This Is How You Set Yourself Free (Blog #437)

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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)

"The heart sings for its own reasons."

Meeting the Universe (Blog #132)

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This evening I went to Crystal Bridges to see the Dale Chihuly blown glass exhibit. Oh my gosh, it was the coolest thing. There were so many shapes and colors, so much to take in. I feel like it’s fair to say that I was overstimulated. It was like seeing the Golden Corral buffet for the first time. I mean–where does one start?

The exhibit consists of two main sections, one indoors, one outdoors. The indoor portion ends this weekend (I think), but the outdoor portion goes until November (I think again). Here are a few “swirly things” that were inside. Aren’t they beautiful? Maybe it’s just the practical side of me, but I think–in addition to being wonderul art–they’d also make swell toothbrush holders.

This piece, also inside, is a chandelier and consists of a ton of glass pieces fused together. For a moment I stood underneath the whole thing and looked up, but stepped away when I thought, What if this damn thing falls?

Think about it. Ouch.

Earlier today before I went to Crystal Bridges, I went to therapy (which was equally entertaining). The highlights were conversations about boundaries, boundaries, boundaries, and fidget spinners (my therapist keeps them around because apparently people get nervous talking to a therapist). Also, we discussed the idea of life supporting us in following our dreams. She said that are first you “act as if” it’s true, but eventually you get to the point where you know that it is–the universe will rise up to meet you. Lastly, we discussed a sign she keeps in her office that says, “Get off the internet.” She said it was for all the people who go online to self-diagnose rather than seeing a professional.

Isn’t that hilarious? I’m sure that more than once I’ve been that self-diagnosis guy. Oh my god, there’s this thing–and what if–and I don’t want to die. I had one doctor tell me, “Doctor Google did not go to medical school.” Lesson learned (sort of). It’s a good idea to get off the internet because it can scare the shit out of you. Of course, I think it’s also a good idea to get off the internet to simply leave the couch behind and explore life personally (rather than just watch everyone else do it), which is part of the reason I wanted to check out the Chihuly exhibit.

Having done exactly that, I’m here to say that all the pictures you see online don’t do it justice. The outside exhibit is along a trail and consists of nine pieces, three of which are “reeds.” Here’s maybe my favorite. I love how they come up around the logs, like they grew there, as if they belong.

Here are the red ones, and I love the fact that they are crossed. It reminds me of fire, something tribal.

I walked the entire trail twice. The first time when I came to the largest exhibit–a five thousand pound collection of 1,400 pieces of glasses–there were a couple ladies taking selfies in front of it. Well, you know how you can’t help but overhear and pay attention to people. So I was watching these two ladies, and they were cracking me up. One of them called the piece “Ode to Reproduction,” since it looks like a bunch of sperm racing toward an egg–everyone trying to cross the finish line before the other.

Anyway, when it was my turn to take a selfie, the ladies offered to take a picture for me. Sweet, that would be fantastic. So one of the ladies took a picture of me full-length, then the other lady said, “Here, let me do it,” so she stood closer to make it look like the “sperm” were coming out of my hair–like Medusa. I think it’s definitely my new look.

Then I asked to take a picture with them both, and we all went on our respective merry ways. (That’s the photo up top.) I finished the exhibit, went back inside, walked around the gift shop. Basically I killed time as the sun went down because I wanted to see how the outdoor pieces looked at night. (Everything’s better in the dark.) Well, just as I finished my second time through the exhibit, I felt this tap on my shoulder, and it was one of the ladies, who said she came back to the trail to look for me and ask me if I’d join them for dinner.

“You seemed so friendly,” she said.

The universe will rise up to meet you.

“Sure, I’ll go!”

As it turns out, the ladies were (and are) named Jenny and Caroline, and they’d tried to find me earlier when they realized we’d taken a picture together but they didn’t have a copy or know my name. So they were walking through the forest sort of shouting random names hoping they’d guess correctly. (Sounds funny, but you’ve probably bought a lottery ticket before.)

Chad! John! Jack! Remington!

Uh–you can be honest–do I look like a Remington?

I realize this could sound creepy, but I just hopped in their car, they drove me to mine, and we all went out to eat. We talked for probably a couple hours. Jenny just got a new job and home schools her kid. Caroline is a poet who graduated for the University of Arkansas. A fellow writer! It was a great conversation. PLUS, there was tomato soup WITH FRIED CHEESE FRITTERS INSIDE. Talk about a good reason to get off the internet!

Today my therapist said that we all have fantasies about how our lives will go–how our dreams will come true. She said that in her experience, the universe always has better plans. I watched a video about Chihuly today in which he said, “It’s not that I’m looking for something new [to do or create]. Something new comes.” Personally, I’d planned on eating Mexican food tonight–alone. I wasn’t looking for anything else. But I’m grateful it didn’t work out that way and actually worked out better. Maybe going to eat with a couple of strangers sounds pretty out there, but I guess life is pretty out there. I mean, we’re on a planet that’s being hurled through space. Believe it or not, I’m starting to love the fact that it’s all kind of unpredictable, that anything can change in an instant, that the universe can rise up to meet you anytime, anywhere.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We all have inner wisdom. We all have true north."

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)

"

Rest gives us time to dream. One day, for certain, you’ll wake up. And you’ll be grateful for the time you rested, and you’ll be just as grateful that you’re different, far from the person who fell asleep.

"

(A Wonderful) Mother’s Day (Blog #45)

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Judge me all you want, but I traditionally suck at Mother’s Day. I mean, my mom’s not really into “stuff” or “things,” so I usually get her just a card, and sometimes we go out to eat, and sometimes Dad pays for it. (They say confession is good for the soul, and they must be right because I feel pretty good right now.) All that being said, I did a LOT better today, but before I can tell you about it, we need to back up a year.

Last year, I totally spaced out about Mother’s Day, and I’d planned to see the musical Beauty and the Beast in Fayetteville with a friend. Well, that morning my friend called and said, “Marcus, I’m sick. I know it’s short notice, and I’m sorry, but try to find someone else to go.” So it was all very last minute, but I took my mom to the show, and we both had a great time. (I cried.) And then we headed to Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse because it’s fancy and I like fancy things and they were also the only place that took same-day reservations online.

(I didn’t tell Mom where we were going to eat until we got there.)

Well, when we pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Mom’s face lit up, and she said, “Oh, Marcus, Ruth’s Chris! I’ve ALWAYS WANTED to go here, but never thought I’d get to.” (Talk about a win.) And for the last year, she’s consistently told me what a great day she had, how it was one of the best days of her life. (Dad’s response was, “Uh, hello. What about the day you married ME?”)

About a month ago, I cashed in some credit card points for a gift card to Ruth’s Chris, so I asked Mom if she wanted to go back, and she didn’t hesitate to say yes. A day or so later, she said, “Let’s go back for Mother’s Day.” Well, earlier this week I noticed there were a couple shows going on this weekend, so I asked Mom if she wanted to go to one and make a day of it. I said, “The first one is a play, a comedy, and it’s indoors. The second is like a circus, so it’s in a tent.” Mom said, “I’d love to go, and I like air conditioning.”

So our Mother’s Day started this afternoon when my mom and I went to see a play called The Dingdong. (Let your imagination run wild.) The play was basically about a husband and wife, both of whom are considering having an affair, so it was this big slapstick situation with five actors playing over a dozen roles and all sorts of potential lovers hiding in closets and under couches and one person walking in just as another person walks out. It really was delightful, and I don’t know that I’ve ever heard Mom laugh so much, but—thanks to three years of therapy—I kept thinking, These people have TERRIBLE boundaries.

Here’s a picture from the play. If you get a chance to see it (the play, not the picture), it’s at Theater Squared in Fayetteville for three or four more weeks.

After the show, we had a lot of time to kill before dinner, so we went to the square and did some window-shopping, and I bought a thank-you card that says, “Much obliged.” I don’t know who’s going to get the card, so if you want it, feel free to do something really swell for me. Currently I’m in need of medium-sided shirts, a job, and a husband that preferably looks like or is Zac Efron. (I know that’s asking for a lot, but this is an EXTREMELY NICE thank-you card.) Anyway, the store had a really cool neon sign that said, “I bet you look good on the dance floor,” so I asked the girl at the counter to take a picture of Mom and me below the sign. Mom explained, “My son’s a dancer.” (The girl didn’t seem impressed.)

Next we looked around at a vintage store, and then we went to Starbucks because Mom has only been to Starbucks one other time in her entire life. (Amazing, I know.) So we just sat for over an hour and talked. Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big deal, but Mom has spent so many years not talking because of her depression, it’s actually a big deal. Before we left, we took another photo, and Mom told me that it was so nice because we never take photos together, and she also told me that I was required to print them out so she could frame them.

After Starbucks, we went to Ruth’s Chris, and we were there for over two hours. Actually, we were the last ones to leave. If you’ve never been to Ruth’s Chris, sell everything you own and go. It’s great food and great service. Mom said, “I think this is the best meal of my life.” I said, “I really get off on fancy stuff like this—long meals, waiters who scrape the breadcrumbs off the table, bathrooms with individual hand towels.” Mom replied, “It’s like Downtown Abbey.”

Later she added, “I get off on stuff like that too.”

Our final stop for the evening was the buckyball at Crystal Bridges, this really cool geometric “art thing” that lights up and changes colors. Beneath it, there are reclined benches, so you can lie underneath the stars and look up at the lights and shapes. (Apparently, you can also make out with your girlfriend under a blanket, which is what the guy on the bench next to us did.)

On the way home, Mom talked the entire time, which she said was to help keep me awake. (It worked.) Later she said, “I hope I didn’t talk too much,” and even though I had thought, Mom is talking a lot more than normal, I started thinking about all the things I learned about her today, like what it was like when her parents divorced, and how her years with depression have made her a more compassionate person, and why she still feels guilty about that white lie she told over forty freaking years ago. And then I thought about how much closer I felt to her and said, “Mom, it’s okay. I don’t mind your talking. Besides, today literally had your name on it.”

[Mom, I love you. For everything, including bringing me into the world and a wonderful day, I’m much obliged.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We can hang on and put everything safely in its place, and then at some point, we’re forced to let go.

"

don’t tell me what to do (blog #17)

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This afternoon I went to Crystal Bridges Art Museum in Bentonville with my Aunt Terri, my cousin Dustin, and Dustin’s fiancé, Christy. (They’re all from Tulsa.) I assume the trip was something they planned before today, but I just found out about it when I woke up this morning, or as some people call it, afternoon. Since I didn’t have any plans, it was a lovely surprise.

On the drive up, I played my two current-favorite songs on repeat, and I looked at the mountains and the trees (and sometimes the road), and I thought, God, life is great.

After meeting Terri, Dustin, and Christy at Christy’s parents house, the four of us proceeded to the museum, and we decided it was more important to sit down and have coffee before checking out the exhibits. Well, everyone got a small coffee—like, honestly, they looked like shot glasses. But I got a sixteen-ounce coffee, the largest on the menu, because I have a problem with moderation. (I don’t like it.) So when we got ready to look around, I just picked up my drink and took it with me.

The first big exhibit we saw was—and I’m not making this up—a ton of hard candy (all green) on the floor in a rectangle with a light shining on it. (Later, when we saw a large canvas that was simply painted all gray except maybe a couple small dots, Christy said, “We’re in the wrong business.”) Despite the fact that it was just bunch of candy on the ground, the exhibit was really beautiful in its own way, and the deal is that you’re allowed to take a piece of it, so the art is constantly changing. Pieces of candy go out, and then more pieces come back in.

About fifteen minutes into the exhibits (after the all-gray canvas that someone probably got paid a lot of money for), a member of the museum staff came over and very nicely said, “Sir, drinks aren’t allowed in this area, but there’s a trashcan in the restroom just around that corner.” But what I heard sounded something more like, “If you don’t put that down right now, I’m calling your parents and sending you to the principal’s office.”

Maybe I should get my ears checked.

So I threw the cup away, but not before I finished drinking every last drop of the coffee because I wanted to have the last word and feel like a rebel.

Well, I really, really try not to obsess about stupid shit like this, but I’m rarely successful at it. Like, I remember being at a water park once as an adult, and some lifeguard (who probably had acne and drove a scooter to work) blew his whistle and pointed his finger like one of those angry cops in the middle of a traffic jam, telling me I was in the wrong part of the water. So I just swam away, sort of like I threw the coffee cup in the trash, and even though part of my brain understood that it’s not personal and he’s just doing his job and he doesn’t hate me, I still felt like I’d gotten my name on the blackboard.

The good news is, the incident with the cup today didn’t bother me as much as similar incidents in the past. Like once I got a parking ticket during a trip to Knoxville, and it totally ruined the dinner I was having with my friends. It was all I could think about. It’s like the people pleaser in me just wanted to jump up and invite the meter maid to join us for pizza, in hopes that I could convince her what a nice guy I am, that I’m not a bad person for parking in the wrong spot. It was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But today wasn’t that bad.

I’ve talked to my therapist about these sorts of situations before, and a couple of things always come up. First, I don’t like authority, and therefore I don’t like being told what to do. Second, I don’t like authority, and therefore I don’t like being told what to do.

Any questions?

I always assumed my problem with authority came from the fact that Dad was arrested and sent to prison, that I actually sat in the courtroom and watched twelve jurors, one by one, say, “Guilty.” Like, I’ve got plenty of emotional reasons to not like authority and to be afraid of getting in trouble. But my therapist says there’s more. (Heads up, there’s always more.) She says that because Mom was sick when I was growing up and Dad was in prison, I pretty much raised myself (and did a damn fine job, thank you). So since I’ve spent so much time being my own authority, outside authority and I don’t mix well.

How a person can hate authority and being told what to do and still be a rule follower, someone who’s afraid of getting in trouble, I’m still figuring out. (Job security for my therapist.) Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes.”

Sometime last year, I got pulled over for using my phone while driving, and I lied and told the police officer I was looking for directions, but the truth is that I was actually texting. (This is my finding out if confession really is good for the soul. I’ll get back to you on the results.) Well, I didn’t get a ticket for using the phone, but I did get a ticket for not wearing my seatbelt. (Have I mentioned I don’t like being told what to do?) When I told my therapist that I felt bad about lying to the police officer, she just said, “Fuck tha police.”

Apparently “Fuck tha police” is a rap song my therapist likes. (I didn’t know that she was such a thug, but then again, she also likes the roller derby.) Anyway, ever since then, Fuck tha Police has become the phrase we use to describe that part of my personality that has authority issues. And it’s not like she was encouraging me to break the law or do something stupid, but she said that particular part of my personality is always going to be there, and it has to be satisfied in some way, which I guess is why the lie didn’t bother her.

A lot of times after therapy, I go to lunch with my friend Ray. We call it “therapy after therapy.” Ray is honestly one of my favorite people, and I think it’s partly because he’s a priest but sometimes talks like a sailor, so I never feel like I need to clean up my act or put on a show in order to be around him. When we talked about Fuck tha Police, Ray told me that sometimes you just have to not give a shit—pig out on junk food and feel gross for a weekend—break the rules you’ve imposed on yourself—drive your car faster than the speed limit. So that day I drove home at a hundred miles an hour, maybe not the whole time, but for a while. And nothing bad happened. And Ray was right. It felt amazing.

Before we left the museum today, my aunt asked one of the ladies who worked there (whose hair looked like a bird nest, we all agreed) if she could take our picture. She said she couldn’t—they weren’t allowed. Then she added that she wished she could, which just made me mad and at the same time happy that I wasn’t the one talking to her. (As it turns out, when you have a problem with authority, you don’t like being told no. I’m working on it—I’m in therapy!)

Only somewhat dejected by not getting our picture taken, we went outside, and Christy asked another employee (whose hair did not look like a bird nest) if he could take our photo. And he didn’t even hesitate—he said sure, he’d be glad to.

YAH! A rule breaker! Fuck tha Police!

By the time I got home this evening, I noticed a definite change in mood from earlier in the day. I no longer felt like life was great. I mean, I thought it was okay. (You know, I’ve had better.) And I don’t think I can completely blame the incident with the coffee cup or being a little irritated about the lady who wouldn’t take our picture. But I think they played a part, just like I think the fact that I was tired and hungry played a part too.

I have this fantasy that one day I’ll go to therapy or read one more self-help book and wake up the next day transformed. Like I’ll never be in a bad mood again, and I won’t feel like a five-year-old when a total stranger says, “No drinks allowed.” But I get that it probably won’t happen that way. No, my experience of life is more like that exhibit of hard candy. Some days, it feels like a bunch of pieces of me are missing, and when the light hits, all I can see are the shadows. But then other days, it feels like all the missing pieces have been replenished, and when the light hits, the shadows scatter. As I see it in this moment, all of it is art, constantly changing. I, too, contain multitudes.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"When you’re authentic, your authenticity is enough. You don’t need to compare."