How Life Proceeds (Blog #203)

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It’s two in the afternoon, and it seems like I just did this twelve hours ago–because I did. Currently my sister is on her way to pick up Christopher from school, she has Ander in tow, and I have the house to myself. God willing and the creek don’t rise, I’m going out tonight. I guess you could call it a date. It’s been so long, I’m really not sure what the rules and definitions are anymore. Regardless, I’m meeting a boy for drinks, and it sucks to ditch a cute face in favor of a laptop. Not that I don’t love y’all, but let’s see if we can wrap this up before Daddy hits the town, okay?

Also, I’d really like to take a nap. I don’t mind saying this no-oxygen, sort of sick thing is a real drag. I used to have a boss that said that–What a drag, what a serious drag. All things considered, it could be a lot worse. But yeah, a nap would be good. And I should probably hydrate. Well, shit. I just realized I didn’t hit the right button to start my laundry for tonight. No worries–if at first you don’t succeed…

Drink. (To be clear, I don’t endorse drinking to solve your problems. Or anyone else’s.)

Well, shit again. I just saw a mouse run across the kitchen and back again. This must be his time of day to do cardio. I hope he doesn’t expect me to join him, at least until my lungs can get acclimated to the altitude. He could be waiting a while. We all could be waiting a while.

This morning my sister and I took Ander to story time at the local library. Y’all, it was the cutest thing. There were all these tiny people running around, and one of the boys had round red-rubber glasses strapped and fastened around his little head. My friend Leah calls kids like him “false advertisement,” since they look cute but will throw up on you before the week is over and not think twice about it. Also, once you have one, you can’t take them back. Anyway, the lady in charge of story time was wonderful. Today she wore an orange apron for Halloween, so I kept forgetting she wasn’t a Home Depot employee. But still, she read to the kids, played games, and used props. Had it been me, I could have been totally frustrated that all the little tots weren’t paying attention, but she was so patient. Amazing.

When we got back from the library, my sister and I changed clothes with the intention of painting in her master bedroom. She and her husband have been remodeling it since they’ve moved in. Anyway, we couldn’t find any rollers, so she ended up cutting in while I did the hard work of taking off light switch plates and trying to entertain Ander, who insisted on being underfoot. This went on for less than an hour before Dee-Anne had to leave to pick up Christopher. She said a lot of days she feels like saying, “Fuck it–these pink walls aren’t that bad,” since it’s so difficult to get stuff done with kids running around and wanting attention.

Obviously, there’s a reason they invented Benadryl and the Disney channel.

Now the wash is almost done, and I just took a lap around the house in search of inspiration. Normally I write at the end of the day, plenty of things “have happened,” and there’s a well of information to draw from. But this is clearly different–the sun is still up. What happens while the sun is up? Really, all I can think about is that nap. Also, I leave in a few days, and I’m feeling as if I’m running out of time. There were several things I wanted to do, but they simply haven’t happened yet. So it’s possible I won’t watch a movie, go country dancing, or see the Catholic chapel with the dirt that performs miracles. Que sera, sera.

Last night I started reading a book about writing, and the author says that artists need a lot of down time, a lot of time to “do nothing.” Maybe this looks like going for a walk, but only if going for a walk is not a to-do list item. Like, it should be relaxing. (I’ve heard this before and have been really slow to come around to this notion.) The idea is that inspiration and creativity happen in the present moment, and most of us wouldn’t recognize the present moment if it hit us between the eyes because we’re so busy running around stressing and fretting.

If this last part sounds familiar, please raise your hand.

Obviously, that last picture was a setup. My sister said, “Christopher doesn’t stress or fret about anything.” This is where I really believe children are our teachers. They’re almost always focused on what’s in front of them and not imagining they’d be better off somewhere else. When they do get upset because they’d rather be watching TV instead of eating brussel sprouts, they pitch a fit, it’s over quickly, and they don’t bitch or blog about it the next day. Children don’t give a shit how long it takes to paint a bedroom, whether or not there’s a mouse in the house, or whether or not they’ve been on a date in the last year.

Life proceeds at its own pace.

Of course, children can’t drive or pick up their own socks, so it’s not like they’re perfect. Still, today I’m reminded to accept life as it comes. Sometimes this looks like go, go, go. Things get done left and right. Other times it’s as if your every routine and desire have lain down for a long winter’s nap. You wake up, and not matter how hard you push, what gets done gets done. Just as your head hits the pillow you think, Is this really my life? Well, obviously the answer is yes. What happens, happens. One day your child grows up and stops needing so much attention. Somehow the walls get painted. Even if they don’t, life proceeds at its own pace. Constantly, quietly it saunters along, refusing to be hurried.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t stuff down the truth—it always comes up.

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Each New Day (Blog #202)

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It’s just before midnight, everyone else is asleep, and I’ve been raiding the refrigerator because I’m hungry. Apparently doing nothing burns a lot of calories. This afternoon my sister introduced me to honey roasted nuts, and I could have sworn she said they were in the kitchen, so I just spent five minutes quietly opening cabinet doors in search of this glorious snack made by unicorns. Well, they ended up being in the pantry, in the last cabinet I opened. When I saw them, I felt like I won the lottery, but what I actually won was another reason to be grateful for stretch pants.

Puh-TAY-toe, puh-TAH-toe.

I just put the honey roasted nuts back on the shelf. I was eating so many, I decided it was either put them back or call a help line. When I walked into the pantry, I noticed the shirts I washed and hung up to dry yesterday. There are six of them, and all of them are gray or black. With a couple exceptions, that’s pretty much been my color palate for the last year. Yesterday my sister and I talked about my current minimalist wardrobe, and today she told me I had what’s referred to as a capsule closet. A capsule closet is apparently a collection of limited clothing (tops, bottoms, etc.), all of which match and coordinate. Well, obviously, gray and black go with everything.

By everything, I mean my one pair of jeans.

I spent this afternoon mostly in the car with my sister, running my nephews around. For being so young, they sure have a lot to do. I guess part of the problem is that Christopher’s charter school is a twenty-minute drive. My sister says he usually doesn’t like to talk about his day, that getting information out of him is like pulling teeth. My parents have voiced the same complaint about me over the years, so I said, “You should give him a couple of scotches. That’ll make him talk.” Well, he wouldn’t shut up today, probably because he lost his watch at school (he has a habit of taking it off) and was hoping he could avoid a lecture by throwing my sister a conversation bone. So for twenty minutes he went on and on about music class, witches, and–I don’t know–cooties. This whole exchange taught me two things–1) seven-year-olds are smarter than we give them credit for, and 2) as smart as they are, they really have very few interesting things to say.

Of course, two-year-olds aren’t any better. They repeat themselves–a lot. This afternoon Ander kept saying, “Now? Now? What about now?” I recently told a friend, “If you want patience, be a dance instructor,” but I should have said parent.

If you want patience, be a parent.

Tonight before bedtime, the boys and I played outside. Christopher wanted to sword fight with plastic bats, but I somehow ended up with a plastic golf club. Talk about being an awkward pirate. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I would have won, but Christopher ended up reaching for a water gun–and using it–on me. So I got soaked, but since I’m bigger than him, I took away the gun and returned the favor. My sister said, “When kids scream and say, ‘Don’t shoot me,’ that means they want you to shoot them.” I don’t know where she discovered this parenting wisdom, but both the boys did seem to be delighted when I covered them in water. In retrospect, I think my sister just said what she did so she wouldn’t have to bathe them tonight.

When we came inside Christopher wouldn’t let me in my room (actually, his playroom) until I said the secret password, which I ended up guessing after he gave me a few hints. It was “cheese block.” Go figure.

Also, now I’m hungry again.

Yesterday I started reading Theft by Finding by David Sedaris. It’s his latest book, a collection of his diary entries over the years, and over five hundred pages. I have tickets to see David next week in Arkansas and am trying to finish the book before then, even though I’m sure he won’t mind if I don’t. Still, I’m a hundred pages in (and fascinated). Anyway, since everyone went to bed, I’ve been reading, David for a while, then a book on writing that David mentioned. (Clearly I have the attention span of a two-year-old, as I’m constantly starting new books before I finish old ones.)

You can’t play small forever.

When I reset my wardrobe last year, I told myself that I was sticking to grays and blacks because they’re neutral and it felt like I needed a fresh start. Subconsciously, I think I’ve stuck with those colors because I’ve been in mourning. A huge part of my life is over, and I guess it feels like a death. It’s good, I think, since that part needed to die. You can’t play small forever. Still, since whatever’s coming next hasn’t fully presented itself yet, my interior atmosphere is often solemn–lighter than before, but solemn nonetheless. Perhaps deep is a better word. I suppose it’s been like this for a while, but I notice it more when I’m around children. Sometimes it’s difficult for me to be silly and not steer the conversation toward self-improvement.

Of course, seven-year-olds would rather talk about their farts.

I don’t imagine farts will ever be my go-to conversation. I seem to be wired for things more serious, like, How do your farts make you feel? I’m okay with that. Still, I love my nephews for reminding me that life is meant to be fun. Today I wore a pink shirt, and that too reminds me to lighten up. Once I had a spiritual teacher hold my hand and say, “There’s nothing serious going on here, I can promise you that.” At the time, I hoped they were right. Now, I really am starting to believe it, that the world isn’t as bad as I thought it was, that I can improve without being so intense or in a hurry, and that I can come out of mourning anytime because the sun rises each new day.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

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The Power of Perspective (Blog #189)

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It’s one in the morning, and my friends Justin and Ashley just left. For about two hours we’ve been in the hot tub, and I’m currently limp as a wet noodle. The harvest moon shines full in the night sky, I’m not sure where the cats are, and bed sounds really great about now. But I just started the music I always blog to, downloaded the pictures I plan to use tonight, and here we go. As for where we’re going, I’m not exactly sure. (Insert long pause here.) Some nights this is easier than others.

Oh look, that’s a hundred words. Almost done.

I woke up this afternoon in the middle of a dream about the hard drive I dropped and broke last year, the one with pretty much my entire life on it. In the dream I was in Van Buren, and there was a guy with bad teeth who said he could fix the hard drive pretty cheap. Apparently he was also a hair dresser, and I was sort of apologizing for how messy my hair was. Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the dream because someone was ringing the doorbell. Well, the doorbell where I’m staying is really loud and sounds like one of those buzzers you hide in the palm of you hand that vibrates when someone shakes it, and the guy wouldn’t leave it alone. It felt like being woken up by a cattle prod.

I wasn’t impressed. Still, despite the fact that I was half-naked, I stumbled downstairs, opened the door, and tried to be pleasant.

Recently I’ve been watching the Netflix series GLOW, which stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. My friend Marla turned me on to it, and it’s about some ladies in the 80s who are in the process of becoming professional wrestlers. Anyway, the last episode I watched had a scene where one of the girls ends up making out with the hot, feathered-hair pizza delivery boy, so I was sort of hoping something similar would happen when I answered the door this morning. Well, damn it, no such luck. It was just a guy (that was not my type) who’d brought the paper from the yard to the porch and was looking for some work.

So that made two of us that were disappointed.

You know, sometimes the universe is a real bitch. As if the doorbell incident weren’t enough, I discovered after breakfast that one of the cats had thrown up again, this time on my friend’s backpack. Well, being the dutiful house sitter that I am, I took the backpack outside, shook off the vomit in the yard, and came back in only to discover that the cat had also puked down the side of the dryer, sort of on a trashcan but not in it, and all over a piece of wrought iron furniture, the kind with all the loops and curly q’s perfect for holding throw up. Less than an hour before I discovered this disaster, I was raving on Facebook about a friend’s newborn he’d dressed up like a little lumberjack. I thought, Oh my god, I want one. But then as I was on my hands and knees cleaning up vomit, I thought, No–no I don’t.

After The Great Feline Stomach Upset of 2017, I went to the Fort Smith Regional Art Museum, something I’ve been meaning to do since they opened in their new location four years ago. I’ve been skimping on taking my inner artist on dates lately, so I figured today was as good as any. Having never been to the museum, I didn’t know what to expect and was pleasantly surprised to find a photograph collection on loan from the Smithsonian. The collection was a project by the Environmental Protection Agency and documented life and environmental conditions in the 70s. So it was mainly about pollution, but also about fashion, drugs, and personalities.

One of the photographers for the project referred to his camera as a passport, saying, “It takes you into the lives of people you might otherwise never meet.” This is one of the things I love about reading and writing. I can pick up a book written twenty years ago, and it’s like it’s happening today. If I walk away from that book with one new idea, one little thing to chew on, I’ve been changed in some way. Even if I never meet the author in person, our minds have met, and the world is different than it was before. I think this is the power of story, and whether it’s done through the lens of a camera or words on a page, I love that no good story ever ends.

For the last few minutes I’ve been looking at the above picture, a photograph of–I’m assuming–an Italian man who owned a restaurant. Had I known him, I think I would have liked him. There’s an exercise taught in some writing classes where you take a picture like this and make up a story about it, so my mind has been running wild with possibilities–what time he got up every day, how many kids he had, how he might have gone outside for smoke break after the lunch hour rush and ended up meeting a photographer.

You can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

My therapist says that the natural state of the universe is neutral. I take this to mean that things happen–someone rings your doorbell and wakes you up, a cat vomits, whatever–and those are just facts like photographs. Where we come in, however, is we experience or look at those facts and tell a story about them–this is disappointing, this is disgusting, this is a place I’d like to visit. In so doing, we take something neutral and turn it into either a personal positive or negative. This, of course, is the power of perspective. Maybe you can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

When I think about the hard drive I dropped last year, the first word that comes to mind is “memories.” Because the dream had to do with fixing the hard drive and it happened in Van Buren (where I’m currently living), I imagine it was about changing my perspective about my past and current life, healing, and restoring the parts of myself I thought were lost. As for the messy hair and bad teeth, these are both things I’m pretty vain about, so they simply remind me that healing doesn’t always look like you think it will. If you’d told me a year ago I’d make my biggest internal strides by living back at home and writing a daily blog, I would have told you to get lost. As it turns out, it’s been the very way I’ve found myself. So I’m reminded tonight that underneath all of our stories about life, there’s a wisdom that not only puts a full moon in the sky and changes our fashion choices over the years, but also changes us. Often we think, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, yet somehow, we arrive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."

The Tiniest Seeds (Blog #178)

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Three and a half years ago I met my therapist–my first and only therapist–for the first time. I haven’t been keeping track, but I’m guessing I’ve sat in her office roughly a hundred times. By anyone’s standards, I’ve come a long way. The journey has–without a doubt–changed the course of my entire life for the better. In one way or another, the things I’ve learned about myself and the world around me in that office impact me positively every day. I think about this stuff constantly. Hell, I started a blog about it. (You’re reading it.)

Tonight’s blog is number 178. That’s five days shy of half a year–almost six months of daily writing and self-reflection. Even for someone obsessed with mirrors, it’s a lot. Aside from going to therapy, however, I’m coming to believe it’s the best the thing I’ve ever done. Little by little, I’ve come to understand myself more, come to understand others more. Word by word and post by post, I’m growing in self-acceptance, balance, and authenticity. I have a tendency to get wrapped up in the outer–the number of readers I have, the number of likes I have on Facebook, the amount of money I have in my wallet. But when I think about what’s inside and what really matters, I’m forever grateful for that first trip to see my therapist, that first blog post on March 31, 2017. I didn’t know it at the time, but these two things would change me from the inside out.

About a month ago my therapist suggested I buy a plant, so I did. Honestly, I don’t have a green thumb. I mean, I can water plants and keep them alive in a pinch, but I don’t talk to them, pay them much attention, or buy them pretty things. Plants, after all, aren’t twinks. Consequently, I’ve never had a plant that lasted very long. But this time around, I intend to do better. For the last few weeks, I’ve watered the plant as instructed, kept it in a good spot, even gazed at it fondly once or twice. I haven’t named it yet, but I’m thinking about it. Maybe Grant–Grant the Plant.

That sounds good.

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been listening to an audio series by Caroline Myss about archetypes. The theory is we all have them, and they play a huge–huge–role in how we live our lives and the way in which our souls develop. Whether you realize it or not, you speak the language of archetypes constantly because your soul speaks in symbols. This is the way dreams work too. Anyway, as an example, recently my mom said, “I know you’re not a caregiver.” Well, she was right. It’s not that I can’t be caring, but don’t ask me to be a nurse (like she is), or watch over a sick relative. I simply don’t have the caregiver archetype. But if you need to learn how to dance, how to write, or–say–what an archetype is, I’m your guy because I do have the teacher.

With that background laid out, last week Caroline was discussing the gardener archetype. She said some people just have it–the green thumb. They can make something grow no one else can because it’s IN them. They respect the spirits of plants, and the spirits of plants respect them and respond to them. If this sounds like you, you’re probably a gardener. If it doesn’t, you’re like me–something besides a gardener. Anyway, when I heard all this, I immediately thought of my Aunt Tudie. She LOVES gardening–she’s great at it–always has been. Oh my god, I thought, she has the archetype!

So tonight I took my “therapy plant” down to my aunt’s house to repot. I recently bought a bigger pot for it so that it will have room to grow, along with some peat moss. Y’all, this plant is already becoming an expensive little son of a bitch. But that’s okay–it makes oxygen, which I’ve heard is important.

Watching my aunt work tonight was nothing short of beautiful. It probably wasn’t a big deal to her, but it was to me. You know how you tend to take your relatives for granted? Like, Oh, that’s just my aunt. As if someone’s life stops when you’re not in it. Well, I guess I’m guilty of this. Maybe I’d just never paused long enough to watch my aunt do the thing that she loves. Tonight she slowly removed my plant from its old pot and gently tugged at the bottom roots. Then she added the peat moss to the new pot, put the plant in, and lightly packed down the dirt with the care of a mother rocking a newborn to sleep.

“Have you always loved plants?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, “I’ve always had my hands in dirt. I love watching things grow–the way something can start as the tiniest seed and then absolutely blossom into the biggest thing.”

After my plant was potted, my aunt pointed out the new growth on top. “Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I said.

“See how they’re drooped down? That means they need more water. But the fact that they’re there means the plant is doing well on your kitchen table.”

Then she noticed the dust on the leaves, so she took a spray bottle, misted the leaves with water, and used her fingers to clean them off–one by one. Y’all, it may come across strange on “paper,” but I started crying. The way my aunt held those leaves–there’s not a person alive that wouldn’t want to be held that way. She was so tender. Personally, I won’t forget it for a long time–the night I recognized my aunt for who she is–a talented, skillful, and kind gardener.

It’s not a little thing.

Sometimes it’s necessary to “repot” yourself.

Before I left, my aunt showed me a plant she had potted beside her carport. On top were buds that had dried out, and she picked them off and tossed them in the yard. She said next year there would be flowers everywhere, and she figured that out by trial and error. I’ve thought a lot tonight about the seeds we plant, sometimes when we don’t even know it. I guess that’s what I was doing when I started therapy three and a half years ago. Once my therapist told me that everything I ever needed was already inside of me–if she did anything, it was only to provide an environment in which I had room to grow. So I’m reminded tonight about the importance of environment, self-care, and kindness. Sometimes–it seems–it’s necessary to “repot” yourself. As I continue to write every day, I’m reminded to treat the process and myself with respect, trusting that as even the tiniest seeds are planted and cared for, they’ll absolutely blossom and grow into the biggest things.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous.

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Complete in This Moment (Blog #171)

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I hate to assume what God thinks about anything, but people do it all the time, so I really don’t think God intended me for manual labor. I mean, it’s not the worst thing in the world, but I think I’m better suited for television. I’d even be willing to be a donut taster, if that’s a thing. But after two days of working in my friend Ray’s yard–all while wearing unattractive velcro shoes and smelling like a mixture of sunscreen, Deep Woods Off, and any dog shit I may have stepped in–I definitely don’t want to make a career out of picking up sticks and weed whacking. All that being said, I’m grateful that my body was able to function today without the aid of crutches or pain killers.

So that’s something.

Fortunately, Ray’s not a hard taskmaster, and I got to sleep in until noon today. Finding some coffee in the pot, I woke up slowly and was ready to work by one, which is when it started raining–a lot. Of course, rain is a real bitch when you’re trying to work in the yard because yards are outside. So instead I worked inside tightening up cabinet doors with power tools, and Ray said I’d make a good lesbian if my hair were only shorter. Then I went to Lowe’s and Home Depot in search of the threshold piece we need, which neither place had. Apparently Ray’s threshold is wider than normal because it’s older construction. That means a trip to a specialty store tomorrow or ordering something custom.

Shortly after I got back from The Fruitless Threshold Search of 2017, it stopped raining, so I raked the front yard and bagged up all the junk. On the one hand, I think it was easier because everything was wet and stuck together. On the other hand, everything was wet and stuck together. But I got it all done. Now I just need to clean the sidewalks, which I’m hoping will be dry enough tomorrow to sweep off. Granted, this plan is contingent on my body not staging a complete rebellion.

I spent the rest of the work day in the backyard, which at first glance appeared to be in need of a machete and a machine gun. My main project was to tear down a contraption where Ray used to keep chickens and a pig named General MacArthur. I thought it resembled an Army bunker, but it was basically was a pen made of t-posts, PVC pipe, chicken wire, and enough zip ties to make for a really kinky Friday night. (That’s a sex joke, Mom. Some people like to be tied up. Don’t worry–I’m not one of them.) The other goal was to repair a section of fence where a tree fell. Essentially, it showed up uninvited and screwed things up real good. (I’ve dated people with this pattern of behavior.)

Here’s a picture of the fallen tree and jacked-up fence. Notice the animal pen in the background.

I told Jesse these projects were a pain in the ass–or, more accurately–a pain in my ass. I was able to break up some of the limbs from the dead tree to pile on the side of the house, but the tree itself was about the size of a junior light pole. (Thank God for those peanut butter crackers I ate this afternoon for energy.) The 2×4 holding up the wire fence was obviously broken, and since the wire was crushed, I tore that out too. But the 2×4 along the ground where the wire attached was covered with ivy, so I had to tear that mess out in order to attach new wire. Then I moved on to the animal pen, and I can’t even find the words. Maybe it gave me PTSD because I’m sweating just thinking about it. The t-posts wouldn’t budge, and everything else came apart about as easily as chewing gum comes out of my nephew’s hair. I said, “Fuck,” a lot. But here’s a picture of the day’s progress. More shall be done tomorrow, since I quit today when it started raining again and someone said, “Tacos.”

I don’t think the picture really does these cuts and scrapes on my forearms justice. I didn’t take a picture of the fallen tree debris, but here’s a picture of the destroyed chicken house/pig pen and all the wreckage from the rest of the backyard. Ray said, “I’ve never seen someone with so much energy.” I said, “That’s not energy–that’s determination.” Honestly, I felt like it was Man vs. Nature, me against inertia. I told Ray, “I’m exercising my self-will over your property.”

Today I’ve thought a lot about all the things that are beyond my control. My original plan was to fix the threshold, mend the fence, and finish the backyard today. But then it rained–and rained again later–so there was only so much I could do. Additionally, some of the chicken wire was buried under a wall of rocks, the t-posts were at least two feet in the ground, and I’m only one person. (This is really hard for me to admit.) I’d love to say that everything will be “perfect” before I leave tomorrow, but I just don’t know. Even if the weather and my body cooperate, there will still be huge piles of brush left, since we don’t currently have a way to haul that off.

My therapist says I have an issue with “completion.” I like things “finished.” (I have it on pretty good authority that Jesus felt this way too, since his last words during Round 1 were, “It is finished.”) If I work in a yard, I want it to be “done,” and if I break up or have a fight with someone, I want us to be “okay.” Of course, this isn’t the way life works. You can’t always clean out a jungle in a weekend, and some relationships take time to mend, if they mend at all. But perhaps this is the gift of time, which teaches us to slow down, not work so hard, and let things unfold as they do. For surely there is wisdom in falling rain and growing ivy, just as there is wisdom in cutting back bushes and mending fences, wisdom that reminds us life is bigger than what we can control, nothing is ever truly done, and all things–including us–are complete in this moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life is never just so. Honestly, it’s a big damn mess most of the time.

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My One-Sided Fears (Blog #162)

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After yesterday’s disappointing search for a new pair of jeans, I woke up today with a renewed sense of vision and hope. I thought, This is possible. I’ve bought jeans before. I can buy them again. So after breakfast and yoga, I ran a couple errands, parked my car outside Central Mall, and thought, Fort Smith, don’t fail me now. Well, I quickly discovered that stretchy jeans have become a serious thing. Like, they’re the new bell bottoms, or whatever. Everywhere I went, it was stretch this, flex that. I’m surprised each pair didn’t come with a gym membership. So–even though I admittedly have a bad attitude about stretchy jeans–I actually tried some on.

Well, nothing even came close because–again–small ankles, big butt. (Emphasis on the big butt.) Well, one pair did come close–my thighs looked great–but there was a big wrinkle right across my crotch. It was like one of those huge speed bumps in the middle of an otherwise perfectly inviting road. I thought, Oh no, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.

Before I go any further, I should say that I’m a fashion snob. My therapist says it’s okay to admit it–I’m vain. I mean, I’m not above wearing certain brands, like the ones sold at Walmart, but I’m above wearing certain brands, like the ones sold at Walmart. Mostly I get something in my head and go out looking for that. Like, I know Buffalo jeans fit me really well–I’m familiar with them. I like how the pockets look just so. Maybe it sounds like vanity to you, but I like to think of it as having standards. So I guess I shop with certain expectations.

My friend George says an expectation is a frustration in the making, and boy is he right. By the time I got to American Eagle, the last place on my list, I didn’t see a single pair of non-flex (regular) jeans anywhere in the damn store. When a lady asked if she could help me, I said, “Do ALL your jeans stretch?” and she said, “Yes. They’re what EVERYBODY wants.” Well, everyone has their breaking point, so I said, “Well not EVERYBODY wants them because I don’t.” Granted, I realize I’m probably too old to be shopping at American Eagle, but I almost called her a whippersnapper and said, “And why are there so many SKINNY JEANS? Don’t fat thighs matter anymore?”

Fat. Thighs. Matter.

Totally pissed at this point, I left the mall and tried to talk myself down off the ledge. You don’t HAVE to have a new pair of jeans for your birthday, Marcus. Okay, just breathe. Well, I finally decided to lower my standards and shop for pants at Target. Don’t tell the internet. (Whoops.) And get this shit. I found a pair I actually liked. I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, but they’re Levi’s–AND THEY STRETCH. Talk about eating humble pie, which–of course–is okay because now my pants will accommodate the extra calories. That’s right, I’m admitting it in front of God and everybody. I’m okay with stretchy jeans, at least I think I am. I’ll try them out next week. But apparently I just needed to find the right pair.

I hate it when I’m wrong.

This afternoon before The Great Jean Search of 2017, I ran into my friend Missy, who runs the Young Actors Guild, and she said they were putting on a show in at the King Opera House in Van Buren this weekend. So when I finished at Target, I looked at the clock and thought, I can just make it. Well–get this–when I went to buy my ticket, the lady behind the counter said she was buying it for me. Turns out, we’re friends and she reads the blog. Her name is Kim. It just took me a second to make the connection. (You know how it is when you see someone out of context.) Anyway, it completely made my day, especially after all the denim drama at the mall.

The show tonight was called Uncle Pirate and was about a young boy who’s being bullied at school and is pretty much afraid of his own shadow. As luck would have it, he has a long-lost uncle who’s an honest-to-goodness pirate. Having recently lost his ship and all his crew, Uncle Pirate shows up for a family visit, and he and the boy end up saving each other. It’s adorable. Also, I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think most the kids on stage had stretchy jeans, so I both blame and thank them for what I went through today.

One of the themes in Uncle Pirate has to do with fear. When the boy tells his uncle that he’s afraid of the bully at school, his uncle says something like, “Half the time, being afraid of something only makes you more afraid.” In other words, we often use fear as an excuse to NOT do something, and that just makes matters worse. But when we “feel the fear and do it anyway,” we better solve our problems and gain courage in the process.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but whenever I like I song, I play it over and over. Well, today’s song was “Take Me Home” by Cash Cash. There’s a line in the song that says, “But I still stay because you’re the only thing I know.” Honestly, if you listen to the rest of the words, it doesn’t sound like the singer is in a good relationship, but she stays because it’s familiar. At least, that’s my take on it, and I’ve been thinking today that I’ve been there. I’ve stuck it out longer than I should have because I didn’t know a better way. I assume this is true for all of us.

As my friend Suzanne says, “You can’t know what you don’t know.”

I’ve heard that the ego can’t see what it will stand to gain, only what it will stand to lose. I take this to mean that our fears only show us one side of the story. It’s a little thing, but as I was shopping for jeans today, I was only thinking about what wouldn’t go well, how terrible stretchy pants would be. But when I bit the bullet and tried something new, it actually worked out. On a much grander scale, I remember being in a miserable (miserable) relationship several years ago and being afraid of ending it, but I did. Then I was so sad and afraid of what would happen next that I didn’t think things would ever get better. But they did. I ran into my friend Ashley at the mall today, the topic came up, and she said, “You’re so much happier now.”

So once again, I’m learning that a lot of my fears are full of crap. Also, life doesn’t always suck–it’s pretty good sometimes. So whether it’s a new pair of pants, the unexpected gift of a ticket to see a show, or even a miserable relationship that ends up being the motivation you need to get some damn standards, I’m reminded that life is kinder than I previously thought it was. Also, in this moment, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

[Today’s song, for those who are interested.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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Pants and Other Things That Change (Blog #161)

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Okay, this is kind of a big deal. I’m starting a blog before midnight. The reason for this small miracle is because I’m tired. I’d like to get this done and go to bed. As it turns out, when you sleep on a farm like I did last night, you have to wake up early–at least if the farm next door has a bulldozer that beeps every time it backs up. Oh well, shit happens, and thank God for coffee.

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I think I could actually be a morning person. I mean, I don’t think I’ll ever be “one of those” morning people–you know the type–bouncing off the walls, annoying. But I could definitely function and be pleasant. This morning I sat on CJ’s porch, caffeinated, and watched the butterflies flap their wings and a spider make its nest. I also heard a wasp fly by my ear, but since I was half-naked, I screamed like a girl and didn’t stay outside for any more “morning wonders.” So I went in, took a shower, and almost slipped and fell on the slick floor. And before I could stop myself–just like an old person–I thought, God, a rubber mat would be nice.

This afternoon I made a pit-stop in Fayetteville for lunch (and more coffee) with my friend Ray. Then I went shopping for a new pair of jeans, since last week I split the seat out of mine. Plus, it’s my birthday next week, so I’d like new pants. That is, I’m assuming I won’t be spending the whole day naked. (Sigh.) Anyway, maybe I really am getting old and cranky, but when I was younger, buying jeans was easier. Now every item I pick up is basically a pair of yoga pants–skinny calves, stretchy all over–not flattering for people who eat pancakes for lunch. Still, I always try on these “rubber bottoms,” hoping. But they never work. My ankles are small, my butt is big–nothing fits. Talk about frustrating. The only positive thing to shopping today was all the calories I burned trying to get into and out of all that elastic denim.

It wasn’t pretty. Plus, still no birthday britches.

Tonight in improv class we played a game called Change. Or maybe it was called Try Again. Obviously, I wasn’t paying a lot of attention. But the idea is that two people start a scene, like maybe a couple is out to eat at Long John Silver’s. Then at some point in the dialogue, someone off stage (the director) says, “Change,” and the actors have to keep changing their dialogue until they get a green light.

“I sure would like the shrimp, honey.” (Change.)

“I sure would like the catfish, dear.” (Change.)

“Do these hush puppies make my butt look big?”

One of the benefits of the game is that it teaches you to think on your feet, to quickly let go of whatever you had in mind for the scene and go in a different direction. Of course, it’s hard as hell, but that’s the fun of it. No one has any idea what’s going to happen next. (Kind of like life.)

Back at the house tonight, Mom was already in bed, so Dad and I went to Waffle House for dinner. We both got the same thing, so it was almost like eating at home, except we didn’t have to do the dishes. I had two more cups of coffee, so even though I’m currently exhausted, my arms are shaking. Anyway, I made Dad take four selfies with me, and he was a good sport about it. But when we got home–maybe as payback–I had to give him his insulin shot. Granted, until tonight, I’d never given anyone a shot ever, but I thought, It can’t be that hard. Hell, I can put a nail in sheet rock like nobody’s business.

Of course, sheet rock doesn’t bleed.

Luckily, Dad didn’t either. I just counted to three, stuck the needle in as if I were picking up a piece of cheddar cheese with a toothpick, and slowly injected the insulin. Then I counted to ten, took out the needle, and rubbed the spot with alcohol. Dad said, “You don’t have to take the skin off.”

“Oh.”

Tonight I’ve been thinking that it would be nice to have a “change” or “try again” option for life. Like, there are a few (dozen–hundred–dozen hundred) things I’d like to do differently. Of course, we can’t go back. That being said, things are changing constantly, and I guess we really can begin again at any moment. We can always wake up one day and say, “This isn’t working for me anymore.” Really, I think life is constantly reminding us of this. I met a spiritual teacher once who said we get hung up because of how we identify. For example, I could think, “I’m a dance instructor,” and cause myself a lot of problems if I don’t have any students. He said the truth is always simpler. Like, in this moment, I’m a sitter because I’m sitting. If I wanted to go a step further, I could say that I’m a writer, but as soon as I close my laptop, I’m not a writer anymore.

The truth is right in front of you.

This makes a lot of sense to me, but I often forget to remind myself that each day–each hour–I play many different roles. First I’m a coffee drinker (change), then maybe a yoga student (change), then a friend at lunch (change). Before the day is over, I’m a shot-giver! The mystics say this isn’t a problem unless you get stuck identifying with your past, which–by the way–only exists in your head. So one minute you’re healthy, then you’re sick, then your healthy again. Or one day you have a job, and then you don’t, and then (surely) you do again. And maybe it really is all a game. The mystics say that too, that life’s just exploring itself. One minute it’s here, the next minute it’s there. They say the joke is that the truth (reality) is right in front of you, it’s just always changing, sort of like a pair of pants.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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With Open Arms (Blog #159)

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I’ve had a headache almost all day. Since the car wreck, it usually feels like there’s one waiting in the wings, ready to take the stage at any moment. I can feel the tension in my shoulders, neck. Sometimes my right temple quivers. It’s like a small earthquake–you know–on the side of my face. I’m sure you’ve seen kids slowly fill up a balloon with water, the way it approaches its breaking point. That’s the way my headaches feel. It could be a lot worse, but it sure as shit could be a lot better.

Today was day three of online yoga, and I officially have a crush on my instructor. Considering the fact that he’s from California and can’t see me during our workouts, I’m sure these feelings are going nowhere fast. Still, it’s enough to get me out of bed in the–well–afternoons. Plus, the workouts are stellar, and I’m hoping they’ll make a difference with all the tension in my body. Car wreck aside, I’ve noticed that I’m quite often “flexed” in some way, even when I “should” be relaxed. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m like Rabbit from Winnie-the-Pooh–uptight to say the least. But I imagine it’s leftover from all the bullshit through the years, a subconscious waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As with everything else, I’m working on it. (Except white bread–I’m admittedly not working on that.)

This afternoon I had some time to kill and went to an antique (junk) store. Before the estate sale, this would have been a surefire way for me to spend money, but now it’s just an amusement. That’s right–I didn’t spend a dime. Granted, I didn’t see any west-coast yoga instructors for sale. However, I did see a statue of our lord and savior, Jesus Christ–open arms, stigmata, the whole bit. (He was shorter than I’d imagined.) Anyway, we took a selfie together. Notice the light around his heart–this is because Jesus is the teacher most associated with the fourth chakra, the embodiment of love, compassion, and forgiveness.

I realized afterwards that the lord was literally looking down on me. Maybe I’ve been in therapy too long, but my first thought was, Don’t let anyone look down on you, Marcus. But then I thought, Well, if anyone can look down on you, I guess Jesus can.

This evening I had dinner with my friend Marla. I don’t think she loves having her picture posted all over the internet, but she still said yes when I asked for a selfie–just like Jesus did. I can just imagine her telling her friends, “The lord and I have something in common–.” Anyway, Marla and I ate at Taliano’s, a local Italian restaurant that’s housed in a historic home not far from where I used to live. It’s a Fort Smith classic–tall ceilings, gorgeous fixtures, ugly wallpaper. As my therapist says when referring to her waiting room, “Look down.”

I’m sure a lot of people are like this, but I remember things spatially. If I read something in a book, I remember where it was on the page–upper right hand corner–whatever. If you and I were in a theater and you told me to go to hell, I’d remember what chair you were sitting in. So, since coming home from Taliano’s tonight, my mind’s been going to all the times I’ve been there before–whom I was with–where we sat. In college a friend took me there for her high school prom. We only went as friends, but I was still in the closet as we sat in the back room. Several years ago I was dating a guy, and my best friend’s mom waited on us in the room by the kitchen. Someone recognized me, and I still had that part of me that thought, What if they know?

Tonight when I got home, despite my best prescription efforts, my headache wouldn’t subside. Well, I’ve taken to doing yoga and meditation in my old bedroom, since the bed in there is a twin and there’s more floor space. So I put on some music, meditated, and tried to relax as a timer counted down. Toward the end of the session, I stood against the wall where a Batman poster used to be and did a stretch for my neck. Letting my arms hang by my side, they eventually felt like bowling balls, and my shoulders pulled away from my ears. Things actually relaxed. Sitting here now, it’s not perfect, but I don’t feel the need to scream or cry.

This is huge progress.

Personally, I’m glad that the room I grew up in and witnessed my both delightful and difficult childhood has become a space where I can heal, even a bit. When I think about my old room and the restaurant tonight, I think it’s fascinating that spaces can stay relatively the same over time as we change both inside and out. Of course, sometimes it’s the other way around. Places change as we stay the same, carrying around the exact out-dated fears and tensions we had as children. I guess our emotions can be like wallpaper that refuses to come down. So I think it’s good to recognize when progress is made, even if it’s a little thing like being able to relax ever so slightly or being able to sit with a friend, be yourself, and not wonder what anyone else is thinking.

Of course, this isn’t a little thing at all.

Also tonight I’ve been considering that which is eternal, whether or not there is part of me that hasn’t changed one iota in all these years. The mystics sometimes call the soul a watcher, a simple awareness that calmly abides as we grow older and the wallpaper eventually comes down. I like to believe this is true, and I imagine it’s quite accepting, never judging if I’m in the closet or out of it, or if I eat white bread or not. If it is true, I’m certain it lives in my heart, this thing that looks down–and in and out and through–with open arms.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Whatever needs to happen, happens.

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Don’t Sit on Broken Chairs (Blog #158)

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I spent the holiday watching random videos, interviews, and documentaries, and after an entire day of checking off and adding even more things to my Netflix watch list (there’s so much to watch!), I’m trying to remind myself that there’s a world beyond my laptop screen, a world of actual flesh and beating hearts. I think that means I need to get out of the house, see a friend. My therapist says I’m the most introverted kind of extrovert, and having been at home for four solid days, I think it’s time to extrovert myself.

The day itself has been, oh, peachy. I did yoga (ouch, but good), spent some time online (but not on Facebook), ate Taco Bell with my parents. This evening I washed my car, Tom Collins, which reminded me how much I like him. Then I went for a two-hour walk and listened to Oprah interview JK Rowling, something I’ve been meaning to do since last year. Just as the interview started, I strolled through a neighborhood where I once worked as a wedding photographer. I couldn’t remember the exact house, but I recall being really sick that day. The bride was Laotian, and we took our shoes off for the ceremony in the living room. Later that day there was a Christian ceremony for the groom, and that night, every Laotian in the tri-state area showed up for loud music and more fried rice than I’ve seen before or since. Honestly, it was hell.

For whatever reason, while listening to the creator of Harry Potter say she wasn’t the world’s most confident person, but she knew she could tell a story, I walked down a road I’ve never been on before. There was an ugly, ugly house that looked like three different houses held together with glue sticks. I probably seemed like I was casing the joint, but I couldn’t stop staring. Of course, by staring, I mean judging. But after passing the house, I continued down a road with all these empty plots. The full moon hung in the sky like a lantern, the air was cool, and, although nothing was happening, it felt like there was room for possibility.

Honestly, that’s what my life feels like right now. Mentally, I dedicate a portion of every day to the idea that nothing is happening, that my life is stuck, but there’s a lot of space here, space where something could happen. Every time someone asks me what I’m doing, all I can think is, Waiting to be discovered. I think one of the many, many lessons I’m learning right now is that everything happens in its own time, that nothing can be forced. People read what I write or don’t. I can’t make anyone like my Facebook page. This afternoon I got overwhelmed with all the books I’m reading and all the videos on my watch list, and I realized it all has to do with the idea that I need something I don’t have. I used to think, I need to not be dying at a Laotian wedding. Now I think, I need more knowledge, I need a job.

It’s always something.

I remember exactly where I was sitting when I read Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff and It’s all Small Stuff by Richard Carlson. It was my parent’s kitchen table, probably ten years ago. Why I remember shit like this, I can’t say, but one of the chapters said, “When you die, your ‘in basket’ won’t be empty.” I guess the point is that we will always have things on our to-do lists. My list of books to read and videos to watch will never be completely checked off. UGH. I hate that.

I’m just going to take a second to let that sink in. I’ll never be–done.

We may never be done, but that doesn’t mean we’ll never be complete.

A few weeks ago I had lunch with my friend Marla. We went to a Thai restaurant, and one of the booths had been set aside with a sign on it that said, “This chair got out of a bad relationship–it is broken. Do not sit on it.” Funny, right? For the last few weeks I’ve been meaning to blog about that chair because I know my personal tendency when I’m feeling down, overwhelmed, or broken is to–essentially–sit on myself. My life gets too much to handle, and rather than taking the pressure off, I put more on. I tell myself I need to do more, be more–now. It’s exhausting. Of course, being hard on yourself is a lot like sitting on a broken chair–it’s no way to hold yourself up.

Personally, I’m glad to be the strongly independent person I am, but I know I often isolate myself in the name of independence. I am a rock and all that bullshit. It’s easy to stay home for four days, get stuck in my head, and think that if something big doesn’t happen in a weekend–or a year–that it won’t happen at all. Tonight JK Rowling said, “I know what I believe because of what I write,” and when I look at what I write, I’m reminded that I believe in hope, and I believe in asking for help, and I believe in beating hearts. After all, we all hold each other up. We may never be done, but that doesn’t mean we’ll never be complete. And surely we are complete right here, right now, and surely there is space enough for the full moon, for you and for me, and all our possibilities.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s never too late to be your own friend.

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Any Stuck Door Is Worth Fixing (Blog #153)

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This afternoon I helped my friend Ron with a problem he was having at his massage studio, which is located in an old home. Because the house has settled, both his doors were sticking and difficult to open. The lesson here, I think, is obvious–don’t settle–it only causes problems. But anyway. Two years ago, I would have had zero clue about stuck doors and how to fix them. But while I was living in an old home with multiple stuck doors, my friend Bruce (who’s as handy as a pocket on a shirt) taught me what to do.

Cry.

Just kidding. The first thing Ron and I did was close the doors and look at the edges. Ideally, there should be a gap between the door and the frame, but when a door is stuck, you’ll see wood on wood. (That sounded gay.) So we marked the problem areas, took the doors off the hinges, marched them outside, and went to work with an electric belt sander. Talk about making a mess–old doors are solid wood, and sawdust went everywhere, including in my pants and up my nose. It was great. I felt so butch–like a lesbian.

Fortunately, one door only took one trip outside and back in, and the other only took two. I’ve made up to six trips for one door before, so this was a huge success. Then we did some work to adjust the doorknob mechanisms because those weren’t latching just right. Then we went to the Mexican ice cream shop, which is my favorite part about fixing old doors. (The end.)

Tonight I watched a movie called Prayers for Bobby, which my mom recommended and is based on a true story about a high school student, Bobby, who comes out to his family and his overbearing mother, who tries to “pray the gay away.” In a pivotal scene, Bobby tells his mom that he’s not changing, to which she says, “I won’t have a gay son.” Shortly thereafter, Bobby commits suicide by jumping off a bridge. It takes some time, but his mom comes around, changes her mind about “the sin of homosexuality,” and becomes an outspoken advocate for gays and lesbians.

Honestly, I spent a good part of the movie in tears. Although my parents never gave me a difficult time about being gay, I heard all those Bible verses plenty of times growing up–in church, at school, on the world wide web. I have a friend who used to live in Seattle, and she says that when someone came out, they’d throw them a party. Imagine that, a celebration. My experience wasn’t anything close to Bobby’s, but there wasn’t a piñata either. I see that character in the movie, I look back at my life in high school, and I wish I could tell those people, It’s going to be all right.

Before I started remodel work, I never paid much attention to doors. They either worked or they didn’t. If one got stuck, well shit. But when I lived in that old home, I started looking at doors differently. There was one in my bedroom that stuck just slightly at the top. It was my closet door, so it was an everyday deal. Every time I opened it, I had to push down on the doorknob first and then pull. It was like a ritual. I never got around to fixing it before I moved, but it would have just been a matter of taking an eighth of an inch off the top. The way I see it now, it was a little thing causing a big problem.

When I watch a movie like Prayers for Bobby, my mind immediately goes to a process called The Work by Byron Katie. I’ve spent a lot of time reading her books and watching her videos, so–frankly–my mind goes there a lot. Regardless, The Work is a process of inquiry to deal with stressful thoughts, things like, He should call me back, My hips are too fat, or I need more money. In terms of having a gay son, The Work teaches it’s only a problem if you think, My son should be straight, or, My son’s going to hell, both of which are stressful thoughts because they argue with the truth–reality (my son is gay and he’s currently sitting in the living room). Katie says thoughts like these only do damage if we believe them, since our beliefs have the power to separate us from our children, even drive us to suicide.

The Work consists, in part, of four questions, but the one on my mind tonight is, “Who would you be without your story?” Another way of asking this would be, “Who would I be without that thought (that my son–or I–shouldn’t be gay)?” In my experience, whenever I think, I shouldn’t be gay (and I am), or, My mom shouldn’t have cancer (and she does), I immediately shut down in some way and become less open to–well–life as it is. So who would I be without my story? What would my life be like if I could never think or believe those thoughts again?

In one word–better.

I hate to admit this, but my problems are never caused by something “out there.” A few days ago my hairdresser and friend told me that my hairline was “receding.” She actually used that word. Well, that’s a fact. That’s–apparently–reality, but it’s only a problem if I make up a story about it. I’ll be ugly if I go bald. No one will love me. I can’t afford implants. When I type those thoughts out, they seem rather silly. But just like a door that gets stuck, I know that something small–like a belief–can cause big problems. Honestly, it’s not an easy thing to question your beliefs. Personally, I’ve been believing my own press releases for a long time, and I don’t like admitting I’m wrong anymore than the next guy. But I’m reminded tonight that any story that causes stress is worth questioning, just as any stuck door is worth fixing, especially when there’s someone you love (and that includes yourself) on the other side.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.

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