It’s 8:00 in the evening, and it’s been dark outside since 4:30. What the actual hell? I feel like it’s midnight. I’m SO TIRED. No kidding, I’m about to pass out hibernation style. Like for the entire winter.
Somebody wake me up when it’s March!
Earlier my parents, my aunt, and I went out for dinner at–get this–3:45 so we could get the senior citizen discount at Furr’s Super Buffet. It’s sexy, I know. Y’all, I “sort of” controlled myself with all the food options, but still managed to scarf down a salad, two full plates of mashed this and cheesy that, and a dessert. My insulin was like, “What do you think I am–a miracle worker?!”
Hum. Insulin. Maybe that’s why I’m so sleepy.
Anyway, this was honestly the highlight of my day. Meatloaf that’s been keep warm under a lightbulb.
Before we went out to eat, I worked more on sorting old photos, and I’m continually amazed that in many cases I can’t put my finger on what year something happened. Today I tried to organize photos of when our old swing dance group, The Big Bad Jittacats, performed on The Dr. Pepper Stage at the fairgrounds. Eventually, I gave up on about twenty-five percent of the photos, since we were out there SO MANY TIMES and everything just blends together like–I don’t know–a casserole does in your mouth.
Maybe from this point forward I should start wearing a different uniform each year. Then when I look back at photos I’ll know–Oh yes, 2018, the year of yellow spandex and red suspenders.
Or whatever.
Currently I’m blogging on my phone because my internet (my hotspot) drags ass during the afternoon and early evening hours. I assume because everyone else is on the network. Last night while I was writing at three in the morning, it wasn’t a problem. Unless you consider going to bed just before sunrise a problem, which I’m starting to. Anyway, so this is a compromise–phone blogging now in exchange for a decent night’s rest later.
Am I at five hundred words yet? That’s my goal for tonight. Then I can get ready for bed and not feel like I “have” to stay up forever.
Just before I passed out last night about 4:45, a friend from overseas messaged me online and said, “Are you awake?!” Then when I said yes because of the blog, they said, “I admire your commitment.” To which I said, “Most days I feel like I should BE committed.”
Like to an institution.
Along these lines, my therapist asked recently if I felt COMMITTED to the blog or OBLIGATED to the blog. After pausing to consider the difference between the two things, I said, “I’m committed.” This was apparently the right answer, since I got a Tootsie Roll when our session was over.
I’m not sure why I bring this up now, other than to say I think it’s a good thing to ponder if you’re thinking of taking on a big project, whether that’s a creative endeavor like writing a blog or a personal one like going to the gym or getting married. Because if you feel obligated to whatever it is, chances are it won’t last. Either that or you won’t (without becoming resentful). But if you feel committed to your idea/goal/person, well that’s a different matter. Not that it’s a guarantee of success, of course, but at least it’s a better starting point.
It’s 11:28 at night, and I’ve been dicking around for over two hours–fixing my parents screen door, running the virus scanner on my laptop, scrolling through Facebook ad nauseam–doing anything I can to avoid writing. I just don’t feel like it. Stupid blog. Ugh–whose idea was this every-day writing nonsense?
Oh, that’s right–it was mine.
This afternoon I did some handyman things for some friends and got absolutely eaten up by mosquitoes in the process because I refused to use the bug spray I keep in my car. I can be so stubborn sometimes. But I was in relatively nice clothes and just didn’t want to smell like Deet for the rest of the day. Honestly, what’s a girl to do when presented with two unpleasant options?
To itch or to stink, that is the question. Obviously, my answer today was to itch, although I’ve chosen to stink plenty of other times in the past.
I can’t believe I’m talking about mosquitoes.
Move on, Marcus.
This evening I went downtown in Fort Smith to check out The Unexpected. The Unexpected is a mural-painting project that happens annually here, and–I think–is one of the coolest things this city has ever done ever. The project goes through this Sunday, October 28. Anyway, every year the organizers put out a new map that lists all the artists and where their respective murals are or will be located, so tonight after parking my car at a local coffee shop and with my map in hand, I hit the streets (oh-la-la) to look for the latest artwork. Oh my gosh, y’all, what a cool thing, to walk up on an old building you’ve driven past hundreds of times and see it being brought back to life. Even at 8:00 this evening, there were a number of artists out working on their projects.
Here’s a picture of one of the murals in progress on Towson Avenue. The artist is Alexis Diaz.
This one is also on Towson Avenue and is by PREF. (A lot of muralists don’t go by their god-given names. Apparently it’s a thing.) Personally, I’m really excited to see how this mural turns out. I assume it will say, “The very best is yet to come,” but since there are three blank spaces left and “to come” would only fill up two of them, who knows? It could be anything. That’s the great thing about a blank “canvas.” You can do with it what you want.
This one is on Garrison Avenue (the main drag in downtown) and is by Ana Maria. She did another mural in the same spot for the first Unexpected (in 2015), but obviously had to paint over it in order to create this new piece.
This one is on North A, one block off Garrison Avenue and is being painted by local high school students. How cool is that?
Although there are a few other new murals this year (by BUFFALO, ADD FUEL, and Cody Hudson), I didn’t take pictures of them tonight. I did, however, take this picture, which is one of the murals done for the first Unexpected; it was painted by local university students. I took it because the guy in the mural looks like he’s pointing to the full moon. I love that.
Now it’s after midnight, and I’m ready to go to bed. I NEED to go to bed. Last night I didn’t fall asleep until after four, since blogging took forever and I still had to shower after that. Anyway, it feels as if I’m going through the motions here. Personally, I’m not particularly impressed with what’s landed on the page tonight, and now I don’t have anything “profound” to say. Whatever, this is the way art works. You show up. You do the thing. Sometimes it’s fabulous, sometimes it’s flopulous. (I just made that word up. As in a fabulous flop, Mom.)
Sometimes you want a re-do.
That’s okay.
You can paint over yesterday.
Tomorrow’s a blank canvas.
Tomorrow’s a blank page.
It holds endless possibilities.
The very best is yet _________.
Last night I stayed up until four in the morning helping my friends pack. I’m happy to have the work. Then I went to Walmart to prepare for my upcoming family road trip and went to bed at five-thirty. Today I am–functional. I just got a haircut and need to get ready to meet friends for dinner. I should shower. They might appreciate that.
2. I’ve got to be crazy
The road trip tomorrow will be to Albuquerque, where my sister lives. It will be me, my dad, my mom, my aunt, and our dog (Ella), and we will all be crammed into my car, Tom Collins. If nothing else, the trip will give me plenty to write about. Stay tuned.
3. You never know
Here’s something I found while helping my friends pack. It’s a poem from a 1960s (?) elementary-school autograph book by some kid named Joe that says, “Roses are red, Violets are blue, The shorter the miniskirt, The better the view.” (Geez. Straight people.)
You never know where your words will end up.
4. Can’t get a(head)? Here are two.
For six years when I had the dance studio, I hosted a dance event called Southern Fried Swing. Even now, no one gets the name right. They call it Kentucky Fried Swing, Deep Fried Swing, Chicken Pot Pie (my favorite). Anyway, the head of my decorating committee, whom I’m helping pack, was and is always super-creative, and we came across these painted mannequin heads that were leftover from our 2010 event. (I think it was 2010). Check them out. I’m still amazed. People are so talented.
5. Holy Mother of God (Batman)
I’m writing a lot about my friends who are moving. I mean, I have been spending twelve-hours days at their house quite a bit lately. Anyway, I’m not usually moved by religious iconography, but they have a picture of the madonna and child that stops me in my tracks every time I see it. I said something about it, and the next day my friend gave me a smaller version of the painting, one she found in an old school book. So yesterday I bought a frame for it and hung it in the small space between my closet doors. The painting is by Raphael (the painter, not the Ninja Turtle), and I’m not sure why I love it. I guess I think Mary looks like a nice lady–accepting. Plus, the painting makes me think of the Beatle’s song “Let It Be,” although the song was about Paul McCartney’s actual mother and not the Blessed Virgin.
But still.
When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
6. Have a Coke and smile
Yesterday I taught a dance lesson at the local Coca-Cola Bottling Company. Talk about a cool gig. I used to be obsessed with Coca-Cola, decorated my room with Coke wallpaper, and yesterday’s lesson was held in their museum. (Sometime’s life is pretty bitchin’.) Anyway, afterwards I got to find the Coke calendar from the year I was born. Check it out.
7. Hey, loser
Everything is all right and okay.
After yesterday’s cool experience at the Coca-Cola plant, I got an email about a writing fellowship I applied for. There were 700 applicants, and I wasn’t one of the winners. Neither was a friend of mine, so when I called her to commiserate, she said, “Hey, loser,” and I said, “Hey, loser.” I don’t know–I’m a little disappointed, but not really. Normally I’d think, I can’t get ahead, but today I’ve been thinking, This feels right. Perhaps this is a sign of progress, a sign of my being able to let it be. More and more, I’m not sure I know what’s best for me. I have these dreams I’d like to see happen, but WHO AM I to say if they should come about or HOW they should come about if they do? Who am I to push the universe around? That thinking is stressful, the idea that something should be happening that isn’t. No–I’d much rather image the universe as the madonna and me as its beloved child wrapped safely in her arms, where everything all right and okay, exactly as it should be.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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Being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair and run toward.
Well, shit. It’s one in the afternoon–just after breakfast!–and I’m already writing. (I’m so excited, my nipples are hard.) The sun is shining full-on, but I’m not. Shining, that is. Rather, I’m sitting here in the slime left over from last night’s bad mood. You know how you get pissed off at the world and think, Maybe this foul spirit will be gone tomorrow. But then you wake up the next day, and that ugly mood monster is right there beside making himself at home in your bed, practically doing a reach-around. (That’s a sex joke, Mom.) At first you think, Get your grubby hands off me, Mr. Bad Attitude!, but then you think, Well, it HAS been a while.
So the bad mood stays.
As I’ve worked through my morning routine, I’ve been on the emotional fence. Part of me is tempted to overanalyze every single fucking thing that happened yesterday under the guise of “What went wrong, and how can I fix it?” And maybe it would start out that way–objective, constructive–but before long I’d just be beating up on myself and the world. I guess I already am. My god, your waistline is getting bigger, Marcus, and why is the stupid sun so frickin’ hot? Earlier I took some clothes out of the dryer, and the door squeaked every time I went in for a pair of boxer briefs or socks. You know how those things keep wanting to close. (They’re like furniture stores.) Well, it was seriously wearing on my nerves. I swear, who invented that sound–eeek–eeek–EEEEEEEEEEKK? Probably the same jerk who invented mosquitoes. Those little assholes are like my emotions this summer–all over me.
But really, Lord, why?
Anyway, the other part of me is ready to be done with all this irritation, and that part of me has been TRYING to ignore the other part of me, the pissed off part. I’ve been thinking, Yesterday’s over. Que sera, sera. It’s sunny out. I like the sun. I’m going to a show tonight. With a friend. Life doesn’t suck. (Completely.) This strategy hasn’t really been working (crap), nor has the pot of coffee I’ve been pouring down my throat (I’m trying everything). So I’m left with this wisdom–Sometimes a bad mood shows up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And if an uninvited emotion shoves its hand down your pants–well–you might as well enjoy it. At least someone is playing with you.
God, I need to get laid. (And when I do, Lord–really–I’ll take back what I said about you and the mosquitoes.)
I guess there is part of me that enjoys a bad mood. It’s kind of fun to get all riled up, make a big damn deal about mosquitoes, a squeaky dryer, or an expanding waistline. In one sense, getting angry makes me feel alive, reminds me that I’m capable of responding to my environment, that I’m a part of things. For so many years I’ve sat quietly, idly by, watching life happen, being “okay” with whatever occurs. More times than I can count I’ve said, “It’s fine, it’s just fine,” even though it wasn’t.
Even though my emotions were telling me it wasn’t.
Since my trip to Nashville over Memorial Day, I’ve been reading a book called The True Secret to Writing by Natalie Goldberg, who also wrote Writing Down the Bones. Natalie’s distilled-down wisdom on writing is “Shut up and write.” As I understand it, this means that our minds can come up with a million excuses to not write, but so what? Writers write. We tell ourselves we’re all dried up, that we have nothing to say, that the laundry needs folding. This morning I thought all these things. Part of me knew that if I’d just sit down I could figure my interior out on paper, but I kept trying to do it in my head, a method that almost never works. In my head, I chase my emotions around in circles. On paper, I’m still chasing my emotions, but it’s easier to catch them. It’s like they want to be caught here. They leave me clues as to what’s going on inside me–in writing!
Your emotions are tired of being ignored.
Earlier when dealing with the dryer door, I finally propped it open so it wouldn’t swing back and forth and annoy the shit out of me. (My next step is to grease the hinges.) I see this as one small thing I can do to not make my emotional day WORSE, even if it doesn’t completely make it better. But I’m coming to believe what I wrote above, that even if we can’t “enjoy” a bad mood (and I’m not suggesting you take it out on others–that would be sick), we can learn from it. Because I do think our emotions–all of them–matter. Like little children, they have a voice and want to be heard. They get tired of being shoved down and swept under the rug. Wouldn’t you? So of course they’re willing to show up uninvited, shove their hands down your pants, and–um–jerk you around. They’re tired of being ignored. This is why I’m reminding myself that being on the fence is an okay place to be. There I can see all parts of myself. There I can interact with all of my emotions, ask them, “Baby, what do you have to teach me? I’m finally listening.”
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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There is a force, a momentum that dances with all of us, sometimes lifting us up in the air, sometimes bringing us back down in a great mystery of starts and stops.
I spent today at Crystal Bridges, the famed museum in the middle of Nowhere (Bentonville), Arkansas, for day two of the Arkansas New Play Festival put on by Theater Squared in Fayetteville. Three plays were on the schedule today, but I skipped the first one (which will be repeated next weekend) in favor of sleeping an additional three hours. Last night I really thought about pushing myself, getting up earlier, giving into FOMO (fear of missing out). But then I thought, Screw that. I’m taking care of me and my body.
Good choice, Marcus, good choice.
The first play I saw this afternoon was Among the Western Dinka by Russell Leigh Sharman, a tale of redemption about a college professor who loves jazz music and is losing his job due to his poor choices. (He was passing certain students so they could keep their scholarships). At one point he told his daughter (or maybe it was her new boyfriend), “I know you don’t know what you’re doing–nobody does.” This became a thing later in the play. Another character asked the professor, “What ARE you going to do?” Making an obvious reference to jazz music, the professor said, “I don’t know–I’ll improvise.”
I think this is a good reminder, that no one really knows what they’re up to down here. Like, we can plan all we want, act as if we’re in control, but–as the homos say–Bitch, please. At some point, someone calls with bad news, we get stuck in traffic, or we eat something that upsets our stomach. In other words, nothing goes according to script because there is no script. Getting back to music, life isn’t a predetermined symphony, at least not from where we stand. Rather, like the professor alluded, life is an improvisation, something we make up as we go along.
Life changes, we change. We change, life changes. It’s this constant back and forth. You know, jazz.
The second play I saw this afternoon was Staging The Daffy Dame by Anne García-Romero and was about several actors getting ready for, or staging, a play called (you guessed it) The Daffy Dame. At this point in the day, I was having trouble focusing on the larger plot, but I did get hung up on a particular exchange early in the show. A nervous actress said, “Insecurity is ugly.” A friend responded, “Insecurity–is human.” I guess we all forget this. We think we have to be constantly confident and strong, brave every minute. And yet isn’t it normal, isn’t it human, to be one moment filled with inner fortitude, the next teeming with trepidation?
You can’t stuff down the truth–it always comes up.
All day I’ve been listening to “The Leader of the Band” by Dan Fogelberg. It’s a beautiful tribute by a son to his father, and there’s a line that tears me apart every time I hear it. Referring to his father, the son says, “His heart was known to none.” Think about it–devastating. I can only imagine someone who keeps their heart closed is someone who is afraid, someone who thinks they have to know what they’re doing all the time, someone who hides their emotions because “insecurity is ugly.” I used to be someone like this. It’s no way to live. I’d read self-help and religious books that told me how I should act or feel and would stuff down anything that didn’t match up, even those things that were true for me. But here’s the thing–you can’t stuff down the truth–it always comes up. So now I think, What’s my honest experience as a human being? And if the answer is that I feel lost, insecure, worried, or frightened, then that’s what I say (and I probably say it on the internet). In my experience, this is how you make your heart known–stating the simple truth. This is how you set yourself free.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."
Shit. It’s three in the morning. I always say this like it’s a surprise. Where DID the time go? But let’s face it, this happens constantly. For over a year now I’ve been sitting down last-minute, exhausted, to write. I tell myself I’ll write earlier, that I won’t write as many words this time, but I don’t. Please don’t think I’m playing the martyr here. These are the facts–these are my choices. But clearly I haven’t quite made peace with them yet.
I’m working on it, dear reader, I’m working on it.
Today has been a wonderful day. I spent most of it doing what I love–reading, learning. I picked up two new books yesterday, and they’ve cut to the front of the line. One is about how facial structure relates to personality (who knew?), and the other is about how writing with your non-dominant hand can help you tap into your inner child and healer (that is, the other side of your brain). So far both books are fascinating, but I’m completely taken by the one called The Power of Your Other Hand. A terrible title for a single person like me, to be sure, but the book itself is solid gold.
(That was a sex joke, Mom.)
Since it’s late and I’m only two chapters in, I’ll be more detailed about the book later. But I will say the theory is that using your non-dominant (normally left) hand directly accesses your right brain, and so far my right brain (creativity, playfulness, spirituality) has told my left brain (logic, order, control)–“You’re too serious,” “Give it a rest,” and “I’m important too.” These messages alone are enough for me to reconsider my general approach to life and myself. How long have these opinions been waiting to be heard? How long have I been silencing or ignoring–even partially–half of who I am?
I spent this evening decorating at my aunt’s house–well–her dining room, since she just bought a new dining room table and china cabinet. I love doing stuff like this. First I thought, I have no idea where to start. But then I began grouping her knickknacks and pictures by color, size, “feel,” figuring out what went with what. Eventually a plan came together. I arranged one cubby in the china cabinet, then two, and so on. After that, I began hanging pictures on the wall. All night long I was back and forth to the other rooms, the garage, searching for other items that went with our theme.
“Do you have any books?” I asked my aunt.
“Yes, over there,” my aunt said.
“Okay, but I’m real picky–I only want hardback ones in certain colors.”
After four hours, it had all come together. Sure, there’s still work to do, but the china cabinet is done, and a several large photos or prints are on the wall (not pictured). I can’t tell you how good it feels. I love seeing a decorating project coalesce. Much like writing, there are so many surprises along the way. My aunt had bought a wooden tray with three clear Mason jars that set inside it. Originally I’d planned to use it “as it,” but my aunt has a lot of colored vases, and I thought, What if I put the glassware collection inside the tray instead and used the Mason jars elsewhere? Eeek, I just love the way it turned out. So much better (I think.)
Both sunshine and rain are required for growth.
I’ve never really thought about it before, but decorating really uses both sides of my brain. Most certainly, it uses the creative side, the side that’s more wild and not contained, the side where’s anything’s possible. But then it also uses the more logical, structured side, the perfectionist side, the side that has limits. One of the exercises in the book today asked that I draw both sides of my brain as I intuitively sensed them. Oddly enough, I drew my left side as “sunny” and my right side as “stormy.” I’m still fleshing out what this means, but I know that most of the time, I present a shiny face. I extend my right hand (which connects to my left brain), smile, and put on a good show. The other side of me, my left side, my “darker,” stormier side, I keep hidden. But that side is me too (and, like a storm, it’s powerful), and I’m learning that both sides are not only useful but necessary, that both sunshine and rain are required for growth.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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Healing is like the internet at my parents’ house—it takes time.
It’s one in the morning, and I’m at my friend Bonnie’s house using her fancy, in-the-air, high-speed internet. I just finished working on a travel writing story and am now onto the blog. I keep getting distracted by QVC and the Home Shopping Network, two channels that Bonnie is flipping back and forth between on the big screen TV on the other side of the room. Thank God I’m not a girl or into drag because I’d be buying one of everything–little strappy sandals, dangly earrings–and all of it on sale for five easy payments of $29.99.
Look away, Marcus, look away.
The travel writing story I’m working on is due tomorrow, so naturally I didn’t start working on it until yesterday. I put it off, put it off, and really worked the whole thing up to be a big monster in my head. I thought, This is going to be awful. I mean, I’ve never written a travel writing story before now. That being said, I have WRITTEN before, so yesterday I just dug right in–and it wasn’t that bad. Three hours later, I was more than halfway done. But then I did the same thing today, practically convinced myself, I can’t do this. But then I did. Except for changes that come back from my editor, I’m done. (Phew.)
Although I do have to get pictures together, and that terrifies me.
I’m not sure why I scare the shit out of myself about everything even remotely new–writing a travel story, meeting a stranger, hell, taking a trip down the vegetable aisle. I’ve never picked out an eggplant before! I’m sure this started somewhere in my childhood, thinking that something was going to go wrong. And yet I have years of evidence that something–most things, actually–are going to go right. Sure, I’ve never written a travel story before, but I’ve written plenty of other stories, and all of them have been “good enough” or better. Even the ones that came back from my editor marked “start over” were stories that I learned from.
Like, don’t do that again.
Earlier tonight I taught a dance lesson and showed a couple how to do a dip, a move that’s almost always a disaster initially. Everyone has to figure our how to hold their own body, then the guy has to support the girl, and the girl has to trust the guy to support her. It’s a lot. But after a while, things start to come together, and I guess it’s that way with everything new in life–awkward at first, but then you find your rhythm. That’s how it’s been with this blog. I used to sit down petrified. What am I going to say now? And whereas I occasionally still think that, for the most part, this project has become a lot like brushing my teeth–a routine.
It’s a big deal.
Maybe I’ll always have a trepidation about new things–job opportunities, improv shows, visiting foreign cities. But more and more I’m trying to interpret that feeling not as my body’s way of saying, “Don’t do this,” but rather my body’s way of saying, “You HAVE to do this.” Because now that I’ve written the story I’m thinking, What was all the fuss about? That was easy! That was even fun. I’m proud of myself. It may seem like a little thing, writing a thousand-word story, but I think it’s a big deal anytime you do something you’ve been scared of doing, anytime you prove to yourself that you’re more capable than you previously thought you were.
Two days ago I saw my therapist and we discussed money, which is a theme lately. Later that day while talking to my friend Bonnie, I said, “I wonder what I’ll write about tonight. I could talk about my therapy session, but it was emotional, and–believe it or not–there are days when I don’t want to share my emotions with the internet. There ARE times when I want to keep my therapy sessions private.”
Bonnie didn’t miss a beat. “I understand, but your blog IS called Me and My Therapist.”
Of course she was right (damn it), so that night I wrote about–you guessed it–me and my therapist. You can read the blog post here, but it’s essentially about my crying in therapy because I’m often paralyzed by anything involving finances (which is most things). The post also talks about why this is the case, the main reason being that when dad went to prison when I was fifteen, I had to handle the family finances (and it was terrifying). Anyway, I saw my therapist for another session this afternoon, read her the “I cried in therapy about money” post, and cried AGAIN.
Y’all, not to brag, but I’m getting pretty good at this crying thing.
My therapist and I talked more about money today, but I’m honestly worn out with that topic for this week, and I’m not sure I could even do her wisdom and encouragement justice right now at three in the morning. (I’m exhausted and am TRYING to keep this short, but I will say that she said overcoming my fears about money was largely a matter of gaining perspective, of realizing that the “monsters in the room” are simply shadows.) But there is something I would like to talk about, and that’s that after hearing my blog post, my therapist repeated her recent comment that I have big balls.
Well, she didn’t actually say that today, but she did before. Today she said, “Marcus, you’re really brave to share your emotions and experiences the way you do.”
Y’all, other people have said this before, and I never know quite how to respond. I get that it takes a certain amount of courage to put yourself out there, but having done it for over a year now, I guess I take it for granted. This project has been so beneficial for me personally, I think, Why WOULDN’T you completely expose yourself (emotionally, not physically) to the entire planet? But I do get it–it’s scary to tell the world your secrets. So I tried to flesh out with my therapist why I do this, and the best I came up with was, “I have to. I just have to.”
I guess this statement–I just have to–could be taken the wrong way. Even as I’m writing and reading it, I think, That sounds like I’ve “been called” to write this blog, like I’m a missionary of emotions who has no other choice but to share his feelings because “it’s the right thing to do.” That’s not how I mean it. Yesterday I mentioned situations in which my heart pounds with anxiety and the only way to get it to stop is to do the thing I’m afraid of, and THAT’S what I mean when I say, “I just have to.” I mean I’ve been shoving down my emotions, disconnecting from myself, and living inauthentically for so long that I simply can’t handle the pain any longer.
I wanted a way out.
So for me this project isn’t the result of my bravery or courage–it’s the result of my suffering. It’s a result of my desperation, my hoping that something–anything–will fix my hurting heart. That’s why I went to therapy in the first place–I was miserable and wanted a way out. Even now I want a way out of my financial fears, a way out of my health problems. I’m tired of them, tired of dragging these things around by myself. They’re exhausting. That’s why I talk about everything to my therapist, and that’s why I write about (almost) everything on the internet–because doing so makes my burdens lighter. It turns my monsters into shadows. If this looks like bravery to someone else, perhaps it is, but it feels like healing to me.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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The clearer you see what's going on inside of you, the clearer you see what's going on outside of you. It's that simple.
Currently it’s eleven at night, and I feel like a field of wildflowers is blooming inside my sinuses. Y’all, I know that I bitched about how terrible winter was, about how I “couldn’t wait” for spring to arrive, but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. My allergies are taking over. It’s like a pipe full of mucus has burst inside my head. Last night while trying to sleep, I could actually feel snot sloshing from one side to the other whenever I turned my face on the pillow. I just now sneezed inside my shirt. It’s not sexy. I swear, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced spring is like a twink (a hot, young, often shallow gay boy, Mom)–nice enough to look at, but certainly not something you could stand waking up to every day for the rest of your life.
Come on, summer.
A few days ago I bought a ticket to see Del Shores perform in Little Rock. If you don’t know, Del Shores is the writer who created the LGBT cult classic movie, Sordid Lives, which is about a highly religious, highly addicted, highly fucked-up southern family in small-town Texas. It’s absolutely delicious. If you’re at all twisted and enjoy strange characters and colorful language, I highly recommend watching it, either the movie or the later-made television series starring Rue McClanahan, Caroline Rhea, Leslie Jordan, and Olivia Newton-John. (Leslie and Olivia were also in the movie.) I first saw the series several years ago and still love to quote it with friends.
Here’s the trailer for Sordid Lives, the series. If you watch it, keep in mind Del’s philosophy–“If I’m not offending someone, I’m not doing my job.”
Anyway, it’s been a while since I’ve taken myself on an artist’s date or done anything by myself for creative inspiration, so I thought seeing Del perform his new one-man show, Six Characters in Search of a Play, would be the perfect thing. But when my allergies kicked in yesterday afternoon, I almost regretted my decision. I’d just driven to Tulsa and back the night before and thought, This is a lot of driving, and I could sure use a nap. But I had my money tied up in the show, so after writing yesterday’s blog, I loaded up my car, Tom Collins, with some snacks and hit the road. And whereas it took a little longer than my GPS predicted to get to The Weekend Theater in Little Rock, I arrived just after the doors opened with plenty of time to get my general-admission ticket and snag a seat on the front row.
Front row, bitches!
As it turns out, the play was eighty-five minutes long (with no intermission), and loosely told the story of Del’s life, including his growing up as a closeted Southern Baptist. In reference to the fact this his father was a preacher and his mother was a high school drama teacher, Del said, “I’m REALLY fucked up.” Y’all, I was sucked into the play immediately and laughed from start to finish. I even cried. During the play Del took on multiple roles that included five southern women and one latent homosexual redneck, masterfully switching between himself and each of his characters, the whole time telling the story of his often unbelievable and frequently broken life.
A difficult life can be turned around.
This was such a delectable treat for me, seeing a successful gay, southern writer who has taken his personal tragedies and challenges and turned them into something beautiful for the world to see. During the play, he described it like this–“All that damage gave me a career.” Isn’t that a great perspective? I can’t tell you what hope this gives me, the idea that a difficult life can be turned around into one that you want. Plus, I love the way writers see things, the way they describe the world around them. At one point Del said a waitress who was a size 18 “lived with hope in her heart,” since she squeezed herself into a size 12. Later he said one of his relatives had a “lived-in” face. I learned so much just by noticing what Del noticed, how to take a little thing and turn it into something bigger and more memorable.
When the play was over, I hung around to meet Del and tell him how much I appreciated his work. Y’all, he was so kind. Even before I officially introduced myself, he said I was “a great audience member,” laughing and applauding at all the appropriate places. Of course, my inner teacher’s pet just soared. But get this shit. During my conversation with Del, I asked him what the “all that damage gave me a career” line was because I couldn’t remember it and thought it was so stunning. And just like that, he said, “I have a copy of the script you can have if you’d like it.”
“Oh my god, I’d love it,” I said.
So Del walked back into the theater, and two minutes later gave me an autographed copy of last night’s show–all twenty pages and eighty-five minutes worth of material on paper. He signed it, “Marcus–Thanks for coming and keep writing–Del Shores.” For me, this was like being given the Holy Grail, or at least the Homo Grail. I felt like I’d just won the lottery. Y’all, inside I was screaming like a junior high cheerleader and wanted to fangirl all over Del, but outside I was my typical monotone self as I said, “Thank you, I’ll keep it forever.” Later I thought, God, Marcus, you could show a LITTLE emotion. Like, surely there’s a middle ground between deadpan gratitude and bursting out into, “I’ve Got a Golden Ticket.”
I’ll work on that.
But seriously, I can’t wait to read Del’s autographed script. A year and a half ago I sold most of my worldly possessions and now live basically as a minimalist. Consequently, “stuff,” doesn’t mean much to me anymore. But earlier today I actually considered getting a safety deposit box just to put the script in it.
Disney World and Disneyland have a customer-service-related practice called Magical Moments. Magical Moments are the unexpected “extras” that cast members (employees) often give guests–a free refill for a child’s spilled drink, a free pass to the front of a long line. As I understand it, Magical Moments aren’t something you can ask for, they’re just given to you for no apparent reason. This last year has been the most difficult year of my life. Currently I don’t have a steady job and am laid up in bed at my parents’ house blowing snot into the inside of my Fruit of the Loom t-shirt. But this is the way I’m choosing to look at life and especially last night–magical–a place where the wonderful and encouraging can suddenly bloom alongside the challenging and perhaps because of it, a world where even the most difficult of circumstances can be used as compost for something new, bright, and beautiful.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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Since one life touches another, we can never really say how far our influence goes. Truly, our story goes on and on in both directions. Truly, we are infinite.
Currently it’s 1:15 in the morning, and I’m flat worn out. I’ve been traveling or catching up with friends and family all day, I have a headache, and I’m having a hard time putting two sentences together. The good news, however, is that I’m just tired–I didn’t wake up today with a sinus infection like I thought I was going to. Maybe the waters of Hot Springs that I guzzled and soaked in yesterday afternoon cured me, or maybe I just drank less beer (actually, none) for dinner last night and got some decent rest. Either way, I consider it a miracle that I’m not–as we speak–sick, sick, sick.
That being said, I am pooped, pooped, pooped.
Honestly, I need to go to bed. Well, I am in bed, but I need to fall asleep. Part of me wants to “tough it out” and tell you about my last night in Hot Springs, my travels today, all the glorious laundry I’ve done this afternoon, and the fact that I’ve eaten just as much if not more since returning to Van Buren than I did while I was out-of-town, but the bigger part of me knows I can’t currently do those stories justice. Therefore, I’m choosing to support my body and soul by resting and coming back to the page tomorrow when I’m more refreshed.
Sometimes, Marcus, it’s okay to give yourself a break.
Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)
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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.
