The Truth Will Set You Free (Sort of) (Blog #126)

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Some days I drown myself in self-help wisdom, like oh heck, I’m up to my neck in self-reflection and transformation. Honestly, I love it–drowning that is–it’s great. You should try it. Then again, it’s exhausting–change, change, change! Sometimes I think, God, Marcus, give it a rest. Do something stupid for once–binge watch Beavis and Butthead, sniff glue, whatever.

Today I read two-thirds of a book called I Hope I Screw This Up by Kyle Cease. I found out about Kyle, a former comedian who now talks about personal transformation, through an ad on Facebook. It used to bother me that Facebook knew I would like something like this. I mean, it’s weird, right? Once there was an ad in my feed for a t-shirt that said, “I’m the Gay Uncle,” and I thought, Shit–they know. But now I think of it like having a personal shopper, someone who really gets me. (Here’s a homosexual who wants to help himself!) Anyway, I’ve wanted to read Kyle’s book for over a month now, so I finally pulled the trigger this afternoon and downloaded it from Amazon.

So far the book is a gem, and I’m highlighting a lot of passages. I’ll spare you every single quote I like, but one of my favorites is, “Sharing my deepest truth, no matter how scary it is in the moment, is freedom. My only pain would come from repressing that truth.” I guess I like it so much because I’ve found it to be true. Time and time again in relationships with others and also on this blog, it’s been the truth that’s set me free. When I started the blog, I subtitled it, “The truth will set you free (sort of).” I added the “sort of” because so far the truth has set me free from a number of friends and lovers, most of my worldly possessions, and a good deal of money.

Let’s face it. The truth can be a real bastard.

That’s the part they don’t tell you. It’s said like–the truth will set you free (yippee!)–as if the truth were a carnival ride. And whereas maybe a child would be dumb enough to not think twice about a roller coaster called “getting honest with yourself and others,” an adult knows better. You don’t ride a ride like that without losing your lunch. The truth has the power to change you, turn your life upside down. That’s the reason we run from it–eat fried chicken, smoke cigarettes, sniff glue, whatever.

Don’t you hate it when you turn into your dead grandmother?

This evening I went to see the musical The Secret Garden at the Fort Smith Little Theater. Several of my friends are in it, and my friend George is the musical director. (It’s great, check it out.) Before the show started, while I was in the men’s room, a man who used to take dance lessons from me at Mercy Fitness Center struck up a conversation. At one point he said, “You look good–are you still working out?” Well, rather than simply saying, “Thank you,” I immediately said, “I could do better.” My grandma used to do shit like that, and it always drove me nuts. I’d say, “I love the mashed potatoes, Grandma,” and she’d say, “Well, they’re cold. I just bought a new oven.”

Crap. Don’t you hate it when you turn into your dead grandmother?

At intermission a friend of mine asked me about my still living in town (everyone thinks I moved to Austin already) and said, “How are you earning a living?” Then the strangest thing happened. I laughed and said, “I’m not–it’s great.” What’s strange, I guess, is that I actually meant it. I’ve told a lot of people lately–I have fewer things and less money now than I ever have, and I’m happier than I ever have been. This fact, I assume, is in no small part due to my work in therapy and my insistence on honesty and vulnerability when blogging (every day, every damn day). So maybe the truth really does set you free (maybe).

After the musical tonight, I went to eat with my friend George. Inevitably, we always end up talking about self-help, spirituality, and how to “live well,” and tonight was no exception. (So much self-help today!) When I told George about the compliment I brushed off in the bathroom, he said, “The correct response is, ‘Thank you.’ There’s no humility in aggrandizing or degrading yourself.”

Chew on that.

I wonder what that is–we spend so much time wanting recognition and praise (or is that just me?), and then when we get it, we act as if we aren’t worthy of it. (Me, looking good? No. I ate fried chicken last night.) Or maybe sometimes we try to take more than is given. (I’m the best worker-outer ever–no one works out better than me!) My guess is that we all walk around with mental images–versions–of ourselves that are anything but true, anything but kind. Byron Katie says, “If you realized how beautiful you were, you’d fall at your own feet.” I love this quote because it reminds me that “God doesn’t make junk.” And yet it seems that a part of me, a part of most of us, is used to being small, to not accepting compliments and acknowledging (graciously) someone else’s generous opinion. (You look nice.)

The truth is that I’m often uncomfortable with compliments because part of me doesn’t feel good enough to receive them. (Please say that again after I have abs.) But–go figure–just by admitting that, I feel better. I guess the thing about the truth that sets you free is that it puts you in touch with who you really are in the moment. (I’m tired, I’m insecure.) In my case, I’ve found out I’m not the guy with all the stuff or all the jobs. I’m not the guy who never gets upset, and I’m certainly not the guy without a sexuality, even though I pretended to be all those things for years. I’m not even my body weight. Rather, I’m something beyond all of that. I can’t say what exactly, but it feels like a carnival ride might feel to a kid with a strong stomach–wild, unpredictable, and free.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Life proceeds at its own pace.

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Flexing the Right Muscles (Blog #124)

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It’s three in the morning. Bed sounds really good right about now. Last night I got home from Springfield at four in the morning, slept for four hours, and woke up early (for me) to get a massage and see the chiropractor. Then I came home, slept for a couple of hours, and went to physical therapy, since healing from the car accident is now my new hobby. This evening I ran around downtown Fort Smith, came home, and took a nap on the futon from midnight to one to try to recharge before writing. I’m not sure that it worked.

Now that we have that out of the way.

This morning my massage therapist, Gena, and I were talking about how tight my scalenes are. Scalenes are the muscles that run from your ear to your shoulder on both sides. She said one of the reasons mine were tight is because my head juts forward rather than sitting back directly over my shoulders. She suggested one way I could “gently coax” my body into the right position would be to purposefully jut my head and neck forward, and then pull them back–like a turtle–and that I could do this in the car whenever I stop at a stop light or stop sign. (Thank God for tinted windows.) “Whenever you engage or flex one set of muscles,” she said, “BY LAW the opposing muscles have to relax.”

So every time I’ve stopped at a stop sign today and tried the exercise, I’ve thought, This has to work–it’s a law.

This afternoon I did something I rarely do. I voiced my opinion on Facebook. (Hell, everyone else is doing it.) One of my friends whom I respect posted an article about being punctual and asked (SHE ASKED) what everyone thought about “being late.” Well, all the other comments were basically “I hate that shit,” “Late people are rude,” “Late people are arrogant,” or–slightly kinder but not really–“Being late is arrogant behavior.”

Okay. Maybe I’m sensitive because I’m usually right on time (which apparently is the new late) or five to ten minutes late (which apparently is “unacceptable”). I admit–this is something I could improve on. Maybe we’d all be happier if I did. I definitely think being on time is professional and courteous. That being said, I take issue with the idea that the fact that I was slightly late to physical therapy today (because I left the house with just enough time to get there and then got stuck in traffic and saw a friend in the parking lot) makes me arrogant. (Feel free to disagree.) A mediocre time manager and horrible psychic, maybe.

My therapist says that online communication is froth with misunderstandings, so I don’t want to read more into those comments than were intended. Still, I’ve been thinking tonight even if the whole world agreed that being late is arrogant or rude or “something Jesus would never do” (although Martha did say, “Lord, if only had been here [on time], my brother would not have died”), that still wouldn’t change the reality that people are late, that traffic jams do happen, that–well–shit happens.

Shit happens.

One of my creative homework assignments this week is to initiate a conversation with one of my friends about synchronicity. I’m not sure if blogging counts as a way to do that, but it’s worth a shot, so here I go. (If you have experiences you’d like share, please message me or post in the comments so this conversation won’t be one-sided.) This afternoon in the middle of my finding my fifth chakra (which is at your throat and represents confession and speaking your truth) on Facebook, I kept thinking that I needed to message my friend Vicki to see if she was going to hear her husband Donny play Irish music at Core Brewing Company tonight. Well–guess what? Synchronistically, she messaged me first (and said she was).

So later I met Vicki to hear Donny play, had a great time, and lived happily ever after.

When I started blogging tonight, I noticed that the last time I wrote about Donny, I spelled his name wrong. (Sorry, Donny. I fixed it.) But get this. Tonight when I saw Donny, he didn’t say anything about it. I mean, there wasn’t a single comment about my being arrogant or rude or a bad friend because I spelled his name incorrectly. Go figure. Maybe it didn’t bother him at all, but if it did, he chose to be gracious about it. (Thank you.)

I guess a person can always choose to be gracious.

During the course of conversation tonight, Vicki said, “The more forgiving you are of yourself, the more forgiving you are of others.” My therapist says, “You don’t treat anyone better than you treat yourself.” In other words, if you’re a hard ass with yourself–about being on time, about having good grammar and correct spelling, about being “perfect”–you’re going to be a hard ass with everyone else. (So if someone is rude, unkind, or judgmental to you–have compassion–that’s how they treat themselves on the regular.) But if you extend grace to yourself, if you give understanding to yourself, you’ll naturally extend those things to others.

I’ll say it again. You don’t treat anyone better than you treat yourself.

I’m thinking now that our judgments–of ourselves and each other–are like muscles. If we “flex” our impatience, BY LAW, our patience must relax. However, if we “flex” our patience, BY LAW, our impatience must relax. (It has to work, it’s a law.) Ultimately, we’ll never be able to control what someone else does. Sadly, at least as long as I’m in it, we’ll never be able to make the whole world be punctual. But the good news is that we have plenty–PLENTY–of opportunities to practice patience, to extend grace, to treat ourselves and those around us better.

[Here’s a picture of one of the downtown murals at night, just because I checked it out this evening and wanted to put another picture on the blog.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Along the way you’ll find yourself, and that’s the main thing, the only thing there really is to find.

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Birds Will Shit on You (Blog #114)

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When I was a kid, my sister and her best friend used to speak a secret language, sort of like Pig Latin, but different. I remember it frustrated the hell out of me to not know what they were talking about. Well, eventually they taught me, and when my sister and I spent part of the summers in Mississippi with our childhood friend April and her siblings, we taught April the secret language as well. So every summer the three of us practiced, and we got pretty good at it. Several years later, when April and I started working at summer camp together, we continued to talk in the secret language, which came in really handy for personal matters and inside jokes we wanted to keep from the campers and other staff.

Anyway, I guess the last time I spoke it was fifteen years ago.

Today I drove to San Antonio to see April and meet her three children for the first time. Bonnie let me borrow her convertible, and I drove with the top down half the way there, which was apparently enough time to sunburn my arms and face. Oh well. When I got to April’s, I met her two girls, Ella and Istra, but her son, Phoenix, was busy playing inside a blanket fort. However, before long, we all piled into the car and headed downtown to eat a restaurant called La Gloria.

So get this. While we were all still in the car, April started talking in the secret language so the kids wouldn’t understand her. And here’s the cool thing–even though I had to ask her to slow down and repeat a couple of things (which I said IN the secret language), I actually understood what she was saying. And since I spoke it, I obviously remembered how it worked. Maybe not quite like riding a bicycle, but close. It came back–just a little wobbly.

At the restaurant we sat outside, and when they weren’t eating, April’s kids explored the adjacent park together. Every few minutes they’d come back, check in, get a hug from April. I thought the oldest, Ella, looked a lot like April and he sister when they were young, and Phoenix reminded me of April’s youngest brother. Anyway, it was the weirdest thing seeing them eating and playing games together, since I remember being their age and doing those same things with their mom.

When we finished eating we walked along the Riverwalk, which was a first for me. We started off in the new section, and when the kids got tired, we boarded a water taxi (a boat) that took us to the old section, the one that everyone is probably talking about when referring to the Riverwalk. Along the way Ella told several jokes, like, “What do you call a crate full of ducks?”

A box of quackers!

I said, “What do you call a cow with three legs?”  Eileen. But Ella said she didn’t get it, so April had to explain. (It’s never funny when you have to explain, especially if you’re nine.)

When we arrived at the main section of the Riverwalk, we got off the taxi and walked to the Alamo. (Remember the Alamo?) April pointed out that on one side of the street was the site of a historic battle, and on the other side of the street was Ripley’s Believe It or Not (believe it or not).

I guess time changes everything.

Next we hung out in the lobby of the Emily Morgan Hotel. April said this was a good way to sit down, chill out, and entertain children for free. Well, up until this point, Phoenix had been shy to warm up to me. But I guess he figured I was okay, and after I picked up WAY up in the air, he kept wanting to “do it again, do it again.” But instead of my just picking him up, he’d put his feet against me and run up my chest and shoulders like gravity or my discomfort didn’t matter.

Because they didn’t.

Eventually we made our way back to the Riverwalk, grabbed another taxi to head back to where we started, and I got shit on by a bird. You read that right. I was just sitting there, minding my own business, and I felt what I assumed was a splash of water on my legs, figuring it came from the river or maybe the tree above us. But then I something more than water on my leg–something of, shall we say, substance. And get this. Before I could even ask, April said, “I’m not one of those moms who carries napkins or wet wipes.”

I looked at the shit on my thigh. “How is that not a requirement for parenthood?”

From day one, our bodies weren’t meant to last.

One of the things I told April today is that sometimes I forget that I had a life before I became an adult, that I used to play in the mud, tell knock-knock jokes, and get piggy back rides instead of give them. I look at April’s kids, and it seems like so much time has passed. I guess because it has. But then–just like that–I was speaking that secret language again, letting kids climb all over me as if I’m a jungle gym, like I used to do at summer camp, and it felt like no time had passed at all.

One of my favorite quotes by Joseph Campbell says, “As you proceed through life, following your own path, birds will shit on you. Don’t bother to brush it off.” What I love about this idea is that–obviously–there are a lot of things we can’t do anything about. But so often we get hung up on–well–shit we can’t change, stuff that comes with the territory of being human. And this is where I think kids really have it made over adults–they live more in the present. If a bird shits on them, they’re not complaining about it two hours, let alone, two years later. What’s more, they’re more likely to see “something awful” as “something interesting,” as evidenced today when Phoenix pulled his bare feet out of his rubber boots, smelled his toes, and smiled.

Of course, none of us can stop our physical bodies from growing old. In that respect, time really does change everything. From day one, our bodies weren’t made to last. Our spirits, however, are a different matter, and we don’t have to grow old internally if we don’t want to. Rather, we can make it a point to stay curious and full of wonder, laugh and cry when it’s honest to do so, and not worry so much about all that shit we can’t do anything about, all that shit that is ultimately–part of life.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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I believe that God is moving small universes to communicate with me and with all of us, answering prayers and sending signs in unplanned moments, the touch of a friend's hand, and the very air we breathe.

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A Mouse in the House (Blog #104)

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For a while now I’ve been staring at this blank screen wishing I hadn’t made a personal commitment to write every day. I’ve also been wishing I hadn’t promised myself I’d be honest. Seriously, that was a stupid thing to do. Currently I’m tired (I know–we’re all tired–welcome to America), I have a headache, and I feel super bloated because I ate pizza on three separate occasions today, so I’m having a difficult time focusing. Additionally, I really don’t want to write about the thing that’s been on my mind all day, so I’ve been hoping I could get out of it. Like that ever works. Still, for over an hour I’ve been bargaining with the muse. Just give me something else to talk about–like the fact that I spent two hours tonight listening to Shania Twain’s Man I Feel Like a Woman, not because I’m gay but because I’m getting paid to choreograph it–that’s interesting, right?

But, “No, it’s not,” the muse says. “Tell everyone your mom has cancer.”

I don’t want to. I’m not ready to talk about it. 

“Do it anyway,” he says.

Oh my god, a mouse just ran across my parents’ living room! Let’s talk about that instead. Mice scare me. If only they were like the mice in Cinderella maybe I would–

“You’re stalling.”

Fine, damn it. But just so you know, I’m not happy about this.

“The mouse or the cancer?”

Either.

So yeah, my mom has cancer. They found it in one of her breasts several weeks ago, maybe as many as six or eight. This isn’t the first time I’m talking about it, just the first time I’m writing about it. (Mom said it was okay.) Originally she was told that it was small, localized, and slow-growing, so the assumption has been that the treatment would be fairly simple. I swear. I think the mouse just made one lap around the entire perimeter of the interior of our home. No wonder he looks so skinny. Anyway, I once worked for an attorney who worked out of his house, and I remember one day him standing in the kitchen with a block of cheese that had mold on it. Disgusting, right? But the man actually took out his pocket knife, cut the moldy part off, and ate the rest of the cheese. (He said you could do that because all cheese is basically mold, but I’m still grossed out.) Anyway, that’s how I’ve been thinking of the cancer treatment, something quick and simple that could easily be done in your own kitchen with a pocket knife if you were brave enough. But even if you wanted to let the doctors handle it–no big deal.

So apparently–big deal. Of course, things could always be worse (things could ALWAYS be worse), but we found out today that the cancer is a little more moldy–spread out–than previously thought. So two days from now mom’s going to get a port, which is basically a funnel they implant in your skin so they can pour chemotherapy into your body like motor oil for five months. After that, the plan is mastectomy, followed by radiation, followed by medication for five years.

As of now, that’s all we know. Also, I think we’re all overwhelmed, which is why we ordered pizza.

The fucking mouse just ran–no, sprinted–across the living room. It was so fast! Maybe I should call it Florence Griffith-Joyner. But I can’t think about that right now. I have so many other things to think about right now. Like FloJo gives a shit. I mean, a mouse just shows up in your home uninvited and does whatever the hell it wants. But of course, you’ve got to try to get rid of it. You can’t just let it stay. Still, I guess sometimes it takes a lot more work than you think it will. And maybe some days you wonder if you’re strong enough for what lies ahead.

Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.

“With the mouse or the cancer?”

Both.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Better that you're true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied.

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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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Who’s to say that one experience is better than another?

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Trying to Keep Both Hands Open (Blog #95)

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I’m just going to say it. My mood sucks. I mean, if you were here, I’d be pleasant because it’s not your fault, but I’d be faking it. Some muscle in my back spasmed all last night. When I woke up, my neck hurt in a few new places. The pain comes and goes, and I can’t very well turn to the left. (Zac Efron, please come around to my right side so I can see you.) As Grandpa used to say, I’m stiff in all the wrong places. From the shoulders up, I’m so rigid that I feel as if I’m turning into Pinocchio–the boy made out of wood.

Today was a day for adulting, something I particularly loathe when I don’t feel well. It’s like I just want to hide under the covers and let someone else handle things, let someone else take care of me. Of course, I’m thirty-six and too much of a control freak to let that happen. The insurance company called today with an estimate of what my car is worth–or rather–isn’t worth. Considering how old it is, I guess the amount is all right, but it’s not really enough to buy something comparable. I spoke with a friend who works in claims, and he gave me another, slightly higher estimate. So I’m officially in “negotiations,” which I know sounds very suit-and-tie, but actually happened while I was in my pajamas.

This afternoon I picked up a rental car, which I can use until the property claim is settled. (That’s me and part of the car in the above photo.) The lady from the insurance company said, “You can use it up to two days after the check is cut. If that sounds short, it’s because it is.” (How’s that for honesty?) I said, “Two days really isn’t much time to find and buy a new car.” She said, “I know.”

One of my friend’s recommended a car lot he and his family have used longer than I’ve been alive, so I stopped by there after picking up the rental car. The guy was super helpful, seemed like a straight-shooter. He had one car, a Ford Focus, with a reclaimed title that he said he could sell me for about what the insurance company was offering. I may go drive it tomorrow. But–honestly–I don’t want a Ford Focus. He also said he’s got an SUV arriving later this week that sounds pretty great, but it’s more than the amount of the insurance money. I haven’t seen the vehicle yet, but all evening I’ve been doing that practicality versus desire thing because I could really see myself in an SUV.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Last night before I went to bed, I smoked a cigarette and threw the rest of the pack in the toilet because I was flat out of willpower and knew what would happen if I didn’t. I waited a minute to flush it, so I got to see a nice stream of tar and nicotine seep out each cigarette and run to the bottom of the bowl. Disgusting, I thought. But all day I’ve been thinking I should have immediately fished them out and used a hairdryer to bring them back to life. What a waste, I’m currently thinking. This is what nicotine can do to a person. One minute you love it, the next minute you hate it. Desire comes and goes.

Here’s a picture of me and my friend Mary Anne. It was taken at the Greenwood Junior Cotillion as part of a patriotic-themed Halloween event. I include it now because 1) I need a picture, 2) tomorrow is July 4th, and 3) I currently feel anything but free. So–irony.

In order to distract myself from my cravings, tonight I watched two-thirds of a three-hour movie called Titus. My friend Justin recommended it, and I just have to say, “What the hell?” It’s a sort-of-modern day take on a Shakespeare tragedy, which–I think–is hard enough to understand without adding in murdering, raping gladiators who smoke cigarettes (nicotine!) and play video games. I wanted to throw my laptop across the room. This sort of ignorance happened with one of Justin’s other movie suggestions recently, so I’m officially revoking his cinema-recommendation privileges as of this moment.

So let it be written, so let it be done.

Tonight I went to Walmart for coffee filters because I’m out and can only handle so many frustrations and challenges in one day. This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but people were shooting off fireworks in the parking lot. Inside I picked up the coffee filters, some bananas, and two cans of vegetarian baked beans for tomorrow and headed to the check-out. Well, I had such a “screw the world” attitude that I actually stepped in front of an old lady who got to the line at the same time I did. Her basket is full, I thought. I only have a few things. Well, Jesus must have been watching because the lady asked if she could go ahead, since she was with the guy in front of me. I looked at their TWO full baskets and said, “Sure. I’m not in a hurry.” Internally I added, God hates me.

This may not come as a surprise because–Arkansas–but I ended up being related to both the lady and the guy. (She’s my mom’s aunt; he’s my mom’s cousin. We only see each other when someone dies because we’re tight like that.) Honestly, I don’t remember ever having a conversation with my great-aunt before. But we chatted for a few minutes. Turns out we’re on the same schedule–stay up until six in the morning, wake up at four in the afternoon. I mean, we didn’t hug, but I found it fascinating. I wish I could tell you why random shit like this happens, but it doesn’t make any more sense to me than getting in a car wreck or that business with the insurance money.

The mystic Meister Eckhart said, “It is permissible to take life’s blessings with both hands provided thou dost know thyself prepared in the opposite event to take them just as gladly. This applies to food and friends and kindred, to anything God gives and takes away.” I always love this quote when God is giving, but whenever God is taking, I kind of hate it. Lately I’ve been thinking that I didn’t have that much more to give–I’m  pretty much worn out here, Jesus–but apparently I have a lot left to give–like a car, maybe some money, part of my health, and my good mood.

Here you go, Lord, take all you need.

There’s this feeling when you’ve been smoking cigarettes and you haven’t had one in about twenty-four hours, sort of like you want to run up the walls, jump out of your skin, or maybe shove a rusty knife into someone’s leg. You think, This will never get better. But then you wait a day or two, maybe a week, and it does. You look back and think, That wasn’t so bad. In the process, you find a lot of compassion for anyone who deals with addiction. So in terms of my stiff neck and needing to buy a new car, I’m currently halfway up the wall. I don’t have a rusty knife, but you’d better still keep your legs away. That being said, I have every confidence that given enough time, I’ll come back down the wall and find myself more understanding, more compassionate. Since God works in mysterious ways, I’m trying my best to keep both hands open, to gladly accept whatever comes and goes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"

On Rewriting Your Own Story (Blog #86)

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Four years ago I completed my first and only triathlon. At the time I was working out pretty hardcore with my friend Jim, who’s pretty hardcore himself. I mean, the man’s retired, has competed in dozens and dozens of marathons and triathlons, and even today could probably benchpress in pounds the number of calories I drank in beer today. All this he does with one lung (he’s beat cancer three times), so he’s not exactly the person you want to call when you feel like whining or skipping a workout. Anyway, when the above photo was taken, Jim and I were exercising–lifting, swimming, biking, running–probably six or seven days a week. I don’t think I’ve ever sweat so much in all my life. It’s a wonder I didn’t die of evaporation.

I think I ran two 5Ks that spring. They both started around six or seven in the morning, so there’s actual, documented proof that I was awake and functioning before noon. So there. Since the mornings were cool, I decided “my thing” would be wearing knee-high colored tube socks. Looking back, I might as well have just worn a fanny pack that said “virgin” in pink sequins.

Here’s a picture from my first 5k, taken right before the finish line. I’m especially proud that I was able to turn up the heat at the last minute and smoke those little toddlers’ butts. I like to think they ran straight for their mothers and started sobbing.

Maybe sometime between the first and second race, I started having a funny sensation in my right hip. Not knowing what it was, I pushed through–kept up all the workouts. Before summer hit, I was in more pain than I’d been in before or have been since. I’m not exactly sure how to describe it, but tying my shoes made me want to cry. Getting in and out of the car did too. It felt like a knife shoved into my hip, knee, and ankle, all at the same time, and it went on for months. Now I know that it was sciatic pain, a pinched nerve due to the structure of my body and inflammation in my hip. But then, even though I talked to several professionals, it remained a mystery.

So I quit swimming. Quit biking. Quit running. Quit working out my lower body.

Eventually the pain got better, manageable. Then I found a chiropractor who made it disappear within a couple of weeks. It was like a miracle (that you have to pay for). So I started swimming and biking again, but I couldn’t run because anytime I tried, the pain came back. That means that for the last four years, I’ve had to be really be careful when it’s come to that hip. It also means that I’ve also eaten a lot of carrot cake–you know–as a way of apologizing to my body for all that exercise I put it through.

I joke about stuff like this, but I can’t tell you have fucking frustrating my right hip issue has been. Even before the sciatic part, things were out of whack. Some days it just kept me from doing things I enjoyed, like racing against five-year-olds. Other days it straight-up hurt like a sonofabitch.

Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is.

Today, like last weekend, I spent the afternoon and evening at the Arkansas New Play Festival in Fayetteville. Having had a long week, I’d planned to skip the final play, Comet Town, since I saw it last Saturday. HOWEVER, I spoke with the playwright this afternoon, Rick Ehrstin, and he told me that they’d changed the play a lot since last week, cleaned it up quite a bit. (This is part of the point, I’m learning, of the festival, since it features plays that are in “the works.”) So I decided to stay, a choice that had mostly to do with Rick’s play and a little to do with the free beer being served.

Of course, the main points in the play stayed the same. An alcoholic man hires a woman to take care of his father, who has dementia and thinks planes flying over his home are comets and sounds from his basement are his dead wife. But so many little things changed. Last week there was a part in which the alcoholic complained about a previous caretaker who’d stolen from the family. This week it was gone. The effect for me was that the character instantly softened up a little, became more likable.

The author said that in one form or another, he’s been working on the play for years. As a writer, I know it’s easy to get stuck in or married to certain ideas, so I love that he’s been able to be flexible, cut out what’s not working (kill your darlings, it’s called), add in something that is. So this evening I’ve been stuck on this idea of rewriting a story, taking an idea that’s maybe been the same for years and effectively going back to the drawing board with it.

A few weeks ago I started running again, gingerly. Mostly, I’ve been walking, but running some, adding in a little more distance each week. Tonight after I got home from the play, I ran the farthest, nonstop, that I have since Jim’s Summer of Exercise Heaven and Hell.

Five and a half miles.

(Take all the time you need to stop clapping and sit back down.)

We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

Really, I don’t know whether that’s a big deal or not, but I do know that it’s a big deal for me, and it’s a big damn deal for my hip. I mean, it’s tight. I can feel that. But in the last four years, I’ve learned enough about what’s going on that I think I can work with it. And whereas I’m happy–thrilled–about being able to run again, it occurred to me tonight that before I could even run to the end of the block, I had to rewrite the story I was telling myself about my hip first. What I mean is that for quite a while, I’ve been saying that I couldn’t run, that I was done running forever because my hip couldn’t get better. Thankfully, somehow, I’ve changed my mind about that. Now I believe it can get better. It may not be where I want it to be yet, but it’s already better than it was.

I guess we all tell ourselves stories about what we can and can’t do. Obviously, sometimes there are actual limits. I’m not saying pain isn’t real. When my dad was a kid, he thought he could fly like Superman, but found out he couldn’t when he jumped off the carport. So there’s that. But so many times the limits are in our heads. I can’t be successful. Good things happen to other people. I’ll never meet the right person.

The good news, I think, is that those are just stories we tell ourselves, and we can rewrite our stories if we want to. Cut out what’s not working, add in something that is. Maybe that doesn’t mean you’re out running a marathon tomorrow, but maybe it means that you start changing your ideas about what’s possible, considering a different ending than the one you had in mind. I’m quitting my job. I’m leaving this town. No more knee-high tube socks! Or maybe instead of being so hard on yourself, you simply look in the mirror and say, “I’m doing the best I can.” Just like that, your story’s main character softened up a little, became more likable. Even if nothing else changed, surely that one rewrite would have you feeling like you’d just crossed a finish line, arms lifted in celebration, two crying children somewhere in the distance.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Whereas I've always pictured patience as a sweet, smiling, long-haired lady in a white dress, I'm coming to see her as a frumpy, worn-out old broad with three chins. You know--sturdy--someone who's been through the ringer and lived to tell about it.

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Embracing My Animal Nature (Blog #85)

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Here’s a picture from when I was in Austin that I’m affectionately calling “Dasher and Dancer.” Get it? (I’m a dancer.) The photo was taken at a vintage furniture store, and I was a little sad that Dasher had a broken antler, so I gave him a hug. (Notice he didn’t return the favor. Of course, he doesn’t have arms.) Anyway, I’m back in Arkansas now, but I’m still sharing this picture because I always start each post with a picture and Bonnie sent me this one this morning.

This afternoon I spent well over an hour in the backyard, reading. Half-naked. In the hot sun. I’ve been doing this for the last couple of weeks, hoping to ease myself into an even tan, erase some of the lines I’ve acquired from hanging my arm out my car window and walking around Austin in a tank top. Well, I didn’t think I was outside too long, but maybe I was. Maybe the sun was especially pissed off today, like it had a fight with the moon last night and decided to take it out on me. Either way, I roasted like a marshmallow. My skin keeps getting pinker and pinker.

Here’s a picture I took a couple of hours ago. Something must be up with my camera or the lightbulbs in the bathroom because it doesn’t look like I’m sunburned at all. But everything that looks tanned in the picture (my stomach) is actually medium rare in real life.

First, while I’m partially nude, I’d like to say this. I don’t look nearly as bad as I think I do. I mean, I just spent three days in Austin eating tacos, fried chicken, and donuts the size of flying saucers, so I haven’t exactly felt svelte. But I stood on a scale today, and I actually lost weight while I was in Texas. Go figure. Metabolism, like Rob Lowe’s skin regimen, is a mystery. But back to the sunburn. I just took another picture, in a different room, and here’s what my skin really looks like.

Obviously, good lighting makes all the difference. Also–OUCH.

As the day has gone on, like my skin, I’ve progressively gotten more and more irritated. This evening I saw a lovely play in Fayetteville, but I kept remembering that I was alone, which almost never bothers me but did tonight. Then I went to Walmart, checked out, and got back to my car and realized I’d forgotten something, so I had to go back in, which made me want to spit in someone’s face. I’m guessing my bad attitude has to do mostly with coming down off the high of a wonderful trip to Austin, not getting enough sleep last night, cutting back on sugar today (where’d all the donuts go?), and burning the shit out of my stomach in the name of vanity.

But that’s just a guess.

This afternoon while I was frying my skin like a slab of bacon, I was reading a book about psychology and fairy tales. The book said that animals in fairy tales almost always represent our instinctual, animal nature (the id), and that the goal of becoming an adult is not to rid yourself of your animal nature, but rather to tame it or integrate it into your whole personality. For example, frogs (as in “The Frog Prince”) often represent one’s growing sexuality, the changing from a pre-pubescent child to an adult. In that particular example, rather than banishing the frog, the princess ends up kissing it, symbolically welcoming the change she is going through.

If a feeling is present, it’s probably there for a reason.

I’m not exactly sure what animal(s) would represent my irritation best, but probably a mosquito or a flock of shitting pigeons. Either way, I really like this idea of integration. I used to think that getting irritated, frustrated, or angry was bad and “not spiritual,” so I worked to avoid feeling those emotions as much as possible. (Television, whiskey, and nicotine often helped.) In fairy tale terms, I thought of those emotions as inhabitants of my kingdom that needed to be banished forever. But now I’m coming around to the idea that all the ups and downs in my mood are part of me. No one feeling should get to run the show, but everyone has a right to live here. Plus, if a feeling is present, it’s probably there for a reason.

When I think about my irritability that way, I realize that I’ve been “dashing” about a lot lately–making a whirlwind trip to Austin, sacrificing sleep in order to write, burning the candle at both ends the way I burned my skin today. And I guess my animal nature, which I’m now picturing as a white reindeer with one broken antler (because life’s a bitch sometimes), is simply telling me to gently apply some aloe vera, slow my roll, and go to bed.

Whatever you say, Dasher. (Also, Dancer loves you.)

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Why should anyone be embarrassed about the truth?"

Something Shifted (Blog #81)

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Today my friend Bonnie and I drove to Austin, Texas, to visit her daughter Annie. Well, okay, Bonnie drove while I slept and drooled on a pink pillow strapped around my neck. (I only woke up every couple of hours to eat lunch, use the bathroom, or freak out in big-city traffic.) I really think sleeping on road trips is the best thing ever. It’s like time traveling, or at least teleporting. Close your eyes in one city–open them in another.

Beam me up, Bonnie.

Somewhere–I couldn’t tell you–we stopped for a bathroom and coffee break at a Buc-ee’s, which is basically a warehouse-sized gas station/grocery store/Hobby Lobby with a beaver for a mascot. I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous and mesmerizing in all my life. I’m pretty sure I could have gotten an oil change and a pedicure if I’d wanted to. The place was so big (everything’s bigger in Texas), I think I met my cardio requirements for the day just walking to the bathroom, which had 34 freaking urinals. (I don’t think anyone minded me tapping him on his shoulder as I counted.) I mean, there were so many toilets, I could only assume they hosted competitions.

Just look at the mouth on that beaver. (I guess the positive side to only having two teeth is that flossing would be super easy. Then again, you wouldn’t make much money off the Tooth Fairy, so there’s that.)

Here’s a picture of what our car ride looked like after I woke up and took the neck pillow off. I’m reading a book called The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning of Importance of Fairy Tales by Bruno Bettleheim. It was written by a child psychologist and is a pretty fascinating read about the positive things fairy tales do for both children and adults. Anyway, I think Bonnie was listening to Tracy Chapman about this time, but it might have been STYX or Cat Stevens.

When we got to Austin, Bonnie and I stopped by Annie’s work, a chiropractor’s office where she teaches pilates. After a short reunion and a discussion about whether the bathroom door was green or blue (we still don’t know), Bonnie and I got a key to Annie’s apartment and left to unload our things while Annie finished working.

Like any good nosy houseguest, one of the first things I did when we got to Annie’s apartment was look through her books. One of them had to do with astrology, and although I don’t make a big fuss about horoscopes, I am interested in the zodiac from a personality perspective. Since I’m a Virgo, that was the section I flipped to. The information was mostly familiar, but it said one thing I hadn’t heard before, that Virgos are focused on functionality. Basically, they cut through the crap and get down to what’s useful. Whereas a sign like Gemini seeks out all information (knowledge for the sake of knowledge), a Virgo seeks out only useful information (knowledge for the sake of transformation).

This evening the three of us walked to a local restaurant and sat on the patio for dinner. (That’s us at the top of the blog.) We spent most of our time talking about decorating ideas, since Annie’s about to move her pilates business to a space of her own (!). I’m sure we’ll dance and do other things this week, but Annie’s new space is really the reason for the trip. (Get excited. Tomorrow we look at flooring and paint samples.)

Back at the apartment, as we were all talking about pilates and the new studio, I told Annie that I’ve been to a number of body workers over the years, but there were still things about my body that I wanted to change, like the fact that my right hip always feels like it’s in my rib cage, or the fact that my shoulders are rounded, or the fact that my head constantly turns to the left. Annie said she’d be glad to talk to me about it, and I said, “Like right now?”

“Yeah, like right now.”

So Annie had me kick my shoes off and stand in front of her mirror. Then she bent down and started measuring my body with her fingers. It felt like going to the seamstress. Well, within a few minutes, Annie had a plan, explaining that the muscles around my rib cage are tight on the right side (and weak on the left), so they pull my rib cage down into my right hip.

Of course, it’s never just one thing. I have other muscles (in my butt) that are stronger on one side than the other, and all of it contributes to my imbalances. But Annie said we’d start with stretching, so she had me lie on a foam roller for ten or fifteen minutes. At first I was like the Y in YMCA, but then my arms fell asleep, so I ended up like this.

After a few minutes, I could feel some of the muscles across my chest start to relax. Ever so slightly, something shifted. And then Annie gave me some exercises to work on, things to lengthen and strengthen my abdominal wall and help stabilize my hips. Usually my hips feel pretty tight, rigid, like a door that’s rusted shut. But as Annie walked me through the exercise, I actually felt them move–no, I felt them slide. And get this shit. When I got up, I was visibly better. Like a wilted flower that’s been watered, I stood taller, more level, less slumped.

I’m trying to be open to whatever life brings.

Since last year when I decided to close my dance studio, I’ve been telling myself and everyone else that I’m trying to be open to whatever life brings. Like, I think I want to move to Austin, but I’m open to other ideas, other possibilities. I mean, I’ve been at my parents’ for a few months, and although that wasn’t my original plan, I’ve tried to be open to the fact that good can and is coming from that situation (this blog, for example). So since earlier this week when Bonnie invited me to Austin for a few days, I’ve been trying to not make a big deal of it. I knew that I could get down here and absolutely love it, but I also knew that I could get down here and feel like it wasn’t the place for me.

But I’ll say this. Two hours outside of the city today, ever so slightly, something shifted. I can’t say more about it than that. My therapist says when she moved from her hometown, it felt like a lightening bolt up her spine. My experience today wasn’t that dramatic. But my body did feel different, and it felt–good. Now that I’m here in Austin, it just feels good. There are hot people–hot guys–jogging the streets. There was a lady in Annie’s office today–a lady with gray hair–who had a cut off t-shirt with a picture of an old dude on a bicycle that said, “Put the fun in between your legs.” Tonight our waitress (who grew up in Kenya) had a tattoo that said, “The journey is the destination.” She was just cool. Annie told us one day she was at a park and stumbled upon a naked yoga class for pregnant women. Imagine that!

Honestly, I love all of that. I can’t tell you how much I would love to call this place–or a place like it–my home.

One day–just like that–you find something that works.

And then there’s Annie and the little pilates miracle that happened tonight on her living room floor. Talk about finally finding some information that’s functional, information that’s transformational. One of my best friends is always saying, “It’ll change your life,” as in, “This cheesecake will change your life,” or “This hairspray will change your life.” But really, folks, if I could get my body more in balance, get this hip back to where it’s supposed to be, that really could change my life. It could make it better.

I realize there’s a lot of work left to do here. By that I mean, I’m probably a long way from standing taller, holding my shoulders back, sticking my chest out proud. I’m probably also a long way from realizing my dream of being a full-time writer and living in Austin, fun in between my legs, naked yoga in the park, whatever. But maybe not. I’m finding that you can spend years sorting through crap, all kinds of information and possibilities. And then one day–just like that–you find something that works, something that clicks, something that’s useful. Maybe you can’t put your finger on it, but you know for certain–something has shifted ever so slightly, and it feels–good.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s a lot of magic around you.

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Nothing Stays the Same (Blog #74)

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I’ve effectively become a nocturnal creature, right up there with the owl and the opossum, but–I think–better looking. Lately my daytime activities have been limited to waking up in the afternoon, drinking a cup of coffee, and reading a book while sunbathing in my parents’ backyard in my underwear, all the while watching the sun go down along with my standards.

This evening I stepped on the scale, which is something they tell you never to do when you first start a diet, but that didn’t stop me from doing it, thinking, You’re not the boss of me. Of course, there’s a reason they tell you not to do that because one day you’ve lost four pounds, and the next day, even after starving yourself and immediately taking a good shit, you’ve gained it all back.

I remember taking a philosophy class in college, and there was this story about a ship that was in constant need of repair. One day one board was replaced, and the next day another, and then before long, none of the original wood was there anymore. The question was–is it the same ship, or is it a different one? Fifteen years later, I’m not sure I have an answer, but I think about the question a lot whenever I’m on a diet. Like, there goes three pounds of me–am I still the same person?

I spent several hours this evening reading a book called Closing Time, which just came out today and was written by my friend and local author Anita Paddock. It’s about a double murder that took place in Van Buren in 1980 and the family that survived the ordeal. I was riveted, especially since the murders happened in my hometown, in a shopping center I’ve been to or driven by a hundred times.

Not to make everything about me, but I learned tonight that the murders also happened three days before I was born. The funerals of the victims were actually on my birthday. So the entire time I was reading tonight, imaging the horrific experiences of the victims, their family, and the city, I was also imaging the (I’m assuming) joyful experiences of my parents and my family, how dramatically different a day they were having. Things like this always strike me–the way one life can be falling apart at the same time another is coming together.

In the middle of my reading the book, my Dad asked me to come into the kitchen “to look at something.” Having overheard part of a conversation he was having with Mom, I knew it had to do with his body. This sort of thing is pretty common in our family, like, Look at this rash, or, Smell my armpits, or, Do you think this ingrown toenail is infected? It’s something I’ve gotten used to, especially after seeing my dad and aunt use an electric sander (the kind you buy at the hardware store) to remove the calluses from each other’s feet more times than I can count. Just another Sunday afternoon.

Usually I’m up for whatever’s asked of me. Need me to remove a splinter? I’m a witch with a needle. Need me to peel the skin off your sunburned back? Sure thing, I could use more for my collection. Need me to pop a zit or boil you can’t quite reach it? Absolutely! Even better if splashes a little or smells like cheese–we’ll put it on YouTube. Just let me get my goggles.

But when I got to the kitchen tonight, Dad opened his mouth wide and showed me one of his teeth, a molar. He said a while back he was chewing on an M&M and something happened, meaning his tooth freaking split open the way a piece of firewood does when it’s hit with an ax. And then he used his tongue to wiggle the broken tooth around, playing with it like a kid that’s just discovered his pecker, kind of proud of himself.

“Okay, I’ve seen enough,” I said.

And then–AND THEN–he asked me to pull it.

“Just get the tweezers.”

“Hell, why don’t I get the needle-nose pliers out of my toolbox?”

“If you think that would work better.”

He was serious. For a moment, I actually considered it. I had this short vision of me reaching into my dad’s mouth with a monkey wrench, maybe propping my foot against his stomach for leverage, and then counting to three. Laying the tooth in his arms like a doctor who’s just delivered a newborn baby to its mother, the whole time Mom complaining about the blood on the carpet.

“I’m sorry, if it were a zit, I’d say yes. But I’m not going to pull your tooth. Tie a string around it and slam the door. I draw the line at anything having to do with an orifice.”

My mom kept saying he should see a dentist, but Dad said, “Marcus, just get me the tweezers.” Fine. Honor you father and mother. So I went to the bathroom, grabbed a pair of pink tweezers and the alcohol, and came back to the kitchen and cleaned them.

“You don’t have to clean them,” Dad said.

Oh, of course not. I guess if you haven’t been to the dentist in ten years, you’re probably not too concerned about bacteria. So I handed the man the tweezers and walked away, washing my hands of the matter like Pilate did with our lord and savior. Five minutes later, there was a third of a tooth on the kitchen table–where we eat for god’s sakes. I mean, what’s on the table goes in your mouth, not what’s in your mouth goes on the table.

Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Tonight after The Great Tweezer Tooth Extraction and after I finished reading Closing Time, I went for a jog. Here’s what I love about running after midnight, what I love about being a nocturnal creature–it’s cool, it’s quiet, and it’s usually just me and the moon, something I often take for granted. You know how it is, you’ve seen it before. But having been out the last few nights in a row, I’ve watched the moon progress from being full to less full. Every night, a little part of it disappears. It’s like it’s on a diet too.

I have a few different routes when I walk and jog, but tonight I went to the track and ran laps. The repetition usually bores me, but at night it encourages me to look at the sky. Huffing air, moaning more and more with each lap, I thought, The moon’s waning, and I’m whining. Plus, I kept noticing that every couple of laps, the moon would move. I’d look up at the spot it was the last time I saw it, and it wouldn’t be where I’d left it. (I’ve had this same experience with my keys.)

So I kept thinking that nothing is ever where we leave it. Of course, you can put your keys on the kitchen counter, and they’ll be there tomorrow, but they won’t be at the same place in the universe as they were the day before. In truth, like you, they will have traveled remarkable distances. Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Nothing stays the same for even a moment.

Personally, I know that I often get hung up on things not changing. I want my weight to be consistent, my health to stay the same, my keys to always be on the counter. But if I could catch even a glimpse of a universe–just one universe–moving, I’d realize that’s impossible. Nothing stays the same for even a moment. Weight comes on and goes off like the phases of the moon. Teeth rot just like wooden ships do. And even on days when people mourn the death of those lost in the most tragic of circumstances, a baby takes his first breath, a mother smiles, and the moon still rises somewhere in the sky.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Boundaries are about starting small, enjoying initial successes, and practicing until you get your relationships like you want them. 

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