviewed three different computer repair businesses in my quest to get my laptop repaired. (I spilled tea on the keyboard; electronics and liquids don’t go well together.) And whereas all the places quoted–uh–about the same price, only one had good customer service. The other two ranked low to medium at best. In one spot, I was treated like a “customer” at the DMV. Like, take a number, asshole. So I just walked out. Fuck this, I thought. I have other options.

You always have other options.

So now the plan is to visit the “winning” store in person tomorrow, as I only spoke with them on the phone today. I’ll let you know how it goes.

This afternoon, in between visits to computer repair stores, I saw my therapist, and we did a double session because she’d had a cancellation. Hum. What to say? After I told her a few stories, including the one about walking away from bad customer service, she said I’ve clearly been listening to my gut lately and to keep that up.

More on that in a minute.

Later we talked about self-talk, beliefs, and whether or not someone (specifically, me) feels worthy of having their dreams come true. And whereas we’ve had these conversations before and I feel like I’ve made a lot of progress in this area, today I started crying when she repeatedly looked me in the eyes and listed several good (and “worthy”) things about me. Yeah, why is that such a big deal, to have someone affirm you? I guess because I’m so used to thinking that success belongs to other people–but not me; that dreams come true for, I don’t know, the Kardashians–but not me; that everyone else is “good enough”–but I’m not.

My therapist called this “a flawed perspective,” and in my experience it’s not the easiest thing to get rid of, even when you really want to. Like, I’ve been reading self-help books and rocking this therapy thing for A WHILE NOW, and it’s not like I’m unaware of thoughts that race through my head. I say race because thoughts are lightning fast, especially little ones like, That won’t work, No one will like that, or, Nothing I do is every good enough. And I guess it’s easy to think that quick little thoughts don’t matter, but think them often enough, and thoughts like these can slowly choke a dream.

To death.

I normally don’t cry in therapy, so I’d like to be clear about why I think it’s notable. So often we “think” we’ve handled an issue. Like, Oh yeah, I’m fine with abundance. I believe in that shit. Well, you can blow a lot of smoke up someone else’s and even your own ass, but you CAN’T fool your body. On the contrary, your body always knows the truth. So when I find myself crying, that’s a good thing, since it means I’ve finally hit something with substance and not just an idea. It means, Sweetheart, it’s time to really take a look at this.

My therapist said she thinks I play small or fail to take steps toward some of my dreams because I’m afraid of rejection. (Uh, who isn’t?!) But after sharing a personal story that involved her being rejected multiple times and ended with her opening her private practice, she shared two pieces of advice.

One–Not everyone who shits on you is your enemy. In other words, with time and perspective, we are often grateful for things that didn’t work out.

Two–Because our greatest strengths lie on the other side of our greatest fears–and I quote–“Bring on the rejection, motherfuckers!”

I’m going to be processing all this, but in the meantime, I’d like to circle back to listening to your gut, which, as I’m fond of saying, sounds good if you say it fast. What I mean is that “going with your gut” is often lauded in today’s society, and yes, I think it’s something you should do. Like, I might have been taken advantage of–or just been frustrated– if I’d bowed to convenience and had stuck around in those computer shops today even though something felt off. And when my therapist asked if I wanted an extra hour and that felt “on,” that clearly worked out.

Woowho. Go gut.

But to be clear, I ran all over God’s green earth today trying to find a place my gut liked, and that was a pain in the ass. And because I stayed in therapy an extra hour, I ended up crying, and I’ve spent the rest of the day queasy because, What am I gonna do now? And because I’ve listened to my gut countless other times in the last four years, I can’t tell you the number of people I used to be friends with that I no longer talk to. Granted, I think I’ve saved everyone involved a lot of drama, but watching multiple friendships fall apart is a real bitch and–quite frankly–isolating.

In my experience, your gut doesn’t care if you run all over God’s green earth, doesn’t care if you cry, doesn’t care if you lose your friends, and doesn’t care if you’re lonely. It does, however, I believe, WANT you to be as healthy and as strong as possible, and–well–maybe that requires some challenges. (I’m sorry. There’s no maybe about it. It does require some challenges.) Also, I think it requires some tests, meaning you have to listen to your inner guidance in the little things if you expect to get guidance in the big things. Like, this week I’ve been working on organizing my photos, just because I feel like I’m supposed to. (I keep thinking about it; the idea won’t let me go.) Well, if I ignore that prompting and later wonder what I should do about a relationship or a job, why should my gut bother talking to me when I’ve plainly demonstrated that I’m not interested in what it has to say?

Today I walked out of a computer repair business, twice, just because something inside me said, Leave. And I don’t know why–your gut never answers this question–maybe it’s because my answer about that relationship or job is IN ANOTHER STORE. Regardless, what I do know is that some of the biggest shit storms I’ve been through in my life have been because I ignored a still small voice inside me (a simple “I wouldn’t do that if I were you” is often all your gut will give you), so I don’t need to know why.

But–obviously–because I said so, that’s why. It is MY gut, after all. I just don’t–hum–have to understand my own reasons.

This is the weirdest thing about the universe, ourselves, and healing. For one thing, nothing is a straight line; you can’t say what causes what…or why. For example, if I hadn’t spilled my tea on my laptop and gotten up early to go to the shop this morning, I wouldn’t have had time for the double session in which I had an emotional breakthrough. Does one thing explain the other? Not necessarily–The Mystery isn’t that simple–but I think it’s all connected.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life is better when we're not in control. When we mentally leave room for anything to happen, anything can.

"

A Big Myth-understanding (Blog #579)

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Ick. It’s 11:30, and I’m so frustrated I could spit. Earlier tonight I met my friend Justin to check the status of my laptop. (I spilled hot tea on it a few days ago, and we put it in rice to dry out.) Well, it’s a long story, but basically the keyboard works–with one small exception. It “thinks” one of the shift keys is permanently depressed. (I think I might be thanks to this situation.) THAT MEANS IT STARTS IN SAFE MODE (WHICH IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU REBOOT A MAC AND HOLD DOWN THE SHIFT KEY, MOM), SO IT HAS LIMITED FUNCTION, AND IT ALSO TYPES IN ALL CAPS, WHICH IS–OBVIOUSLY–ANNOYING AS SHIT.

After over an hour of resetting this and reprogramming that, Justin got the laptop to type in regular lowercase–SOMETIMES–but it still starts in safe mode, and one of the shift keys doesn’t work. So I called Apple, and now I have an appointment tomorrow to have a technician check it out. Most likely, I’ll need a new keyboard.

As Justin said, could be better, could be worse.

Believe it or not, none of this really upset me. I actually took it all in stride. Shit happens. It’s not the end of the world. But when I came home and tried to backup some files and log myself out of my online accounts–and couldn’t–I nearly flew off the handle. Why the hell does everything have to be so complicated?! What did I do to deserve this?

Finally, I walked away, reasoning, Just leave everything alone, Marcus. Trust the professionals. You don’t have to control every little thing.

So now I’m in bed, blogging on my phone, trying to chill out. Really, it’s been a good day. This afternoon I made progress on my photo organizing project. Check out one of my all-time favorite pictures, from summer camp (2000) with my friend Matt.

Later I went by myself to see a movie, Small Foot, an animated film about a group of Big Feet who don’t believe in humans until one of them discovers one of us. It’s super cute; totally adorable. The tagline for the movie is “There’s been a big myth-understanding.”

For no planned reason, the two photos I just posted feature one person carrying another. Hum. Maybe there’s a lesson there, in the repetition. I’ve spent so much of life afraid something will go wrong. So much of life mistrusting others and even life itself, that I imagined only I could do things “right.” This has been my personal myth, and it’s why little things like a broken laptop set me off. They force me to let go, to surrender, to accept help. This is a good thing but not an easy thing to do, to admit there’s been a big myth-understanding, that the world ISN’T a big, scary place, and one person DOESN’T have to carry its weight on his shoulders, that it’s OKAY to accept help.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

"

On Cleaning Up the Past (Blog #578)

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It’s 8:30 in the evening, and I just finished eating dinner–a bowl of chili and a salad. Before that, I went on a two-hour walk around Van Buren. Everyone has their Halloween decorations on display. And whereas one creative person went all out and put a skeleton pushing an old-fashioned lawnmower in their backyard, two nextdoor neighbors–Christians, I assume–simply stuck matching signs in their front yards that said, “The only ghost that lives here is the Holy Ghost.”

Groan.

And then there was the family whose yard was already full of Christmas inflatables. I don’t know–I’m all for the celebrating the virgin birth of Christ, but I really feel like these folks are jumping the gun. I mean, it’s still October!

I guess that’s what you’d call a premature immaculation.

This afternoon I spent several hours organizing old photos, a project I started yesterday. Ugh. This is going to take a while, since despite my sorting hundreds of photos today, I still have thousands to go. Oh well, what else am I doing with my life?

Here’s a picture of my progress thus far. The photo sticking up is from my 21st birthday, on which I went out for–wait for it–coffee. (I’m not kidding.) Anyway, I have a “tab” for every major place (junior high, high school, home) or event (summer camp, trip to Thailand, etc.). Thankfully, many of the photos have dates printed on them or I just remember–That was 1995–but in some cases I’m just guessing–Uh, I think that was sometime in college. Isn’t that weird how certain details of your life can just disappear?

Here’s a picture I found from my sophomore year in high school. I was 16, and our class was on a field trip. Check out that beret. Can you believe I used to tell people that I was straight? I filed this picture under a section called “The Power of Self-Delusion,” alternatively titled “Reasons Everyone Knew before I Did.”

While sorting through pictures from elementary school, I found images of old classmates who are now dead. This was a real shock to my system, to see them as I remember them–young, vibrant, full of potential–and yet know that they’ve long stopped breathing.

Hum. No one thinks it will happen to them, but it happens to everyone. Death, that is. “What will you do with your one wild and precious life?” Mary Oliver asks.

Also while going through elementary school photos, I ripped up some pictures of a kid that I thought was–quite honestly–a jerk. Not that I assume he’s a jerk now, but at the time, for sure. So twenty years later–rip, rip, rip–that felt good.

My therapist says that some of the deepest and longest lasting wounds we carry are from childhood. I guess because we’re so impressionable, our hearts wide open. So I’m trying now to be okay with whatever arises while looking at all these old photos, to be open to any thoughts and reactions I may have shoved down that want to come up. Like, Awe, I liked him. Or, What an asshat! Because I’m tired of self-delusion. I’d rather be honest. For this reason, as much as I see this project as a “tidy” and “orderly” thing to do, I also see it as a healthy thing to do. That is, I see it as another way to get real, a symbolic act to get my past in order, to clean it up the best I can and properly put it behind me.

[Me and my longtime friend Neil. From seventh grade, I think, spirit week.]

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.

"

An Anything but Awkward Kid (Blog #577)

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It’s eleven at night, and I’m blogging from my phone–one letter at a time–because I spilled tea on my laptop keyboard yesterday. (It’s currently drying out. I hope.) We’ll see how this goes. I don’t have spell check on here.

This afternoon I finished reading a book about money by Seth Godin. I already returned the book to the library, but there was a line in the section about buying houses that went something like this–“Never fall in love with something you can’t afford.” Is that great or what?

Personally, I wish I’d heard this piece of advice BEFORE I started dating.

This evening I got a wild hair and began organizing my printed photos, a project that has been on my mental to-do list for a while now. Anyway, I pulled out Rubbermaid tub after Rubbermaid tub full of pictures from my closet, laid everything out before me, and quickly got overwhelmed. Y’all, I took A LOT of pictures in my teens and early twenties. Granted, I was on the yearbook staff in college and had access to a decent camera, but whatever.

So. Many. Pictures. And barely organized.

Here’s a random dance photo of me and my friend Kira performing at the Dr. Pepper Stage at the Fort Smith Rodeo. Our group used to do that every year.

Taking deep breaths and reminding myself that any progress is better than nothing, my first task was to separate the pictures into large groups–summer camp, dance, high school, and college. Quickly, I thumbed through a hundred memories. What a trip this was, looking back over a solid decade of my existence, a dozen haircuts, waist sizes, and ages. There I was 18. There I was 30. Did either of these men even know the first thing about life?

Does this one?!

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Cameron, who drove from Texas to surprise me for my 30th birthday. I felt like shit that day, for my surprise party. I’d been sick for weeks, and–honestly–was not amused by the surprise itself. I was and am, however, deeply touched by all my friends who showed up.

After my “first pass,” I began grouping the photos more specifically–birthday parties, college yearbook staff, family photos from 2001 (the year Dad came home from prison). I also started throwing pictures away. I know this amounts to sacrilege for some people, but really, what need do I have of photos that are blurry? Or of photos of people I don’t remember or of couples who are no longer married?

Like I’m gonna pull THOSE out the next time one of them comes over to visit. Remember that time you married an asshole?! (God, that was THE BEST CAKE.)

I’ve said before that my butt’s always been the same size (roughly the size a bowling ball) and that I’ve just grown into it. Well, here’s proof from my pre-teen years and the swimming pool next door. Notice the super-cool elastic waist band.

Here’s another picture from several years later (I think). Surely I’d started puberty. Either way–same butt, bigger body.

After a few hours of this picture-sorting business, all while sitting on the floor, my body said stop. So I’ll get back to it tomorrow, or at least that’s my plan. Considering I have stacks of photos blocking my closet door, I NEED to get back to it tomorrow if I ever want to wear clean clothes again.

Even with “just a little bit” of this project completed, I already feel all the emotions. There are so many pictures of people, grandparents, who are no longer alive. People I used to spend SO MUCH time with, and yet now we hardly speak. And it’s not like–in most cases–we knew the end was coming. It just did. One day, things weren’t the same as they used to be. This is life–people pass away and people move away. People fall in love with other people who aren’t you.

And there’s no going back.

Aside from all the emotions and a definite feeling of–Where did the time go?–I’m enjoying getting the photos in a rough chronological order. I am, after all, a neat freak, and it’s good to have my memories nearly stacked away. Plus, I don’t know, there are times I know I wasn’t fully present for my life, times I was just keeping my head above water and maintaining appearances, and those memories are jumbled. So the pictures are helping me get things straight. Oh yes, this happened, and then this happened, and then THAT happened.

I hope that makes sense.

The other thing I like about this project is that I’m finding more compassion for myself. Back then I felt so awkward. Even lately, so often I’ve looked at old photos and picked myself apart, like, Why did I ever wear that outfit, or stand that way? But today I’ve seen a kid who was under immense emotional and physical stress who was doing the best he could. A kind kid. A good looking kid. An anything but awkward kid. A kid I’d give anything if I could go back and tell, “You’re gonna be all right, baby. I promise. You have everything you’ll ever need inside you. Relax. It’s all going to be okay.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"No one's story should end on the ground."

Any Pants Are Dancing Pants (Blog #576)

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This afternoon I met my friend Kim and her dog Bonnie to walk around downtown Fort Smith and check out The Unexpected, the mural-painting project I mentioned a few days ago. Oh my gosh, y’all–it’s so much better in the daytime! Here’s a picture of the mural done by local high school students. Personally, I think it’s super-cool, and I love the subtle message about transformation (caterpillar to butterfly). That being said, I really think that second caterpillar (the same one pictured above with me and Bonnie) should have two eyes instead of one. Or–as Kim said–at least a mouth. But hell, what do I know? Maybe THAT’S the intended message–even one-eyed caterpillars can become beautiful butterflies. (Don’t let anyone keep you from achieving your dream, you little cyclops!)

Here’s one of the murals on Towson Avenue I mentioned the other day. It wasn’t finished then, but now it is. I LOVE IT, and it’s apparently already become a popular spot to have photos taken, as Kim and I saw a couple posing for their engagement photos this afternoon. Eeek–way to go, Fort Smith.

Here’s another one on Towson Avenue, painted by Fort Smith’s own BUFFALO. I assume that’s him in the picture. (And yes, I realize it should be “I assume that’s HE in the picture, just as it should be MY THERAPIST AND I, but–let’s face it–that’d be “extremely” pretentious, and I’m only “very” pretentious.)

Here’s a picture of a sign I found on the inside of a traveling art bus (an old school bus that’s been transformed into a space where kids to make arts and crafts.) The sign says, “Imagination is intelligence with its dancing pants on.” How fun is that?

On a related note, here’s a little-known fact from a dance instructor–any pants are dancing pants if you dance in them.

This evening I met my friends and old roommates Justin and Ashley for dinner with the express intention of going to their house and using their laptop and internet afterwards. (I’ll explain why in a moment.) But before we went to their house, we drove by the new murals so they could see them too and accidentally discovered another one just off Garrison Avenue on 9th Street, a mural that’s not listed on this year’s map. Here’s a picture of it. When I posted this same picture on Facebook, a friend said it was “a bonus mural” and was also done by PREF. (It says, “Side By Side,” Mom.)

Back at Justin and Ashley’s, I sat down to their laptop in order to systematically and one-by-one change every online password I have, which I’m guessing is about fifty. A few weeks ago I discovered a key-logging virus on my computer, and although I haven’t experienced any compromised accounts, I figured this was the best thing to do–get all new passwords. But Justin, who works in IT, said I should change the passwords from HIS laptop and NOT mine–just to be safe. So that’s what I did. Or at least started to do. Halfway through this not-difficult-but-tedious process, I spilled a cup of hot tea all over my pants and–unfortunately–my laptop keyboard. (I had MY laptop out because it has a list of all my online accounts on it.) Shit, shit, shit, I thought, as Ashley immediately grabbed a couple towels and helped me start cleaning up the mess.

Almost instantly, I started having trouble with my keyboard. I’d hit one letter, and another letter would come up on the screen. Then the keyboard stopped working altogether. At this point, I began to seriously freak out–after all, I use my laptop to blog every day, and that’s sort of a big deal for me. (Like, HUGE.) But Justin–who’s ever level-headed and logical–said we simply needed to go to Walmart, buy a large, sealable storage bag and a bunch of rice, then put the laptop in the bag with the rice (and seal it), and the rice should pull the moisture out of the keyboard and–hopefully–restore it to vibrant health. So that’s what we did. Justin said I should leave the laptop in the rice bag for a day or two “and then see what happens.” So now I’m blogging on Justin’s laptop. Thankfully I remembered my blog’s password! (It was one of the ones I HADN’T changed yet.)

Who knew they made 2.5-gallon-sized storage bags?

Ick. I’m really not thrilled about this whole situation. Part of me is rather upset with myself for being so careless and knocking over that cup of tea. That being said–fuck–I’m only human, and humans spill things. Hell, it’s so easy to do here on planet earth, where gravity is like, nonstop. (If gravity doesn’t get your tea cup, it WILL get your thighs. Just you wait.) And really, what good would self-flagellating do? Justin said he took his phone for a serious swim once when he was fishing. I put mine in the washing machine several years ago. THESE THINGS HAPPEN. This thing happened. All I can do is move forward. Justin said even if the rice doesn’t do the trick, I can take my laptop in to be repaired. “It could be a simple fix,” he said, “or it could be the mother board–that would suck–but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Nothing’s the end of the world.”

Then he added, “Except for the end of the world, of course.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

So we’ll see what happens. I’m hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst. All my files are backed up online, and even if they weren’t, I’ve lost all my files before. My main concern is the blog, and I can always blog (and blog lite) from my phone if I have to. Unless, of course, I spill something on that too. Anyway, it occurs to me that nothing horrible has happened tonight. I’ve been here all along with my friends, safe in their home. When Justin I went to Walmart, we had a delightful time. We laughed. We made memories. My point is that I don’t have to be worried sick about all this if I don’t want to be. Shit happens, but my attitude is mine to control. I can choose to focus on the good.

Even when my pants are sopping wet, I can still dance in them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

"

There’s No Rushing Life (Blog #575)

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This afternoon I finished fixing/painting the side of the house I was working on yesterday, the same house I’ve been working on–inside and out–for the past many weeks. So that’s it. Barring any hiccups or unforeseen projects, I’m done. The realtor said the house should be listed early this coming week. So I loaded up my tools, did one final trash run, and celebrated tonight with fried mushrooms and a piece of chocolate cake. And whereas I enjoyed this debauchery immensely, my stomach quickly pitched a fit.

My gut: ever the party pooper.

This is really the oddest feeling, to have an ongoing and seemingly never-ending project end. But this has been the case with so many other things in my life, and I can only assume will be the case with so many more, including this blog. One day something starts, it goes on for a while, and then one day it ends.

Well, either it ends or you do.

Whenever I complete a project, whenever something is over, I tend to stare in both disbelief and admiration (way to go, Marcus!). This evening after I put all the paint cans away and loaded up all my supplies, I did one final walk around the property just to take it all in. I remembered when my friends still lived there, when their home was full of their possessions and memories. Then I remembered all the boxes–all the boxes!–before they moved, and my cleaning all the walls and floors after they left. Little by little–somehow–we got it done.

The last couple of nights I’ve been struck with gratitude with respect to the entire ordeal. First, I’m glad for the work. It’s nice to be employed. But I’m also glad for all the help. Obviously my friends did A LOT of packing before they left, and today their realtor’s husband came by to patch some cracked concrete and haul off some branches I couldn’t fit into the back of Tom Collins (my car). And even though they didn’t do anything directly, my parents loaned me their vacuum cleaner and mop. For that matter, the hardware store provided me with paint, sandpaper, and–most importantly–mosquito spray (for a nominal fee, of course). My point is–we never do things completely alone.

It takes a village and all that shit.

When I got home this evening, I took a long, hot shower. Well, okay, fine–I took a bath. (I like baths. So sue me!) Anyway, I scrubbed the latex paint off my skin and washed the bug spray out of my hair. And–I don’t know–it was like nine o’clock, and I was SO READY for bed. Hell, at seven I was ready for bed; it gets dark SO FRICKIN’ EARLY these days, all I want to do is hibernate. Well, okay, fine–get fat and hibernate. And whereas I’d planned to blog and fall right to sleep, I got distracted by the internet and ended up watching every trailer and promo video I could find for the soon-to-be-released movie about Freddie Mercury. (Freddie Mercury was the lead singer for the band Queen, Mom. He himself was a queen and died due to complications related to AIDS.) Anyway, the movie looks FABULOUS. Granted, it doesn’t have ANYTHING to do with tonight’s blog, but–nonetheless–I can’t wait for it.

It occurs to me that I often “can’t wait” for a lot of things–can’t wait for this project to end, can’t wait for this Freddie Mercury movie to come out (no pun intended), can’t wait to go to bed. And yet there’s no rushing life; everything happens in its own time, in its own season. Something is always ending; something is always beginning. If we’re lucky, we’re able to find appreciation for this present moment, for what is, for the way things are–whatever they are–right here, right now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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None of us is ever really lost. At least we're never really alone. For always there is someone to help point your ship in the right direction, someone who sees you when you can't see yourself.

"

The World Keeps Spinning (Blog #574)

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A couple days ago I started a new “fix-it” project for some friends of mine, repairing a piece of wood on the side of their house. At first I thought it would be as simple as nailing a board back in place, but I quickly realized the wood also needed to be “filled in” with wood putty and then painted. Plus, all of the surrounding wood needed to be re-caulked, then re-painted. Shit, I thought, this is turning into work. But what do you do? That day, I screwed the wood back in place and patched as much as I could.

Here’s a picture before the patching. Notice the gaping holes.

Here’s a picture of the mostly patched holes.

Today I finished patching the holes and applied an extremely thick layer of caulk above the wood. Well, two extremely thick layers of caulk. However, since the caulk takes a while to dry, I couldn’t paint it. I could, however, paint the wood, so I did. This was a big deal for me because although the paint technically matched, it didn’t actually match, since the old paint had faded with age and sun exposure. The big deal part is that The Old Marcus would have turned this into a major ordeal and ended up re-painting the entire side of the house, if not the entire house. But The New Marcus thought, Just re-paint the affected board and call it a day.

So I did. (Notice the trash can–that’s what I used for a ladder.)

Now it’s 9:30 at night, and I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to paint over the caulk, after it dries. I’m still at my friends’ house, as I’m meeting a Criagslist contact later tonight in order to sell him a piece of furniture my friends left behind when they moved. This has been another project, getting rid of what they left. But tonight’s piece of furniture is the final one. After weeks and weeks of listing stuff online, it’s all gone. Or, almost gone anyway. I never assume a Craigslist deal is finished until I have money in hand.

Earlier I took a break to get dinner and work on another a project at the library–organizing my digital photos. This is one of my goals for the fall and winter, to get both my physical and digital photos in order. Ugh, talk about an ordeal. The paint/caulk project is only taking up a few days, but I imagine the photo project will take weeks or longer. Tonight at the library I sorted through–I don’t know–a couple months worth of photos from 2014, the year I first began backing up my photos online. And whereas it’s going to be great (super, really) to have my photos organized (like, Family, Trips to Albuquerque, Medical Documents, Remodeling Projects, etc.), it’s slow-going and overwhelming.

But at least I’ve started. That’s huge. I’m telling myself, A little at a time, Marcus. A little at a time.

The other overwhelming thing about this project is that I’m not always sure “where” to put a photo. Or if every single photo (there are thousands) “deserves” to be put into a specific album. Like, what am I suppose to do with that photo I took of a piece of furniture in an antique store four years ago? But again, I’m trying to not get overwhelmed and demand “perfection” of myself. I’m telling myself, Anything is a giant improvement over the current situation, which is everything simply lumped together (by date order).

My tendency when I start these projects is to sit down for ten hours at a time and grit my way through it. It’s difficult for me to work for, say, an hour and walk away. But that’s what I did tonight at the library. Well, okay, I worked for an hour and a half and walked away. One because the library was about to close, two because I wanted to blog. Plus, the project’s waited this long (and no one’s complaining that it hasn’t been done), and it will be there whenever I want to pick it back up. This is a something I’m working on, that the world won’t fall apart if things aren’t just so, that it really doesn’t give a damn if this paint doesn’t match that paint or all my photos aren’t neatly organized.

Like, the world has its own problems to deal with.

Somehow, it keeps spinning.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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On What You Ask Your Mind to Do (Blog #573)

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It’s 1:30 in the morning, and I just got home from a marathon dinner and catch-up session with my friends and old roommates Justin and Ashley. I swear, we just can’t have short conversations. Anyway, it was great; you should have been there. We solved the world problems. Well, Justin and I did. Ashley went to bed. Now that’s what I want to do. Hopefully I will soon. Go to bed, that is. I’ve already brushed my teeth and done all the nighttime things, so as soon as this blog is published–bam!–I plan to be out like a light.

Today–not just tonight–was delightful. This morning I woke up early and started the day slowly. My parents and I enjoyed breakfast together. Then since it’s my sister’s 40th birthday, I put together a list of 40 of my favorite memories/things I like about her. True confession–I got to number 8 and thought, How have I known this person my entire life and CAN’T REMEMBER anything else about them? But then my brain got on a roll, and I ended up having to cut the list down. Anyway, it was the best way to start the day. I mean, my childhood wasn’t pure shit, but it had plenty of challenges, challenges that often get discussed here or in therapy. So it was REALLY LOVELY recalling the best parts of my childhood and the person who’s been there with me through the thick and thin of it all.

But back to the part about not being able to come up with enough things for the list and then later coming up with too many things for it. This has been my experience with other list-making exercises. For example, a lot of self-help books ask you to list 10 things you’re grateful for, 25 things you like about yourself, or even 100 things you’re good at, and I always balk at these exercises at first. Like, I can’t. And yet I’ve always been able to come up with all the things. What this has taught me is that the mind is GREAT at making lists, and it really doesn’t give a shit about what kind of lists it makes. That is, if you ask your mind to find 10 things–or even 100–to complain about, your mind will GO TO WORK and give you what you’ve asked for. (And this is rotten, and this is terrible, and this sucks balls.) But the opposite is just as true. Ask your mind for 40 positive memories, and although it may slug along at first, especially if it’s used to looking for negative memories, it will eventually spit them out. (And that was super, and that was fabulous, and–oh yeah–THAT was the bee’s knees.) And not that the positive memories make the bad ones go away, but they at least bring balance.

In summary: Your mind will give you what you ask for–so be careful what you ask for.

The only thing I’ve currently asking for: sleep.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All the while, we imagine things should be different than they are, but life persists the way it is.

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Tomorrow’s a Blank Page (Blog #572)

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It’s 11:28 at night, and I’ve been dicking around for over two hours–fixing my parents screen door, running the virus scanner on my laptop, scrolling through Facebook ad nauseam–doing anything I can to avoid writing. I just don’t feel like it. Stupid blog. Ugh–whose idea was this every-day writing nonsense?

Oh, that’s right–it was mine.

This afternoon I did some handyman things for some friends and got absolutely eaten up by mosquitoes in the process because I refused to use the bug spray I keep in my car. I can be so stubborn sometimes. But I was in relatively nice clothes and just didn’t want to smell like Deet for the rest of the day. Honestly, what’s a girl to do when presented with two unpleasant options?

To itch or to stink, that is the question. Obviously, my answer today was to itch, although I’ve chosen to stink plenty of other times in the past.

I can’t believe I’m talking about mosquitoes.

Move on, Marcus.

This evening I went downtown in Fort Smith to check out The Unexpected. The Unexpected is a mural-painting project that happens annually here, and–I think–is one of the coolest things this city has ever done ever. The project goes through this Sunday, October 28. Anyway, every year the organizers put out a new map that lists all the artists and where their respective murals are or will be located, so tonight after parking my car at a local coffee shop and with my map in hand, I hit the streets (oh-la-la) to look for the latest artwork. Oh my gosh, y’all, what a cool thing, to walk up on an old building you’ve driven past hundreds of times and see it being brought back to life. Even at 8:00 this evening, there were a number of artists out working on their projects.

Here’s a picture of one of the murals in progress on Towson Avenue. The artist is Alexis Diaz.

This one is also on Towson Avenue and is by PREF. (A lot of muralists don’t go by their god-given names. Apparently it’s a thing.) Personally, I’m really excited to see how this mural turns out. I assume it will say, “The very best is yet to come,” but since there are three blank spaces left and “to come” would only fill up two of them, who knows? It could be anything. That’s the great thing about a blank “canvas.” You can do with it what you want.

This one is on Garrison Avenue (the main drag in downtown) and is by Ana Maria. She did another mural in the same spot for the first Unexpected (in 2015), but obviously had to paint over it in order to create this new piece.

This one is on North A, one block off Garrison Avenue and is being painted by local high school students. How cool is that?

Although there are a few other new murals this year (by BUFFALO, ADD FUEL, and Cody Hudson), I didn’t take pictures of them tonight. I did, however, take this picture, which is one of the murals done for the first Unexpected; it was painted by local university students. I took it because the guy in the mural looks like he’s pointing to the full moon. I love that.

Now it’s after midnight, and I’m ready to go to bed. I NEED to go to bed. Last night I didn’t fall asleep until after four, since blogging took forever and I still had to shower after that. Anyway, it feels as if I’m going through the motions here. Personally, I’m not particularly impressed with what’s landed on the page tonight, and now I don’t have anything “profound” to say. Whatever, this is the way art works. You show up. You do the thing. Sometimes it’s fabulous, sometimes it’s flopulous. (I just made that word up. As in a fabulous flop, Mom.)

Sometimes you want a re-do.
That’s okay.
You can paint over yesterday.
Tomorrow’s a blank canvas.
Tomorrow’s a blank page.
It holds endless possibilities.
The very best is yet _________.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries aren’t something you knock out of the park every time.

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On Soul Repair (Blog #571)

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This afternoon I went to the post office to mail my sister a birthday card (her birthday is Wednesday), and just as I was about to pull out of the parking lot ran into my friend Bonnie. I mean, I didn’t literally run into her, I just saw her then stopped to talk to her. Anyway, it was a fun coincidence, if you want to call it that. Personally, I don’t believe in accidents. I prefer to think that, as my travel writing friend Tom said about our meeting each other this last week in Tennessee, it was meant to be. Because think about it–what are the odds?

Recently I wrote about my first-ever experience with being called a derogatory term by a total stranger. You can read about it here, but basically I was standing alone outside a theater warehouse in Tennessee reading posters for the group’s upcoming musicals, and some guy in a Jeep drove by and shouted, “Queer!” And whereas I can’t swear that was the word he used (maybe he said, “We’re glad you’re HERE!”) or that he was even shouting at me, I reacted as if that were the case. And it’s not that I was offended, like–How dare he!–because, well, ACCURATE. Rather, I felt fear, since–let’s face it–this world is full of not only beauty but also brutality, and people have been beat up, hung up, and left to die on fence posts for much less. For simply being themselves.

It’s graphic to think about, I know.

For the last several days, this incident has lingered in my mind, the memory flickering off and on like a faulty lightbulb. Hum. I guess I have a lot of thoughts about it. And although this post could easily become a political or human rights essay, I don’t intend for it to be. Rather, I’d like to review several at-first-glance seemingly unrelated incidents that happened that day, and in so doing discuss–The Mystery. That being said, since I assume not everyone has my background or thinks like I do, I’d first like to back up and provide context that will hopefully explain how my brain work and why I’m choosing to look at this particular incident as “also not an accident.”

So here we go.

The foundation I’d like to lay first is that The Universe Communicates. This is an idea that I’ve blogged about here, that synchronicity, coincidence, and “accidents” are reminders that you and I are part of “something” larger, that we’re all connected “somehow,” that there is some sort order behind the chaos. Not that I believe this every minute of every day, but I do believe it. Deep down, it’s something I know. As cliché as the idea has become, it’s one I buy into–we are one.

To remind myself of this concept, a couple months ago I changed my laptop background image to a circumpunct. A circumpunct is basically a circle with a dot in the middle of it and is one of the oldest symbols known to man. Like many ancient symbols, the circumpunct has several meanings. For some, it’s the symbol of God, the one within the all, the all within the one. For astronomers, it’s the symbol of the sun. For alchemists, it’s the symbol of gold. For Target, it’s simply their logo, the symbol of hip, trendy home-goods and everyday low prices. For me, it’s the symbol of The Mystery.

The next major idea I’d like to lay down has to do with dreams (the kind you have when you’re sleeping), something I blog about often. Last week I wrote about a book I recently finished, The Three Only Things by Robert Moss. In that book, the author says that we should take our dreams more literally and our waking life more symbolically. I’ll say more about this in a moment. The author also says we can request certain information from our dreams, so I’ve recently started asking my subconscious to give me information in my dreams about how I can heal with regard to my headaches and upset stomach. Well, last night I dreamed that a man named WILL (who had a large NOSE) slowly stretched the muscles on the right side of my neck. Later I dreamed that a woman named GRACE told her granddaughter to drink more water as I was setting the kickstand down on my bicycle.

To the idea that dreams should be taken more literally, and if I’m to assume that my subconscious was actually answering the question I asked it, the advice seems clear. Use your WILL. (Set your intent to heal.) There’s part of you that KNOWS (nose) what to do. Stretch. Go slow. Drink more water. Rest. (Rest was the first think I thought of when recalling the kickstand image.)

Isn’t that a trip?

Okay, just two more things as background. (I know this is waxing long, but it’s a complex topic. Also, this is my blog, and I’ll write as much as I want to.) In one of the posts where I mentioned dreams and the book I just referenced, I said that the author says that dreams about shoes often refer to our SOULS, since shoes have SOLES. In that post, I discussed all the shoe dreams I’ve had since starting a dream journal. (For reference, my blog about soles and souls was FOUR DAYS before the “I spy with my little eye something that starts with a Q” incident.) In a number of other posts, and most recently in this one, I discussed how part of one’s spiritual path (or at least mine) is to keep one’s soul intact by forgiving or “not carrying the dead,” that is, by not leaving one’s soul in the past or–better said–by being fully in present time. (As Jesus instructed, “Give no thought for tomorrow.”)

With all this in mind, I’d now (and finally) like to proceed to the incidents leading up to (and following) The Great Queer Spotting of 2018. As you read, please keep in mind the suggestions that the universe communicates and that we should view our waking lives less realistically and more symbolically.

Also, feel free to take a bathroom break or grab a cup of coffee if you need to.

1. Tom’s story

That morning, Friday, my friend Tom and I were in a mini-van with at least one other journalist and one of our trip organizers, and Tom, upon prodding from someone who’d heard it before, told a story about being threatened at gunpoint in Morocco. Tom was in a busy marketplace with a camera. For reasons that I don’t recall and would be too long to explain here anyway, Tom had a bodyguard, but the bodyguard wasn’t nearby. Then a stranger came up to Tom, stuck a gun in his gut, and said, “You have camera. I have gun. I shoot you.” Later, the bodyguard caught the guy, held a gun to his head, and threatened to kill him in return. And whereas Tom said, “Fuck ’em,” the bodyguard let the guy go. “HE’S NOT A TRUE THREAT,” the bodyguard said.

2. My story

During the same car ride, our group–mostly our friend Steve–told a number of jokes. After one joke about an ugly woman, we laughed and laughed. Steve said it’s a joke that separates the men from the women; men laugh at the joke, women go, “Awe, that’s terrible!” (Later when a women in our group laughed at the joke, Steve said, “You may be a man and not know it.”) Anyway, I ended up talking about one of my major regrets in life–a night in high school when a friend of mine and I performed a roast and–apparently–took things too far. I mean, people were crying. I said, “It’s taken me a long time to forgive myself and move on from the event, the better part of two decades.” Tom said, “Isn’t it funny how a little thing like that can TRIP YOU UP?”

3. My earring

That afternoon, while touring Fall Creek Falls State Park, I noticed that I’d lost the back (but not the front) to one of my tiny dinosaur earrings. I’ve blogged about dinosaurs here, but for me they represent THE PAST, or THAT WHICH IS DEAD.

4. The park ranger’s story

While several members of our group and I hiked back up from the bottom of Fall Creek Falls (a waterfall), one of the park rangers told me that they often have to rescue or carry out hikers who have sprained their ankles, broken their legs, or died while in the canyon. The process, he described, involves a large stretcher and requires 12 to 18 rangers or volunteers to lift the person’s body and get them back to the top of the mountain. The image/lesson that stuck in my mind: IT TAKES A LOT OF EFFORT TO CARRY THE DEAD.

5. My shoe

Later that day, at another state park, I TRIPPED on a rock and ripped the SOLE off the front of my left boot.

6. The thing

That night, some guy in a Jeep called me A QUEER.

7. The other park ranger’s advice

The next morning, before going on a hike at another state park, I asked the park ranger if he happened to have any duct tape that I could use to hold my boot together so the loose sole wouldn’t get caught on anything else. As “luck” would have it, he had some camouflage duct tape in his truck, and reaching into his cab, he handed it to me. “Ask and you shall receive,” I said. Then the ranger suggested I put my foot up on his running board to apply the tape, so I did. As I began to wrap the tape around my boot, he said, “You wouldn’t want to lose your sole out here.” What I heard was, “You wouldn’t want to lose your SOUL out here.”

I didn’t take a picture of my boot at the time, but here’s a picture of my boot from this morning. It shows my damaged footwear slathered in super glue, held together with duct tape and clamps while the glue dries. (This is my attempt to repair MY SOLE. This blog is my attempt to repair my MY SOUL.)

Having had a few days to consider all this, the whole affair seems like something that was meant to happen. That is, how can I say that it wasn’t an accident that I met Tom and that it wasn’t an accident that I ran into Bonnie at the post office and at the same time say that my being called a queer by some guy in a Jeep was simply a random injustice, a fluke? Indeed, I can’t because–what are the odds? I know this is an extreme example, but did Jesus whine when he was delivered up to Pilate or say, “This shouldn’t have happened”? Did he even attempt to defend himself? Did he insist on accepting only the pleasant from his father and refuse to accept the strenuous and the challenging? No. No he did not.

He trusted; he surrendered.

This is something I’m trying to do. Reviewing my experience as A WHOLE, it seems clear that the universe was communicating several important messages to me before, during, and after the event. First, I’m not the only one who’s ever been called a name, scared, or threatened. My friend Tom was at gunpoint. Second, my words have unintentionally hurt others in the past, so the gracious position for me to take now is that the guy in the Jeep also had no intention of causing me harm. Regardless, HE’S NOT A TRUE THREAT. And even if he were, it’s my intention to not let the matter TRIP ME UP. It’s IN THE PAST. I’ve CARRIED THE DEAD before, and IT TAKES A LOT OF EFFORT. As today presents its own challenges, I can’t be afraid, I can’t give any thought for tomorrow, and I can’t LOSE MY SOUL “OUT THERE.”

Because I need it IN HERE.

In conclusion, I’ve been wanting to write about this since the other park ranger gave me the duct tape and made that comment about my sole/soul because it hit me like a ton of bricks. A coincidence, you say? “Coincidence is the language of the stars,” Paulo Coelho says in The Alchemist. Still, I’ve been putting off writing this because–I know–it’s a lot. But since starting this blog I’ve always known when I needed to write about something, and all day today I kept thinking, Today’s the day. Then tonight when I got home I stepped into my driveway, looked at the almost-full moon, and saw that it had a giant halo around it, the result of certain atmospheric conditions that cause the moon’s light to both refract (scatter) and reflect off tiny crystals of ice. The result? A giant circumpunct, the ancient symbol of God, the sun, and pure gold, and a personal reminder of–The Mystery. Or, as one website I stumbled across tonight says, the symbol of the universe, the place where we can “redeem our souls.”

Isn’t that a trip?

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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