My Authentic Response to Criticism (Blog #145)

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Tonight’s blog may be one of the most difficult I’ve ever written. I’ll explain. I have a personal rule for the blog that I won’t use it as a means to call someone out specifically, meaning I don’t consider this the place to say, “Jack, you’re a real asshole,” or, “Suzy, those yoga pants make you look like whore.” Aside from those being unkind statements, this is a blog about (my) authenticity, vulnerability, and mental and spiritual health, and I don’t consider it the venue to pick a fight. All that being said, tonight’s blog is going to approach that line because–and only because–I’ve promised that I will also and always write about what’s on my heart. So far, I have. In over one hundred and forty posts, I haven’t once tried to fake my emotions or stray from what I knew needed to be said–and I’m not going to start tonight.

So, to borrow a phrase I’ve heard once or twice from my therapist, we’re about to have a confrontation.

The first thing I saw this morning was that someone had posted a comment on yesterday’s blog that was pending approval. Well, I’m not sure that my people pleaser will ever not be the first one to have a voice, so I immediately thought, Oh God, I hope someone’s not mad. I guess I could post the entire comment, but the essence was: 1) I hate the bandana you wear on your head, 2) Your hair is too beautiful to cover it up, 3) Please stop it, and 4) I love you and am just being honest.

As I’ve said a number of times, my therapist says that online communication is rife with misunderstandings, so I’d like to be clear–the tone of the comment, in my opinion, was mostly lighthearted, complimentary (they called me handsome), and well-intended. They even said, “I have no right to encroach on what you determine makes you happy in life.” With this much, I agree.

My first thought after reading the comment this morning was, That’s hilarious. Thank God it wasn’t something serious. Actually, I started to say as much. But I hadn’t woken up yet, and that response didn’t feel quite right, even though it did feel like “a nice thing to say.” My therapist says that nice is a strategy, in light of which I would have to admit–the only reason I would dismiss such a criticism would be to not rock the boat and to make sure someone likes me (and my hair and anything I put on it). Of course, if you’ve ever tried to manage what someone else thinks of you, you know–it’s exhausting.

I wish I could tell you that the comment rolled over me like water off a duck’s back, but I can’t. It’s not that I’ve had a bad day, but it’s sort of felt like a piece of food that slowly molds and rots in your refrigerator. It’s something you can’t put your finger on at first. But then one day you open the door and know exactly what stinks.

I remember a couple years ago when I went out-of-town–maybe New York City or New Mexico–and I wore a cowboy hat that I named Jose (after the guy who made it). I fucking loved it, and told myself I’d wear it more often when I got home. But damn it, there’s something oppressive about Fort Smith, something that says, “Conform,” so I didn’t. When I talked about it in therapy, my therapist said, “Give it a whirl–be yourself.” Recently when I spoke to her about an incident similar to today’s that I can’t remember, she told me that sometimes when well-meaning people criticize her fashion choices, she says, “I do whatever the fuck I want.”

Amen.

I would like to acknowledge that everyone–everyone–has a right to their opinion. Also, I’ve yet to censor anyone’s comments on this blog, my YouTube channel, or Facebook, since I don’t consider it my job to tell other people what to think, say, or, for that matter, what to wear. So everyone is welcome to say what they want, but let me be perfectly clear–just because you have a thought about my life, doesn’t mean that it’s beneficial or that I want to hear it. I mean, when was the last time someone came up to you and said, “Alice, that jean skirt makes your butt look unattractive,” and you said, “Why thank you, Edna, you’re a saint. What else can I change about me?” So in short, I don’t consider my hair (or any other part of my life) a democracy.

According to my dad tonight, that’s why I’m not married.

My mom (who’s currently bald from chemotherapy) said, “I don’t care what you do with your hair. I’m just glad you have some.”

It may be too late, but I really don’t want this blog to be about one specific comment, since it’s not the first time I’ve been told, “The blonde hair was a mistake,” “You won’t be able to get a job if your hair is blue,” or “Those pants make you look gay,” to which if given the chance to do it all over again I’d respectively say, “Fuck off,” “How the hell do you know that, Dad?” and “Good–I am gay.” Also, I know that my natural tendency is to be defensive, to be–in the words of my therapist–dukes up. This tendency, I’m sure, comes from the fact that I essentially raised myself, so criticism of any sort always feels like someone saying that I didn’t do a good job (even though I did a fucking great job, thank you very much) or that I failed in some way.

Additionally, I’d like to acknowledge that although I don’t do it online, I often have critical thoughts about others and will frequently voice these opinions to my friends. Jesus, that dress is ugly. Those shoes make her look like a construction worker. Caroline Myss says that these sorts of thoughts and comments stem from the idea that someone else’s life only exists in order to make me happy. Like, “I’d feel better if you’d stop dressing like a lumberjack, Janice.” Obviously–and I can only speak for myself on this one–that’s an arrogant and flawed way to address one of God’s fellow creations. So to anyone to whom I’ve minimized in this way, I apologize and am working on it.

Lastly, I’d like to say something about my experience with honesty. I know I make a big deal about it here, and perhaps it deserves a little more attention. From what I understand, honesty means being true to yourself, whatever your experience. My therapist says that if you’re angry or hurt or whatever, you don’t bite your tongue because it doesn’t feel good to bite your tongue. By not being honest, you damage yourself in some way. She also quotes a spiritual guru and says, “Be kind whenever possible. It’s always possible.” To me this means that just because it’s honest to say, “Those pleated pants went out of style twenty years ago, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in that Ban-Lon shirt,” doesn’t mean it’s necessary.

Personally, I hate the fact that I may get up tomorrow and hesitate to put a bandana on my head, even though I know it keeps my beautiful hair out of my face when I drive down the interstate with my windows down, something that never ceases to make me feel totally free. Ultimately, I think we all are worthy of that unbridled feeling of freedom, that feeling that says, “I love me, I love everything about me, and I don’t give a shit if anyone else likes it or not.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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Ripped from a Page (Blog #138)

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This afternoon I went to physical therapy, something I’ve been doing on an almost weekly basis since someone slammed into the back of my car a month and a half ago and turned me into a real-life bobblehead doll. Honestly, physical therapy itself been going great. A couple of weeks ago I got moved from twice a week to once a week, and today I got moved to “almost done,” which means I only need to go back if I feel like it during the next month. That being said, when I walked in today, the therapist said that my posture was “almost perfect,” that my left shoulder was “a bit” high and my head was turned “slightly” to the right.

Well, shit.

Of course, part of me is thrilled with the progress (or whatever), but a bigger part of me is “a bit” stressed out and “slightly” terrified that I’m not–well–perfect. Maybe that’s my perfectionist talking. It’s difficult to say.

Yesterday I started making a dream board, also known as a vision board. It’s one of my 101 creativity assignments, and it involves collecting pictures and phrases from magazines that represent dreams I’d like to come true. (If anyone has a teeny bopper magazine filled with Zac Efron photos, please drop it in the mail to my address.) So this afternoon I went to the library, and while upstairs streaming an episode of Will (the new TV series about young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare), I searched for dream board additions in some of the free magazines I found downstairs.

When I was in junior high, I worked my ass off on an insect collection–you know the kind where you stick a pin through a dragonfly (that you caught with the lid of your parent’s barbecue grill) and another pin through a tiny piece of paper that says “dragonfly” along with the scientific name. Well, it really was great, since I’ve always been a rule follower and extremely anal retentive. HOWEVER, I got marked off four points (for a total of 96 percent) because the edges of my paper weren’t completely straight, since I’d creased the paper on the side of a table and torn it rather than using scissors. At the time, I was devastated. Looking back, I wish I’d known enough to look my teacher right in the eye and say, “Bitch please.”

Obviously, the event stuck with me. I mean, that was over twenty years ago, and I still can’t help but wonder if my life would have turned out differently if I’d gotten those four extra points. Now that I think about it, I’ve wasted a lot of time on perfectionism, which my therapist says is just another name for fear (fear of not good enough, fear of rejection). This is something I’ve been working on–letting go of being perfect–so when the instructions for the dream board said to tear (literally tear) out whatever I wanted to add to my board, it honestly felt great to rip, rip, rip the magazine pages apart and see all those jagged edges. Fuck you, 100 percent.

After gawking at young–and hot, let’s not forget hot–William Shakespeare and working on the dream board, I ran into one of my former students with whom I always have fabulous conversations. When I talked about the blog (as I tend to do), my friend referred to my daily self-reflection as “encountering yourself,” which I think is the perfect (there’s that word again) phrase and something everyone should make an effort to do before they die.

Encounter yourself.

Before I left the library I signed up for the online course I mentioned yesterday about healing your emotional wounds. I’ll let you know how it goes, but one of the ideas presented in the lesson today was that the two natural responses to having a wound are shielding (for protection) and soothing (for healing). The guy teaching the course, Artie Wu, says that shields can show up as anger, people pleasing, and–get this–perfectionism. Soothing can show up as drugs and alcohol, food, or working or using media too much. (I wonder if binge watching hot Shakespeare counts.) None of these responses are bad in and of themselves, but the question to ask is whether the behavior hurts more than it helps. In my case, if I’m going to get real about it, the idea is that perfectionism is a way to avoid criticism (you’re not good enough) and engender praise (you’re the best boy ever). And whereas there’s nothing wrong with that strategy, it does come with a lot of baggage, like the inability to relax with crooked pictures on the wall or walk out the fucking door without every hair on my head just so.

This evening I went to hear my friend Donny play at Core Brewing Company in Fort Smith. He and some of his friends have a band called The Wren Boys, and they’re currently playing every Tuesday night. (Come join the fun.) Here’s a video from their set tonight.

While the band played, Donny’s wife, Vicki, and I discussed the idea of being playful, and as I’ve thought more about it, being playful–curious–seems to be the opposite of perfectionism. Just watching Donny and his friends, it’s the most laid back thing–off the cuff, unrehearsed–fun. And isn’t that the point–to life? I mean, where does it say that all your edges have to be straight (or even that you do)? Maybe this means that one of my shoulders will always be “a bit” higher than the other, my gaze may always be “slightly” off, but clearly I’m the only one taking points away from myself for having “almost perfect” posture. But that’s changing. Honestly, the more I encounter myself, the more I realize that all my edges are torn–almost as if something bigger than myself had ripped me from a page and dreamed that I’d come true.

[Seriously, if you have any old magazines (with or without Zac Efron) you’d like to get rid of, I’d love to have them.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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Don’t Be Cruel to a Heart That’s True (Blog #119)

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A couple of nights ago I spent the evening in downtown Fort Smith looking at the new murals/art projects for The Unexpected. The Unexpected is a project started in 2015 that annually brings world-known street artists to Fort Smith to construct art and paint murals (with aerosol cans) on old buildings in downtown. It’s probably–without a doubt–the coolest thing Fort Smith has ever done ever. This year’s event is currently underway and will culminate this weekend along with the Peacemaker Music Festival.

One of the attractions this year is inside an old theater that was built in the early nineteen hundreds. Apparently it was a gift to the city from a wealthy businessman (Sparks) after he died. It sat over a thousand people, had two balconies, and went from live entertainment to silent pictures to not-silent pictures to eventually (and lastly) x-rated pictures (which I’m guessing were probably not silent as well). The building has been closed for twenty or thirty years, so this week was my first time inside. Here’s a picture of one of the two murals in the old seating area. Both of them–I think–are weird as fuck, but beautiful.

There are only two murals being painted on the outside of buildings this year (I think), and they’re both at North 9th and A Streets, behind Saki. When I stopped by a couple of nights ago, both were in progress, and one of the artists was working on a hydraulic lift with the help of spotlights even after the sun went down. Here’s a picture of one of the murals. I’m not sure what it is, but I love the colors. I can’t wait to see the final product, since I think this will be one of my favorites out of the over-thirty pieces of art that have come out of the three Unexpected events.

This is the second mural, along with the artist at work.

The first picture on tonight’s blog was taken in the middle of Garrison Avenue. It’s me by a sign on a storefront that says, “Pretty Things Inside.” I thought it would be funnier if I’d been INSIDE the story (because I’m pretty), but I actually like what’s implied by standing beside the sign–that pretty things are inside ME, inside YOU.

The other new projects are at the end of Garrison Avenue (the main downtown street). There’s a small park with a Ferris Wheel and Merry-Go-Round, a restaurant in an old train car, and a couple of random giraffe statues because–you know–every city needs some. Anyway, here’s a picture of an double-decker bus that’s being painted by local university students. This side of the bus shows a monkey in a space suit. I mean, I guess that makes sense. We all know people who get promoted to jobs beyond their intelligence level.

Lastly, here’s–uh–something that’s being installed on what’s left of a building that got wiped out in a tornado twenty years ago. It’s made out of chicken wire and hot air balloon nylon and is held together by 40,000 zip ties! Looking at the zip ties, I’m reminded that I need to shave.

After looking at the artwork, I ran into my friend Donny at Core Brewing Company. I met Donny through Little Theater friends, and he’s one of the most creative and encouraging people I know (try something, make something, get a tattoo!). Anyway, he currently plays at Core on Tuesday nights in an Irish music band, and although I showed up too late for the music, I showed up in time to catch up with Donny. One of the topics we discussed, in addition to our favorite movie quotes, was what I’ve learned by writing every day. “Well,” I said, “one of the lessons has been how to be more patient with myself, how to judge myself less for not being at a certain point in life at a certain time.”

Tonight I drove by the alien in the bamboo hat mural, and some of the outlines you can see in the above photo had been painted in. I didn’t take a picture (sorry), but a lot of progress had been made. When I got home, I spent some time reading The Artists Way, and one of the Week 5 exercises said, “List ten ways you are mean to yourself.” Hum. Take a deep breath, Marcus. This may hurt a little. I’m going to be intentionally vague here, since I think it’d be worthwhile to think about the ways in which YOU are mean to yourself. But I will say that the answers I wrote down had mostly to do with my internal (and sometimes external) self-talk, that voice that compares me to other people, says I’m not good enough, says I’m not worthy enough.

You know–THAT voice. The mean one. (The asshole.)

Allowing someone else to put you down or discourage your dreams is, quite frankly, anything but self-care.

It’s not that I haven’t known about that asshole voice in my head before night. I just hadn’t put it in terms of–whenever I listen to and believe that voice, I’m being mean to me. I’m certainly not recognizing what’s good (or pretty) inside me whenever I’m being self-critical. So I guess the advice–as Elvis would say–is, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” Plus, I wouldn’t let anyone else talk to me like that. (Actually, I probably would, probably have. One of goals after making my ten things list was to speak my truth more, to take less shit off people because allowing someone else to put you down or discourage your dreams is, quite frankly, anything but self-care.)

I expect this to take some time. Changing habits usually does. But just like the murals downtown, it’s simply a matter of vision and dedication. And sometimes things go faster than you think. Remember the movie Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, the way everything and everyone was “excellent”? Well, when I told Donny that I was working on being more patient with myself, he said it reminded him of a line from that movie. Honestly, I think it’s so great that if I were a teenager in a punk rock band living in my parent’s basement (instead of their spare bedroom), I’d probably have it tattooed on my arm. The more I think about it, it’s the perfect reminder to treat myself better. So here’s the quote–for me–for you–for us.

“Be excellent to yourself, dude.”

[For you history buffs, here’s a link for more information about the old theater, along with more photos.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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Trying So Hard to Be Perfect (Blog #99)

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Yesterday I started physical therapy. Before I left the house in the rental car, I parked my wrecked car in the driveway and put the keys in the pocket of the door. I left the beat-up mats inside even though Dad said I could sell them at a garage sale. “Five dollars is five dollars,” he said. “It just sounds like another thing to do,” I answered. But I did try to take the stereo system out, even though I was unsuccessful and cracked the plastic frame. I thought, Oh shit! then remembered that the car was totaled and about to be someone else’s problem. Fuck it. (I think that’s a spiritual saying.)

Since the accident I’ve been even more aware of my poor posture, so when I got to therapy yesterday, instead of slouching like I usually do, I sat straight up in the chair. (It was extremely uncomfortable, and I guess it basically amounted to cleaning your house BEFORE the maid comes over.) Anyway, the meeting went well, and by that I mean he told me I have arthritis in my neck, so–since I’m falling apart–maybe I should get a wheelchair instead of a new car. Now I have stretches to do twice a day, three times if I want, but no more than that. (At this point in the conversation, he actually made a comment about overachieving–like it was a bad thing.)

When I got home last night, my wrecked car (Polly), the one I got from Grandma when she died, was gone. The tow company the insurance company hired had come to pick it up. On one hand, I’m glad to see it go. I didn’t really care for the color and I’m excited about the new-to-me car I’m planning to get next week. On the other hand, I’m sort of sad. I’ve driven Grandma’s cars since college, as the one I had before Polly–Wanda the Honda–came from her too. That’s a lot of memories and a lot of miles. So much of my life spent in that car, driving to work, listening to music, spilling coffee on the mats. I’ve never said this out loud, but I always thought it was one way Grandma and I could be close, since we never really were, unless close means buying your gay grandson a Ford F-150 wall clock for Christmas.

Uh, thanks, Grandma, but I’m not a lesbian.

You know how when a criminal escapes from prison, people describe them by their scars and tattoos? Well, as I think about Polly, that’s what I remember–all the imperfections. There were the coffee stains of course, a couple cigarette burns, maybe from me, maybe from Grandma. She smoked Virginia Slims. There was the spot in the bumper when I backed into a light pole after a church concert. Ugh. More coffee on the mats. The speakers–sucked.

Last year I rescued two puppies on the side of the road. I kept them for as long as I could, but they were too much, what with closing the studio, having the estate sale, thinking about moving. So I took them to the Humane Society. A couple months later I spent an hour looking at pictures on their Facebook page until I found out they had new homes. Even after we said goodbye, their paw prints remained on my car windows for over six months. I only recently washed them off.

Today, after breakfast and neck stretches, I went to the chiropractor for a massage, an adjustment, and some sort of TENS therapy for the spasm in my back. All of those treatments were done by three different people, so it felt like I was a soccer ball getting passed from one person to the next–down the hallway, past the refrigerator, into the back room with the cute guy who said, “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.” Score!

I noticed the chiropractor today was wearing a pair of black cowboy boots. I also noticed while lying on the table that there was a spot on the ceiling where the sheet rock needed to be patched and painted. I don’t know if it’s my personality or the fact that I’m a writer, but this is shit that actually takes up space in my brain, little details that most people would have long forgotten. But all day I’ve been wondering why that one spot hasn’t been fixed, since it’s pretty obvious from looking around the place that the owner is a perfectionist–everything in just the right place. (Also, someone at the office today said, “The owner’s a perfectionist.”) As for the boots, I’m still trying to figure out why they’re stuck in my head.

There’s gotta be a reason.

This evening I did my neck stretches again, and then I stretched on a foam roller and did chi kung. For the most part, all of these things–including the treatments at the chiropractor–feel good. But certain things feel like a fight, as if I’m wanting the muscles in my neck and back to move one way–flexible, fluid–and they’re saying, “Hell no, we won’t go.” So it occurred to me just how hard I’m working lately to get everything in just the right place. Yesterday the physical therapist said, “You look like you’re really working to sit up straight,” and I almost cried. You have no idea how hard I’m working. It’s like I have this idea about the perfect body in my head, and mine doesn’t measure up. My shoulders are rounded. My neck sticks out. I see total strangers with good posture, neck over shoulders, and think, They must be so happy.

As I think about those cowboy boots now, I know why I noticed them. They were brand new, not an imperfection about them. Anything but worn in, they looked–uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why he walked the way he did. (Do you think it would be weird if I asked him to take his boots off, turn around, and saunter down the hallway so I could compare?) Anyway, I used to have a pair of cowboy boots like that. But by the time I got rid of them, they were all scuffed up and full of stories–line dances I’d taught, parties I’d been to. I actually think I was wearing them one of the first times I held my nephew. If I wasn’t, I should have been.

I think it’s fascinating that it’s almost always the imperfections that stand out, the things we remember about our favorite pair of shoes, the cars we drive, the people we love. I used to date a guy who was a forceps baby. He was hot to begin with, but he had this scar to the side of his mouth where the doctors had pulled him out, and it was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. I’m not discounting the perfect, of course. There’s nothing like the smell of a new car, nothing like the look of a dancer’s back.

Still, almost everyone in my family has rounded shoulders, a neck that sticks out ever so slightly. Put us all around a kitchen table, and we naturally lean into each other. Even now, sitting here all alone, I can feel what it’s like to hug each one of them, my arms slipped around their curvy backs, the way our shoulders connect in such a way that no one could slip between us if they tried. It’s in these moments that I forget my self-judgments and stop trying so hard to be perfect, that I remember what cars and boots and bodies are for. It’s in these moments that I can look at myself in the mirror and, seeing all my twists and turns, fall in love with every imperfect mile.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Stop buying your own bullshit.

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Free Enough for Now (Blog #90)

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

Sometimes I hate that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The truth doesn’t suck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You really do belong here.

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Feline Empowered (Blog #82)

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After an afternoon of looking at and discussing–and cussing–flooring and paint samples for Annie’s new pilates studio, Bonnie and I decided our brains were fried like that egg in the “this is your brain on drugs” commercials. (Except–I’d just like to clarify–we weren’t on drugs. We were HUNGRY.) Anyway, when we got to the taco shack, right as it was our turn, some lady in a sundress (everyone wears sundresses here, even the guys–it’s Austin) CUT IN FRONT OF US.

What the hell?

But whatever. The tacos were worth the wait. I was too busy eating them to take a picture, but let me just say this. I would eat these tacos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would invite these tacos to my wedding. That’s how much I love them. I might even go up three pant sizes for these tacos. I mean, maybe. Definitely two. I’d have to pray about anything more than that.

After tacos we took a walk in the Austin heat to pay for our sins, and I spotted a small bag of pot lying on the ground. It was actually right in front of the Verizon store, in the parking lot. Like it had just fallen out of someone’s pocket, just waiting for the right person to come along and pick it up like a lucky penny. God’s way of saying, “What else do you need to finally relax?”

“Well, God, I’m gonna need more than a little weed. YOU KNOW POT MAKES ME PARANOID.”

So we stopped at a bar and grill, and I went with this stuff in the glass instead. Old reliable.

After drinks, on the way back to the apartment, Bonnie and I saw a bunch of stickers on a telephone pole. Bonnie’s favorite looked like one of those name tags you get when you attend a conference and said, “Hello my name is–Fancy Pants.” My favorite was a frog that said, “How high are you?” since–ironically enough–I wasn’t.

This evening, Bonnie, Annie, and I, went to a West Coast Swing dance, and I got a taste of Austin traffic due to a construction zone, which is always a nice place to practice patience. Or take a selfie. You can always take a selfie in a construction zone. Yeah, do that instead, Marcus. Eff patience.

After the dance tonight, Bonnie and I decided to go to Lady Bird Lake and go for a jog. Well, Google Maps kind of sucks, and we ended up doing a lot of driving around, something that doesn’t burn many calories. At one point, we did stop, get out, and find a trail, but God only knows where we were. We ended up jogging in the dark, and before we knew it, we were surrounded by trees, standing in the middle of a dried river bed, and there was a small cliff that dropped down to the water. I kept thinking, Jurassic Park–we’ve found Jurassic Park–it’s only a matter of minutes before the dinosaurs come and we die.

But we didn’t die. We just turned around and went back the way we came. There weren’t any dinosaurs. (I hope the suspense wasn’t too much for you.)

Later, about midnight and after a lot of four-wheel exploring, we parked again and took off down a trail that was clearly marked “Park closed after 10 PM.” So the whole time we’re walking around this lake, and I’m such a rule-follower that I’m picturing a helicopter up in the sky shining a flood light on us and then swooping down and carrying us off to jail for being such disobedient tourists. But I just kept walking, thinking, I’m a rebel–a rebel, that’s me–I walk in parks after closing time. And then we stumbled across a basketball court, and there were like eight teenagers, toddlers really, playing basketball–in the park, after curfew–so I thought, Maybe I’m not such a rebel after all.

Here’s a picture of the capital at night. I took it after we successfully evaded being arrested at the park.

Last week my friend Jessica asked me, “If you were an animal, what would it be?” Well, I hadn’t put a lot of thought into it before, so I stalled. But Jessica said, “You’re not supposed to think about it,” so I said, “A jaguar.” Later that night I looked up jaguars, and the great and powerful internet said they represent making sense of chaos, moving in unknown places, and empowering oneself.

The jaguar thing has been on my mind today because I keep noticing cats and cat things around Austin. To be fair, Annie has a cat (named Eggnog) in the apartment, and she also has a coffee mug that says, “Feline Good.” But there’s also a shop down the road called The Pretty Kitty, and it jumps out at me whenever we drive or walk by. Of course, The Pretty Kitty is a Brazilian Waxing shop, so that’s obviously not the same kind of cat, but still, a cat’s a cat.

Here’s a picture of me and Eggnog. She likes to watch videos on people’s phones, so today I showed her this one. It’s a scene from The Birdcage with Nathan Lane and Robin Williams that never fails to make me laugh. Eggnog seemed to think it was just okay, but I won’t judge her too much for her lack of culture.

Anyway, I think the cat/jaguar thing is so fascinating. In a very real sense, my life feels so chaotic lately. I mean, I woke up before noon today. If that’s not out of control, I don’t know what is. But seriously, it feels like my life is a mess. But every day, I sit down at this keyboard and try to make sense of it all. Like Bonnie and I did tonight in Jurassic Park, I try to find my way through the dark, to move in unknown places, to explore. Often, putting my life on the internet feels like an act of vulnerability, and I suppose it is. But I’m finding that it’s also an act of empowerment. The paradox of my life right now is that although I’m working less and have less than I ever have (including a plan), I feel stronger now than I ever have.

There’s a story about a lion cub separated from his family, raised by vegetarians. They say, “You eat squash and tomatoes. Yummy.” And then one day he’s reunited with his family, and they say, “Hey, wait a damn minute. Put down that carrot. You’re a meat eater.” Of course, at first, he’s uncertain. He thinks, I don’t know if I can eat this lamb. But then it’s like he remembers. This is who I am. Now, where’s the beef?

So maybe that’s where strength comes from. Forgetting who everyone else says you are, you simply remember–who you actually are. And then you can better make sense of all the chaos. Even if the night is dark and the way is rocky, you can find your way because, just like a jaguar, you are powerful, and you can handle whatever comes. You just have to remember. This is who I am.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The symbols that fascinate us are meant to transform us.

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Uncle Walt’s Wisdom (Blog #64)

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This evening Bonnie and I went to a swing dance. For the first hour, I did what I always do when I’m in a new dance environment–I judged people. Comparing myself, I can almost always objectively say that I’m no slouch on the dance floor. I can almost always think that I’m shining at least as bright as ninety percent of the room. (It’s not like tonight was my first Lindy Hop rodeo.) But on another level, I’m almost always insecure and self-critical, wondering if I’ll be good enough, if I’ll be accepted, or if I put enough gel in my hair.

As if all that weren’t enough, I’ve been really self-conscious about my body odor the last few days. I guess it all started with the antibiotics, so it’s probably a yeast problem, but it could be something else. Google says that sweat that smells like ammonia can be caused by liver disease (oh shit) or too much protein and not enough carbohydrates. Considering how tight my pants have been lately, I REALLY DOUBT IT’S A CARBOHYDRATE PROBLEM, but I ate this angelic croissant/donut thing this morning just to be on the safe side.

Whatever the problem is, I couldn’t stop thinking about it at the dance tonight because I ALMOST ALWAYS SMELL GOOD. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but as a dancer, people are in my personal space pretty often, and they tell me I smell good on the regular. (I’m just stating facts.) So tonight I was hyper-aware of that fact that my armpits smelled like bleach. I mean, Lindy Hop is a happy thing, and I like to wave my arms around A LOT. Maybe I’m being a drama queen, but all I could smell when I raised my arms was funk, so I kept thinking, “This is disgusting, Marcus. YOU are disgusting. No one will want to dance with you.”

I heard recently that the ego HATES being humiliated more than it hates anything else. I hadn’t really thought about that term–humiliated–before, but I have thought a lot about this one–embarrassed. Maybe being embarrassed isn’t the same thing as being humiliated, but it’s close enough, and I feel embarrassed all the time– about how my much I weigh, how I look in pictures, and even how I dance. (I could keep going, so just one more thing.) Lately, I feel embarrassed about my smelly armpits.

Sometimes the best I can do is look my ego square in the eye and say, ‘Would you shut the fuck up already?’

Well, clearly my ego can give me a pretty hard time, so sometimes the best I can do is metaphorically sit my ego down, look it square in the eye, and say, “Would you shut the fuck up already?” In practice, that basically looks like not giving into the thoughts about being embarrassed that are constantly running around in my head.

For example, I kept telling Bonnie tonight that I was worried about my nasty pits, and she said, “I’ll let you know if I smell something gross, but so far your shirt still smells like Tide.” So I forced myself to believe her. Plus, in that moment, I couldn’t do anything about how I smelled, how much talent I had, or whether or not I’d be accepted. So over and over, I got out of my chair, walked across the room, and asked someone to dance.

Well guess what? Everyone said yes. What’s more, everyone smiled, so I can only assume they were having a good time and not wishing they were somewhere else (like close to an oxygen mask).

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me right before the dance ended. Thankfully, it’s not scratch-and-sniff.

When the dance was over, we went for a snack. Well, Bonnie went for a snack, and I went for a burger and fries (just to be even more on the safe side). When we finished, Bonnie requested an Uber, and within three minutes there was a Ford F150 on the other side of the street, and a guy named Chris had his head out the window shouting, “Bonnie? I’m just going to whip this around.” And then, with his muffler roaring like my dad’s stomach after he’s had Mexican food, he did a U-Turn in the middle of the street, ran up on the curb, stopped, leaned across the cab to open the door, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m a good driver.”

Well, I’m not sure that was a true statement, but I can say that Chris was the most interesting Uber driver we’ve had all week. He had what basically amounted to an Uber Disco Ball on the hood of his truck, and he could make it change colors with a remote control. Plus, Chris was dressed in a suit and tie, and what Uber driver wears a suit and tie at one in the morning? But the thing that really caught my attention was the fact that Chris smelled like an entire can of Axe Body Spray, something that should never be the case for anyone over the age of fourteen. I kept gagging, sort of grossed out, sort of wondering if I should borrow some to spray on my armpits.

There’s a beautiful poem by Uncle Walt (Whitman) from Leaves of Grass that says,

“I believe in the flesh and the appetites;
Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch’d from;
The scent of these arm-pits, aroma finer than prayer;
This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.”

Well, I’ve seen pictures of Uncle Walt. You can’t tell me the man took a bath every day. You can’t tell me the man used Axe Body Spray. But I love the fact that he was so in touch with his divinity that he considered every part of him, even his probably smelly armpits, to be a miracle. And of course, he was right. As the song says, “Everything is beautiful in its own way.”

For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain.

Personally, I know that I forget this fact a lot. I get focused on what my body doesn’t look like, doesn’t dance like, doesn’t smell like. I start listening to my ego and get embarrassed by all those things and more. In the process, I forget that I too am a miracle. After all, I’m alive, and I can dance–no matter how well–and I can ask another miracle to dance with me. For I am a universe–large–just like you are, and there is room here for all that we contain, more than enough room for any smell or embarrassment. An ego, of course, is small, and it is disgusted and humiliated by the smallest of things. But a universe is bigger than that, much too big to judge itself or another, much too big to ever question how bright it is shining.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can’t pick and choose what you receive from life, and you can’t always accurately label something as bad.

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One Step at a Time (Blog #63)

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For the last two freakin’ hours, I’ve been looking through three years worth of photos that I have backed up online, searching for inspiration, something to use for tonight’s blog. Honestly, I didn’t find much, so I just took the above photo instead. It’s a painting Bonnie and her family call “Chicken Shit,” which you should be able to figure out if you look at it long enough. Anyway, it feels exactly like what I have to offer at the moment. Promising, I know. But hang in there, and we’ll see what happens.

This afternoon I went for a two-hour walk. Last week when I got my new phone, it came with a fitness app, and when I entered my height and weight, it told me I was fat. (Rude, I know. We just met!) Actually, the word it used was “overweight,” which, according to the Body Mass Index, I apparently am. Personally, I would feel better about the diagnosis if it said, “Overweight, but that’s probably because you have a bubble butt,” or “Overweight, but we understand you’ve been through a lot lately and have needed beer and macaroni to help get you through it.”

But that’s not what it said. It just said, “Overweight.” Period. The end. And then–without even asking my permission first–it set me up on a fitness plan and told me I needed to walk an additional seven thousand (!) steps a day.

Talk about bossy.

And as if that weren’t enough, it now tracks my movements–like a stalker–and sends me a message whenever I’ve walked for about an hour and have “met my goal.” So today after I walked for two hours it said, “Way to go, you’ve exceeded our expectations.”

Or something like that.

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

On the walk today, I listened to an interview with the author David Sedaris. The interview was about his new book, a collection of personal diary entries that he wrote over a twenty-five year period. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m going to see him in Tulsa in a couple of weeks, and the event ticket includes a copy of the book. In the interview, David said that he remembers when he was younger and REALLY WANTING to be a successful, published author. He said he didn’t think that was too much to ask. The lady conducting the interview asked him what it felt like now that he was one, and he said it felt exactly like he thought it would–he loved every minute of it. (He also said not to glamorize his life too much because when he’s not on tour, he spends five to nine hours a day picking up trash in his neighborhood.)

My friend Marla told me about the interview, and she says that I have a lot in common with David. I mean, we’ve both done a lot of random jobs in order to make a living, we’re both gay, and we’re both–well–writers. So sometimes Marla and I like to fantasize that my life will turn out as successful as his. I mean, is that too much to ask? (Marla says the problem with the formula is that David did meth when he was young, but I didn’t. Still, maybe it’ll work.)

Honestly, I would love that. I mean, I’ll write no matter what, but the big dream isn’t to be a starving artist. I want to be successful. I want to go on book tours. There–I said it.

In the interview, David said that it seems a lot of people don’t really know what they want, or maybe they’re just not willing to say it because saying your dream out loud makes you vulnerable. Obviously, there’s always the chance it won’t come true. I guess it’s a lot like telling the world you’re going on a diet–it’s scary–what if it doesn’t work out? (What if you don’t work out?)

But then again, what if your dream does come true?

Whether you want a flatter stomach or to be a successful writer, I think David’s right. You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want. And then you do our best, cast your bread upon the waters, and see what happens.

My current challenge, I think, is patience. As a general rule, I want things done a certain way, and I usually want them done now. (My therapist says I’m “fussy.”) Well, this can really set a person up for a lot of frustration and disappointment, so my therapist is always saying, “Man, it’s about the journey.” (I always picture her wearing tie-dye and flashing the peace sign when she says stuff like this, but that’s just my overactive imagination.)

Anyway, as I was looking through all those photos tonight, I was struck by all that actually has happened on my journey the last three years. I started a business. I lost a lot of weight, gained some of it back. I stopped smoking (a few times). More than all of that, I learned about boundaries and cleaned up the drama in my life.

(Here’s an old picture that I consider gross on a lot of levels, but I’m posting anyway in an effort to be 1) vulnerable and 2) self-accepting. Smoker or not, I’m clearly not a morning person.)

As I think about all those accomplishments–as much as I hate to admit it–my therapist is right. There’s just no way any of those things could have happened much faster than they did. Diets take time, just like healthy relationships. Honestly, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, I’m glad it’s that way because now I’m more patient and more understanding, and that’s a really big deal. Plus, there’s a satisfaction that comes when you know you’ve worked your ass off something that simply isn’t there when it’s been handed to you on a silver platter.

So even though I have big dreams, I tell myself every day that my job now is simply to develop discipline and work on my craft. As they say in Alcoholics Anonymous, “Do the next right thing,” which to me means that I can’t productively worry about whether or not success will come, but I can productively sit down and write. And if success as I’ve dreamed it does show up, it will only be because, just like the walk this afternoon, I took one step at a time. Do that long enough, and you’re bound to exceed expectations. Just ask the stupid, chicken shit fitness app on my phone.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Some things simply take time and often more than one trip to the hardware store.

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Hipster Confidence and Beauty (Blog #60)

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Today I fell in love with Nashville.

It all started with Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, which I guess is just spicy chicken that you have to wait a really long time for. Check this out. I think we stood in line for about an hour. Ugh. I was SO HUNGRY by the time we got inside. (That’s Bonnie and Todd facing the camera.)

Here’s a picture of Mallory and me while we were waiting in line. We both wore matching baseball caps to cover up our ratchet hair. (Mallory hasn’t washed hers in three days because she just had a dye job and says that it sets better that way. Who knew? I, on the other hand, didn’t have an excuse except that I’m on vacation and–IDGAF.)

After we all stuffed our faces, we waddled across the street for ice cream–you know–to put our insulin to the test. I had a chocolate and peanut butter shake, but Mallory had a dip cone with sprinkles. After it was over, she said, “Okay, Marcus, now we need to go home and think about what we’ve done.”

As our friend Brooke Ann said, “I’m working on my ‘before’ picture.'”

When Bonnie and Todd and I got back to Tim’s apartment, I took a long, hard nap. I think I drooled on myself. Midway through the nap, I woke up to use the restroom, remembered a dream I was having, and wrote it down in my phone so I wouldn’t forget.

In the dream, I was at the library using a computer to finish a blog post. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to give a presentation somewhere. An old man who worked at the library came over to take away my large cup of coffee, and I got mad. Somehow, I spilled the coffee on him, screamed at him like I was Julia Sugarbaker, and threw him up against a wall. (It wasn’t pretty. I mean–apparently–don’t mess with my coffee.) After that, I was with Bonnie, then I saw the old man being carried out of the library on a stretcher and apologized.

(Don’t even think about judging me for yelling at an old man. It’s not like your dreams make any sense.)

Anytime I’ve dreamt about old people in the past, my therapist has said that they represent old ways of thinking. So I can only assume the dream had to do with my search for new knowledge (the library) and the fact that I put a lot of pressure on myself to grow and be perfect, like right now (writing the blog post, needing to give a presentation in twenty minutes). As for the coffee, which is something I enjoy but judge myself for indulging in, it probably represents my leisure time lately. I’m enjoying it–sure–but I’m judging myself a lot.

In light of the fact that I spent time at the restaurant today judging myself–comparing myself to all the new faces–I’m sure the dream was my subconscious saying–in a very strong way–this judging thing has got to stop. And as for the part about apologizing to the old man on the stretcher, I think that has to do with showing compassion to the parts of myself that although aren’t serving me anymore are still part of me, still worthy of healing.

Tonight Bonnie and I met my friend Laynee at a place called The 5 Spot for swing dancing. I met Laynee through Lindy Hop when she used to live in Springfield. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much fun I had. (I also can’t tell you how much beer I had.) As of midnight, it’s Bonnie’s birthday today, so the whole thing was a big celebration. Granted, since we were the first one’s there, it started out slow, so I settled for cheap entertainment like this picture.

I mean, the decoration was pretty rockin’. Just look at that classic record album. And then look at this. It’s velvet.

Thanks to Laynee, I’m pretty sure we found heaven.

For five hours, the DJs played soul music from the fifties and sixties, and as the evening went on, more and more and more hipsters showed up and danced the night away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mustaches, crop tops, and high water pants in one place. If I had a decent camera, this blog post would be entirely pictures. I mean, I danced a lot, but I did a lot of staring. There we so many fascinating people of all colors, shapes, and sizes–probably a hundred people or m0re—and I don’t think a single one of them gave a fuck what anyone else thought of them.

It was magic.

At one point I had to stop for food, so I went out to the patio and found this handy sign. (I’m guessing I wasn’t the first person there to have more than a couple beers.)

And then, y’all, I ordered and ate the best freaking all-beef hot dog I’ve ever had in my entire life. It had pineapple, chips with ruffles, and some sort of sauce made by fairies.

The hot chicken, the ice cream, and the hot dog may have had something to do with the fact that while I was dancing, I ripped the crotch out of my dress pants. Note to self–no more high kicks until we diet.

Oh, and cheese. There was mozzarella cheese on the hot dog.

One of the highlights of the evening was when Bonnie danced with a pirate, this hipster dude with skeleton pants, guy-liner, a handle bar mustache, and a mohawk. Seriously, he had to be the coolest person there. Check them out in this short video.

So before the evening was over (and with the encouragement of four–or five–beers), I asked the guy, who said his name was Zach, for a photo. (He said yes. That’s the photo a the top of the blog. His mohawk, sadly, had succumbed to gravity.)

As cool as Zach was, he was one of dozens of cool people tonight. There was one large girl who had her stomach showing, but she had the coolest glasses, and she was an absolute badass of a dancer. And there was another guy with a hat like Indiana Jones, and another guy with a shirt that reminded me of Ronald McDonald, but all of them were, well, awesome. I mean, it’s not like they were trained dancers. But they had what I’ve figured out is one of the sexiest things a person can possess–confidence. Confidence takes whatever you have an amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy. Just ask this guy.

Beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And that was my big lesson for the day–confidence. There was this one hipster guy there tonight. He had long hair put up in a man bun, cut off shorts that were a little too tight, and a tank top that was also. But he was owning everything he did on the dance floor, and it was beautiful. And for a guy who spent the afternoon at a fried chicken place judging himself for carrying a few extra pounds, watching that hipster guy–and so many others tonight–was so refreshing. It reminded me that beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is confidently doing what you love. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And as for judging yourself–comparing yourself to total strangers at a fried chicken joint–that’s outdated thinking–some old guy to spill your coffee on and throw up against a wall. So take those self-judgmental thoughts and send them packing on a stretcher. Look at them and say, “I’m sorry, but ain’t nobody got time for that.” And then when that’s over, go dancing with the hipsters and the pirates. Clearly, they’re much more fun.

[Bonnie–Happy Birthday! Like all those hipsters, you’re an inspiration. Laynee, you’re simply awesome. Thanks for introducing us to The 5 Spot. Zach, wherever you are, thank you. Keep being yourself. Also, you’re invited to every party I host for the rest of my life.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

"

Self-Critical Cowboys (Blog #52)

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Five minutes ago, I was down on my knees giving myself carpet burn. And whereas I wish I could tell you that someone was down there with me, that was sadly not the case. Rather, I was on the floor with my phone—the closest thing I have to a relationship—because the charging port is broken. So once or twice a day, I have to lay the phone on its back, futz with the cord so it connects just right, and then put a book on top of the cord to hold it in place. All this I do with one hand while I cross my fingers with the other, recite five Hail Marys, and hope to god that Mercury has moved out of retrograde.

This routine has been going on for the last several weeks, and it’s starting to get old. Honestly, I think it’s time for new phone.

Lately my days and nights have been flip-flopped, and because I got up early this morning to have breakfast with my friend Lorena, I’m currently functioning on about three hours of sleep and two pots of coffee. (I’m pretty sure union requirements state that my brain has to have six hours of sleep to work properly, so it’s a wonder I was able to dress myself this morning and not end up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.)

After Lorena and I had breakfast, I went with her in her Subaru to unload a couch at her office. Lorena’s a therapist who’s opening a clinic in Booneville, where she plans to specialize in pet bereavement, which I didn’t know was a thing, but Lorena says is for people who are grieving the upcoming or recent loss of an animal. Anyway, somehow Lorena managed to squeeze a couch in the back of her Subaru, and in order for me to fit in the passenger seat, I had to enter into a yoga pose.

Lorena called it “balls to the wall,” and I held it for forty minutes.

This evening I drove to Fayetteville to take family photos for a friend. I imagine I’ll say more about it later when I can share some of the photos, but toward the end of the three-hour session, I started to feel stressed. And although I’m sure some of that stress had to do with trying to get two adults, a two-year-old boy, a two-week-old baby, and a dog to smile and look at the camera AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME, I’m also sure most of that stress had to do with the fact that I’m tired, and whenever I’m tired I usually get self-critical and think things are going worse than they actually are.

The Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

For the longest time, I’ve had this thing with cowboys and the Old West. And no, it’s not a fetish, although I guess that could be fun with the right person. (Bad cowboy, bad.) It’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s this mental game I play with myself in order to make big things seem smaller and easier to deal with. Like, in today’s world, it’s easy to look in the mirror and then pick up your cell phone and compare yourself to the entire world and end up feeling pretty shitty. But if you lived in the Old West, your world would be a lot smaller, you’d have fewer people to compare yourself to, and you’d probably be less self-critical.

Still thinking in terms of the Old West, I’m now imagining my self-critical and “things are going worse than they actually are” thoughts as outlaws or cowboys. And I guess most of the time there’s a town sheriff keeping those guys in check, saying things like, “You’re drunk. Go home. We don’t want your kind around these parts.” But all I can imagine is that my mental sheriff belongs to that union I mentioned earlier and went to bed a long time ago, leaving the outlaws to run amuck and tear up the town.

My friend Barbie says that negative thoughts are like ants. If you let one in your house, it’s going to bring all its friends. Well, I guess that self-critical cowboys are the same way because even as I’m typing this blog, I’m already getting self-critical about it too, thinking it probably sounds as if a drunken cowboy wrote it. And I guess drunken cowboys don’t have ANYTHING POSITIVE to say, since I’m also thinking I’ll probably wake up fifty pounds heavier because I ate at Waffle House tonight, and I’ll probably die alone because let’s face it—the Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

All that being said—

I think my personal battery has been running low for a while now, and when I get extra tired, I have to remind myself that I’ve been through a lot lately. And by a lot, I mean—Earth. I have to remember that life these last several months has been a lot like the Old West—new and exciting, sure, but also scary and unpredictable. (The Old West ain’t for sissies.) I guess it feels like I’ve been riding my horses hard, and that simply can’t go on forever. No, my horses need a long, cool drink of water. If only for a night, I need to recharge my battery and I need to rest. And then in the morning, my sheriff will be back on duty, the world will look different, and those bad, bad cowboys can be the ones to sleep for a while.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

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