Single and Confident AF (Blog #155)

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I’ve spent most of today reading parts of three different books. My eyeballs are like, Enough already. My brain is like, Amen–Are you sure you want to do this for a living? Because I’m a multi-tasker, I’ve also spent the afternoon stretching and–consequently–saying “shit” a lot. At one point I was on my back, legs up the wall, doing the splits. Honestly, if I hadn’t been alone, it would’ve been really kinky. But since I was, it was just uncomfortable. My dad said, “It’s Friday night. You don’t have any plans?” I said, “No, Dad, I’m single AF.” Mom said, “What’s AF?” I said, “As fuck.” (We’ve had this conversation before, but–by her own admission–she has chemotherapy brain. I try to think of it like the movie Groundhog Day, which makes it more fun.)

One of the books I’m currently reading is called The Flood Girls by Richard Fifield. I’m honestly overloaded with things to read right now, but my friend Marla gave it to me, so it got bumped to the top of the list. (Talk about influence.) It’s about a former alcoholic slut who returns to her hometown to make amends with her mother, who coaches a local softball team (The Flood Girls) and also owns a bar where lesbians, miners, and lesbian miners hang out. The daughter befriends a fabulous teenage homosexual named Jake, and that’s about as far as I’ve gotten. But at one point Jake describes the daughter as “chin up, tits out,” and I haven’t been able to get that phrase out of my head since I read it. I mean, I have been focused on posture lately. But maybe it just reminds me to walk with confidence.

Chin up, tits out.

After an entire afternoon and evening of reading, I thought, I’ve got to get out of the house–I’ve got to go for a run, which may have had to do with the fact that I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (pure sugar) and drank half a pot of coffee for lunch. I don’t know–I’m not a scientist. So I threw on some shorts, laced up my sneakers, and hit the pavement. Oh, and I also threw off my shirt because the last time I ran for any length of time with my shirt on, my nipples were NOT happy the next day. I guess that’s nipple friction for you. Still, it was the most action they’ve seen since Obama was president, so they obviously can’t be pleased.

Personally, I think the spirit was stronger than the body tonight. Almost the entire run, which was lit by the waxing gibbous moon, I could feel the muscles in my right leg screaming, “You’ve–got–to–be–kidding–oh–shit–that’s–another–hill.” But since my pace was easy, my chin was up, and my tits were literally out, I thought, This is no time for quitting. Well, it turned out to be a personal milestone–8.6 miles. Woo-who! (Whether you’re single AF or not, it’s okay to be your own cheering section.) Granted, I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but–again–I don’t have any plans, so it won’t be a problem to stay home, take a bunch of drugs, and recover.

When I got home from the run, hoping to minimize the damage, I spent quite a while doing even more stretches, saying “shit” even more. My body was so tired, I had to use the furniture to brace myself and keep from falling over. Imagine trying to balance after a fifth of whiskey–that’s what it looked like. I kept thinking of that cartoon of the Tin Man in yoga class, the one with the thought bubble over his head that says, “This is bullshit.”

Speaking of bullshit, I think the ants in the plant across the room have found their way to the futon where I’m typing. I killed one I found on my neck earlier, and now my ankle is itching like crazy. Add that to the fact that I can barely hold my head up, my IT band feels like it’s about to pop, and I’m hungry (and did I mention single?) AF, and I’m pretty much not amused. Breathe, Marcus, breathe.

Eat, Marcus, Eat. (Be right back.)

Okay, that’s better. I just ate half a grapefruit and an individual serving of cranberry almond chicken salad. But get this shit. The box for the chicken salad cups said, “Eight singles.” I thought, Geez, you don’t have to rub it in.

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

Recently I finished a book by a spiritual teacher named James Swartz. I’m actually going to hear him speak, and I found out today that the event got moved from the middle of September to middle of October. At first I thought, Shit, but then I thought, Well, maybe that will work out better. Anyway, James says that life is a zero-sum game. I think the idea is that we spend so much time thinking we need to get something–more money, a better body, someone to go the movies and have sex with. But for everything we gain, we give something up. So you get your best run, but then your muscles are tight the next day. You get a relationship, but then you’re attached. In the end, no one is really better off than when they started.

I mean, in the end, you’re dead.

This is an idea I’m just starting to warm up to. I’ve spent so much time thinking I need to get, get, get, and only occasionally do I remember that I’m one little human on a huge planet in the middle of a gigantic universe. Like, maybe having a six-pack isn’t such a big deal after all. But I do like that thought, that there’s nothing to really gain or lose here, except perhaps an experience. And who’s to say that one experience is better than another? We spend all this time trying to change ourselves, but Joseph Campbell says, “The privilege of a lifetime is being who you are.” Maybe if we remembered that, more of us would be chin up, tits out, confident AF.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

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Birds Will Shit on You (Blog #114)

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

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

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

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

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

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

A box of quackers!

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

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

I guess time changes everything.

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

Because they didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"It's never a minor thing to take better care of yourself."

The Magic of Tom Collins (Blog #105)

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Not to be a stereotypical homosexual, but I love (LOVE) a good musical, and rarely a week goes by that I don’t listen to at least one Broadway show tune. All that being said–and I hope I don’t offend anyone here–and by that I mean I don’t care if I offend anyone here–but I’m not IN LOVE with the musical Rent. I mean, I adore parts of it, but I have a difficult time with the soundtrack because of all the “voicemail” numbers and all the BEEPING. Maybe it feels too much like real life to me. Anyway, a few weeks ago–for no apparent reason–I put on the Rent soundtrack for the first time “in a month of Sundays” while driving to Fayetteville.

As I’m wont to do, I eventually settled on a single, solitary song called “Santa Fe” that I kept on repeat for nearly a week. I can’t tell you why, but I must have listened to it fifty times or more. It’s this snappy little tune about a guy and his boyfriend who are dreaming about getting out of New York City and running away to open up a restaurant in–you guessed it–Santa Fe. Maybe my fascination had something to do with dreaming and thinking about what’s possible.

Within a week of listening to “Santa Fe” for the first time (recently), I got the ever-living shit knocked out of me and my car when I was rear-ended in the worst possible way. Within three days of the accident, I knew my car (a Honda Civic) was totaled and that I’d need a new one. So I made one phone call to a dear friend who almost always knows what to do (and if he doesn’t at least sounds like he does). He said, “Go see Johnny Jack in Van Buren. Tell him what’s going on. He’ll treat you right, and if he says it’s a good car, it’s a good car.”

So that’s what I did. On Monday, July 3rd, about closing time, I stopped by Jack’s Motor Company and met Johnny. Initially he steered me toward a Ford Focus, which met all my requirements in terms of price. But I didn’t like it. (I still don’t like it. You can’t make me like it.) But Johnny said I should come back the next day and test drive it. “I’d really like an SUV,” I said. “How much is that Nissan Murano?”

“Too much,” Johnny said. (I’m paraphrasing.)

But then Johnny continued, “In a couple of days I should have another SUV in. It might be just the thing.” And then he quoted me a price that actually seemed doable, probably thanks to the person who sent me over. So the next day, July 4th, I went back to Johnny’s with the intention of test driving the Focus, just to give it a chance. (Everyone deserves a chance.) But when I got there Johnny said, “You’re in luck. That SUV I was telling you about got delivered early.” And there it was, a beautiful 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, freshly cleaned with the stereo blasting one of my favorite tunes, “Africa” by Toto.

Did you catch that the car was a Santa Fe–like the song?

Well, I took the car for a spin and fell in love within five minutes. I picked up Mom and Dad, and Dad said, “Bite the bullet. You’re not going to be happy with anything else.” When I got back to the lot, I told Johnny that I wanted it, and he said, “I’ll put a sold sign on it. Whenever you settle the insurance claim, it’s yours.”

It was that easy. I really only had to look at one car.

A little over a week later, the insurance check finally cleared. Today was the day! I guess I thought buying a new car would be a hassle, but it wasn’t. Johnny was awesome. Is awesome. As one friend who knows him said, “He’s the man.”

I’m calling the car Tom Collins, since that’s the character who sings the song about Santa Fe in Rent. And I don’t mind saying he’s pretty sweet. It’s the first time I’ve ever owned a daily driver with leather interior, heated seats, powered everything, tinted windows, and a moon roof. Plus, it’s pretty spacious, the perfect size to host an intimate wedding reception. But seriously, I couldn’t be more excited. I mean, if you have to get slammed in the ass while minding your own business and are forced to buy a new set of wheels, a car like Tom Collins is the way to go. As my aunt Carla said, “There’s a difference between living and living well.”

You may already know this, but Tom Collins isn’t just a character from a musical about being broke and infected with HIV. It’s also a drink–made with gin, lemons, sugar, and carbonated water–that’s been around for over a century. And whereas I’ve lived my entire adult life and never had a Tom Collins, I figured today was a good time to change that. So this evening I celebrated the Santa Fe by going to El Zarape with my friend Justin and ordering (and drinking) the adult beverage that shares the name of my new car.

Well, sort of. My friend Jimmy was our waiter and bartender, and he’d never heard of a Tom Collins. So we Googled it, and he said, “Sure, I can do that.” But when he talked to the other bartenders about it, they said, “The carbonated water will ruin the alcohol. So leave that out, add a splash of Triple Sec, and use another orange liqueur instead of an actual orange for garnish.”

OMG, y’all. These are the kinds of friends you need in your life. Jimmy’s Modified Tom Collins was UH-MAZING. It was basically like lemonade on steroids.

GRRRR.

When Justin and I got back to his house, his wife, Ashley, and her friend Schuyler wanted to go out for Taco Bell, so I said, “I’ll drive!” (I’ve never had a car I’ve been proud to pile a bunch of people in for a fast food run. God. It really is the little things.) Anyway, at Taco Bell when it was our turn at the Drive-Thru, the voice on the other end said, “Just a moment please,” and without thinking I blurted out, “Take your time. Order when you’re ready.”

And then everyone inside Tom Collins exploded with laughter, which I thought was the perfect way to start our new life together.

I’ve spent most of today in awe at the way the universe works, the fact that something that initially seemed awful (my car wreck) turned out so well. Before me, the Santa Fe was owned by only one person, a little old lady whom I spoke with on the phone and told me the only reason she was getting rid of it was because she’d backed into a trashcan and wanted a car with a backup camera. Now that I’ve spent a day with Tom Collins, I kind of want to call her back and tell her how grateful I am she didn’t see that trashcan. And I could just hug my friend who sent me to Johnny, and I’d dance at Johnny’s wedding, except for the fact that he’s already married.

I guess a lot of people would say that my randomly listening to a song called “Santa Fe” a week before my car accident and an old lady hitting a trashcan with her Santa Fe vehicle and then trading it in at the same time I started car shopping were simply coincidences. But at this point in my life, I know better. Joseph Campbell said, “When we follow our bliss, we are met by a thousand unseen helping hands.” Personally, I love this. It’s like I’ve spent so much of my life waiting for something magical to happen, and then one day I realized magic has been happening all around me this entire time, gently waiting for me to notice, to start dreaming again, to believe that anything and everything is possible because–it is.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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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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Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

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A Million Pieces of God (Blog #58)

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There’s a story in Eastern mythology that says when God first realized he was alive, he experienced pure joy. (What’s not to love about being alive?) However, he thought he might lose his joy or that someone might take it from him, so he experienced fear. (Sound familiar?) But then he remembered that he was the only one who existed, and the fear went away. (Phew!) But then he thought, Wouldn’t it be nice to not be alone? So after fear came desire, and out of that desire, God shattered himself into a million pieces and created the world.

Joseph Campbell, the famous mythologist, tells a version of this story. He says that fear and desire are the two basic emotions every human must deal with on his way back to God. They show up in every mythology and represent the world of duality and separation. In the Bible, this is depicted by the angels who guard the Garden of Eden. On one side of the gate is paradise, the place where God is all, and all is one. On the other side is duality, the home of up and down, good and bad, and you and me. If you want to get from duality to paradise, you have to go through the angels. In short, fear and desire keep us out of paradise. Fear and desire keep us separated.

Personally, I’ve spent a good part of my life in fear and desire, especially fear. I mean, your house burns down, your mom gets sick, and dad goes to prison, and that’ll pretty much divest you of the idea that life is good. The result, of course, has been a big feeling of separation, a big feeling of “something bad is going to happen.” That being said, I’ve worked really hard the last several years to get back to the Garden of Eden, or at least get closer to it. And although it hasn’t become a constant state of mind, I do think I’ve made a lot of progress. Life isn’t nearly as scary as it used to be.

The philosopher Alan Watts says that life is basically God–shattered into a million pieces–playing a big game of hide-and-seek with himself. Well, I really love this idea, and sometimes when good things happen, I like to think that God’s leaving clues, like, Hey, I’m over here (and over here, and over here).

So get this.

This evening my dance instructor friend Sheila and I danced at a private birthday party in Northwest Arkansas. A lovely lady named Carolyn was turning 90, and her son Jim hired Sheila and me to come dance to a live band because Carolyn loves dancing. Well, as it turned out, this was the kind of gig dancers live for. The party was at Jim’s home, and the place looked like it came out of a magazine. I’m pretty sure the chandelier in the entryway was bigger than my Honda Civic. And not to sound like a total redneck, but–Y’all, the downstairs bathroom was fancy. I mean, look at this sank.

The party itself was out by the pool, and the band was under a tent. Sheila and I danced together several times, and I even got to dance with the birthday girl, who told us that when her late husband first asked her for a date, she immediately said, “Can you jitterbug?” (I plan on stealing this dating requirement and think you should too.)

Here’s a picture of me and Carolyn. Thanks to her granddaughter (who said she was the favorite) for taking it.

As the evening continued, Sheila and I were invited to join Carolyn’s family and friends for dinner, drinks, and desserts. We looked at the four birthday cakes, thought about it for like two seconds, and said, “Okay, you talked us into it.”

On the surface, it was a wonderful evening. I haven’t worked a lot lately, so having a job was nice, and the atmosphere was amazing. I mean, the pool house would have passed for its own property, there was a playroom for the grandkids that looked like a castle, and I think the main staircase came out of Gone with the Wind. (I’d show you pictures, but I think that would border on creepy, and I’ve already posted a picture of these people’s freaking bathroom.) Plus, I found out that Jim used to play in a band that opened for Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, and some guy named Bob Hope, so there were plenty of reasons to be impressed. (I kept hearing Mary Poppins say, “Close your mouth please, Marcus, we are not a codfish.”)

But below the surface, I couldn’t stop thinking about mythology and God playing hide-and-seek with himself, and here’s why. When I first walked outside and saw the pool, I noticed the fountain in the middle–three ladies–who are, of course, the three graces that represent charm, beauty, and creativity. (I should learn to zoom, but I think you get the idea.)

So the fountain set the mythological mood for me, and then it continued when Jim gave a present to his brother, whose birthday is close to Carolyn’s. I’ll let you see it for yourself, and then I’ll explain.

That’s right, it’s a statue with breasts and a penis. (I mean, is this a great family or what?) So everyone laughed about it being a fertility god, and I guess it’s a joke of some sort because Jim’s brother told me that it’s been passed around to several family members like a white elephant gift. I think everyone in the photo has owned it at one time or another. (For some reason, no one wants to keep it.)

Well, I think the statue is technically not a fertility god, but rather a hermaphrodite, which is a being with both male and female sex organs. (I recommend that you take my word for this instead of doing a Google search for fertility gods.) In Greek mythology, Hermaphroditus was the son of Hermes and Aphrodite and was a beautiful boy who fell in love with a water nymph that prayed to the gods to unite them forever. According to Carl Jung, hermaphrodites symbolize the union of opposites. Seen in light of the story told by Joseph Campbell, they represent the re-union of God, the return from duality back to the garden.

But wait, it gets better. You can’t see it in the picture of the swimming pool, but on the other side of the three graces is a large, triangle-shaped backyard. (Triangles represent the trinity, wisdom, and the divine power of the female). On one side, of course, is the pool. But on the other two sides are two creeks, and those creeks meet at the top of the yard as one creek. So as I walked out into the yard, I met yet another mythological image of the two becoming one. But what’s more, when I got to the top and realized which direction the water flowed, I saw that it was actually the one creek that became two–God shattering himself into a million pieces.

As I drove home tonight, I thought a lot about the mystical meaning of the party. I know for some people, it may sound like I’m reading a lot into it. But of all the places I could end up on a Saturday night dancing, I ended up at a place with the three graces, a hermaphrodite god, and, from my perspective, two creeks becoming one. Additionally, since I used to work for a wedding photographer, I’ve been to a lot of private parties, and tonight I ended up at a party with some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. And when you add all of that to the fact that I’ve been thinking a lot about mythology lately, trying to get away from the idea that “something bad is going to happen,” I just don’t think anything about tonight was an accident. Rather, I think God was bringing a few pieces of himself back together. Personally, I think he was saying, “Hey, I’m over here,” inviting me to return to the garden where something good is going to happen, there’s nothing to be afraid of, and–most importantly–we are one.

[My deepest gratitude to Sheila for inviting me tonight and to Jim and his wife, Jacqui, for all your kindness.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

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wheel of fortune (going down) (blog #29)

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Currently, I’m in Tulsa, Oklahoma, it’s one-thirty in the morning, and I feel fat. For the last week, I’ve been noticing how the skin around my stomach has given up the good fight, how it’s gotten so tired of holding itself together that it’s taken to resting on the top of my pants. When I lean sideways in my chair, I can feel the skin below my waist and the skin above my waist push together, and it feels like two lumps of Play Doh fighting each other for King of the Mountain. It’s not amusing.

I made the mistake last night of looking at this hot guy’s Instagram. By anyone’s standards (including his own, I’m sure), he’s ridiculously gorgeous. It should be against the law to look like that. It should definitely be against the law to post so many selfies when you look like that. And even though I sat at the breakfast table and scrolled through his entire account (while I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and thought about the abs I used to have), I couldn’t find a single bad picture of this guy. (My therapist would call this good presentation.) So the more I looked at his muscles–his chest was for sure a solid b-cup–the fatter I felt. My only consolation was that he was probably stupid.

All I could think was, God I’m so glad I have this brownie.

So this afternoon I went to Panera Bread for comfort food, and there was this kid working the counter who had no more than a twenty-six inch waist. (He was also wearing makeup that was flawless, so good for him.) Anyway, he’d obviously put some thought into his appearance, and whenever I run into someone like that, it immediately makes me stand up straighter, suck in my gut, and think, God, I wish I weren’t wearing a t-shirt with a dinosaur on it. So when he asked me if I wanted a pastry for 99 cents, I was like, Fuck yes.

Well, the kid gave me my coffee cup, but then he walked away without giving me my pastry, so I had to stand there like a little girl on Halloween waiting for her candy. I honestly felt embarrassed, like, Hey man, I like brownies, okay? Don’t make me beg. It’s not my fault my metabolism slowed down.

So all this was going on in my head as the kid with the teeny-tiny waist and perfect eyelashes boxed up my brownie. And when he handed it to me, I said thank you, and then he said the worst possible thing he could have ever said. He said, “You’re welcome…SIR.”

SIR.

Now I’m fat AND old. What a great day.

But wait, it gets better.

While I was waiting on my food to arrive (yes, it involved bread), I opened my laptop, checked my email, and found out that I was not accepted for a writer’s colony in Massachusetts that I applied for last year. And even though I knew there over six hundred applicants and they were only taking eight, my hopes were high (just like my cholesterol). Of course, once I read the email, they went straight now. KER-SPLAT. And all I could think was, GOD I’M SO GLAD I HAVE THIS BROWNIE.

My immediate reaction to rejections like this is to give up on my dream, like, I suck at writing, and I should just get a job at a donut shop. Well, anytime I start to feel like shit, I try to keep myself from feeling like shit, so I started thinking, I hate the cold. I don’t want to spend the winter in Massachusetts anyway. I don’t need you and your writer’s colony and your–acceptance. But, of course, that didn’t really work. As my friend Bruce said when talking about dancing, “It doesn’t matter how nice a rejection is, it’s still a rejection.”

So I called my friend Marla and told her about the rejection and the brownie and the skinny kid with the good foundation. And when I told her that he called me sir, Marla said, “That little bitch.”

So that made me laugh.

This evening I drove to Tulsa to work on dance with my friends Matt, Anne, and Andy. I got to town a little early, so I went shopping for sweatpants because what better way to increase your self-esteem than to buy sweatpants? Well, the shopping didn’t help, since I couldn’t find what I wanted. I guess sweatpants are only in season during the winter. Geez, what do people do in the springtime when they need an elastic waistband? (I can’t believe I just said that.)

Well, thank God for Matt, Anne, and Andy. We spent over three hours dancing, and most of that was working on lift and aerials, which completely distracted me from the bad attitude I was enjoying before they came along. While we were working, Anne and I were the ones who were getting picked up, tossed about, and flipped over. I can’t tell you how much fun it was. I also can’t tell you how much my body is hurting even as I type this. I guess my hips are tight, or maybe I pinched something in my lower back, but every time I try to stand, it’s like I end up with a right angle at my waist, and even though I’m on my feet, I’m still looking at the floor. So I have to do this whole pep talk routine with my body–Come on, you can do it, just a few more inches and we’ll be vertical.

Honestly, it feels like I’ve been slapped around a lot today. Like life didn’t have anyone else to pick on, so it was my turn. When I was walking out of Panera Bread earlier, I saw the cover of a local magazine that said BITTER on the front, and I thought, “Yes, I am.” Well, I’ve done a lot of blogging this last week about being patient, accepting myself as I am, and trusting that God is intelligent and wise enough to get me where I need to be. And in this moment, I kind of want to take it all back.

So if you ever get the idea to start a blog and say something stupid like, “You can find joy in every circumstance,” don’t. Because chances are whoever’s in charge up there is gonna say, “Wanna bet?” (If you don’t think that this is the way life works sometimes, read the Book of Job.)

Okay, breathe, Marcus.

Joseph Campbell, who was a scholar on myths and religions, tells the story of the Wheel of Fortune. He says that most people live on the outside of the wheel. The gods bless them, their fortunes go up, and they’re happy. But then the gods curse them, their fortunes go down, and they’re sad. But Joseph says the goal is to live your life in the center of the wheel, to find that spot inside yourself that is unmovable. Then you can look at the gods and say, “Give me your best shot. Whatever it is–good or bad–up or down–I’m not going anywhere. I plan to thrive no matter what.”

Personally, I’m reminded that that’s my goal, to meet life’s disappointments and aches and pains not only with Ibuprofen, but also with renewed resolve to hold my center. And sure, I might get knocked off-balance now and then. I might need a brownie and a few friends on days like today. But make no mistake, I’m not going anywhere. Give me your best shot. I plan to thrive no matter what.

[Thanks to Anne for the first picture. It was taken just before I was flipped backwards. I decided not to show you the picture that was taken mid-flip because I think my butt looks big and the shorts I’m wearing make me look naked.]

UPDATE: My friend Marlene dared me to post this, so I am. Also by Anne.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Nothing was made to last forever.

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the story of my success (blog #4)

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A couple of months ago, I discovered this fabulous place called the library. Oh my god, you guys, you can get books FOR FREE.

To be clear, I’ve always known about the library, it’s just that I only recently started using it because I don’t have a job and borrowing books is cheaper than buying them. My friend Marla says that the books at the library are “filthy” and “gross,” but I try not to think about that.

So far, I haven’t developed any rashes.

When I first started using the library, I kept saying that I was “renting” books, but my (grammatically superior) best friend Justin, who insists on the correct use of language and also prefers three-syllable words to two-syllable words, said the word I was actually looking for (even though I didn’t know I was looking for it) was “borrowing.”

Here’s a recent picture of me, Justin’s wife, and Justin (in order of appearance). All three of us used to live together a few years ago before the two of them decided to get married, and, consequently, I had to move. (Geez.)

Well, anyway. Thanks to the local library, today I finished Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers: The Story of Success. The book basically proposes that successful people like Bill Gates and The Beatles really can’t take all the credit for their success (and most successful people don’t even try to). Malcolm says that success, sure, depends on hard work, but it often hinges on many factors beyond the control of the individual. For example, he details how (and why): the most successful hockey players are born in the month of January, the most successful lawyers are Jewish, and the people who are best at math are Asian.

If you want more details, you’ll have to check the book out for yourself. (Have you heard of a library?) But suffice it to say, Malcolm says that successful people are almost always the recipient of some good fortune, like parents who take an active role in their child’s education, being born in a culture that values getting up early and working hard, or even being a minority (something that works out well for comedians).

What I liked about the book is that it caused me to reshape my perspective on success, as well as focus on those things in my life that have helped mold me into a better person and perhaps give me some sort of advantage or good fortune. I know, you’ve got to be thinking, “Tell me, how DID you become single, jobless, and lucky enough to live with your parents–all before the age of forty?” And whereas you might have a point there, and whereas I understand the tendency to focus on what isn’t going right and the successes that haven’t occurred, I also understand that my therapist doesn’t put up with whiners. So (at least for this post), I’ll be focusing on the successes that have. As Stuart Smalley says, “An attitude of gratitude–it’s not just a platitude.”

About a year ago, the local Montessori school held a fundraiser, and the guest of honor was Sister Kevin Bopp, the woman who founded the Montessori school in Fort Smith. Both my sister and I attended Montessori, and I can’t say enough about the experience. For one thing, we never had to sit in desks. Instead, we got to move around the room, sit in a corner and read, gather together in the middle of the floor and make crafts. I remember learning how to make a bed, how to pack a suitcase, how to ask a friend if they wanted to sit down and have a snack. (All of these skills continue to come in handy.) Almost everything at Montessori was hands-on, self-directed learning. Teachers were there, of course, and sometimes we’d all work together, but I don’t ever remember it feeling like a lecture or a chore. Actually, I remember it being fun.

When I told my mom and my sister about my plans to go to the fundraiser honoring Sister Kevin, they told me their memories about her. My mom said Sister Kevin used to wait for all the children to arrive each morning, bending down so she was on their level, greeting them each by name. She said that once my sister was homesick, so Sister Kevin let my mom come to the school and wait in another room, so my sister could see her and feel more secure. My sister said she remembers showing up to school one year on St. Patrick’s Day without any green on, and Sister Kevin gave her something green to wear. It may seem like a little thing, but it wasn’t a little thing for my sister.

As I’m sure you know, kindness is never a little thing.

When I saw Sister Kevin last year, I said, “I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Marcus Coker.” And then Sister Kevin smiled and said, “Marcus Coker–from Van Buren.” Later, she reached up and tussled my hair and said, “I could never forget those curls.” (I honestly don’t think that I had curls as a child, but whatever. It’s still sweet.)

That night, I heard a lot of stories about Sister Kevin, and the one thing that everyone remembered about her was how much she loved each and every child. Later, when I got in my car to leave, I started crying because I realized what an impact her love and the school she started had had on me. I realized how fortunate I was to end up in a place that taught and modeled respect for yourself, respect for others, and respect for things. It’s like I’d been carrying around these values for thirty years, and I finally was able to see, at least in part, where they came from. And I started thinking about how I was encouraged to be curious and to an independent learner, to think outside the box, and how my life as an adult might look different if I’d been forced to sit in a desk all day when I was child. Like, maybe I wouldn’t have been a dance instructor or a studio owner because I wouldn’t have had the courage to figure things out as I went or because I would have been taught a more traditional way of doing things, a way that wasn’t as fun.

As I think about it now, I’m especially grateful that I was encouraged to be curious because I think that’s why I keep going back to the library, why I read Malcolm Gladwell. In another of his books (David and Goliath), Malcolm says that often what we think of as disadvantages are actually advantages. So I think if I weren’t curious, it’d be easy to get stuck thinking that the circumstances of my life right now suck and they suck, period. But even Joseph Campbell says that there was a five-year period in his life when he was unemployed and all he did was read. Looking back, he says that period was absolutely essential for all his later success.

I make a lot of jokes about my life right now, but the truth is, I don’t know whether what’s happening is good or bad. My friend Craig, who’s a retired therapist, says that he hates it when people say “baby steps” because there’s not such thing as a small step. Life, he says, is like a puzzle. Every piece is important. So for all I know, this period in my life might be absolutely essential. And maybe thirty years from now, I’ll look back and see it like I see that time with Sister Kevin and Montessori–a time to be curious, a time of learning, a time to love.

[One more thing. If you happen to know Malcolm Gladwell or happen to be Malcolm Gladwell, I have a few follow-up questions I’d like to ask about success–if you’re willing, of course. I’m not currently in the habit of getting up early, but I’d be glad to make an exception if you’re only available in the mornings. Either way, thank you so much for your work.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Anything and everything is possible.

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