Driving to a New House (Blog #485)

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It’s nine in the morning, and I’m in San Francisco. I drove here yesterday, and it took four hours. Along the way I saw vineyards, orange and lemon tree groves, and more trucks filled with tomatoes that I could count. The rolling hills of California, under the hot sun, appeared to me to be pure gold. But don’t get excited and start heading west–they’re really just made of dead grass.

The lesson here is that good lighting can do wonders.

I’m staying with a new friend of mine who’s attending the same dance workshop I am–The Switch. The event’s purpose is to foster the culture of ambi-dancing, or dancing your non-primary or non-gender-specific role. In other words, people who are normally leaders (typically men) have a chance to follow, and people who are normally followers (typically females) have a chance to lead. Anyway, finding my host’s apartment wasn’t a problem, but finding parking was. I circled the block for over an hour. (Street parking is free here but hard to come by, especially on a Friday evening.) FINALLY a someone pulled out two blocks (and up a steep hill) away, and I snagged their spot. (Having packed like Rose on the Titanic, I had to consolidate bags before huffing it down the hill.)

And because I don’t want to go through all that again, I’m not using my car the rest of the weekend. What would be the use? Parking is difficult EVERYWHERE here.

Here’s a picture of the Oakland Bay Bridge, which I drove in on.

After getting dinner at a local Mexican restaurant and checking out a neighborhood bookstore, my host and I went to last night’s dance together–on his scooter. (Don’t worry, Mom, I wore a helmet.) I can only imagine we were quite the site, a small Asian up front, and this large Caucasian behind (with a large Caucasian behind), holding on for dear life, zooming through the crowded, steep-hilled streets of San Francisco. But we made it to the dance in tact and easily found a parking spot–scooters can fit anywhere. Along the we drove through The Castro–the local Gayborhood–or as my host called it, “Queer Central.” Y’all, there were more homos and multi-colored flags than I’ve ever seen in my life. Even the crosswalks were rainbows. Plus there was a bar named Moby Dick, a grocery store named Bi Right (clever, huh?), and a coin laundry named Sit and Spin (think about it).

Fabulous.

The dance itself was lovely. Honestly, I haven’t seen a room full of such happy, smiling people in a while. The “rules” for the event are that if you ask someone to dance, you ask what role they would like to dance–lead, follow, or switch (as in, switch roles throughout the dance). So the place was full of not only the traditional setup–girls leading girls, but also guys leading guys, girls leading girls, and even girls leading boys. You know, just people dancing, having fun.

Being in a new city and not knowing anyone (except a few people I’ve met at other events), it took a while for me to get up the courage to ask others to dance. I mean, I did just have a rough experience asking guys (and girls) to dance at a gay bar in Dallas, and some of those feelings of rejection popped back up. Plus, I did that thing I always do the first night of dance events–compared myself to everyone else in the room and found myself wanting. But I told myself, These feelings ALWAYS show up and try to ruin your good time, Marcus. Just let them be–and ask someone to freaking dance. So that’s what I did. Actually, I asked quite a few people to dance–and a few people asked me to dance. And I had some delightful conversations. And it was fun.

And no one died.

The scooter ride back from the dance went well, but it was freezing. Having come through 120-degree desert heat on the way here, this is something I was unprepared for. I guess it’s because San Francisco is covered in fog (you can’t see the moon, or the stars, or anything at night), but it was sixty degrees when I got here, and God-knows-what when my host and I rode home last night. Thankfully, my host let me borrow a jacket (he’s very kind) so I could layer-up, and I’m looking at the cold weather as an “adventure.”

I can do anything for a weekend.

Currently I’m sipping coffee and thinking about getting ready for classes, which start in two hours. I need to take a shower and round-up a light breakfast. Mostly I’m contemplating a book on hypnosis, which I read a couple chapters in last night before I went to bed. From what I understand so far, the book suggests that 1) hypnosis is both a state of mind and a form of learning and 2) all of us are technically “hypnotized” far more often than we realize. In fact, according to the book, it’s possible (and likely) that my feelings of rejection and better-than/less-than came up at the dance last night because the environment (new city, new people, dance hall, music) reminded my subconscious of dozens of similar situations in the past in which I had responded the same way (feeling insecure). Sort of like when you change jobs or move houses but crawl in your car and suddenly find yourself driving to the old location and not the new one. We’re talking about “learned behavior” here (crawl in the car, go to location X), and this action/response mechanism can apparently apply to emotional responses as well (go to new dance event, feel insecure).

If you can learn to lead, you can learn to follow.

This theory makes a lot of sense to me. I’ve talked before about how I often react to present situations with past emotions–when dealing with finances, for example–and having this context about learning and behaving helps me better understand what’s going on here (in my life). Now–what to do about it–I don’t know. I’m only three chapters into the book. Stay tuned. But I trust that if a human can learn to respond to a situation one way, they can learn to respond to a situation another way. If you can learn to lead, you an learn to follow. You don’t keep driving to your old house forever.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When you hide your hurt, you can’t help but pass it on. It ends up seeping, sometimes exploding out.

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That Which Is Coming Together (Blog #402)

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Last night my friend Bonnie and I went to a swing dance with live rockabilly music in Fayetteville, and my friend Matt from Springfield drove in to meet us. Y’all, it was a screamin’ good time. We danced our butts off. Personally, I barely sat down. At the end of the band’s first set, I was so drenched in sweat that I could have easily won a wet t-shirt contest. That’s the only downside to a night of hard swing dancing–all the perspiration and consequent body odors. (It’s disgusting.) That being said, you sure do burn a lot of calories, so maybe it all evens out.

After the dance was over and there was room on the floor, Matt and I decided work on some aerials (dance stunts). This was all my idea, since I’ve recently realized what fun it is to be tossed is the air, and Matt’s one of the only leaders I know willing to toss me. (I’m not exactly petite.) I say “toss,” which makes it sound like the follower is a sack of potatoes that the leader simply heaves over his shoulder. But that’s not how aerials work. When done right, both the leader (base) and the follower (flyer) exert equal amounts of effort. Anyway, Matt and I worked until we were both worn out, mostly on a move called The Lamp Post, in which the follower goes up and around the leader’s head.

Here’s a video of our “work in progress.”

One thing I forgot to mention is that last night’s dance was held at a gymnastics studio. So get this shit. After all that jumping around on the dance floor, I got to jump around on some honest-to-god trampolines. Y’all, my sister and I used to have a trampoline when were growing up, and last night I felt like a kid again–flying high into the air, flipping forward, flipping back. I even got to jump into a foam pit! I can’t tell you how much fun it was. That being said, I was sucking air after only a few minutes of jumping, and I’m not quite sure how I used to bounce around like that for hours.

Also, I must have done something to my lower back, as I could barely walk out of the building. It’s better today, but my body has still been “talking to me” nonstop. At one point this afternoon I could have sworn I heard it say, “Who do you think you are jumping around like that–Tinker Bell?! Did you forget that we’re almost forty damn years old?”

“Um, yes–yes, I did,” I replied as I grabbed my hip with one hand and reached for the muscle relaxers with the other. “But thank you for so clearly reminding me of our age.”

Since Matt and Bonnie and I stayed late after the dance AND THEN went to dinner, I didn’t end up going to bed until four in the morning. And whereas I slept in today, I still haven’t quite recovered. Also, my body has been acting weird. This evening I helped my parents set up their television and other living room electronics, since they recently got a new TV stand. Y’all, I was up and down, up and down, just like on the trampoline last night, and I got light-headed. This sometimes happens when I eat a Paleo diet, so I ended up saying, Fuck it–I need more carbs, and eating two hard-shell tacos with cheese for dinner. (They were delicious.)

Here’s a picture of my parents’ new TV stand. Since we hid the electronics inside one of the cabinets, I had the hardest time filling up the shelves in the middle (intended for electronics) with appropriately sized knickknacks. I literally had to beg, borrow, and steal from the rest of the house in order for this to come together. But alas, it finally did.

Now it’s 3:30 in the morning, and my brain is shutting down. Also, my allergies are kicking in. My eyes won’t stop watering. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that cheese. Or maybe God shouldn’t have made the pollen count so high in Arkansas. Either way, I’m about to pop a couple antihistamines, maybe some Ibuprofen, and pass out. Last night when I was dancing I thought, I feel like myself again. But clearly I’m not over the hump. In addition to the allergies, my skin is doing all these crazy things, my energy level is still up and down like an aerial. And yet as frustrated as I am with my health, I’m also beyond thankful for these happy, childlike moments when I find myself dancing or jumping on a trampoline, even soaring over someone’s head. In these moments, I have no complaints. So maybe it all evens out. I fret about what will happen next, but I look at my parents’ TV stand and think, Don’t worry, Marcus. Everything else is coming together too.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Of all the broken things in your life, you’re not one of them–and you never have been.

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Forgetting (Blog #353)

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It’s 8 o’clock on the last day of Lindyfest here in Houston, and Daddy is exhausted. Last night I danced until 3:30 in the morning. I’d intended to turn in an hour earlier, but my friend Hannah and I started dancing, and one or both of us kept saying, “UH–just one more?” This morning I was up around 9 for breakfast and have been mostly groggy and incoherent all day, despite the fact that I took a two-hour nap. I guess my body has simply had enough. Granted, it might have something to do with all the extra anti-histamines I’ve been taking for my generally itchy skin and specifically itchy rash (located where no one wants a rash).

In addition to being on my body, this rash has been on my mind for the last week, worrying me. I have an appointment to see my dermatologist this coming week, and when I spoke with his nurse on the phone about what was going on, she said it sounded like dermatitis. In medical terms, this simply means an inflammation of the skin, which means a rash, which I already knew. The nurse said to take anti-histamines and apply hydrocortisone cream, but that advice has so far yielded zero results. Frustrated, yesterday I called my former dermatologist (whom I only quit seeing because she stopped taking my insurance), and asked her opinion. Admitting that I was seeing another doctor, I said, “This is the part where I feel like I’m having an affair.”

Thankfully, she seemed to understand and didn’t come back with, “But what about MY needs?”

Since the rash hasn’t been responding to hydrocortisone, she seemed to think I had a yeast problem. (This is fun to talk about, I know.) So after I got off the phone with her, I walked bravely through Houston traffic to the nearest CVS in search of yet-another cream. Y’all, this last year has been hell on my skin. I’ve had so many problems, I literally have a box of creams, ointments, lotions, gels, and pastes, all meant for rubbing on your pits and parts that never see the sun. Anyway, I got the new cream and gave it a shot when I arrived back at the hotel, but haven’t used it again, since I convinced myself last night that my skin is probably just irritated and pissed off because I keep putting so many chemicals on it.

Honestly, I can’t tell if things are slightly better or slightly worse today. Part of me thinks better, but another part of me thinks I’m simply getting used to itching all the time. Ever since The Great Sinus Infection Drama of the Twenty-First Century started last October, my skin has been overly reactive, so this latest problem just feels like “one more thing.” (When it rains, it pours. How true, how true.) Yesterday on the phone my former dermatologist said, “It’s possible you have a pinched nerve in your lower back, and that could be contributing to your discomfort.”

First, are you freaking kidding me? Second, does anyone else ever get the distinct feeling that doctors are many times “just guessing”?

Due to the number of health problems I’ve had these last several months, I almost didn’t come to Lindyfest this year, even though I’m on staff. But I’m glad I did. Not only has it been a great distraction while I wait for my next doctor’s appointment, but it’s also been great fun. Last night while Hannah and I were dancing, another guy came over to ask me to dance. (Several dancers here dance both the lead and follow roles.) Anyway, Hannah said, “Since we all three dance both roles, let’s do a steal dance.” (A steal dance is when two people start a dance, and one or more other people jump in and replace one of the original dancers–it’s super fun.) So that’s what we did–I led Hannah, then I led the guy, then Hannah led the guy, then she led me, and so on.

Before we knew it, we’d drawn a crowd. (This was around three in the morning after most people had gone to bed, so it was easy to do.) And here’s the wonderful part–one-by-one the rest of the ballroom started joining in. Within the course of the minute, nearly everyone was on the floor, all of us taking turns dancing with each other. Y’all it was so fun. This is why I dance. In those moments, I wasn’t thinking about my struggling body or itchy skin. I wasn’t worried about what’s going to happen next in my life. Also, I wasn’t thinking of what I was doing “wrong.” I wasn’t comparing myself to others. Rather, I was having fun–being alive, being present, “forgetting” that there’s anything un-perfect with me, another, or the world we live in.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We always have more support than we realize.

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This Is How I Dance. This Is Who I Am. (Blog #352)

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Today is my third day in Houston at Lindyfest, a longstanding Lindy Hop convention deep in the heart of Texas. Last night I went to bed at three in the morning and slept for shit. The rash I have (where no one wants a rash) kept me up all night. I don’t mind saying it was (and is) miserable. This morning my alarm went off at eight-thirty, and I’m guessing I only slept a few hours. Dragging myself out of bed, I threw on some clothes, chugged some coffee, and headed downstairs to the ballroom to dance.

For tryouts.

The first time I came to Lindyfest was in 2007. A veteran East Coast Swing dancer, I had a growing interest in Lindy Hop, which, although related to East Coast Swing, is more difficult. So I met some dear friends in Tulsa, and we all travelled down together. Looking back, I guess that first year was my favorite. My friends and I were like a gang. We took classes together, danced together at night, went out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. At that time, everything about Lindy Hop was new and magical. I remember walking into the Melody Club for the first time and seeing hundreds–literally hundreds–of people doing the swing out, the basic movement in Lindy Hop. I was so dewy-eyed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so excited.

I didn’t know it at the time, but there are all sorts of events in the Lindy Hop world. Some are bigger like Lindyfest, and others are smaller, like the one I used to host (Southern Fried Swing). Some events, usually the larger ones, have tryouts or auditions for upper-level classes. This is how Lindyfest is structured–levels 1 through 3 are open to anyone, and levels 4 and up are by the audition process only. However, that first year at Lindyfest, I didn’t have to worry about trying out. I knew where I belonged–at the bottom.

Y’all, back then, I didn’t know any better. I attended every single class I could, watched every performance, and danced all night. I’d skip sleep, even get sick, in order to learn how to Lindy Hop. Looking back, it really was an age of innocence. Now I sleep in, skip classes, and take it all in stride. Now the age of innocence is over.

As the years went by and I continued to attend Lindy Hop workshops, I started trying out for the more advanced classes. Some years I’d make the level I was trying out for, and just as often I wouldn’t. One year I made the upper-level classes, but my dance partner, whom I taught with, didn’t. I wish I could tell you that none of this bothered me, but it did. Whenever I didn’t make the level that I wanted, it usually spoiled the better part of a day. I’m sure my ego was involved. (It usually is.) I remember one year when I just stood there after the names of those who had been chosen for the advanced classes were called and I wasn’t one of them. Now I think I simply wanted to be validated, to be seen.

For the last five years, I haven’t been to Lindyfest, and I don’t mind saying that one of the good things about that for me has been the fact that I haven’t had to tryout for classes, feel judged, or worry about “rejection,” at least in the Lindy Hop world.

Since coming on board as this year’s Lindyfest marketing director, one of the main things the organizers and I have discussed has been the tryout process, since I’m apparently not the only one who’s had a negative experience with it. That being said, objectively, there are a lot of benefits to having tryouts. People (including myself) tend to rate their talents and dancing abilities higher than they actually are, and in order to ensure that everyone has the best learning experience possible, people really do need to be properly sorted or placed so they can work with their peers. Still, it’s a sore point for a lot of people, so many events, including Lindyfest, are constantly trying to improve or modify the process.

In the past, tryouts at Lindyfest have always been held on Friday AND Saturday, but this year the event tried something new. On Friday, everyone got to self-place, meaning that even a brand new dancer could take a top-level class, the idea being that people could “test” levels before trying out for them Saturday (this morning). Honestly, as a staff member, I was hoping to avoid the tryouts altogether. Remembering what it felt like to not “make it,” I thought, I’m too old for this shit. I know what I’m doing. I don’t want to feel bad if I don’t make it.

Well, somehow, I got over myself. First, after surveying the classes yesterday, I knew that I could keep up. Second, I realized that fair is fair. With only a few exceptions, everyone–staff or not–has to get up early and tryout if they want access to the advanced material. So that’s what I did. Running on only a few hours of sleep, I showed up in the ballroom with every other sleepy-eyed dancer here who hoped to end up in the highest level, level 7. (Well, there is a master’s level, but that’s by invitation only and was off my radar.)

Y’all, the audition process was–um–brutal. I mean, it wasn’t brutal because of the people running it. I thought they did a great job, and the lady explaining everything was very kind and understanding. Rather, it was brutal because I’ve been so sick lately. I was winded after the first two songs, and I think there were six or seven total, each progressively faster. And I don’t know, something about knowing that you’re being judged. Seriously, I’ve been dancing for over ten years, and all of a sudden, everything I knew flew out the window. So I had to tell myself, Calm down, Marcus. Dance solid basics. Use your technique. Listen to the music.

Okay, enough suspense. Despite the fact that I was sucking air and overly worried, I made it. I made level 7.

Y’all, I get that in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. Had I made level 6, or even 5, I would have been okay by tomorrow. Hell, it’s not like I’m actually taking any classes. I mean, I’ve been sick, and now I’ve got this rash (where no one wants a rash) made worse by friction (in other words, dancing). For this reason, actually taking a class and rotating around to different partners sounds miserable. But I love having the option of going to any class I want. Plus, in some way I feel validated and seen, like I somehow got something I didn’t in the past when I tried out and didn’t “make it.”

I don’t like admitting it, but I got a special wristband when I made level 7, and it makes me feel–um–important. Honestly, I hate this. (And have thus argued against wristbands in my official capacity–because they separate people.) I hate that if only in the slightest, I feel better than any other dancer here. Because it’s a bunch of bullshit. What really matters is that I can see progress, that I can look back and see how far I’ve come, even if no one else recognizes it or if my wristband doesn’t say it. What should be important–and is, actually–is the fact that I was afraid of being rejected this morning and yet was willing to put myself out there, to effectively say, “This is how I dance and this is who I am. Like it or not. At the end of the day, I don’t give a shit.”

Having made the level that I wanted, I really can’t say much about being rejected. As one of my friends said when I started working for this event, “You’re in the cool kids’ club now.” I don’t know if that’s true or not–most people don’t look at Lindy Hoppers as cool to begin with–but I understand their point. It’s nice to be accepted. But I do get it–I know what it feels like to want something so bad–to be validated, to be seen–and not receive it. I’ve experienced that in the Lindy Hop world, and I still experience it now in other creative endeavors like writing.

You don’t ever have to prove a thing.

This afternoon I was on the elevator with a dewy-eyed first time Lindyfest attendee, and when I asked her how she liked it, her face literally lit up. “I LOVE IT,” she said. And for just a moment, it made me want to go back to my first year, to the time I was excited about the dance because it’a joyful thing to do and not because it can make me look “cool.” Given the chance, I’d go back and tell myself, Baby, don’t worry about a wristband. It has nothing to do with who you are, and no one else can validate you–only you can do that. Certainly no one else can see you, really see you, until you see yourself and until you accept yourself exactly as you are. Try out if you want to, but I promise–as long as you live, you don’t ever have to prove a thing.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The clearer you see what's going on inside of you, the clearer you see what's going on outside of you. It's that simple.

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That One in the Mirror (Blog #351)

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For the last two weeks, ever since I found out I was going to have a roommate here at Lindyfest, I’ve been worried about snoring. I honestly don’t think I do it all the time, but friends have mentioned it. Plus, it’s woken ME up enough times to merit concern. Friends tell me not to worry, that lots of people snore, but I’m always so envious of people who don’t. You know, pretty sleepers, people who just lie there perfectly still all night and wake up looking like they walked out of a magazine the next morning. Not me–I toss and turn, make noises. Sometimes my legs jerk. Hell, I probably even fart when I sleep. I always wake up with my hair stuck up, looking like I just escaped a barroom brawl.

It’s so embarrassing.

On the way up to the room last night, I thought, Don’t freak out, Marcus. People snore. Maybe your roommate will snore too and it will be something you two can bond over. But no such luck. I walked in the room, about four in the morning, and it was complete silence. Like so quiet I wondered if he had died. Anyway, I crawled in my side of the bed (there’s only one bed in the room), and all I could think about was snoring. I probably would have stayed awake all night worrying about what my body might do if I were to nod off, but I’d taken some Benadryl (for a rash I have where no one wants a rash), and they kicked in. Five hours later my roommate woke me up for breakfast, sort of shouting my name–Marcus! Later I stumbled into the bathroom, noticed drool on my shirt, and thought, Yep, definitely snored.

But seriously, what can you do?

I’d honestly intended to take a nap after breakfast since I would have had the room to myself, but I got caught up in a good conversation, then decided to check out today’s dance classes. For the most part, I didn’t participate. I did stand up a couple times to go through some footwork, but I have this effing rash (where no one wants a rash), and almost any movement is uncomfortable. Seriously, this skin irritation is itching nonstop despite all the things I’m doing that the dermatologist told me to do, and dancing doesn’t make it any better. Good thing I’m not at a dancing convention with dance classes all day and dances all night.

Oh wait.

Otherwise, things are going really well. I’ve enjoyed watching classes, and I’m doing my best to strike up conversations with people, or at least smile or say hello. So far everyone has responded positively, and I actually feel like I’m making friends. Well, except for that guy in the bathroom. He kind of rushed off. Maybe he didn’t appreciate my peeking under his stall. (That’s a joke, Mom.) But seriously, as someone who has often felt “left out” or un-included at larger dance events, this is big progress.

Now it’s eight in the evening, and tonight’s dance starts in an hour. It’ll go until five in the morning, so it’s not like I have to be there for every minute. Still, I would like to finish the blog before it starts and perhaps even take a nap before I dance, dance, dance. Really, I don’t know that I’ll do that much dancing. In more than one way, my body is telling me to take it easy. Maybe this is a good thing. In the past I’ve always felt like I had to dance every minute or, I don’t know, impress people. Having been through the ringer these last several months, I’m more subdued. Now I’m content to simply be me–me who sometimes snores, me who has a rash where no one wants a rash, whatever.

You don’t have to be afraid of rejection.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the more I learn to love and accept myself (snoring, rashes, and every other “embarrassing” thing), the better my experience is with those around me. Maybe this is the magic of self-acceptance. Once you know who you are and are okay with that, you can open up, you can talk to anyone and not be afraid of rejection. Not that others won’t ever reject you, you just don’t have to be afraid of their rejection because you’re no longer living for their approval. If you have it, great. If you don’t, you’ve still got the approval of the one that matters, that one in the mirror with drool on their shirt.

[The above photo is me doing a famous swing dance move that’s appropriately titled “Itch and Scratch.”]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If anything is ever going to change for the better, the truth has to come first.

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Moving toward The Middle (Blog #350)

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It’s two in the morning, and I’m in Houston at Lindyfest, the swing dance event I’ve been working with for the last two months. I left Arkansas this afternoon around twelve-thirty, and it took nine hours to get here. On the way I listened to several lectures (on the internet as well as in my head), then music, music, music. For the last week I’ve had a song called “The Middle” in my earphones on repeat, so today was a lot of that. I don’t know, something about it makes me happy. Plus, something about being on the road with Tom Collins. It was a great drive.

If you’re new here, Tom Collins is my car. (Try to keep up.)

But going back to The Middle. One of the lectures I listened to was by Joseph Campbell and was about King Arthur, the Knights of the Round Table, and the Grail Legends. Since I was focused on driving, several of the details Campbell spoke about went in one ear and out the other, but what stuck was a story about one of the knights, Percival. Google says that the name Percival means “to pierce the valley,” but Campbell says it means, “through the middle.” To me, both interpretations are close enough to the same thing, but I’m going to stick with Campbell’s (mostly) from here on out.

Another lecture I listened to (by a different speaker) was about changing tribal beliefs. Tribal beliefs reside in your first chakra (at the base of your spine), are often related to safety or being “grounded,” and are inherited. Usually unconscious, they are the beliefs we have that were taught to us as children that we don’t question, things like “You have to work hard to get ahead in this world” or “People won’t accept me for who I really am.” And here’s where we get back to Campbell, Percival, and The Middle. The speaker said that we usually think of our beliefs as being in black and white. The world is either this way or that way. However, when we think of our beliefs in black and white, they are difficult to change. But the speaker said, “What if you just changed one of your beliefs by ten percent? What if you asked yourself, ‘Isn’t it reasonable to think that someone–anyone–could accept me for who I am?'”

Isn’t that reasonable?

Since I have a strong tendency to think in black and white, I love this suggestion about making slight changes in my beliefs because it introduces an element of gray. It sounds like a more gentle way of being. It invites me to walk down The Middle instead of staying on one side all the time. I don’t know, it sounds more–balanced.

Leading up to this dance event, I’ve had a thousand thoughts running around my head. I haven’t been to Lindyfest in five years, and you know how you imagine how things will go. If they say this, I’m going to say this. Of course, it never happens the way you think it will, but I still do it. Since I’m the marketing director for this year’s event, I’ve mostly imagined myself being “super friendly” with people–talking to as many folks as possible. How are you, where are you from, what do you like or dislike about the event? You know, excited, like a damn puppy. I’m just so happy to be here!

I quickly remembered that I’m not Guy Smiley.

Never mind that even though I love talking to people, it can wear me out. I mean, in conversation there has to be a give and take, which obviously can’t happen with five hundred people at a dance event. (Dancers are weird and awkward–like most humans.) Maybe some people can talk to a wall, but I’m not one of them. Anyway, I quickly remembered that I’m simply not Guy Smiley. After getting checked into my room, I went to the ballroom and said hello to a few folks, but I immediately felt outside my comfort zone. I thought, I’m here all by myself. Where are my friends? What if I don’t make it into the upper-level classes?

Apparently I forgot to leave my insecurities back in Arkansas. Shit. I thought my suitcase felt a little heavy.

For a moment, I thought about completely withdrawing, spending the weekend in my room or “just watching.” But then I decided to Get a damn grip, Nancy. So instead of jumping right into dancing, instead of forcing myself to be social when I didn’t feel like it, I took myself to the bar and ordered a beer and something for dinner. Like, Let’s eat something first, Alice. (Gay guys sometimes call each other, or themselves, by girls’ names, Mom.) This ended up being the best thing. Not only did it give me a minute to get acclimated and meet the event on my terms, but also the food was great and I ended up chatting with both a bartender and the lady next to me (who was here for the dance).

When I finished eating, I went back to the ballroom. I found a friend, then found a couple more. I danced a few dances, but my lung capacity is seriously down lately. So I introduced myself to a few strangers (but not the whole room), then ended up in two really long, lovely conversations with people I knew, but didn’t know that well. And here’s what I’m proud about–I didn’t go all Walmart Greeter on everyone’s ass, but I also didn’t hide out in a corner all evening. I found The Middle. In the process, I got out of my comfort zone–enough–and also challenged some of my tribal beliefs, things like “I can’t strike up a conversation with someone I don’t know.”

Isn’t it reasonable to think that others feel insecure too, that it’s not just me? Isn’t it reasonable to think that someone would respond well to a friendly face, my friendly face?

My hope is that I’ll start hanging out in The Middle more often, challenging my limiting tribal beliefs a little at a time. With any luck, I too will be able to pierce the valley, where I imagine there is a lot more gray.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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All That Is Best and Broken (Blog #246)

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After eight months of solid blogging, I haven’t quite figured out how to “blog early.” (Perhaps this is not a surprise.) This morning I woke up at 11:30 and completed all my other daily routines (morning pages, chi kung, half a pot of coffee), and Bonnie and I have been shopping in Fayetteville ever since. My energy level is slightly better than yesterday, but now it’s 7:45, we’re at a dance in Northwest Arkansas that hasn’t even started yet, and I’m already worn out. Since the dance lasts for a while and then there’s the drive home, I’m trying to blog now while my brain is somewhat–somewhat–functional. I just can’t stay up late again to blog, at least until I feel better. I just can’t.

Great, that’s 125 words.

Oh wow, there’s a live band tonight–the Prairie Grove Jazz Band–and they just started warming up. It sounds like a bunch of toddlers who found the pots and pans. (I’m sure it will be much better when they’re actually playing a song.) Anyway, I wonder if I’ll be able to concentrate, keep a coherent train of thought going in between all the noise and the dances. Oh well–hang on–this could be a bumpy ride. AND the band just started. Much better, but loud. (YOU’LL HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD FOR IT.)

Oh my god, I just danced and am dying. Where did all the air go? Talk amongst yourselves.

The shopping objective today was to replace holiday decorations that Bonnie recently lost in a house flood. Anyway, we went to several stores and ended up with dozens of oversized tree ornaments, a holiday kitchen towel, and a Santa Claus that looks like St. Francis of Assisi that we’re calling St. Nicolaus of Assisi. Oh–and how could I forget?–we found two little statues–an owl and a squirrel–in fancy circus clothes and top hats! Who thinks of this stuff! Anyway, Bonnie’s gonna stick those suckers next to a little artificial pine tree, and it’s going to be so adorable you won’t be able to stand yourself.

Woodland critters in top hats for Christmas!

I told Bonnie that the best thing about today has been that not only have I gotten out of the house, but I’ve also gotten out of my head. I mean, if it hasn’t been obvious, I’ve spent a lot of time lately worrying about the state of my physical body. Why am I so tired? Am I ever going to feel well again? Maybe I should go ahead and pick out my headstone. This sort of thinking, of course, is exhausting (not to mention dramatic). Still, it’s hard to avoid when I have almost every minute of every day to myself with little else to do or think about. So whereas I think I need to take it easy, I’m reminding myself that I need to get out and be around other people–other people who will let me whine for about five minutes then shut me up with a margarita.

For lunch Bonnie shut me up with a margarita. Y’all, both of us have been on really healthy diets lately, Bonnie for nine weeks, me for four. But today we broke all the rules and had Mexican food. Wow, it was like reuniting with an old friend. I seriously felt like I owed the cheese an apology. I’m sorry I haven’t called lately–I’ve been cheating on you with spinach–I won’t let it happen again. Everything was so delicious; I probably gained five pounds from the chips alone. Of course, it feels like all my hard work just went straight down the drain, just like the flour tortillas went straight to my hips, but I realize that one meal is only one meal. Even even if it weren’t–it was totally worth it.

When we sat down at the restaurant, Bonnie surprised me with a birthday present. Granted, my birthday was over two months ago, but Bonnie made my present by hand, so it took her some time. Y’all, Bonnie knitted me some multi-colored wool socks–just in time for winter! I realize this is totally an old person thing to do, getting excited about socks. But these are homemade socks, and since my feet are always cold this time of year, warm socks really are the perfect thing. Plus, Bonnie designed the socks with a path down each side, sort of like a road, but it’s intentionally crooked and bumpy because Bonnie said that’s how life is.

Having lived for twenty-seven years now, I’d have to agree.

The card Bonnie gave me tonight had a quote by Oscar Wilde on it that said, “Be yourself–everyone else is taken.” Bonnie didn’t know it, but that quote is also used in the musical Kinky Boots–one of my favorites. So again, it was the perfect thing. Anyway, the quote makes me think about the importance of authenticity. I know we all wear masks and play different roles. Some of this, of course, is necessary in a polite society. You can’t tell everyone everything. But having spent plenty of time over the years trying to be someone I wasn’t (for example–straight, interested, or completely fine with bad behavior), I realize now I was mostly trying to be someone who didn’t even exist. Newsflash–there is no straight Marcus. There is no Marcus who’s okay when he’s cheated on. There is, however, a gay Marcus who sometimes falls apart and sometimes gets mad as hell.

Circuitous routes are where the healing happens.

Naturally, the road to authenticity is a crooked, bumpy path, just like recovering from an illness is a crooked, bumpy path. Being yourself, taking care of yourself, takes work. As my therapist says, it’s exhausting to always be the person setting boundaries and speaking your truth. So sometimes you wander as you figure things out. I think that’s okay. Nobody shows up to this life with a map in their hand, and even if we had one, I’m not sure we’d want to travel in a straight line. No, circuitous routes are better and more interesting. Circuitous routes are where the healing happens, since they let you double back and pick up the pieces of yourself you dropped along the way. This is what authenticity looks like, I think, the willingness to gather together all that is best and broken inside you and share it with someone else without apology, to face the world and say, “This is my winding road–this is MY winding road–and this is who I am.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If you want to find a problem, you will.

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The Mystery of It All (Blog #181)

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When I first started blogging almost six months ago, the average blog took anywhere from four to six hours to complete. I’d sit at the laptop staring at a blank page and just wait for an idea to show up, sort of like I do now with boyfriends. It was exhausting. Thankfully, the process has gotten a lot easier. Now the average blog takes two hours–about an hour and a half to write, maybe thirty minutes to edit. Honestly, it’s still tough, trying to take an average day and turn it into something funny or profound. Sometimes I’d simply like to eat a damn cheeseburger without having to turn it into a mystical experience. Recently I turned down the opportunity to spend the night with a delightful man so I could come home and blog. Tonight I had dinner with perhaps the most honest friend I have, and he said, “Couldn’t you just take off one night in order to get laid?”

I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it.

Still, I’ve come to love the experience. More often than not, I really have no idea what I’m going to sit down and say. More accurately, I have no idea what’s going to be said through me. But I’ve found that if I just start typing, something shows up. That’s why so many blogs start with, “It’s one in the morning, I’m tired, and I can’t stop smelling my armpits.” I’ve found if I just start with the facts–the honest truth–then it’s like a roller coaster ride. Suddenly I’m off and running, and the twists and turns are just as much a surprise to me as to anyone else. Yes, it still scares the shit out of me. I constantly think, What am I going to say next? Despite this fact, I’m learning to trust the process, the mystery of it all.

There’s something about the end of September. For six years, I hosted Southern Fried Swing (a Lindy Hop convention) at this time of year, so all the memories are popping up on Facebook. I can just feel it in the air. It seems like I should be decorating the venue, picking up instructors from the airport, meeting with the band, eating cinnamon rolls from Calico County, and–of course–dancing. It’s the way I used to feel every summer, that I should be at summer camp, teaching kids to canoe and singing “Picking Up Paw Paws.” Now it feels like something is missing, something that I really loved and was good at.

Today, instead of working on Southern Fried Swing (or, as one friend calls it, Chicken Pot Pie), I drove to Fort Smith to pick up a bunch of “cancer hats” for my mom. Since she’s bald, she’s been wearing a sailor’s hat at home to keep her warm. Honestly, it’s not cute–she looks like Gilligan. Anyway, my sister talked to a family friend who’s had cancer, and she and her mom (also a cancer survivor) rounded up some more fashionable options for my mom. As the gay child in the family, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of this first.

After picking up the hats, I went to Walmart to get gas for Tom Collins (my car) and decided I needed to replace my wiper blades. I mean, the ones I’ve had have been “okay,” but not great. Well, anything feels like an expense these days, but I’m going on a road trip in a couple weeks, so I figured it would be a good investment. So I bit the bullet and got two for the front and one for the back. Y’all, either I’m getting smarter or wiper blades are designed better than they used to be. Usually it takes me half an hour, a manual, and a gallon of holy water to change wiper blades, but I changed all three of those suckers in less than five minutes this afternoon.

It really is the little things.

Tonight on the way to dinner, I tested out the blades, and–wow–they were worth every penny. I can see clearly now. When I got home, Mom checked out the hats I picked up this afternoon. She tried a couple of her favorites on, then Dad came in the room and tried a couple on. Ever the selfie opportunist, I threw one on too and took a picture of us. It just lasted a moment, but–at least for me–the whole cancer problem seemed lighter. Maybe I just felt closer to my family.

Also, maybe I should start wearing pink more.

Naturally, I have a lot of plans for my life, things I’d like to see happen. The truth is that life, like writing, is a mystery. You start out having no idea how it’s going to go, or maybe you think “this” will happen, but things simply unfold as the do. Maybe you spend six years doing the same thing every fall, and then one year it’s over, nothing left but memories and old photos. Sometimes I think it’s easy to get stuck in the past, to wish for what was. But whenever I do that, it feels like looking through a windshield that won’t quite come clean, as if looking backwards prevents me from seeing clearly what’s right in front of me. Maybe what’s in front of me is a mom with cancer, or maybe it’s an ordinary day. Either way, life does seem to be getting easier, and I’m coming to see every day and even myself as a black page, full of possibility.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Anything and everything is possible.

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The Pulse Fixes Everything (Blog #168)

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There’s a principle or technique called pulsing used in swing dancing that’s not used in any other dance I’m aware of. Pulsing, essentially, is bouncing. It comes from slightly bending your knees, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet, and kind of hopping up and down. If you watch swing dancers who know what they’re doing, you could look only at their heels, and they’d be going up and down. Or if you focused only on their heads, it’d look like they were on little pogo sticks. Since swing music is typically upbeat, the pulse compliments the rhythm of the music. Pulsing helps you connect with your partner, gets you moving around the floor more easily, and makes you look alive. I once had an instructor tell me, “If there’s a problem with your dancing, pulse. The pulse fixes everything.”

Since first learning to swing dance in 1999, I’ve learned a lot about pulsing, rhythm, connection, and patterns. I’ve critically observed thousands of other dancers and taken hundreds of classes. Through all of this, I’ve learned about the physical body and the way it works. But since closing my dance studio last year and having a car accident a couple months ago, I’ve had the opportunity to learn about the physical body in a whole new way.

Flexibility makes you a better, healthier dancer.

Over the years people have said, “Oh, you’re a dancer, you must be flexible.” Well, honestly, I never have been. Strong, maybe. Flexible, not so much. A couple years ago, for fun, I took a modern dance class. You know, Martha Graham stuff. I just wanted to do something different. The class was taught at a local dance studio as part of a college course for theater students, and I got to audit it because I know the studio owner. I was the oldest one there and mostly awkward, but I had a great time. Anyway, one of the main things that stood out to me was the fact that every class started with stretching. Why? Flexibility makes you a better, healthier dancer.

Duh.

At the same time I was taking the modern class, I was practicing yoga. Between the two activities, I realized just how tight my hips were. Actually, they’re still tight, but they’re better than they used to be. Today I had coffee with a friend, and when we talked about dance, I said the one thing I wished someone had told me all those years ago was to stretch. Sadly, swing dancers rarely talk about stretching, except in the context of doing aerials. But I’ve never taken or taught a class that included stretching, and I’m starting to believe it’s something we’re missing as a community of dancers. After all, swing dancing takes a lot of energy and a lot of work. It’s part of the reason, I think, that the average swing dancer is only twenty or thirty years old. Constantly pulsing isn’t for sissies and is rough on the body. So if you don’t have a practice in place to take care of yourself and stay limber, you’re going to quit swing dancing and start foxtrotting instead.

Lately I’ve wanted to talk to more swing dancers about any aches and pains they may be experiencing because I’ve realized that many of the problems I’ve had with my body over the last fifteen years have been directly related to swing dancing. I assume plenty of dancers have done a better job of caring for their bodies than I have, but I also assume that plenty of other swing dancers are like me and simply haven’t been taught how to do it. Of course, most of us know something about stretching muscles, but I’m learning more and more about stretching fascia or connective tissue, and that’s really the thing that’s made and is making the biggest difference for me.

Tonight after a couple days off from yoga and stretching, I watched and worked through a video on stretching my lateral lines, basically the fascia on the side of the body. The video instructor, Dylan Werner, said that if you have to make a sudden movement, say catch your balance, it’s your fascia that’s doing the work, since fascia is much more responsive than muscles are. For this reason, having healthy fascia is “the fountain of youth,” meaning it’s our fascia that makes us flexible–or not.

In the best and worst cases, fascia locks our bodies into certain positions and keep us there. Here’s a picture of me taken about a year and a half ago. It’s dated spring of 2016, but I think it was actually the previous winter. Anyway, notice how my neck kind of scoops forward. It was like that for years. Rather than being directly over my shoulders, my ears are over my chest. Also, my back is rounded more than is typical, my shouldesr are slumped forward, and my hands are in front of my hips.

Fortunately, things have gotten a lot better. I just took a break from typing, and here’s where I am tonight. I’m picky as shit, and it’s not exactly where I want to be, but it’s serious improvement–ears over shoulders, less curve in my mid-back, chest out, hands by my side. Honestly, this wasn’t possible two years ago. People used to tell me to “stand up straight,” but I couldn’t. My fascia wouldn’t let me.

Obviously, the body can change. For the longest time, I didn’t even know I had structural problems, just that I had headaches and a hip that hurt. Once the issues were pointed out, I believed I was just stuck that way. Of course, I was stuck that way, but I didn’t think it could ever get better. Well, it’s getting better–it already is better.

Whether you’re a swing dancer or not, if you’re having a problem with your body, I believe there’s hope. And whereas I’ve always wanted a quick fix or “a miracle” to fix my body, it hasn’t worked that way. Over the last year, I’ve seen a number of body workers, massage therapists, and chiropractors, in addition to yoga and other practices I’ve done at home. In swing dancing, if you’re not pulsing, we say you’re flat, as in standing still. So for me healing has been a matter of pulsing, continuing to move and search until I found something that worked. The pulse fixes everything. Then it’s simply been sticking with it, trusting that my body will find its rhythm as I find mine.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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When you hide your hurt, you can’t help but pass it on. It ends up seeping, sometimes exploding out.

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Keep Showing Up (Blog #122)

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The last twenty-four hours have been packed with dance, which means I’m currently out of Ibuprofen. Seriously, maybe I should take up knitting or–even better–watching TV. Those activities would surely be easier on my body. Speaking of my body–if anyone with any authority is reading this–I’d like to request a different model for my next lifetime.

Last night I drove to Tulsa to meet my friend Matt (from Springfield) to Lindy Hop. (There’s a weekly swing dance in Tulsa.) When I got to the dance, I immediately spotted three of the coolest people I know–Gregg, Rita, and Marina–at the same table. (Birds of feather.) Gregg and Rita and I used to travel to Lindy Hop dances together, and they’ve watched me grow as a dancer, brought me hot tea and Happy Meal toys when I’ve had the flu, and heard me snore (and we’re still friends). They’re also one of the few people who still call me “Sparkles,” which I think is kind of cute. (But that doesn’t mean YOU can do it.) As for Marina, she’s who I want to be when I grow up. I mean, anyone in their nineties who wears a t-shirt that says, “I’m awesome–deal with it” is a role-model for me.

I left the dance early to eat with Gregg and Rita, who were meeting their son and some of his friends. Afterwards I drove to Springfield (which Matt had done about an hour earlier) and met Matt to eat again. Sometime about three or four in the morning I met my friends Anne and Andy (like the Raggedy dolls) at their dance studio/home in downtown, said hello, and proceeded to crash on a futon in their guest room and immediately enter into a coma.

When I woke up this morning, I honestly didn’t know where I was. My alarm was going off, and I think the muscle relaxer I took last night was still in effect. But I finally figured it out. (I know where I am now.) I’d come to Springfield to work with Matt (and Anne and Andy) on aerials. Even better, my former dance partner Janie had agreed to help out.

After breakfast we all met in Anne and Andy’s studio, which is one floor below their home in the same building. (Talk about easy!) The objective today was to work on a move called “Around the Back” (because you go around the back), also known as “The Frankie” (because it’s credited to Frankie Manning, one of the original Lindy Hoppers and probably the most famous). Before we tackled it, we warmed up with some other moves, and at one point I tweaked something in my upper back/low neck area. (Advice–don’t have a car wreck and then, less than a month later, spend three hours throwing another adult through the air.) Anyway, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I can still feel my toes.

Here’s the move we spent the move we came to work on. Considering it’s been six years since we’ve tried it together (or at all), it went pretty well. Matt did a great job too, even though he wore a headband that made him look like he was doing Jazzercize. And since I just made fun of his headband (which I really have NO room to do), I’ll just go ahead and say that when I followed today and Matt threw me in the air like a sack of potatoes, I squealed in giddy delight.

Anne said, “You’re such a girl.”

I said, “I know I am.”

Here’s a move we did–just to see if we still could. (We still could–Yippee!)

Okay, y’all, we might have a problem. I just picked up a glass of water to lift to my mouth, and I think I actually heard my arm say, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Yep. I overdid it.

Anyway, after three hours of that jumping around nonsense, we were all pretty much spent. So Janie took off, and then I taught a couple other private lessons that Matt had lined up for me, but–thank God–neither of them involved lifting, throwing, jumping, or anything else the Good Lord intended only for teenagers and people who don’t eat cake for breakfast. So after that Matt and I joined Anne and Andy upstairs for dinner, and then I took advantage of their heated/vibrating recliner.

I think it’s okay to say that after we hit the two-hour mark this afternoon, Matt started getting frustrated. He was tired and couldn’t get Janie fully “around his back,” even though he’d had some wonderful successes earlier. I mean, thirty to forty-five minutes of aerials should be the limit, since muscles fatigue. And whereas I understand getting frustrated–I’m constantly frustrated that I’m not “better”–today was Matt’s first attempt at “Around the Bak.” Comparatively, I can’t tell you the number of hours–and injuries–Janie and I have logged over the years in order to learn what we know.

So many hours and injuries. So–many–anti-inflammatories.

I always tell people that learning to dance is like learning a new language–it doesn’t happen quickly. And even though I’m still attracted to the idea of the miracle–the instant cure, the overnight transformation–so far most of my successes have come from slow and consistent determination. A little practice here, a little practice there. My therapist told me once that I’m steady like a ship. When I look at the progress I’ve made in over seventeen years of dance or over three years of therapy, I still want to “be better.” But I have to admit–I’ve come a long way.

I didn’t mean for this to turn into a pat-myself-on-the-back session, although my sore muscles could probably use it. (Yours probably could too–pat yourself on the back!) But I think there’s something to recognizing your successes. Even more, I think there’s something to recognizing all the steps you’ve take toward success–all the times you’ve fallen down and gotten back up again. When I first started dancing, over a dozen of my friends started with me. Within six months, they’d all quit. It’s not that I had more talent–I still wouldn’t say that–it’s that I just kept showing up. That’s the only secret I’ve got for us today–for dance, for therapy, for writing a blog–whatever–be interested, work hard (ish), and keep showing up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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