Put Your Best Left Foot Forward (Blog #79)

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Okay, I’m running on three hours of sleep here. Well, all right, fine. I’m also running on four blueberry pancakes and thee glasses of Glenlivet. But the pancakes and the scotch are just making me even more tired that I already was, so I don’t think they should even be figured into the equation. No, I’m sure they shouldn’t. Regardless, I’m seriously considering using duct tape to keep my eyes open, maybe taking a cold shower and substituting the bar of soap with a nine-volt battery. Hello!

I got up early today in order to attend the Arkansas New Play Festival, which is a two-weekend–uh–thing involving–damn it, brain–plays. (I’m gonna try this again.) It’s a multiple-day event where new plays, or plays that are still in production, are read in front of live audiences, after which the writers and directors get feedback about what works, what doesn’t work.  It’s like a trial-run for theater shows. At least that’s my scotch and pancakes understanding of it.

Today the festival was at Crystal Bridges in Bentonville. (Tomorrow it’s at Theater Squared in Fayetteville.) Y’all, I have never seen so many people in all my life. It was like the population of Queens descended on the lobby of Crystal Bridges. I guess everyone was there to see the Chihuly exhibit, which I thought had something to do with hot sauce, but actually has to do with blown glass. Here’s a picture of the only exhibit I could see for free. I don’t know what the official title is, but I’m either calling it Pretty Glass Balls in Ugly Water, or simply, Jesus Left His Toys Behind. (As my friend Mary recently said, “Marcus, I wonder about you.”)

But back to the festival. Today’s schedule included two plays with a break in between. I thought both plays were extremely well-acted, and I especially enjoyed the writing of the second play, which was called Comet Town and was written by Rick Erhstin. I’m not doing so great with descriptions tonight, so I’ll just say it was about a fucked-up family with a grandfather with dementia who thought the planes flying over his home were comets and the sounds coming from the pipes in the basement were his dead wife. The dialogue and acting were so compelling that for probably thirty minutes I had a steady stream of tears running down my face. If things had gotten any sadder, I would have needed my bathing suit.

Thank God I sat in the back row.

When the play was over, the lady next to me–who was one of the actors from the first play–struck up a conversation. For a few minutes we talked about the festival and then progressed to–Where are you from?–Where are YOU from?–What do you do?–What do YOU do? (You know how it goes.) Anyway, she was the nicest lady you’d ever want to meet, and when I told her that I was a dance teacher and a writer, she asked if I taught a class on Friday nights. Well, we’d been talking about theater, so I thought she was talking about theater classes, so I said, “Oh no, that’s someone else.” But then she said she meant dancing classes, since she’d heard of a dancer/writer who taught swing dance classes in the area. Well, I have a friend who does that, so I said, “No, that’s someone else. He’s Asian.” And then–AND THEN–she said, “No, this guy is white. He writes a blog about his therapist.”

That’s funny, I thought, I write a blog about MY therapist.

Wait a minute.

Oh. My. God.

(She’s talking about me.)

Seriously, my head got so big that I thought I was going to lose my balance and fall out of my chair.

I told the lady–whose name is Rebecca and has a sister who’s danced with me a couple of times and recommended the blog–that she was the first person I’d met “in real life” who’d read the blog that I didn’t already know. So I asked her if she’d take a selfie with me (I think she said yes) and told her I planned on putting it on the blog because that’s not weird. (Right? That’s not weird?)

Okay, I really feel like we can stop there. Period. The end. What else is important after your day has been made? But fine, I’ll keep going. And don’t worry, my head will return to normal size by this time tomorrow.

Leaving Crystal Bridges, I headed for my friend Betty’s house to spend the night and save myself a lot of time on the road tonight and tomorrow. When I got to Betty’s, she’d just started a yoga workout, so I said I wanted to join. Well, I haven’t done yoga in over six months, so for thirty minutes I stretched, moaned, and discovered aches and pains in muscles I didn’t even know I had. When the video ended, I lay in a pile of sweat and regret and decided to turn my life over to Jesus and repent of my sinful eating habits. I thought, chocolate cake is evil–carbohydrates are for heathens–fried chicken is the devil’s workshop.

And then Betty asked if I wanted pancakes for dinner, and I said, “Hell yes” because–life is ironic.

So the coolest thing. Sometime shortly after 2005 when I opened my former dance studio, I designed the studio’s one and only t-shirt. I think we sold like twenty-five of them. Well, Betty was one of my first students in those days, and she bought one of the shirts and still has it (and wore it tonight for yoga). The front says, “Put your best left foot forward” because I can’t tell you the number of times someone has told me, “I have two left feet,” as if that’s a legitimate excuse for not dancing or not being willing to learn. I mean, THAT’S WHAT LESSONS ARE FOR. Anyway, check out the shirt.

I just remembered that the phrase “put your best left foot forward” came from the guy I was dating at the time. I thought it was so clever–and still do–that I put it on the shirts and planned to use it for fliers, coffee mugs, and maybe a personal tramp stamp. But alas, best laid plans. But even now, I think it’s a great encouragement. So many nights–most of them–I sit down to write this blog, and it feels like I have two left feet. I don’t know where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. More often than not, I think, Just quit–stay where you are. (This happens in life too.)

Standing still is no longer good enough.

However, I’ve promised myself I’m going to write. Of course, I want every word to be glorious. (Is that too much to ask?) I want people to laugh and I want them to cry. I don’t like it when it my words stumble along anymore than anyone else does. But the fact is that sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. This afternoon when I watched the plays, it was evident that things were still in progress. I mean, there were some glorious moments (I laughed–I cried), but there were also moments that fell flat. And whereas I’m often critical of such things, I’ve reminded myself this evening that we all have a right to put our best left foot forward. In fact, it takes buckets of courage and vulnerability for someone to do that.

Maybe I’ve never said this before, but when it comes to dancing and dieting and writing and living–I don’t have it all figured out. (There, I admit it.) I’m sure I never will. But rather than giving up, I’m willing to give it a try, willing to stumble along, willing to put one left foot in front of the other, since standing still is no longer good enough.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

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The Night David Sedaris said, “Come Back to Bed” (Blog #76)

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Today my friend Marla and I went on a writer’s pilgrimage to see David Sedaris in Tulsa at an event put on by Magic City Books. I can’t tell you how much fun I had. I mean, I really can’t. I’ve been sitting here trying, but it’s not working, probably because I only slept five hours last night, just got back from Tulsa an hour ago, and my brain is mush. But I’ll keep trying.

I woke up at noon today and had about an hour to get ready. Even though I knew the event would be outside and that it would be warm, I decided to wear jeans instead of shorts because I thought they looked cuter, and you never know when you’re going to meet Mr. Right or when David Sedaris will be so impressed with your pants that he’ll invite you to join him and his boyfriend for dinner. But thinking that I’d definitely sweat in the jeans, I slathered some of Dad’s Gold Bond Lotion all around my private parts. After I did, I thought, There’s probably a reason that stuff is in a green bottle, which is about the time my balls woke up. At first the eucalyptus just felt like a cool breeze on a spring morning, but then things stepped up a notch, and it felt like I’d used a peppermint suppository.

Marla and I got to Tulsa early, so we grabbed a great parking spot and walked a few blocks for lunch. Along the way we found two pink unicorns painted on a set of double doors, so we stopped and took a picture. I still I have no idea what was on the other side of those doors, but I can only imagine it was fabulous.

I broke all my food rules today. It felt great. For lunch I had a sandwich with white bread, creamy soup, and coffee with Irish Creme, immediately followed by a cookies-and-cream donut so big that it’s really a wonder I didn’t instantly become a diabetic. I even licked the bag it came in. Then Marla and I set up our chairs on the lawn where David was supposed to speak and went to a bar that I knew about because a guy once stood me up there on a night I had two tires blow out. (I was not impressed.)

The bar itself was really cool, and while Marla and I waited, I had two beers. Then we went back to the lawn to wait for David. Because my bladder is an overachiever, I had to pee for the second time in fifteen minutes, so I ended up buying a cup of coffee at a coffee shop because only paying customers could get the restroom code. Peeing is a patron’s privilege, apparently. (Say that five times fast.)

For the presentation, David spoke for forty-five minutes, mostly reading from his diary entries, many of which are in his new book, Theft by Finding. One of the stories he told was about a friend who–upon seeing a complete stranger on his or her cellphone–would often walk up beside them and say loudly, “Come back to bed, I’m freezing.”

When the talk was over, David moved across the street to an art gallery to sign books, and a long line began to form. Marla and I had pre-purchased books, which allowed us a spot in “Group A,” but we were still at the back of that section because–once again–I had to use the restroom. (To the guy whose kid’s asshole absolutely exploded in his pants, my heart goes out to you for all the hard work you did cleaning him up. In the future–for chafing–your son may benefit from Gold Bond Lotion, but I don’t recommend the kind in the green bottle.)

One thing I love about David Sedaris is that he takes a lot of time with his fans and doesn’t rush them off. It makes for a long wait–Marla and I waited over two hours–but I think it’s well worth it. Hell, at one point we saw a middle-aged woman sporting a sash that said, “Miss Emollient–Dark as a Turd.” Where else does that happen? I still don’t get it, so I assume she was seeking attention. But who isn’t these days? Anyway, the line snaked around once it got inside, so as Marla and I neared the autograph table, I was right next to this guy who had a PBS shirt on that said, “Be More.” (No pressure, right?) Honestly, it took everything in me to not say, “I’m doing the best I can, damn it!”

At the autograph table, David signed Marla’s book, “To Marla–You make me want to live again.” With others he drew cartoons–an ax with blood on it, something resembling a shovel. I have another signed book of his in which he drew an airplane–a crop duster, it says–a reference to a joke he’d made that night about a particular variety of farts. This is something I love about David, the fact that after all this time he’s still having fun, finding a way to make each person in line feel special.

I got to spend a few minutes with David and ask him a question about a statement in one of his books, as well as a couple of things he said in his talk tonight. I’ve been trying all evening to decide how much to say about it, since even though he’s probably already forgotten the conversation, it feels special to me and I’ll probably be processing it for a while. In short, David said that he doesn’t like to talk about his feelings, but instead likes to talk and write about experiences and opinions.

Fresh off three years of therapy (and writing a blog about it every night lately), not talking about my feelings feels foreign to me, so I almost said, “Oh my god, I know a good therapist.” But then I figured he probably knows one too and has a good reason for not talking about his feelings, especially to total strangers. Like, if I’d said, “WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS, DAVID?” it probably would have sounded like, “Be More,” and he could have easily responded, “I’m doing the best I can, damn it.”

Thinking about it now, what I love about David’s answer is that it seemed vulnerable and honest, which is pretty remarkable considering the fact that he’d just met me (again for the first time). So I just looked him in the eye, smiled, and said, “Thank you,” and Marla and I walked out. I was so thrilled about getting to spend even a few moments with one of my writing heroes that I accidentally stepped on a stranger’s foot. (Sorry, lady.)

When we got outside, Marla made a joke, and I said, “What’s that?” and she said, “It’s what he wrote in your book.” So I opened the book, and there it was–“To Marcus, Come back to bed, I’m freezing.”

There was a lady working the event tonight whom I overheard a couple of times anxiously telling people in the line, “It’s a long wait, but it’s worth it.” When we got close to the table, she said, “See if you can’t hurry.” Well, we didn’t, and I can only assume that she felt pressured, maybe sensing that some people in the line were upset by the holdup. But I didn’t sense any of that from David. Marla told me that he’s been known to spend nine hours signing books. Personally, I wasn’t upset about waiting, and if I had been, I simply would have left. (My therapist says leaving is always an option.)

It all makes me wonder if David’s so patient because he waited so long to be published. Maybe it’s because he’s doing something he really loves and that makes it easier to go above and beyond with people you don’t even know. Either way, it encourages me to be more patient with what may come in my life, to not put so much pressure on myself or anyone else by thinking, Be More, Be More–Talk about your feelings! Rather, I can remember that I’m doing the best I can, damn it. In fact, we’re all doing the best we can. Especially that guy whose kid shit everywhere.

Realizing this, I think, is like having a lover come back to bed. Suddenly there’s no need to rush, the world feels safer than it did before, and if ever so slowly, that which was freezing begins to warm.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You’re exactly where you need to be.

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Energetic Vampires (Blog #73)

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The week I started this website, I was out for a walk and took the above photo. If for some reason you can’t see it, it’s a road sign that says Dead End. I thought surely I could work it into a post about where I felt my life was headed, or maybe one about a number of relationships I’ve been in. However, tonight I’m using it mainly because I’m not sure where this post is going, I need a picture to use, and I’m tired of taking selfies. Hard to believe, I know. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s just a phase–like being gay. (One time I actually had a former student say this about my sexuality TO MY BOYFRIEND. It didn’t bless me.)

This afternoon I watched a movie called From Dusk Till Dawn starring George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino. One of my dearest friends recommended it, and if he were here right this moment, I’d tell him exactly what The Good Fairy told Little Bunny Foo Foo–I’ll give you three more chances. (Warning: If you haven’t seen the film, I’m about to spoil the plot for you.)

The movie is about two brothers, bank robbers, and murderers (George and Quentin) who are running from the law and kidnap a former priest and his two children, using the family’s RV to escape to Mexico. Once there, they go to titty bar to hand off some of the stolen money, and then SHIT GETS WEIRD, meaning almost everyone turns into vampires.

Vampires.

If you didn’t see that coming, I didn’t either. I kept staring at the screen wondering if I’d accidentally changed channels, but I hadn’t. Well, the rest of the film is everyone killing everyone else–daylight, crosses, lot of wooden stakes to the heart–the usual vampire stuff. Only George and one of the children survive. And that’s the end.

What the hell?

It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way.

I messaged my friend and said as much, and he said he LOVED the dramatic plot twist. But here’s my problem. There’s a concept in writing called “the contract with the reader,” which says that by the end of the first paragraph or chapter, it should be clear what the story is about. Early on, the reader (or viewer) should be able to say, “Oh, this is a story about an orphan,” or “This is a story about a prostitute who falls in love with a millionaire.” And then, knowing what you’re getting yourself into, you should be able to sit back, relax, and watch the story unfold and the characters develop.

But From Dusk Till Dawn effectively pulled a bait and switch, promising a movie about two guys running from the law, possibly about a former priest and why he lost his faith, but delivering a vampire flick instead. It was like–SURPRISE!–in the worst possible way. I’ve spent the entire evening trying to find something, anything, redeeming about the film, but I’ve got nothing. No one changes or learns anything, and there’s no happy ending other than the fact that the surviving kid gets the RV and George gets five percent off the money he owes the guy he was meeting at the titty bar. (Come on, make it ten. My brother turned into a vampire, and I had to kill him. It’s been a rough day.)

I realize this is becoming somewhat of a rant, so I’m going to wrap up my dissatisfaction with this film by saying that I get it. Things don’t always turn out like you think they’re going to. Life is full of surprises. Sometimes you waste two hours of you life on a bad movie.

But I’d hate for the film and this blog post to be a complete waste, so I’d like to talk a little bit about vampires. Believe it or not, vampires are discussed in a lot in self-help material and even in therapy. Apparently, vampires are real, not in the blood-sucking sense, but in the energy-sucking sense. You know those friends you always walk away from feeling drained–the ones who monopolize the conversation, complain all the time, take-take-take and never give? Those are vampires. I mean, they’re not bad people–we all do it from time to time, probably not on purpose–but they’re certainly not healthy to have hanging around your living room or favorite titty bar either.

To be clear, if you have a friend who’s a vampire, I’m not suggesting you put a wooden stake through their heart. I doubt wearing a cross would do any good. But do try something. In my experience, the answer is almost always a good solid boundary. In the case of the former student who challenged my sexuality to my boyfriend, there were a lot of instances in which they’d get jealous or upset if my attention went anywhere other than in their direction. They’d say, “Well you’ve danced with her three times but me only once.”

Talk about sucking the life out of you.

We had a number of conversations about everything going on, and I eventually asked the person to leave. In essence, I whipped out the holy water and said, “That’s enough. I’m taking my life back.” My therapist says that when dealing with vampires, boundaries don’t always have to be so dramatic. She says that sometimes the people who drain us are people we really care about. Maybe they’re family. In those cases, she says that we can “gear down,” go from talking to them every day to a couple of times a week.

Honestly, I think the people in our lives should be like a well-written story. We should be able to know what they’re about pretty early on. We should be able to say, “Here’s a person who needs a lot of attention,” or “Here’s someone who’s a good listener and is always trying to help.” Of course, people change and lives are complicated, but if someone initially presents themselves as one thing and later there’s a big plot twist–oh shit, he’s a vampire!–well, Houston, we have a problem. Reach for your crosses.

In my experience, some relationships, especially ones with vampires, are dead ends. Period. But my therapist says, “Life is long,” so I like to leave room for the idea that anyone or any relationship can circle back around. Plus, we all go through times when we’re more needy than others. But over the last few years, I’ve consciously chosen to spend more and more of my time on roads that are going somewhere, traveling with people who give life more than they take it. As Robert Frost says, that has made all the difference.

A Day for Adventures (Blog #66)

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Today was a day for exploring new lands. Today was a day for changing. Today was a day for adventures.

It all started over two months ago when my friend Marla and I saw the author Ann Patchett at the Fayetteville Public Library. (I wrote a blog about it. Actually, I’ve written more than one blog about Ann.) One of the things she talked about that night was owning a bookstore in her hometown called Parnassus Books. She said she opened it with her friend Karen, who’d always wanted a bookstore named Parnassus because Parnassus was the mountain in Greek mythology where all the cool gods went to party. (That is, it was the home of poetry and literature. Everybody put your hands up!)

Anyway, that was two months ago, and I honestly forgot that ANN PATCHETT LIVES IN NASHVILLE, until I asked Mallory about bookstores yesterday, and she said, “Yeah, there’s this super cute place called Parnassus.” Well, on the inside I was being a total fangirl, thinking, OH MY GOD, I WOULD DIE. I WOULD JUST DIE. But since I’m thirty-six, I yawned and said, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that place.”

For twenty-four hours, it was just about all I could think of, going to Parnassus. Earlier this week, Mallory said, “I think you’re here in Nashville for a reason,” and after I found out about Parnassus, I thought, That’s it–that’s the reason. Of course, in my mind, I figured I’d meet my soulmate or be offered a job, but that didn’t happen.

But still.

This afternoon Bonnie dropped me off at Parnassus, and from the moment my feet hit the parking lot, I felt like I was on sacred ground. This is often my experience with bookstores. However, I’m usually at used book stores. I love the way they smell, I love the way they’re like a box of chocolates, I love the way they’re cheaper.

That being said.

We were made for each other.

Since I recently sold most of my possessions, I’m more attracted to new things and fresh starts than I used to be. So I was open to what Parnassus had to offer, and within fifteen minutes, I had three books in my hands. (Then it was just one book because I reminded myself that I don’t currently have an income.) But already I was in love with that one book, Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley, which apparently was the inspiration for the bookstore I was standing in. I loved its size, its orange color, its crisp, clean pages. Right in the middle of Parnassus, I was already doing that crazy thing I do whenever I see a handsome stranger on Facebook–fantasizing about the rest of our lives together. I opened the cover and read, “When you sell a man a book, you don’t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue–you sell him a whole new life,” and I thought, This is it–we were made for each other.

For over two hours, I strolled around the entire store as folk music and the sounds of red dirt strolled beside me. At one point, the music switched to light jazz–piano–and I thought, Gorgeous. And then I turned around and–OMG–there was an actual piano player on an actual piano. Y’all, shit like this does NOT happen enough–if ever–in Arkansas.

Neither does shit like this, unfortunately.

In the humor section, I sat down on the floor, criss-cross applesauce. I found a book called Cheaper Than Therapy, a guided journal that provided prompts like, “Describe your childhood bully,” or, “Talk about your recurring nightmare.” I thought about buying it, but then I remembered that I have an actual therapist AND a blog about therapy, so enough is enough already.

Then I found a lovely book called Bullshit, which talked about all the different words and phrases we use for, well, bullshit–things like “crap,” “poppycock,” and “donkey dust.” But my absolute favorite was “bird turd,” since my late grandpa used to say, “You ain’t a just bird-turding,” which apparently is a line he stole from the author Norman Mailer and something I never really understood until today.*

I thought the book about bullshit would look great on my toilet–if I owned one. But I don’t, so I decided to put that book back on the shelf too. (If only I had this self-control when it came to chocolate cake.) Still, I’m grateful that it brought me closer to my grandpa. This is one of the things I love about books, why even books about bullshit feel holy to me–they’re timeless.

As I moved into my favorite sections–Psychology, Self-Help, and How to Take Yourself Way Too Seriously–it felt like coming home. I think I went through every title three times, ending up with one more thing I couldn’t live without, a book called Be Your Own Fairy Tale by Alison Davies. (I read the title as Be Your Own Prince Charming because–you know–there’s a shortage of those these days.) But really, I adore mythology and fairy tales. Plus, the book was pretty, and I’m a Virgo and Virgos like pretty things. So here–take my money.

As I made two full laps around the store, I continued to fall in love with it, thinking, Someone rather witty must work here. I mean, the section for beer and alcohol was labeled “Dranks.” And there was a top shelf in the kids room with really tall picture books, and it was labeled “Really Tall Picture Books.” Seriously, how clever is all that? I just love a good personality. (A good butt doesn’t hurt either.)

And just look at how cute. I mean–stars. (J.M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, said he thought “star” was the most beautiful word in the English language. His secretary, however, pointed out that it was “rats” spelled backwards. What a wet blanket she must have been.)

I guess Bonnie slipped in sometime during my second lap without my noticing. She said she didn’t want me to feel rushed, so she was just quietly reading, waiting, and not rushing.

For a few minutes, we exchanged treasures. She showed me a beautiful poem about children running toward the sun, and I showed her a quote by Dolly Parton that said, “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” It’s only one sentence, but it could change your life if you’d let it.

Bonnie and I stayed until just before closing time and each got a couple of books. When we walked out the front door, it felt like leaving a sanctuary, a blessed place where dreams are shared.

Afterwards we went for carbs and alcohol, otherwise known as Chipotle. Bonnie and I decided that we could sum our entire week up as Nashville: Tacos and Beer.

After Chipotle, I had a small pep talk with my pancreas, and then we went to the donut shop around the corner. Ever true, my insulin carried me through a decadent chocolate-covered donut, an also-decadent Bavarian-creme-filled AND chocolate-covered Long John, and a cup of coffee that didn’t suck. (So there. My insulin is better than your insulin.) Midway through the Long John, a silver-haired man in a Jaguar pulled up, got out of his car, and came inside. His shirt said, “End hunger now,” so I shoved the rest of the Long John in my mouth, licked my fingers, and thought, DONE. (Far be it from me to ignore directions.)

On an unrelated note, I need new pants.

This evening, my last in Nashville for a while, I holed up in my room with Parnassus on Wheels and read the entire thing cover to cover. (I love it when that happens.) It’s about a traveling salesman who sells his gypsy-style book wagon to a spinster in need of adventure. For several hours, I savored each word, sentences like, “No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesn’t know at least one good book,” or “Leave your stove, your pots and pans and chores, even if only for one day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and the river in the distance!”

I was right. We were made for each other.

Books are easier on your waistline than tacos and dranks.

My therapist says that if you can get one good idea from a book, it’s worth all your time and money. What I love about a good book is that it truly is an adventure. Done right, it’s something you have to go in search of, a treasure to unearth. I think the reward is sweeter that way, when there’s a little work involved. Then you can lock yourself up in a room for hours like you’re doing something naughty and savor each word, some just as decadent as any donut. Of course, when the last page is turned, you’ll look the same on the outside. (Books are easier on your waistline than tacos and dranks.) But if you’re lucky, you’ll be changed on the inside. If ever so slightly, your life will be pointed in a different direction, hopefully one that brings you back to yourself–your charming, dashing, on-purpose self.

*If you’re still confused, “You ain’t just a bird-turding,” means “You’re not shitting me,” or as Shakespeare would say, “Thou speak’st aright.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We always have more support than we realize.

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Waiting for a Door to Open (Blog #61)

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This morning (fine, it was two in the afternoon) I woke up, rolled off the couch, and made a pot of coffee. Before long, Bonnie and Todd came downstairs, and we went in search of food truck tacos to start Bonnie’s birthday celebration. (The two of them actually woke up at a respectable hour and started celebrating earlier–Todd gave Bonnie an espresso machine!) Anyway, in my opinion, any day is a good day that starts with food truck tacos.

This evening the three of us went out to eat at Acme Feed Company, a four-level building by the river in downtown Nashville. When we walked in, a rockabilly band was playing on the first floor, but there wasn’t room for dancing, so we ate on the rooftop. The picture at the top of the blog is of Bonnie and me by the downtown skyline. Bonnie meant to hold up “50” with her fingers for her birthday, but held up “05” from the camera’s perspective. (Technology is difficult, but it can be forgiving.)

After dinner we walked along Broadway, the main street in downtown. There were neon lights everywhere, live music coming from almost every open door, even a few street musicians. Here’s a picture of Bonnie and Todd along the avenue. The sign behind them says, “Liquor before beer–You’re in the clear. Beer before liquor–You’ll be okay. Don’t be a BABY!”

Once we hit the top of the street, we turned around and headed back toward the river, stopping by a statue of Elvis to take pictures. Bonnie went first. Notice that she got a little fresh with the king. But hey, it’s her birthday, and I’m sure he’s used to it.

I went next and decided to flip the scene and make it look like Elvis got fresh with me. (Oh baby won’t you be, my lovin’ teddy bear?)

Lastly, Todd stepped in, and I think he wins the prize for creativity. Notice how he looks all shook up. (See what I did there?)

For the last several months, Bonnie has been saying that she’s “hashtag damn near fifty.” As her birthday has gotten closer, we’ve joked a lot about the Saturday Night Live character Sally O’Malley, this lady played by Molly Shannon who likes to “kick, stretch, and kick,” and tell everyone, “I’m FIFTY!” So when we got back to the apartment tonight, Bonnie went into the same routine. Check it out.

Last week I was at Lowe’s and ran into one of my high school teachers. I’m not sure how it happened, but he started talking about kids these days, and the next thing I knew, he was on a soap box. (Right next to the paint counter, in front of God and everybody!) Anyway, he said, “I hate it when people say, ‘You can be anything you want to be’ because you can’t. Look at me. [He’s short, and in some sort of weird cosmic joke still has a 28 inch waist even though he’s long past retirement age.] I wanted to be in the NFL.”

So I’ve been chewing on that conversation for a while. Personally, I really like the idea that you can be anything you want to be. In my world, short guys with small waists and a lot of passion (which my former teacher has in truckloads) could play in the NFL. But I do get that’s not reality. If you want to play in the NFL, it really does help to weigh more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds and have a waist bigger than a junior high cheerleader’s. Even as I was walking around Nashville tonight, it was obvious that not everyone who wants to be a singer can actually sing.

Of course, that doesn’t stop them from dreaming, and I for one am glad it doesn’t because I think the world needs more dreamers.

Joseph Campbell says, “Follow your bliss, and the universe will open doors for you where there were only walls.” I’m pretty sure I’ve quoted this statement before, and I’m sure I’ll quote it again because it’s my life mantra right now. It’s something I’m willing to live the rest of my life putting to the test to find out if it’s true. Personally, it’s taken me some time to figure out what my bliss really is and figure out what I really want. But now that I have, now that I can say, “This is why I’ve been put on the earth,” I’m moving forward. I see it as my job to do my part, trusting that the universe–which is a pretty big, magical place where magical things happen every day–will do its part.

The truth is that even if you can’t be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. Don’t let anyone else tell you differently.

This morning while I was having coffee, Bonnie played me a song called Last Night God Sang Me a Song by The Whistles & the Bells. Honestly, I was just sort-of listening, not expecting it to grab me, since I was mostly thinking about an email I received when I woke up about a writing contest I entered and didn’t win. And even though I’m getting pretty used to being rejected or “not accepted” for that sort of thing, it’s always a disappointment on some level. But then the song got to the end and said, “Whatever you do, don’t settle,” and then Bonnie started singing, pointing her finger at me, adding my name in and saying, “Marcus, Please, don’t settle.”

And then I started crying.

A couple of years ago in therapy, my therapist suggested a mantra for me–I don’t chase boys. Another time she told me that when it comes to letting people in my life and loving them, there should be “a door man, a guest list, and a dress code.” In other words, I should have standards, and I shouldn’t settle.

So lately that’s where I’m at. In my personal relationships, I’ve not going to chase anyone, and I’ll gladly spend the rest of my life alone rather than settle for someone or something that’s beneath my standards and beneath my worth. In terms of my future professional life, the same rules now apply. I know that I want to be a writer. More than that, I know that I am a writer. I also know that–in part–it’s what I’m here to do. Along with eating food truck tacos, it’s my bliss. (I’m kidding about the tacos.) It’s the thing that makes me want to “kick, stretch, and kick,” and say, “I’m A WRITER!”

There’s a true story that Elvis was once told to stick to driving a truck because he’d never make it as a singer. Clearly, Elvis and the universe had other plans, and I can only assume it all happened the way it did because Elvis was following his bliss. Personally, I think that when you get clear about your purpose, it’s easier to move forward and not be slowed down by someone else’s soapbox or rejection. Because the truth is that even if you can’t be anything you want to be, you can absolutely be who you were meant to be. And don’t let anyone else tell you differently. Rather, keep doing what you love and not settling. Stand strong and stare down the walls before you, knowing that–at any moment–the universe will gladly open a door.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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Running into the Storm (Blog #49)

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This evening on my way to the library, I called my friend Marla to catch up. Marla’s a writer and a Virgo like I am, so we get along famously. (Haven’t you heard?) Anyway, for twenty minutes, we took turns sharing our personal mountaintops and valleys, something I love doing with fellow writers because they can make even the shittiest circumstances sound entertaining, and I think any friend who can make you laugh when life is challenging is a real gift. As Joseph Campbell says, “Getting a comedic view of your situation gives you spiritual distance. Having a sense of humor saves you.”

For a few minutes, Marla and I talked about the blog, and she asked if I ever had a day when I didn’t know what I was going to write about, and I said, “Every day. That’s part of the reason I don’t write until two or three in the morning—I have to wait all day for something interesting to happen.” But I also said that was one of the cool things about the blog. Despite my constant fear that I won’t have anything to write about, the creative waters have always come forth. Some days are easier than others, but the well has never been completely dry.

At the library, I used one of the computers to look at some old floppy disks I found at home. As it turns out, the disks were almost twenty years old, and I discovered several years worth of letters I’d written, homework I did in college, and even a journal I kept for a few years. (I also found a shirtless picture of Leonardo DiCaprio, but the quality was terrible, which made me grateful for the fact that the Internet has come such a long way.)

As I copied all the files over to my digital drive, I briefly looked through my journal. For the most part, it’s just the facts, a book report on my day-to-day life. Only a few times did I say something like, “I don’t talk about my emotions because they’re just not there,” or “I wonder if my shoulders hurt because they have so much weight on them.” Of course, that was back when Dad was in prison and I was in the closet, so it all makes sense. I was pretty shut down. But as I look at my life now, I can’t help but think that I’ve come a long way too.

When I got home, I went for a walk and listened to a speech by Anthony Robbins in which he discussed our basic needs as humans. He said that one of our needs is certainty, a sense of security and predictability. But he also said that one of our needs—and this is one I hadn’t heard before—is uncertainty, a sense of variety and adventure.

Well, sometimes life is ironic, and about that time I noticed lightening in the distance. So I checked the weather on my phone, and it said there was a tornado warning for the next three hours. A TORNADO WARNING! Jesus, I thought, this is why you shouldn’t wait until you’re two miles from home before you check the weather.

Despite the weather, I kept walking, stopping once to dig through a trashcan to look for a plastic bag to protect my phone incase God changed his mind about the promise he made to Noah. Fortunately, I found one. Unfortunately, it smelled like a dead animal. But what do you do–so I shoved it in my pocket and tried to be grateful.

Well, maybe about a mile from home, I began feeling a few drops of water, and then half a mile later I decided I really needed to pick up the pace. So I started running, and the closer I got to home, the more the rain came down in sheets and the more the winds picked up and trash blew across the road. (I tried Jesus’s famous “be still” line, but it didn’t work.) So while my earphones blared All the Single Ladies, I ran as fast as I could and reached for the plastic bag. At that point, my body was starting to hurt and I felt like throwing up, and then I dropped the plastic bag in the wind and the rain and wanted to quit. But then I thought, Screw it—I’m almost home.

Not knowing what’s going to happen next is part of the adventure.

So with my heart beating and the thunder clapping, I kept going. Before I got home, a smile broke across my face. Despite the storm ahead and the pain in my body, I was actually having a good time, so I started thinking that Anthony was right. Uncertainty is a human need. It doesn’t matter if it’s sitting down to write a blog or getting stuck in a storm or—I hate to admit this—living with your parents and not having a job. Not knowing what’s going to happen next is part of the fun.

Not knowing what’s going to happen next is part of the adventure.

The last block was the best. So much of me wanted to stop, but so much more of me wanted to keep going. After all, there’s something about willingly running into a storm during your darkest hours. There’s something about digging deep and picking up the pace when every part of you is tired, the wind is against you, and any moment the rains of life could sweep you away. There’s power that comes when you meet life’s challenges head-on. Those are the times you breathe the deepest. Those are the times the waters come forth and your heart beats every bit as loud as the thunder claps. Those are the times you know more than ever—no matter what happens next—in this moment, you’re alive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Give yourself an abundance of grace.

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The Hero’s Journey (Blog #46)

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For over an hour, I’ve been scrolling through my phone looking at old pictures, desperately searching for inspiration—something, anything—to write about. So far, the closest thing I’ve found is the above picture of my mom, my nephew, and me. It was taken a couple of months ago over spring break when my nephew came to visit from Albuquerque. In the picture, the three of us are staring at an issue of Highlights, a children’s magazine, and we’re looking at a cartoon, searching desperately for hidden objects—hats, shoes, light bulbs—that have been drawn to blend in with their surroundings.

Since starting this blog, this picture is what writing feels like to me. From the moment I wake up in the morning, I look at everything that happens as potential fodder for writing. Mostly, I go through every day thinking, There’s got to be a story here SOMEWHERE. Today I’ve looked everywhere for that story, including the nap I took, the taco salad I ate, and two years worth of pictures, and now I’m thinking this—

If there’s such a thing as a muse, I think mine’s a he, and he’s only given me one thing today, one idea that won’t turn loose—a movie I watched this afternoon called Manchester by the Sea starring Casey Affleck. The movie is about a janitor from Boston who moves back to his former home of Manchester when his brother dies. While in Manchester, he’s confronted with a painful past that continues to haunt him. Basically, I regret to inform you, the story ends there. Two hours of my life, and this is what I got from it—a sad guy has some sad stuff happen and stays sad.

Since watching the film, I’ve been thinking that my fundamental problem with it is that there’s not a character arc—the hero—the main character—doesn’t change—and change is essential to good storytelling. Think of how boring The Wizard of Oz would be if Dorothy never struck out on the yellow brick road, never faced her fears. (I’ll just stay here with the Munchkins, thanks. The end.) What if Harry Potter looked at Voldemort and, like Casey Affleck’s character, said, “I can’t beat this”?

What kind of a hero would that be? Obviously, no hero at all.

No one’s story should end on the ground.

I believe that good stories should entertain us, but I also believe that they should speak to the human spirit, and my problem with the film is that it portrays the human spirit as something that can get permanently stuck, and I don’t think it was designed to do that. Sure, we all get knocked down at times, but I don’t believe we were meant to stay down. No one’s story should end on the ground.

Personally, I’ve been through a lot of shit, and every little piece of it has been talked about in therapy. One of the things I love about my therapist is that there’s always space to put all my problems on the table, and there’s always compassion for what’s happened and how I’m feeling, but there’s not a lot of room for self-pity or playing the victim. I can be down for a while, but I can’t stay down because, simply, we both know I’m capable of more.

I believe we all are.

I guess in a subtle way, it’s one of the messages I’m trying to communicate, both to myself and others, with this blog. When I scroll through my pictures, I’m reminded that on the outside, I haven’t changed that much. But on the inside, I’m nowhere near the person I used to be. Not only do I have higher standards and better boundaries, but also I’m less cynical and less afraid, which makes me kinder and more confident. All of that, I think, is a really big deal.

So I don’t believe you have to stay where you are if you don’t want to. Rather, I believe you are the hero of your own story, and you can strike out on an adventure, and you can find what you’ve been looking for. And guaranteed that adventure will take you places you weren’t expecting, just as sure as what you’ve been looking for isn’t what you really want. But along the way you’ll find yourself, and that’s the main thing, the only thing there really is to find.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Answers come built-in. There are no "just problems."

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farts aren’t planned (blog #32)

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This morning I woke up with a tickle in my throat. I actually dreamed about it last night, and a friend in the dream told me to eat some yogurt. So that’s what I did when I got out bed because I wanted my subconscious to know that I’m listening to it. Now if I end up getting sick, I’m going to tell my subconscious to go screw itself, to which I’m sure it would reply, “Will you PLEASE go to bed sooner, quit eating ice cream and tacos for dinner, and stop thinking that you’re still twenty-three?”

Well, maybe today’s the day. With any luck at all, I’ll finish this post before the sun goes down, and I can get some sleep. Before the week is over, I plan to clean up my diet, start doing some push-ups. And then in two weeks, maybe my favorite pair of jeans won’t look like a pair of acid-washed yoga pants.

Whenever I decide to start or stop something, to form or break a habit, there’s always a lot of buildup and anxiety about it. I think about it, pray about it, think about it, pray about—for weeks, sometimes months. Not changing anything, mind you, just stressing.

Once a change HAS been made, I can rock out a good habit for a while—meditating every day, going to the gym five times a week, eating well. But then something happens, and that all goes to shit, and it’s cigarettes for breakfast and banana splits for lunch.

When things are going “the right way,” when I’m behaving like I think I should, I feel pretty good about myself. But when things fall apart, my go-to response is to beat myself up, to start “shoulding” on myself. My therapist says that’s because I want things to always be the same. But everything changes, she says. Even good habits fall away.

For the longest time, I would go to my therapist’s office and beat myself up about smoking cigarettes, a habit that started in my early twenties and effectively disappeared until I broke up with my ex three years ago. And while I was more concerned about my health and what other people would think if they found out, she was more concerned about the fact that I was shoulding on and judging myself. She said that one day I would have enough and quit.

And she was right. One day it became clear. I stopped. Just like the seasons, it changed.

This afternoon my friend Marla and I went to speak at our friend Anita’s writing class at the Fort Smith Public Library. (That’s our picture at the top of the blog.) Anita has been teaching writing in Fort Smith since God was a small child, and her second novel comes out this summer. Like her first novel, it’s about a murder that took place in Van Buren over thirty years ago. Anyway, I thought that I was going to the class to support Marla and reconnect with Anita, but had I read my messages more clearly, I would have known that I was actually going to speak about my glamorous life as a blogger.

So I winged it and read a story I wrote last September about how unhappy I was owning the dance studio and living in Fort Smith, how I wanted to write more and move to Austin. And then I talked specifically about the blog, and Anita told the class that if you don’t like R rated movies, don’t go to one, and if you don’t like four-letter words, don’t go to Marcus’s blog.

So even though I didn’t plan to speak, it all turned out fine. And what I loved about it is that there wasn’t any planning, no thinking about it and praying about it, no anxiety. It just happened.

When I finished, a dear lady named Marilyn said, “Marcus, I think you need to get on the next bus out of here. Just move to Austin.” And then several others chimed in and said, “Fuck it. You only live once.” (I’m paraphrasing. They didn’t actually say that.) But I totally felt encouraged, so I asked Marilyn if she’d like to take a selfie with me, and she said, “I would love that,” so here it is.

Alan Watts tells the story of a Buddhist monk who poetically stated that you can’t plan everything in life. You don’t think, I’m going to go to the supermarket at ten tomorrow morning and then “drop fart” at ten-thirty. And this is actually a spiritual lesson. Farts aren’t planned. They’re “a happening.”

Honestly, I think I give myself too much credit. It’s probably an ego thing. I think that I can control when I get sick and when I get well, when I work and when I don’t, and where I live. And I’m not saying I don’t have any influence in what I eat or when I go to bed or when I’ll move to Austin, but I do think my therapist and the Buddhist monk are right. One day, I’ll clean up my diet and go to bed sooner. One day, I’ll get on a bus and get out of here. When that is exactly, I can’t say, but I can save myself a lot of anxiety by not worrying about it so much. When it’s time, I think I’ll know it’s time, and it will simply happen. And just like the speech that wasn’t planned, it will all turn out fine, even if there are a few four-letter words along the way.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes we move with grace and sometimes we move with struggle. But at some point, standing still is no longer good enough.

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on patience (blog #14)

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This afternoon I submitted an essay I wrote in a writing contest, and I noticed I felt uncomfortable as I was completing the online submission form. Well, wait. My therapist says “uncomfortable is not an emotion,” so I guess it would be more accurate to say that I felt nervous, or anxious, or afraid. Honestly, it’s probably the same way I felt when I hit the publish button for this blog—vulnerable—except I wasn’t shaking as much, and I didn’t feel like my bowels were about to fall out in the middle of the magazine section of the Fort Smith Public Library.

So it could have been worse.

My first thought about what I was feeling is that it had to do with my fear of being judged. My second thought is that it had to with fear of being judged. But after banging my head against the wall for the last thirty minutes trying to figure out where this story is going, I think that feeling of nervousness, anxiety, and fear had more to do with the fact that I’m not being patient with myself.

I’ll explain.

About a year ago, I noticed that I was getting really frustrated with just about everyone in my life. Sometimes it was my dance students, sometimes it was my parents, and sometimes it was the checkout person at the grocery story. It was like I just wanted to scream, “Why the hell can’t you figure this out?” to everyone I came in contact with. When I talked to my therapist about it, I said, “I wish I could be more patient.” And I don’t even think she thought about it very long before she said, “Well, you’re not very patient with yourself.”

Well, for someone who spends a lot of time reading self-help-spiritual-love-your-neighbor books, this was a real buzz kill because I thought I was further along the road in terms of patience. I must have obsessed about it for a couple of weeks. I even talked to my friend Craig about it. (He’s a retired therapist, so I guess it counts as an official second opinion.) Craig said it was possible for me to be patient with myself, but just not in certain circumstances.

When I took this second opinion back to my therapist, she agreed. She said, “I imagine that you’re really patient with yourself when you’re learning to dance.”

This evening I taught a dance lesson to a couple who are getting married later this month. The guy has a SUPER deep voice and sounds like what might happen if James Earl Jones and Morgan Freeman had a lovechild. I mean, if cognac had a voice, it would sound like this guy. Every time he opens his mouth, I’m mesmerized. Like he could ask me to jump off a bridge, and I’d probably do it just because he sounds like God. Throw in a burning bush, and I’d be headed for heaven.

Well, the guy has seemed frustrated with his progress so far, even though he’s pretty much right on track with what’s average. Last week he said, “I have to do things over and over again before I can get them,” and it felt more like an apology than an explanation. My response was, “Good, repetition is how everyone learns best.”

When I see students get frustrated, I always try to be over-the-top encouraging because dancing really is difficult. It’s like learning a new language or learning to play an instrument. There are so many moving parts and so many things to think about all at once. It’s virtually impossible for someone without prior experience to come in and pick things up quickly. It takes time. It takes patience.

And whereas I know how long it can take to be a proficient dancer, it’s a really hard fact to get across to people. It’s like their expectations are too high, and they’re usually too hard on themselves.

Well shit.

So that’s the thing with the writing contest. My expectations are too high. I’m being too hard on myself. I’m thinking that everything I do has to be absolutely stunning, and it has to be recognized–now. But if I could take the patience I have when it comes to dance and apply it to writing—Wow—I can only imagine how much better all that nervousness, anxiety, and fear would be.

Before my lesson with the couple ended tonight, the guy said (in a really deep voice), “I’m going to get this.” And I think that’s the perfect thing because he didn’t say, “I’m going to get this—tonight.” He’s giving himself time. And isn’t that what time’s for? What I’m realizing is there’s often a long road between where you stand and where you want to be. But with patience as your traveling companion, the journey is much, much smoother.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Take your challenges and turn them into the source of your strengths.

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