Forgetting (Blog #353)

Leave a comment

It’s 8 o’clock on the last day of Lindyfest here in Houston, and Daddy is exhausted. Last night I danced until 3:30 in the morning. I’d intended to turn in an hour earlier, but my friend Hannah and I started dancing, and one or both of us kept saying, “UH–just one more?” This morning I was up around 9 for breakfast and have been mostly groggy and incoherent all day, despite the fact that I took a two-hour nap. I guess my body has simply had enough. Granted, it might have something to do with all the extra anti-histamines I’ve been taking for my generally itchy skin and specifically itchy rash (located where no one wants a rash).

In addition to being on my body, this rash has been on my mind for the last week, worrying me. I have an appointment to see my dermatologist this coming week, and when I spoke with his nurse on the phone about what was going on, she said it sounded like dermatitis. In medical terms, this simply means an inflammation of the skin, which means a rash, which I already knew. The nurse said to take anti-histamines and apply hydrocortisone cream, but that advice has so far yielded zero results. Frustrated, yesterday I called my former dermatologist (whom I only quit seeing because she stopped taking my insurance), and asked her opinion. Admitting that I was seeing another doctor, I said, “This is the part where I feel like I’m having an affair.”

Thankfully, she seemed to understand and didn’t come back with, “But what about MY needs?”

Since the rash hasn’t been responding to hydrocortisone, she seemed to think I had a yeast problem. (This is fun to talk about, I know.) So after I got off the phone with her, I walked bravely through Houston traffic to the nearest CVS in search of yet-another cream. Y’all, this last year has been hell on my skin. I’ve had so many problems, I literally have a box of creams, ointments, lotions, gels, and pastes, all meant for rubbing on your pits and parts that never see the sun. Anyway, I got the new cream and gave it a shot when I arrived back at the hotel, but haven’t used it again, since I convinced myself last night that my skin is probably just irritated and pissed off because I keep putting so many chemicals on it.

Honestly, I can’t tell if things are slightly better or slightly worse today. Part of me thinks better, but another part of me thinks I’m simply getting used to itching all the time. Ever since The Great Sinus Infection Drama of the Twenty-First Century started last October, my skin has been overly reactive, so this latest problem just feels like “one more thing.” (When it rains, it pours. How true, how true.) Yesterday on the phone my former dermatologist said, “It’s possible you have a pinched nerve in your lower back, and that could be contributing to your discomfort.”

First, are you freaking kidding me? Second, does anyone else ever get the distinct feeling that doctors are many times “just guessing”?

Due to the number of health problems I’ve had these last several months, I almost didn’t come to Lindyfest this year, even though I’m on staff. But I’m glad I did. Not only has it been a great distraction while I wait for my next doctor’s appointment, but it’s also been great fun. Last night while Hannah and I were dancing, another guy came over to ask me to dance. (Several dancers here dance both the lead and follow roles.) Anyway, Hannah said, “Since we all three dance both roles, let’s do a steal dance.” (A steal dance is when two people start a dance, and one or more other people jump in and replace one of the original dancers–it’s super fun.) So that’s what we did–I led Hannah, then I led the guy, then Hannah led the guy, then she led me, and so on.

Before we knew it, we’d drawn a crowd. (This was around three in the morning after most people had gone to bed, so it was easy to do.) And here’s the wonderful part–one-by-one the rest of the ballroom started joining in. Within the course of the minute, nearly everyone was on the floor, all of us taking turns dancing with each other. Y’all it was so fun. This is why I dance. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about my struggling body or itchy skin. I wasn’t worried about what’s going to happen next in my life. Also, I wasn’t thinking of what I was doing “wrong.” I wasn’t comparing myself to others. Rather, I was having fun–being alive, being present, “forgetting” that there’s anything un-perfect with me, another, or the world we live in.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

All things are moving as they should.

"

This Is How I Dance. This Is Who I Am. (Blog #352)

Leave a comment

Today is my third day in Houston at Lindyfest, a longstanding Lindy Hop convention deep in the heart of Texas. Last night I went to bed at three in the morning and slept for shit. The rash I have (where no one wants a rash) kept me up all night. I don’t mind saying it was (and is) miserable. This morning my alarm went off at eight-thirty, and I’m guessing I only slept a few hours. Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on some clothes, chugged some coffee, and headed downstairs to the ballroom to dance.

For tryouts.

The first time I came to Lindyfest was in 2007. A veteran East Coast Swing dancer, I had a growing interest in Lindy Hop, which, although related to East Coast Swing, is more difficult. So I met some dear friends in Tulsa, and we all travelled down together. Looking back, I guess that first year was my favorite. My friends and I were like a gang. We took classes together, danced together at night, went out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. At that time, everything about Lindy Hop was new and magical. I remember walking into the Melody Club for the first time and seeing hundreds–literally hundreds–of people doing the swing out, the basic movement in Lindy Hop. I was so dewy-eyed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited.

I didn’t know it at the time, but there are all sorts of events in the Lindy Hop world. Some are bigger like Lindyfest, and others are smaller, like the one I used to host (Southern Fried Swing). Some events, usually the larger ones, have tryouts or auditions for upper-level classes. This is how Lindyfest is structured–levels 1 through 3 are open to anyone, and levels 4 and up are by the audition process only. However, that first year at Lindyfest, I didn’t have to worry about trying out. I knew where I belonged–at the bottom.

Y’all, back then, I didn’t know any better. I attended every single class I could, watched every performance, and danced all night. I’d skip sleep, even get sick, in order to learn how to Lindy Hop. Looking back, it really was an age of innocence. Now I sleep in, skip classes, and take it all in stride. Now the age of innocence is over.

As the years went by and I continued to attend Lindy Hop workshops, I started trying out for the more advanced classes. Some years I’d make the level I was trying out for, and just as often I wouldn’t. One year I made the upper-level classes, but my dance partner, whom I taught with, didn’t. I wish I could tell you that none of this bothered me, but it did. Whenever I didn’t make the level that I wanted, it usually spoiled the better part of a day. I’m sure my ego was involved. (It usually is.) I remember one year when I just stood there after the names of those who had been chosen for the advanced classes were called and I wasn’t one of them. Now I think I simply wanted to be validated, to be seen.

For the last five years, I haven’t been to Lindyfest, and I don’t mind saying that one of the good things about that for me has been the fact that I haven’t had to tryout for classes, feel judged, or worry about “rejection,” at least in the Lindy Hop world.

Since coming on board as this year’s Lindyfest marketing director, one of the main things the organizers and I have discussed has been the tryout process, since I’m apparently not the only one who’s had a negative experience with it. That being said, objectively, there are a lot of benefits to having tryouts. People (including myself) tend to rate their talents and dancing abilities higher than they actually are, and in order to ensure that everyone has the best learning experience possible, people really do need to be properly sorted or placed so they can work with their peers. Still, it’s a sore point for a lot of people, so many events, including Lindyfest, are constantly trying to improve or modify the process.

In the past, tryouts at Lindyfest have always been held on Friday AND Saturday, but this year the event tried something new. On Friday, everyone got to self-place, meaning that even a brand new dancer could take a top-level class, the idea being that people could “test” levels before trying out for them Saturday (this morning). Honestly, as a staff member, I was hoping to avoid the tryouts altogether. Remembering what it felt like to not “make it,” I thought, I’m too old for this shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel bad if I don’t make it.

Well, somehow, I got over myself. First, after surveying the classes yesterday, I knew that I could keep up. Second, I realized that fair is fair. With only a few exceptions, everyone–staff or not–has to get up early and tryout if they want access to the advanced material. So that’s what I did. Running on only a few hours of sleep, I showed up in the ballroom with every other sleepy-eyed dancer here who hoped to end up in the highest level, level 7. (Well, there is a master’s level, but that’s by invitation only and was off my radar.)

Y’all, the audition process was–um–brutal. I mean, it wasn’t brutal because of the people running it. I thought they did a great job, and the lady explaining everything was very kind and understanding. Rather, it was brutal because I’ve been so sick lately. I was winded after the first two songs, and I think there were six or seven total, each progressively faster. And I don’t know, something about knowing that you’re being judged. Seriously, I’ve been dancing for over ten years, and all of a sudden, everything I knew flew out the window. So I had to tell myself, Calm down, Marcus. Dance solid basics. Use your technique. Listen to the music.

Okay, enough suspense. Despite the fact that I was sucking air and overly worried, I made it. I made level 7.

Y’all, I get that in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. Had I made level 6, or even 5, I would have been okay by tomorrow. Hell, it’s not like I’m actually taking any classes. I mean, I’ve been sick, and now I’ve got this rash (where no one wants a rash) made worse by friction (in other words, dancing). For this reason, actually taking a class and rotating around to different partners sounds miserable. But I love having the option of going to any class I want. Plus, in some way I feel validated and seen, like I somehow got something I didn’t in the past when I tried out and didn’t “make it.”

I don’t like admitting it, but I got a special wristband when I made level 7, and it makes me feel–um–important. Honestly, I hate this. (And have thus argued against wristbands in my official capacity–because they separate people.) I hate that if only in the slightest, I feel better than any other dancer here. Because it’s a bunch of bullshit. What really matters is that I can see progress, that I can look back and see how far I’ve come, even if no one else recognizes it or if my wristband doesn’t say it. What should be important–and is, actually–is the fact that I was afraid of being rejected this morning and yet was willing to put myself out there, to effectively say, “This is how I dance and this is who I am. Like it or not. At the end of the day, I don’t give a shit.”

Having made the level that I wanted, I really can’t say much about being rejected. As one of my friends said when I started working for this event, “You’re in the cool kids’ club now.” I don’t know if that’s true or not–most people don’t look at Lindy Hoppers as cool to begin with–but I understand their point. It’s nice to be accepted. But I do get it–I know what it feels like to want something so bad–to be validated, to be seen–and not receive it. I’ve experienced that in the Lindy Hop world, and I still experience it now in other creative endeavors like writing.

You don’t ever have to prove a thing.

This afternoon I was on the elevator with a dewy-eyed first time Lindyfest attendee, and when I asked her how she liked it, her face literally lit up. “I LOVE IT,” she said. And for just a moment, it made me want to go back to my first year, to the time I was excited about the dance because it’a joyful thing to do and not because it can make me look “cool.” Given the chance, I’d go back and tell myself, Baby, don’t worry about a wristband. It has nothing to do with who you are, and no one else can validate you–only you can do that. Certainly no one else can see you, really see you, until you see yourself and until you accept yourself exactly as you are. Try out if you want to, but I promise–as long as you live, you don’t ever have to prove a thing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

It’s hard to say where a kindness begins or ends.

"

Moving toward The Middle (Blog #350)

Leave a comment

It’s two in the morning, and I’m in Houston at Lindyfest, the swing dance event I’ve been working with for the last two months. I left Arkansas this afternoon around twelve-thirty, and it took nine hours to get here. On the way I listened to several lectures (on the internet as well as in my head), then music, music, music. For the last week I’ve had a song called “The Middle” in my earphones on repeat, so today was a lot of that. I don’t know, something about it makes me happy. Plus, something about being on the road with Tom Collins. It was a great drive.

If you’re new here, Tom Collins is my car. (Try to keep up.)

But going back to The Middle. One of the lectures I listened to was by Joseph Campbell and was about King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, and the Grail Legends. Since I was focused on driving, several of the details Campbell spoke about went in one ear and out the other, but what stuck was a story about one of the knights, Percival. Google says that the name Percival means “to pierce the valley,” but Campbell says it means, “through the middle.” To me, both interpretations are close enough to the same thing, but I’m going to stick with Campbell’s (mostly) from here on out.

Another lecture I listened to (by a different speaker) was about changing tribal beliefs. Tribal beliefs reside in your first chakra (at the base of your spine), are often related to safety or being “grounded,” and are inherited. Usually unconscious, they are the beliefs we have that were taught to us as children that we don’t question, things like “You have to work hard to get ahead in this world” or “People won’t accept me for who I really am.” And here’s where we get back to Campbell, Percival, and The Middle. The speaker said that we usually think of our beliefs as being in black and white. The world is either this way or that way. However, when we think of our beliefs in black and white, they are difficult to change. But the speaker said, “What if you just changed one of your beliefs by ten percent? What if you asked yourself, ‘Isn’t it reasonable to think that someone–anyone–could accept me for who I am?'”

Isn’t that reasonable?

Since I have a strong tendency to think in black and white, I love this suggestion about making slight changes in my beliefs because it introduces an element of gray. It sounds like a more gentle way of being. It invites me to walk down The Middle instead of staying on one side all the time. I don’t know, it sounds more–balanced.

Leading up to this dance event, I’ve had a thousand thoughts running around my head. I haven’t been to Lindyfest in five years, and you know how you imagine how things will go. If they say this, I’m going to say this. Of course, it never happens the way you think it will, but I still do it. Since I’m the marketing director for this year’s event, I’ve mostly imagined myself being “super friendly” with people–talking to as many folks as possible. How are you, where are you from, what do you like or dislike about the event? You know, excited, like a damn puppy. I’m just so happy to be here!

I quickly remembered that I’m not Guy Smiley.

Never mind that even though I love talking to people, it can wear me out. I mean, in conversation there has to be a give and take, which obviously can’t happen with five hundred people at a dance event. (Dancers are weird and awkward–like most humans.) Maybe some people can talk to a wall, but I’m not one of them. Anyway, I quickly remembered that I’m simply not Guy Smiley. After getting checked into my room, I went to the ballroom and said hello to a few folks, but I immediately felt outside my comfort zone. I thought, I’m here all by myself. Where are my friends? What if I don’t make it into the upper-level classes?

Apparently I forgot to leave my insecurities back in Arkansas. Shit. I thought my suitcase felt a little heavy.

For a moment, I thought about completely withdrawing, spending the weekend in my room or “just watching.” But then I decided to Get a damn grip, Nancy. So instead of jumping right into dancing, instead of forcing myself to be social when I didn’t feel like it, I took myself to the bar and ordered a beer and something for dinner. Like, Let’s eat something first, Alice. (Gay guys sometimes call each other, or themselves, by girls’ names, Mom.) This ended up being the best thing. Not only did it give me a minute to get acclimated and meet the event on my terms, but also the food was great and I ended up chatting with both a bartender and the lady next to me (who was here for the dance).

When I finished eating, I went back to the ballroom. I found a friend, then found a couple more. I danced a few dances, but my lung capacity is seriously down lately. So I introduced myself to a few strangers (but not the whole room), then ended up in two really long, lovely conversations with people I knew, but didn’t know that well. And here’s what I’m proud about–I didn’t go all Walmart Greeter on everyone’s ass, but I also didn’t hide out in a corner all evening. I found The Middle. In the process, I got out of my comfort zone–enough–and also challenged some of my tribal beliefs, things like “I can’t strike up a conversation with someone I don’t know.”

Isn’t it reasonable to think that others feel insecure too, that it’s not just me? Isn’t it reasonable to think that someone would respond well to a friendly face, my friendly face?

My hope is that I’ll start hanging out in The Middle more often, challenging my limiting tribal beliefs a little at a time. With any luck, I too will be able to pierce the valley, where I imagine there is a lot more gray.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

If you’re making yourself up to get someone else’s approval–stop it–because you can’t manipulate anyone into loving you. People either embrace you for who and what you are–or they don’t.

"

Simple Pleasures (Blog #332)

1 Comment

Yesterday I drove to Missouri for a sock hop. Talk about fun. There was music from the fifties (played on actual vinyl records), an Elvis impersonator, the stroll, a twist contest, a hula hoop contest, and a milkshake stand. I even got to perform in a Lindy Hop routine with nineteen other people (as a follower). I danced until I was soaking wet. At the end of the night, I could have won a wet t-shirt contest. Honestly, it was the most fun I’ve had in months.

After the dance, I helped my friends Anne, Andy, Matt, and Emma clean up the ballroom. (Anne and Andy own it and live upstairs.) Then Anne, Andy, Matt, and I went to IHOP and were there until almost three in the morning. (We got there late, and the staff was having a rough night.) Afterwards Matt went home, and the rest of us went back to the ballroom. When we got there, I realized my wallet wasn’t in my jacket and that it had probably fallen out at the restaurant. Andy and I went back, and Anne called them while we were on our way. Thankfully, they’d found it, and when I got there, nothing was missing.

Phew. That could have turned out so much worse.

Today Matt and I worked on Lindy Hop for a few hours. We bounced and jumped around quite a bit, and although my ankles were a little cranky, the rest of my body hung in there. I can’t tell you how thankful I am for this. Both last night and today, my energy level has been up. Almost normal. So many times in my life I’ve taken feeling good for granted, but having spent the last few months dragging ass, I’m reminded today that it really is a gift. Just being able to get out of the house and have fun with your friends and not feel like you’ve been hit by a truck–it’s huge.

That being said, I do currently feel as if I’ve been hit by a truck. But like a really small one. Like a Datsun. But that’s mostly because of all the jumping around Matt and I did today. I spent nearly an hour getting thrown in the air. And whereas it was way fun, I guess it all sank in on the drive home tonight. These bones ain’t what they used to be.

Don’t worry, I have Ibuprofen.

Now I’m back to house sitting for some friends and taking care of their dogs, who honestly seemed rather unimpressed with the fact that I’d returned. I mean, they barked, but they didn’t wag their tails when I walked in the door. That’s okay–I don’t need their approval. I can wag my own tail. With any luck I’ll be in bed before long, falling asleep grateful for simple pleasures like the company of friends, the feel of a wet t-shirt against my skin, and having a body capable of jumping.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You can be more discriminating.

"

You Gonna Open That or Just Let It Sit There? (Blog #296)

Leave a comment

Wow. It’s three in the morning, and Daddy is worn to a frazzle. (“Sometimes Marcus refers to himself as Daddy,” my mom recently explained my dad.) I’ve been dancing all day. My friend Matt and I worked this afternoon for about four hours (on three different dances), and tonight we went to an out-of-town dance where we cut a concrete rug with several friends to high-speed rockabilly music. Y’all, it was a blast, but I was sucking air. I guess I’m a little out of practice (and I HAVE been sick lately). Plus, this was at a bar where people were smoking. I’m not judging, but I’m sure that didn’t exactly help with the sucking-air thing. Anyway, it’s been a long day, but a good day.

Now somebody come tuck Daddy into bed.

Last night my parents and I went out to eat with my aunt, who drove in from Tulsa to visit. I honestly can’t remember the last time all four of us were together. Y’all, it was glorious (and the food was delicious). For at least a couple hours we caught up, laughed at each other’s jokes, and told stories about the past we’ve all heard a hundred times. At one point my aunt leaned back in her chair and said, “I am so comfortable right now. You don’t get that with everybody.”

I’ve been thinking about that today, that comfortable feeling thing. Last night Matt and I stayed at our friend Bonnie’s house, and I slept in until one this afternoon. (I’m pretty sure the bed in the guest room I was in was made by magic elves. Talk about comfortable! I may have drooled.) Anyway, Bonnie made “breakfast” for us and kept us full of snacks throughout the day as we worked on dance stuff. Periodically she’d pop into the dance room and dance with me to demonstrate or Matt so he could practice. And up until Matt and I left this evening, the three of us gabbed away, talking about dance events, life’s challenges, and anything funny we could think of. We did a lot–a lot–of laughing. At some point, just like my aunt did last night, I realized how comfortable I was, how good it felt to be around “my people.”

You know–people who get me, who really get me.

Recently I heard a spiritual entertainer of sorts say that he used to have a pretty big ego. Followers would come to him with praise or blame, and he’d take it all personally. He’d think, I‘m great or I’m shit or whatever. He said he finally got over this when he realized all those people were just looking for God or some deeper connection to themselves–it wasn’t about him at all. I’m still chewing on this idea, but I think he’s on to something.

Tonight I spent part of my time at the dance worrying about what others were thinking, but mostly simply enjoyed being there because I love dancing. Like spending time with “my people,” dancing is one of the things that almost always “feels right” and brings me joy. I think this is a good thing–having people, places, and activities that make our hearts sing. Still, the more I learn, the more I think it’s important to clarify–it’s actually impossible for another person or thing to “bring me joy.” Like, no one can put joy in a box and give it to me for Christmas. Rather, all my emotions and feelings come from inside me–they’re gifts I give to myself. At most, friends and favorite hobbies remind me that those gifts exist, like, Hey, you gonna open that or just let it sit there?

This is the deeper connection I think the spiritual entertainer was referring to, realizing that no one person or thing can give you something you don’t already have. So if I can feel comfortable around my family or friends, or if I can feel joyous at a dance, then I know I can feel comfortable or joyous–period. I’m not saying moods don’t come and go, but I am saying that all of them–all of them–are manufactured from the inside out, not the other way around. This means they’re not dependent on our circumstances. If they were, then I’d be sitting here uncomfortable and non-joyous because my family and friends are gone and the dance is over. But I’m not. Rather, the more I get to know and express myself–the more authentic I am–the more comfortable and happy I am no matter where I go, no matter whom I’m with. After all, if you’re content with yourself and you’re always with yourself, then what’s the problem?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"That love inside that shows up as joy or enthusiasm is your authentic self."

Some Days You Don’t Dance with Patrick Swayze (Blog #255)

1 Comment

Yesterday I drove to Oklahoma to see my friend Marina, who’s ninety-five and an original Rosie the Riveter, in the Tulsa Christmas Parade. She was the grand marshal. As I understand it, grand marshals often lead a parade, but yesterday a giant floating dump truck led the one here. Not exactly the holiday spirit if you ask me, but I guess it was because the waste department sponsored the whole ordeal. So there’s that. Anyway, after the dump truck were a bunch of hot firemen (go tell it on the mountain), then there was Marina. Later Marina told me that growing up she wanted to be a comedian, but her mom said, “You’re going to be a lady.” So at seventeen Marina started working at Boeing, making planes for the war. Talk about a lady! You should have seen Marina yesterday–she was too cute–she wore the actual overalls she used to inspect planes in and had red do-rag tied around her head.

I attended the parade with one of my friends from high school, Kara, as well as my swing dancing friends Gregg and Rita. We all dressed warmly, but I personally wore ski pants and thick wool socks. Y’all, this may need to be my daily outfit until the end of March. My legs and feet are normally constantly cold, but yesterday they were so warm and toasty. Still, it was freezing at the parade, especially when we stepped out of the sun. As soon as Marina passed by, and shortly after we all got hit in our heads with a bunch of hard candy, my crew decided to call it quits. Gregg and Rita went home, and Kara and I went to a new bookstore in town (Magic City Books) because we both love to read. And whereas my willpower has been nonexistent with reference to food this weekend (I’ve eaten a lot–a lot–of carbs), it was intact at the bookstore–I didn’t buy a single thing. (It was a Christmas miracle.)

Last night Gregg and Rita and I attended the weekly swing dance they helped start and continue to help with. Marina showed up, and I can’t tell you what a fun time it was, dancing with people you love and care about, people who love and care about you in return. Plus, all my friends are entertaining. Marina said, “Everyone I wanted to dance with died. I wanted to dance with Fred Astaire–he died. And Patrick Swayze–he died too. I saw Dirty Dancing three times. I couldn’t get over him.”

“Well, who could?” I said.

Later Marina said although she didn’t get to dance with Patrick Swayze, she did see him dancing at a nightclub in Brooklyn once. I said, “That must have been a sight.” Marina said one of her friends that evening commented she didn’t think he was that good of a dancer. Patrick Frickin’ Swayze, and this lady was all I’ve-had-better. Talk about being hard to impress. I thought I had high standards. Anyway, then the conversation turned to the time Marina introduced The Rat Pack before they performed, about how there’s a picture of it–somewhere. I nearly fell out of my chair, just like I nearly fell off the sofa this morning when Rita told me she used to dance with Disney on Parade. Well, that much I knew, but today I found out she apparently performed with Cathy Rigby in a little production called Peter Pan. Y’all, I’m such a Broadway fangirl, I nearly spewed my coffee across the room. Of course, I tried to appear calm.

“Oh yeah, I think I’ve heard of her.”

Most of today has been spent telling stories like these, breaking my food rules, and thinking about how I’m going to tell my therapist tomorrow that I only took four naps this week instead of five. Shit happens, lady. Some days you don’t dance with Patrick Swayze. Still, I’m looking forward to sharing how I’ve moved my blog writing to the afternoons, the way it’s taken a lot of pressure off. I mean, the pressure’s still there, but it’s better.

Currently it’s six in the evening, and I’m in Gregg and Rita’s office. I can see Christmas lights through the window blinds, Tracy Chapman is playing on my phone, and these things make me smile. Rita’s been taking a class through Pepperdine about how the brain works, and she said that this is one of the things necessary for being creative and coming up with ideas–being slightly happy. Just slighty is enough, so long as you’re not miserable. To me this is really good news and means that you don’t have to be perfect in order for life to work. It means that four naps may not be five, but it’s still huge improvement; that any pressure off is good pressure off; that you can get hit in the head with hard candy and still enjoy the parade.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You've really got to believe in yourself and what you're doing. Again, it comes down to integrity and making something solid of yourself, something that's so well-built on the inside that it can handle any storm.

"

All That Is Best and Broken (Blog #246)

Leave a comment

After eight months of solid blogging, I haven’t quite figured out how to “blog early.” (Perhaps this is not a surprise.) This morning I woke up at 11:30 and completed all my other daily routines (morning pages, chi kung, half a pot of coffee), and Bonnie and I have been shopping in Fayetteville ever since. My energy level is slightly better than yesterday, but now it’s 7:45, we’re at a dance in Northwest Arkansas that hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already worn out. Since the dance lasts for a while and then there’s the drive home, I’m trying to blog now while my brain is somewhat–somewhat–functional. I just can’t stay up late again to blog, at least until I feel better. I just can’t.

Great, that’s 125 words.

Oh wow, there’s a live band tonight–the Prairie Grove Jazz Band–and they just started warming up. It sounds like a bunch of toddlers who found the pots and pans. (I’m sure it will be much better when they’re actually playing a song.) Anyway, I wonder if I’ll be able to concentrate, keep a coherent train of thought going in between all the noise and the dances. Oh well–hang on–this could be a bumpy ride. AND the band just started. Much better, but loud. (YOU’LL HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.)

Oh my god, I just danced and am dying. Where did all the air go? Talk amongst yourselves.

The shopping objective today was to replace holiday decorations that Bonnie recently lost in a house flood. Anyway, we went to several stores and ended up with dozens of oversized tree ornaments, a holiday kitchen towel, and a Santa Claus that looks like St. Francis of Assisi that we’re calling St. Nicolaus of Assisi. Oh–and how could I forget?–we found two little statues–an owl and a squirrel–in fancy circus clothes and top hats! Who thinks of this stuff! Anyway, Bonnie’s gonna stick those suckers next to a little artificial pine tree, and it’s going to be so adorable you won’t be able to stand yourself.

Woodland critters in top hats for Christmas!

I told Bonnie that the best thing about today has been that not only have I gotten out of the house, but I’ve also gotten out of my head. I mean, if it hasn’t been obvious, I’ve spent a lot of time lately worrying about the state of my physical body. Why am I so tired? Am I ever going to feel well again? Maybe I should go ahead and pick out my headstone. This sort of thinking, of course, is exhausting (not to mention dramatic). Still, it’s hard to avoid when I have almost every minute of every day to myself with little else to do or think about. So whereas I think I need to take it easy, I’m reminding myself that I need to get out and be around other people–other people who will let me whine for about five minutes then shut me up with a margarita.

For lunch Bonnie shut me up with a margarita. Y’all, both of us have been on really healthy diets lately, Bonnie for nine weeks, me for four. But today we broke all the rules and had Mexican food. Wow, it was like reuniting with an old friend. I seriously felt like I owed the cheese an apology. I’m sorry I haven’t called lately–I’ve been cheating on you with spinach–I won’t let it happen again. Everything was so delicious; I probably gained five pounds from the chips alone. Of course, it feels like all my hard work just went straight down the drain, just like the flour tortillas went straight to my hips, but I realize that one meal is only one meal. Even even if it weren’t–it was totally worth it.

When we sat down at the restaurant, Bonnie surprised me with a birthday present. Granted, my birthday was over two months ago, but Bonnie made my present by hand, so it took her some time. Y’all, Bonnie knitted me some multi-colored wool socks–just in time for winter! I realize this is totally an old person thing to do, getting excited about socks. But these are homemade socks, and since my feet are always cold this time of year, warm socks really are the perfect thing. Plus, Bonnie designed the socks with a path down each side, sort of like a road, but it’s intentionally crooked and bumpy because Bonnie said that’s how life is.

Having lived for twenty-seven years now, I’d have to agree.

The card Bonnie gave me tonight had a quote by Oscar Wilde on it that said, “Be yourself–everyone else is taken.” Bonnie didn’t know it, but that quote is also used in the musical Kinky Boots–one of my favorites. So again, it was the perfect thing. Anyway, the quote makes me think about the importance of authenticity. I know we all wear masks and play different roles. Some of this, of course, is necessary in a polite society. You can’t tell everyone everything. But having spent plenty of time over the years trying to be someone I wasn’t (for example–straight, interested, or completely fine with bad behavior), I realize now I was mostly trying to be someone who didn’t even exist. Newsflash–there is no straight Marcus. There is no Marcus who’s okay when he’s cheated on. There is, however, a gay Marcus who sometimes falls apart and sometimes gets mad as hell.

Circuitous routes are where the healing happens.

Naturally, the road to authenticity is a crooked, bumpy path, just like recovering from an illness is a crooked, bumpy path. Being yourself, taking care of yourself, takes work. As my therapist says, it’s exhausting to always be the person setting boundaries and speaking your truth. So sometimes you wander as you figure things out. I think that’s okay. Nobody shows up to this life with a map in their hand, and even if we had one, I’m not sure we’d want to travel in a straight line. No, circuitous routes are better and more interesting. Circuitous routes are where the healing happens, since they let you double back and pick up the pieces of yourself you dropped along the way. This is what authenticity looks like, I think, the willingness to gather together all that is best and broken inside you and share it with someone else without apology, to face the world and say, “This is my winding road–this is MY winding road–and this is who I am.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

If you’re making yourself up to get someone else’s approval–stop it–because you can’t manipulate anyone into loving you. People either embrace you for who and what you are–or they don’t.

"

Life As Explosion (Blog #201)

Leave a comment

It’s three in the morning, and I just got back from a long night of dancing. I’m exhausted, and most of me would rather be in bed. Since this is a blog about honesty, I can say that. The house is supposed to be quiet, but one of my nephews is apparently awake, and I think my sister just got up to check on him. Seriously, is this what parenting is like, cooking meals and running a professional taxi service during the day, then playing night watchman when the sun goes down? I don’t know how parents get anything done. Well, yes I do–they put their children in front of a television. But still, my hat is off to you people.

This afternoon my sister and I went to Costco. Y’all, I’d never been to one before, and it was pretty damn ridiculous. There were giant televisions, cheap alcohol (name brand!), and a hotdog stand. It was like an adult carnival plus Hanes underwear in bulk. What’s more, there was a refrigerated vegetable room bigger than my parents house and twice as tall. (Who the hell is eating so much lettuce?) And did I mention it was freezing? I had to put on a long-sleeved shirt just so we could walk halfway across the room and pick out some strawberries.

But I digress.

I guess my nephew Ander and I have a lot in common because that boy is always hungry. After the vegetable freezer he started asking for food, so my sister opened up a package of cheese right there in the middle of the tomato sauce section and gave him a slice. Maybe this is a mom thing, but I was mortified. I thought, We haven’t paid for that yet! Well, I bit my tongue, but Ander obviously wouldn’t have given a shit anyway because he had a slice of delicious cheese in his hands. I mean, he threw the wrapper on the floor and started munching away. (I picked up the wrapper and sneaked it in my pocket like, Nothing to see here.)

Thankfully, the cops didn’t show up.

After Costco and before we picked my other nephew up from school, we went to Chick-Fil-A and ended up talking about how frickin’ friendly they are. You know, they always ask your name, smile, and say “my pleasure” whenever you say, “Thank you.” Who are these people? I mean, I’m all for customer service, but sometimes I feel like I’ve walked into an episode of The Twilight Zone whenever I step on their property in search of a simple chicken sandwich. Geez. My pleasure. (It’s weird, right?) Just once, could someone say, “You’re welcome”?

Is that too much to ask?

Okay, so I’m not sure how to introduce this next section without talking about gay cowboys. I realize that’s a weird transition, but it’s true. A couple years ago I was having a bad day/week/month and took myself to a gay bar in Dallas called The Roundup because there’s nothing like a bunch of homosexuals in Wranglers to make a boy feel better. Really, I don’t care who you are, you should go. They have a great dance floor, and everybody two-steps with everybody else. Guys dance with guys, girls dance with girls, girls lead as guys follow. It’s just a happy thing–perfect for shattering stereotypes and fun for the whole family.

Anyway, that was the night I met my friend Kaleb. We met on the floor, then danced and danced and danced some more. I don’t mind saying it was pretty magical. You know how you ladies always get excited when some handsome guy leads you around the dance floor? Well, despite my profession, I’ve never really gotten that, at least from a follower’s perspective. But I got it that night, thanks to Kaleb. The man could (and can) flat dance. I don’t remember the last time I had so much fun.

As it turned out, Kaleb was also visiting Dallas to get away–from Albuquerque–where he teaches ballroom dancing. (Isn’t that wild?) So for the last couple years we’ve kept loosely in touch, and I messaged him this afternoon to see if he wanted to go to a swing dance. (He said yes.) Y’all, a couple times I thought the altitude and lack of oxygen was going to kill me, but I survived and had a fabulous time. Kaleb and I took turns leading and following, no one gave us funny looks, and a few people even clapped.

I guess Kaleb or I could have said, “No need for applause, it was my pleasure.”

Give me a break.

When the swing dance was over, Kaleb and I headed to a local gay bar called Sidewinders for karaoke. That’s right, not only am I gay, but sometimes I sing karaoke. There, I said it. (And if anyone repeats any of this on the internet, we–are–finished.) Anyway, there weren’t a lot of people out tonight, so Kaleb and I had room to dance while other people sang. Again, so much fun. And then–and then–the cast from the national tour of An American in Paris showed up because–where else would they be on a Tuesday night? No, seriously, the cast just had a big turnover, and tonight was a lot of the members’ first city, first night, first performance, so they went out to celebrate at Sidewinders (as one does). They were dancing and we were dancing–some of us introduced ourselves and some of us didn’t–but it was just this beautiful thing–several Americans in Sidewinders.

Tonight Kaleb told me there’s a couple theories when it comes to art. (I don’t know how he knows this.) One theory says that art is meant to stand the test of time, that it should be around for generations and be enjoyed by as many people as possible. Another theory says that art is transitory, that it’s meant to pop up rather suddenly then disappear, like a flower that only blooms for a night. This theory, Kaleb said, is called “art as explosion,” and I’ve been thinking about it the last few hours. We spend so much of our lives trying to hang on to things we can’t hang on to. We paint paintings and take pictures trying to remember the people and experiences that make us feel loved and alive, hoping to grasp that which is most lovely to us. Of course, this is not possible. Thankfully, that which is lovely happens constantly if we have the eyes to see it. It looks like a child rebelling in the middle of a grocery store by eating cheese that hasn’t been paid for yet, a smile on the face in the drive-thru window, and a roomful of people dancing together. This is the very mystery of life, of course–one moment, one miracle exploding into the next.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You have everything you need.

"

Those We Choose to Dance with (Blog #197)

Leave a comment

I’m just going to say it. Last night I went to my car to get some stuff out and locked my keys inside. This is something I have a long history with. It’s happened so many times over the years it might as well be a hobby. I mean, I could have worse habits. Still, this one’s a serious bitch sometimes, especially since I’m currently in Denver, and my only spare key is–well–also inside the car. (I kept meaning to put it in my man bag.) Anyway, I know how to call a locksmith, but my main concern before I went to bed last night was spending money on such a careless mistake. Personally, I’d rather buy a new pair of shoes.

So before I fell asleep last night, I got on YouTube and learned a number of ways to break into a car–specifically–your own car. Y’all, it was a little disturbing to find out how easy it is to get into a vehicle. No shit, I watched an eight-year-old break into a sedan with a magnet. After the magnet was in place, he just rapped on the door a couple times with his knuckle–shave and a haircut–and the door popped right open. A prepubescent car thief–now that makes you feel good about the world. Anyway, I thought, If junior can do this, I’m willing to give it a shot. Anything to save seventy-five bucks.

Eventually, I feel asleep, and when I woke up this morning, I went to work.

Honestly, it’s a good thing I feel at home here at Maggie’s, since she was gone and the first thing I did was to walk around the house and the garage looking for a wedge (like a doorstop) to shimmy in the door to hold it open and a wire coat hanger. Well, I quickly found out that any successful job is really about the tools you use. I couldn’t find a very fat wedge, so I ended up using a pry bar, after I put some tape on the door frame to protect it. (I got that tip from the video.) The idea was to sneak the coat hanger in, snag the lock, and pull it back. Well, problem–the coat hanger was flimsy and wouldn’t cooperate.

I said a lot of cuss words.

For about an hour I kept running back inside the house and the garage, hoping to find a fatter wedge or some sort of iron rod with a hook on the end. No such luck. Finally, I prayed to MacGyver, and he suggested making the coat hanger sturdier by twisting another coat hanger around it. Y’all, that did the trick. After about an hour of frustration, I had the door open in two minutes. Thank you, Jesus (and MacGyver).

And then the car alarm started going off. (I didn’t even know I had one.)

Well, fuck.

So there I was sitting in the driver’s seat, sticking the recovered key in the ignition and pushing buttons like a redneck at a slot machine. Finally, the alarm stopped, but the car wouldn’t start. Well, thank god for good people because I called Johnny, the guy I bought the car from, and he told me to disconnect the battery to reset the electrical system. Even better, he stayed on the phone and walked me through the whole process–turn the key in the ignition, flip the headlights on, disconnect the battery, wait, do everything basically in reverse. And just like that, the alarm stopped and the car started.

I texted my sister about the whole thing, and she said, “Way to be thrifty.” When Maggie got back from running errands, she said something about Triple A. Then I realized I have roadside protection with my insurance, and they probably would have done the whole thing for free. Considering I put a few small scratches in the paint around the door, I started getting a case of the “should haves.” I should have called my insurance company. I should have been more careful. I should have kept the spare key in my murse. (A murse is a man purse, Mom.) Anyway, my sister said, “That’s just life. Set it free. Deep breaths.” Then, realizing that I’m a mile high in altitude, she added, “Oh wait. There’s no air.”

For the last hour I’ve been watching Maggie teach and dance with one of her longtime students, Frank. Frank is eighty-five, and so far I’ve seen him perform a samba line dance, a waltz routine, a cha-cha routine, and a rumba routine, all from memory. Both he and Maggie said, “We know how many birthdays we’ve had. But you don’t have to buy all that crap people tell you about getting old.”

Frank said several years ago Maggie noticed his feet weren’t syncopating. He said, “Yes they are.” Maggie said, “No they’re not. I’ve got mirrors all over this place, and I don’t see your feet moving right.” It turns out Frank had a disc in his neck pinching a nerve, so signals weren’t getting sent to his feet, and he ended up having surgery. Afterwards, there were weeks when Frank could only watch dancing, then he had to start all over. But now you’d never know it. Honestly, I wish I could put him on a greeting card–the man’s a walking inspiration.

As I consider it now, I think Maggie was my therapist before my therapist was my therapist. One minute we’re telling jokes or talking about cha-cha, and the next we’re discussing our insecurities and self-judgments. Maggie nailed me when she said, “It’s easy to feel inadequate, to think, I’d be okay if I knew more, looked different, or whatever. But we’re not inadequate.” Earlier Frank and Maggie did a foxtrot to “You’re Nobody Til Somebody Loves You,” and I almost cried because I remembered what a gift it is to have a friend and mentor like Maggie–someone who just lets you show up, gives you everything they have then gives you some more, and tells you to come back anytime. This relationship feels like two wire hangers bound together–sturdy–and it reminds me that I’m more than okay just the way I am–keys locked in the car, scratches in the paint, money in my wallet or not. All of that is just life, which rolls along sometimes in simple rhythm and sometimes in syncopation. No dance is without its mistakes and what we would term imperfections, but I’m starting to believe it’s simply about showing up and, most importantly, those we choose to dance with.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You've really got to believe in yourself and what you're doing. Again, it comes down to integrity and making something solid of yourself, something that's so well-built on the inside that it can handle any storm.

"

Road Trips, Reunions, and Rise and Fall (Blog #196)

Leave a comment

9:06 AM

Believe it or not, I’ve been awake for an hour. I got to Wichita last night around 10:30, visited with my friends Megan and Kevin for a while, and crashed pretty hard sometime between midnight and one. My friends stashed me in the apartment above their garage, so I’m currently fighting the temptation to play with all the Legos in here that either belong to their two boys or to Kevin. Before I passed out last night I checked the distance I have to drive to Denver today, and it should take about eight hours, provided I don’t stop to eat, get gas, or go to the bathroom. So we’ll see how it goes. I’m pretty sure Tom Collins (my car) and I are going to need a few breaks.

Rather than write today’s blog in one sitting and therefore postpone my departure time, I’m trying something different–a play-by-play. Basically I’ll be writing “live” as I stop for lunch or whatever. Or maybe the next timestamp will be tonight when I get to Denver. Either way, think of this as an adventure. You can even imagine yourself on the trip with me if that makes it more exciting for you. Now that we’re up and dressed, our first stop is inside the house to see about breakfast and caffeine.

Here we go.

10:18 AM

Jackpot. Megan hooked me up with breakfast–fruit, toast, coffee. She has some sort of magical device made by space aliens that attached to her toaster and makes hard-boiled eggs. What will they think of next? Now I’m getting close to leaving. Just need to pack up the rest of my things, throw them in Tom Collins, and Denver, here I come.

Here’s a picture of Megan and me at breakfast. That little guy she’s holding is a Lego dude with a sword. Hello!

1:40 PM

After about three hours of driving, I just stopped because my gas tank and my bladder told me to. Now my gas tank is full and my bladder is empty, whereas it was the other way around just a few moments ago. So far the only thing to report is that one of the gentlemen in the restroom didn’t wash his hands before walking out. Otherwise, all is well. I’ve been listening to “Despacito” on repeat (bom bom), as well as a lecture by psychologist James Finley on the relationship between trauma and transformation. In part of the talk he used the phrase, the holiness of ordinariness, which I love. It’s the idea that within each moment, there’s something of the sacred. Since things are always changing, today’s particular sun will never shine in quite the same way. In this light, even the flat plains of Kansas look beautiful, each windmill its own miracle.

4:22 PM (MST)

Okay, now I’m in Mountain Standard Time, so it feels like I woke up an hour earlier than I actually did. I’m starting to get tired. For one thing, all the driving. For another, I’m all a mile high and there’s not a lot of air up here. Thank god my brain doesn’t need oxygen to function. Oh wait. I just got gas and am about to run through Taco Bell and hit the road again. I just have a couple more hours to tonight’s destination, and I just realized Tom Collins is a murderer–there are hundreds (hundreds) of dead bugs on the front of my car. Maybe if I’d left that Jesus fish on the back of Tom Collins he’d have better morals. Regardless, I hope he feels good about himself. Anyway, time for a burrito.

12:32 AM (MST)

I arrived in Denver about six hours ago and am just getting to my laptop. I’m staying with my friend and dance mentor, Maggie, and one day I should probably write an entire blog–or book–about her. She’s short, loud, Italian, and good as gold. Her dance studio is connected to her house, and this honestly feels like a second home to me. Not only is it the place where I learned it was okay to cuss in front of dance students, but it’s also the place where I’ve learned most of what I know about ballroom dancing and been encouraged more times than I can count. Last year when I was thinking about closing the studio and moving to Austin, Maggie’s the one who said, “If you’re not happy, you gotta start over.”

Anyway, when I walked in the door, Maggie gave me a big hug, then I watched her teach waltz for half an hour. Afterwards she taught a group class in swing, so I got to watch and participate. I always forget how funny Maggie is. She’s like a drill sergeant, a stand-up comedian, and Mother Teresa all rolled into one. Outside her studio she has a huge water fountain where she’s added a sign that says, “Ryzan Falls.” Get it–rise and fall? (It’s a dance thing.)

After dancing, Maggie and I went out to eat with her roommate, Jon. Oh my god, y’all, we had so much fun catching up, sharing our dramas, eating carbs. Maggie told me that last year her boyfriend was learning a dance move from YouTube, and when he showed it to Maggie and asked if she knew the instructor (because all dance instructors know each other), she said, “Yes, actually–that’s Marcus! He’s my student.”

Isn’t that wild?

Now I’m wishing I had more time to spend here. Maggie and her friends and students are always so welcoming, and Denver has so much to offer. I’ve been out dancing here so many times, and there’s a great used bookstore. Plus, I love watching Maggie teach. I always learn something and never fail to laugh. That being said, I’m in town for different reasons this time, so rather than feel as if I’m missing out on something, I’m trying to remind myself that it’s a treat to simply be here at all. A miracle, really.

Even though, like, I wasn’t born in the Great Depression, it still amazes me that in one day I can wake up in Wichita and fall asleep in Denver, but that’s what happened today. In between were hundreds of miles, moments, and memories. Who’s to say which ones were ordinary, which ones holy? What makes one thing better than another? Perhaps that’s just a game we play with ourselves. Each day the events of our lives, like our moods, rise and fall, and what if the divine is right there in the middle of us like a steady beat, just waiting for us to notice and to get in time with the music?

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.

"