Something, Something, and Dates (Blog #77)

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Y’all, I actually worked today. Teaching dance lessons. For money. Praise the Lord.

The work day started with my friend Summer. That’s her in the picture. (If I could get my hair to do that, I would just die.) I know Summer from the Little Theater in Fort Smith and her work with improv comedy. She’s hilarious. Anyway, Summer and her husband eloped a while back, but they’re having a ceremony and reception soon, so she and her Dad came in today to work on their father-daughter dance.

During the lesson I asked Summer how she met her husband, and she said they used to work at the same place, and her friends kept encouraging her to talk to him. This went on for a couple of weeks, and one day she turned around and–honest to god–bumped into the guy. Well, he’d gotten a major haircut recently, so the first thing Summer said was, “I like your hair.”

I like your hair.

Can you believe that line ended up snagging her a huz? I mean, Summer landed a hot dude (I creeped her Facebook page) with, “I like your hair.” It’s like Baby in Dirty Dancing saying, “I carried a watermelon” and ending up in bed with friggin’ Patrick Swayze. Well, first, I love that (the thing and Patrick Swayze). Second, I’ve apparently been doing everything all wrong.

The dance lessons this afternoon were at my friend Bonnie’s house, and she offered to make me a smoothie during a break. They say beggars can’t be choosers, but that didn’t stop me from trying, so I said, “What kind of smoothie? What are you gonna put in it?”

“Coffee, peanuts, hemp seeds, something, something, and dates.”

“Dates? That sounds good. I haven’t had a date in FOREVER.” (It’s funny because it’s true.)

Several weeks ago I saw a hot guy on a friend’s Instagram account, so I creeped him on Facebook. (I swear I don’t spend ALL my time creeping on people. But don’t even front like you don’t do it too.) Anyway, I did something I never do and asked my friend to hook a brother up. To my great surprise and delight, they said they’d give it their best shot. Hashtag winning.

What if tomorrow’s the day?

Well, people have lives and these things are delicate, so it’s been a slow process. But in the meantime I’ve been keeping myself busy fantasizing (not about anything naughty), slipping into little daydreams like having someone to walk with (I’m assuming this guy has legs–the picture was taken from the waist up), or going to the movies together, or wondering if my seven-year-old nephew with long hair would mind standing in as one of the flower girls at the wedding. You know, little daydreams like that.

My therapist says that daydreams like these are completely normal. A long time ago I told her that I’d meet a total stranger and immediately start thinking about marrying him, moving to a big city, maybe even having kids. She said, “I don’t know anyone who DOESN’T do that.”

Anyway, this evening I found out that the guy is seeing someone (who’s not me). What a drag. On the scale of lifetime disappointments, this one ranks pretty low. But on the scale of today’s disappointments, it pretty much takes the cake (cake!) because it’s the only one I’ve had, unless you count the thing about Summer’s hair being better than my hair, which I don’t.

In the past two years, I’ve gotten myself all worked up about a couple different assholes–I mean gentlemen–I met online. In both cases, I actually talked to them–things were going splendidly–that is until it we started planning a date. By we, I mean me, since I’M A PLANNER. (Paula Cole should write a song called “Where have all the planners gone?”) And then–crickets.

When that happened the second time, my therapist did something she almost never does. She gave me a directive. “We’ve reached the point in our relationship at which I can sometimes tell you what to do,” she said, “and I’m telling you to stop talking to guys on Tindr.” So that’s what I did. Never let it be said that I can’t follow directions. But I said, “I never even met these people. We just sent messages to each other. Why am I so disappointed? Why does it hurt?”

“That’s just the death of the fantasy,” she said.

“Well it sucks.”

At Bonnie’s tonight, there were some really strong winds. We were sitting on her front porch, so we put away the outdoor furniture to keep it from blowing away. Before I left, her electricity went kaput. On my way home, I took my usual route, which snakes through town and up a big hill into the back of my parents’ neighborhood. Just before the crest of the hill, I saw that a large tree had fallen across the road, so I had to do a thirteen-point turn, head back down the hill, and choose another route.

Before I did, I used my headlights to take a picture with the big tree. The picture doesn’t really do it justice, but I think I look all right, even if you can’t see the legs I most certainly have. But believe me when I tell you that the tree was so big it took up the entire road. Hell, there were probably little elves that make cookies living in it.

Tonight when I saw the elf tree in the middle of the road, it seemed pretty obvious that I wasn’t meant to go that way, which meant that, in effect, another fantasy had died–my fantasy about traveling down that particular road. (I’m sorry, this road is currently dating someone else.)

So all I can think is that a lot of times our plans and fantasies don’t work out. A LOT OF TIMES they don’t work out. And that can hurt and that can suck. But just because one road doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you can’t turn around, try another one, and still get to where you’re going. Isn’t that what an adventure is? And as for that guy, my friend said they hadn’t given up, so I guess it’s possible that a road that’s blocked today could clear up tomorrow. I’m really okay either way, but what if tomorrow’s the day to bump into someone and say, “I like your hair”?

What if?

[In the spirit of this post, I’m sharing one of my favorite songs maybe ever, “Ring Them Bells” by Liza Minnelli. (Will and Grace taught me, “Judy, Liza, Barbara, Bette–These are names I shan’t forget.) It’s about the true story of a woman who traveled around the world and met her future husband, only to find out that he already lived next door to her in New York City. It’s fabulous.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It's enough to sit in, and sometimes drag ass through, the mystery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It’s enough just to be here.

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Defrosting Your Emotional Freezer (Blog #71)

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This afternoon I helped my dad defrost the freezer in the garage. He said it had been two and half years since it was last defrosted, but it might as well have been ten. There was so much ice caked on the top shelf, there was only enough room for one single-serve pizza from Schwan’s. (Mom LOVES Schwan’s food. And the Schwan’s guy, whoever it happens to be, since he brings the food. He always gets invited in, asked about his kids. Hell, “Schwan’s guy” is probably in her will–above me but beneath my sister.) Anyway, after Dad took out all the Schwan’s boxes, we dragged the freezer into the driveway, hooked up the water hose, and I went to work.

For about twenty minutes, I aimed the water hose at the ice as if I were a fireman (but obviously not a fireman because they put out fires not freezers), watching it slowly melt, break away from the shelves, and then fall to the bottom. When I finished, Dad and I cleaned the mold that had collected on the top and sides of the freezer, as well as on the rubber seal around the door. (It was pretty gross, but don’t you go getting all judgmental. I’m sure your freezer isn’t much better.) Before long, everything was spick and span. After the freezer dried out, Dad hauled it back inside the garage and plugged it back in, and Mom put all the food where she wanted it. I joked that now there was even more room for Schwan’s, and Dad–who prefers bologna and meals purchased with coupons–said, “You could have gone all day without saying that.”

Cleaning out the ice from the freezer made me think about the ways things build up in our lives. I know that for the longest time I held on to physical objects. Slowly, things came in but rarely went out. I’m just one person, but before I knew it, I had enough stuff for a yard sale, then an estate sale. Even though I don’t own many things now, I’ve noticed how easily they still pile up–bills, magazines, t-shirts. Hell, I have so many tubes of medicine in my toiletry bag, earlier today I almost brushed my teeth with hydrocortisone cream. I can only imagine what would have happened if I’d put mint-flavored Sensodyne on my hemorrhoids.

All emotions are useful.

As much as I used to hold on to physical objects, I also held on to emotions. I didn’t know any better, so I just shoved those sons of bitches down in a jar and shut the lid (tight). For the longest time, I rarely showed anger, rarely cried. I was like that meme that went around of a Canadian protest, which showed a man holding a tiny sign that said, “I’m a little upset.” Lately that’s gotten a lot better. Now it’s easier to say, “I’m fucking pissed,” and it’s definitely easier to cry, since I no longer think that it’s embarrassing to do so. My therapist says, “Crying is just like any other emotion, any other bodily function. You don’t apologize when you laugh or when you sweat.”

I like that way of looking at things, that all emotions are equal. That’s how emotions are seen in Chinese medicine. If I understand it correctly, all emotions, even anger, are useful. (Think of an abused person who can’t get angry enough to leave their abuser). It’s only when emotions don’t get expressed properly or get out of balance that there’s a problem.

As I think of it now, I guess letting go–of physical objects or emotions that have been held on to–is a lot like defrosting a freezer. If you want your freezer to do what it was designed to do, defrosting it is an absolute necessity. You have to get rid of the excess. Once you do, stuff can come and go all day long because there’s room for that. But if there’s too much excess, if things are being put in but never taken out, you’re going to end up with a problem. It doesn’t matter if it’s Schwan’s boxes, tubes of hydrocortisone cream, or emotions–too much is too much.

This evening I went to a swing dance in Northwest Arkansas and danced a lot with my friend Sydnie. (That’s her in the picture at the top of the blog.) We talked just as much as we danced. It’s a long story that doesn’t belong to me, but Sydnie told me about someone she knows who’s constipated. (I’m always saying, “Shit happens,” but obviously–for some people–it doesn’t.) Anyway, I’ll spare you the details and just say I think constipation is another example of what can happen when we’re not able to let go.

Earlier this week in therapy, my therapist and I were talking about biting your tongue, which is something I did a lot of in the past. She said that biting your tongue always hurts, and it’s also inauthentic, just like shoving your emotions into a jar is inauthentic. Plus, at some point, there’s not any room left in the jar, just like there may not be any room left in your t-shirt drawer. And when that happens, emotions start to leak out. Maybe you yell at strangers in traffic, maybe you cry for no reason when a song comes on the radio. Sydnie said, “When you can’t shit–you feel like shit,” and I took that to mean that whether it’s literal shit or emotional shit, eventually it’s all gotta come out because it doesn’t feel good to hold it in. Sooner or later, all freezers need to be defrosted.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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One Step at a Time (Blog #63)

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For the last two freakin’ hours, I’ve been looking through three years worth of photos that I have backed up online, searching for inspiration, something to use for tonight’s blog. Honestly, I didn’t find much, so I just took the above photo instead. It’s a painting Bonnie and her family call “Chicken Shit,” which you should be able to figure out if you look at it long enough. Anyway, it feels exactly like what I have to offer at the moment. Promising, I know. But hang in there, and we’ll see what happens.

This afternoon I went for a two-hour walk. Last week when I got my new phone, it came with a fitness app, and when I entered my height and weight, it told me I was fat. (Rude, I know. We just met!) Actually, the word it used was “overweight,” which, according to the Body Mass Index, I apparently am. Personally, I would feel better about the diagnosis if it said, “Overweight, but that’s probably because you have a bubble butt,” or “Overweight, but we understand you’ve been through a lot lately and have needed beer and macaroni to help get you through it.”

But that’s not what it said. It just said, “Overweight.” Period. The end. And then–without even asking my permission first–it set me up on a fitness plan and told me I needed to walk an additional seven thousand (!) steps a day.

Talk about bossy.

And as if that weren’t enough, it now tracks my movements–like a stalker–and sends me a message whenever I’ve walked for about an hour and have “met my goal.” So today after I walked for two hours it said, “Way to go, you’ve exceeded our expectations.”

Or something like that.

You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want.

On the walk today, I listened to an interview with the author David Sedaris. The interview was about his new book, a collection of personal diary entries that he wrote over a twenty-five year period. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m going to see him in Tulsa in a couple of weeks, and the event ticket includes a copy of the book. In the interview, David said that he remembers when he was younger and REALLY WANTING to be a successful, published author. He said he didn’t think that was too much to ask. The lady conducting the interview asked him what it felt like now that he was one, and he said it felt exactly like he thought it would–he loved every minute of it. (He also said not to glamorize his life too much because when he’s not on tour, he spends five to nine hours a day picking up trash in his neighborhood.)

My friend Marla told me about the interview, and she says that I have a lot in common with David. I mean, we’ve both done a lot of random jobs in order to make a living, we’re both gay, and we’re both–well–writers. So sometimes Marla and I like to fantasize that my life will turn out as successful as his. I mean, is that too much to ask? (Marla says the problem with the formula is that David did meth when he was young, but I didn’t. Still, maybe it’ll work.)

Honestly, I would love that. I mean, I’ll write no matter what, but the big dream isn’t to be a starving artist. I want to be successful. I want to go on book tours. There–I said it.

In the interview, David said that it seems a lot of people don’t really know what they want, or maybe they’re just not willing to say it because saying your dream out loud makes you vulnerable. Obviously, there’s always the chance it won’t come true. I guess it’s a lot like telling the world you’re going on a diet–it’s scary–what if it doesn’t work out? (What if you don’t work out?)

But then again, what if your dream does come true?

Whether you want a flatter stomach or to be a successful writer, I think David’s right. You absolutely have to be vulnerable and state what you want. And then you do our best, cast your bread upon the waters, and see what happens.

My current challenge, I think, is patience. As a general rule, I want things done a certain way, and I usually want them done now. (My therapist says I’m “fussy.”) Well, this can really set a person up for a lot of frustration and disappointment, so my therapist is always saying, “Man, it’s about the journey.” (I always picture her wearing tie-dye and flashing the peace sign when she says stuff like this, but that’s just my overactive imagination.)

Anyway, as I was looking through all those photos tonight, I was struck by all that actually has happened on my journey the last three years. I started a business. I lost a lot of weight, gained some of it back. I stopped smoking (a few times). More than all of that, I learned about boundaries and cleaned up the drama in my life.

(Here’s an old picture that I consider gross on a lot of levels, but I’m posting anyway in an effort to be 1) vulnerable and 2) self-accepting. Smoker or not, I’m clearly not a morning person.)

As I think about all those accomplishments–as much as I hate to admit it–my therapist is right. There’s just no way any of those things could have happened much faster than they did. Diets take time, just like healthy relationships. Honestly, and I can’t believe I’m about to say this, I’m glad it’s that way because now I’m more patient and more understanding, and that’s a really big deal. Plus, there’s a satisfaction that comes when you know you’ve worked your ass off something that simply isn’t there when it’s been handed to you on a silver platter.

So even though I have big dreams, I tell myself every day that my job now is simply to develop discipline and work on my craft. As they say in Alcoholics Anonymous, “Do the next right thing,” which to me means that I can’t productively worry about whether or not success will come, but I can productively sit down and write. And if success as I’ve dreamed it does show up, it will only be because, just like the walk this afternoon, I took one step at a time. Do that long enough, and you’re bound to exceed expectations. Just ask the stupid, chicken shit fitness app on my phone.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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Moving Small Universes (Blog #62)

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This morning I woke up on the couch with Bonnie on the other end jumping up and down like a five-year-old saying, “It’s food truck day! It’s food truck day!”

So–of course–I got up and got dressed.

There’s a park in Nashville with a full-scale replica of the Parthenon. Random, I know, but it’s been around for over a hundred years. I don’t know if this part is seasonal or not, but they have a small fleet of food trucks at the park on Wednesdays. And really, that was all we had planned today. That was the only reason I got out of bed.

Here’s a picture of me on the way to the food trucks. Bonnie took it and said it belonged on Hot Dudes Reading on Instagram. Food trucks and compliments–now there’s a way to start a day!

Here’s the Parthenon. My dad told me that he saw it when he was younger, which is weird for me to think about. (So I won’t.)

By the time we got to the food trucks, I was so hungry that I didn’t take any pictures, so use your imagination for that part. (I had a grilled cheese with barbecue chicken.) We went for a walk afterwards. Here’s a picture of Bonnie sitting in a tree along the way.

Lest you get all excited and wish that you could have tried it, Bonnie said she was sitting in ants. (Ouch.) Todd said, “Aren’t you glad they weren’t fire ants?” (Double ouch.)

This was just before we left. And yes, it was as beautiful as it looks.

When we got back to the apartment, we all took naps, and when we woke up, Bonnie and I ate apples and peanut butter and had a conversation that started with, “Todd’s playing video games tonight. What do you want to do?” and ended with religion and spirituality.

I saw a post on Pinterest today, a quote by Alexandria Hotmer that said, “If we would just take a moment to look around, we would find that the universe in constant communication with us.” I can’t tell how much I love this idea, the notion that the universe is conscious, alive, and intelligent. The older I get, the more I think and believe that life is particularly interested in each of us, moving small universes in order to get our attention. So I told Bonnie that I was personally always looking for signs.

About seven-thirty this evening, Bonnie said there was a Train concert in town tonight. I said, “Oh, when does it start?”

“Thirty minutes ago.”

Then Bonnie added that there was an unrelated post on her Facebook page that said, “Life’s short. Buy the concert tickets.” Well, how much more of a sign do you need? So we bought the tickets. Even better, we landed some great seats at a great price.

On the way to the show, I kept thinking that I hated missing the opening acts–Natasha Bedingfield and O.A.R. I mean, I’m that guy who will just about pee on himself at a movie theater because he doesn’t want to miss a thing. But what do you do? It was either show up late or not show up at all.

When we got there, O.A.R. was finishing their set, and even after Train started, it took me a while to get settled and get present. I kept thinking about what happened before I got there. But then everyone stood up, and Pat Monahan started singing “Calling All Angels.” Even now, if you put a gun to my head and asked me to list all my favorite songs, that one wouldn’t make the list. But for some reason, when the music started, I closed my eyes as if I were praying. The first verse started, “I need a sign to let me know you’re here.” All I can say is that it felt like the universe itself had moved to get my attention. And when Bonnie put her hand on my shoulder, I started crying.

Honestly, I can’t tell you exactly what it was all about, but I know that I’ve shoved down a lot of crying over the years, so I’m grateful for anything that helps bring up the tears. Plus just this afternoon I was saying that I like to look for signs, and that’s exactly what the first verse was about. The second first started, “I need to know that things are gonna look up,” and if that’s not a prayer, I don’t know what is. So by the time the chorus said, “I won’t give up if you won’t give up,” it really felt like God and the universe were answering.

I guess some people would say that I was talking to myself–that God didn’t have anything to do with it. But when all the stars align to bring you to a place at just the right moment, and in that place there’s hope, and in that moment there’s healing–well–just what do you think God is?

The rest of the concert was beautiful. I cried again during “Bruises,” which is a song that I love but until tonight has never caused me to cry. I guess there’s something powerful about live music, speakers that force you to feel, drums that practically beat your heart for you, and friends that touch your shoulder right when the singer says, “Please don’t change a thing, whatever you do.”

When the concert was over, Bonnie and I walked up and down Broadway, and we both bought lapis rings made by a local artist. (I adore lapis.) When I got my ring, I was still thinking about the concert. Pat sang “Marry Me,” and a couple got engaged on stage. Of course, I don’t have anyone right now, but sometimes I have dreams at night about getting married, which I understand can represent the marriage of the self, the joining together of all your fragmented parts. So tonight I put the ring on my marriage finger because I’m promising myself that I’m going to put myself back together. Even when no one else is here for me, I’ll be here for me.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie’s ring. You’ll have to stop staring at the burgers in order to see it.

My ring pretty much looks the same as Bonnie’s. Since we didn’t take a picture of it, here’s this instead.

Really, I shouldn’t have eaten the whole burger. Or all of the fries. But I did. And since I’m not a quitter, I ate a brownie and ice cream dessert that came in a glass bigger than my head. It wasn’t a pretty scene, but it sure was tasty.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie and me with our awesome waitress, Jenna. Jenna moved to Nashville in February and recently got a tattoo of her girlfriend’s name below her breast, by her lungs because “she’s the air that I breathe.” Stories like this one make me wish that I talked to strangers more often.

After dinner, after midnight, we walked around downtown for over an hour, basically so I could pay for my food transgressions and ask forgiveness for everything I’ve ever thought about people who wear pants with elastic waistbands. As we walked, I thought about how glad I was that I let life take me to the concert tonight, that I didn’t insist on staying home because we couldn’t be there for the whole thing. Clearly, we didn’t need to be. Personally, I’d show up late again just to be there for that one song, just to be in the moment, to let go ever so slightly.

As Bonnie said, “It was like church.”

There’s a story about a young avatar, an enlightened child, to whom the town elders in an effort to trick him said, “We’ll give you an orange if you can tell us where God is.” But the boy knew the truth. He said, “I’ll give you two oranges if you can tell me where God is not.” So more and more, I believe that divinity is all around me, hiding behind a drum’s beat or a song’s lyric sung at just the right moment. And I believe that God is moving small universes to communicate with me and with all of us, answering prayers and sending signs in unplanned moments, the touch of a friend’s hand, and the very air we breathe.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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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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It’s not where you are, it’s whom you are there with.

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Hipster Confidence and Beauty (Blog #60)

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Today I fell in love with Nashville.

It all started with Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, which I guess is just spicy chicken that you have to wait a really long time for. Check this out. I think we stood in line for about an hour. Ugh. I was SO HUNGRY by the time we got inside. (That’s Bonnie and Todd facing the camera.)

Here’s a picture of Mallory and me while we were waiting in line. We both wore matching baseball caps to cover up our ratchet hair. (Mallory hasn’t washed hers in three days because she just had a dye job and says that it sets better that way. Who knew? I, on the other hand, didn’t have an excuse except that I’m on vacation and–IDGAF.)

After we all stuffed our faces, we waddled across the street for ice cream–you know–to put our insulin to the test. I had a chocolate and peanut butter shake, but Mallory had a dip cone with sprinkles. After it was over, she said, “Okay, Marcus, now we need to go home and think about what we’ve done.”

As our friend Brooke Ann said, “I’m working on my ‘before’ picture.'”

When Bonnie and Todd and I got back to Tim’s apartment, I took a long, hard nap. I think I drooled on myself. Midway through the nap, I woke up to use the restroom, remembered a dream I was having, and wrote it down in my phone so I wouldn’t forget.

In the dream, I was at the library using a computer to finish a blog post. I had about twenty minutes before I needed to give a presentation somewhere. An old man who worked at the library came over to take away my large cup of coffee, and I got mad. Somehow, I spilled the coffee on him, screamed at him like I was Julia Sugarbaker, and threw him up against a wall. (It wasn’t pretty. I mean–apparently–don’t mess with my coffee.) After that, I was with Bonnie, then I saw the old man being carried out of the library on a stretcher and apologized.

(Don’t even think about judging me for yelling at an old man. It’s not like your dreams make any sense.)

Anytime I’ve dreamt about old people in the past, my therapist has said that they represent old ways of thinking. So I can only assume the dream had to do with my search for new knowledge (the library) and the fact that I put a lot of pressure on myself to grow and be perfect, like right now (writing the blog post, needing to give a presentation in twenty minutes). As for the coffee, which is something I enjoy but judge myself for indulging in, it probably represents my leisure time lately. I’m enjoying it–sure–but I’m judging myself a lot.

In light of the fact that I spent time at the restaurant today judging myself–comparing myself to all the new faces–I’m sure the dream was my subconscious saying–in a very strong way–this judging thing has got to stop. And as for the part about apologizing to the old man on the stretcher, I think that has to do with showing compassion to the parts of myself that although aren’t serving me anymore are still part of me, still worthy of healing.

Tonight Bonnie and I met my friend Laynee at a place called The 5 Spot for swing dancing. I met Laynee through Lindy Hop when she used to live in Springfield. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much fun I had. (I also can’t tell you how much beer I had.) As of midnight, it’s Bonnie’s birthday today, so the whole thing was a big celebration. Granted, since we were the first one’s there, it started out slow, so I settled for cheap entertainment like this picture.

I mean, the decoration was pretty rockin’. Just look at that classic record album. And then look at this. It’s velvet.

Thanks to Laynee, I’m pretty sure we found heaven.

For five hours, the DJs played soul music from the fifties and sixties, and as the evening went on, more and more and more hipsters showed up and danced the night away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many mustaches, crop tops, and high water pants in one place. If I had a decent camera, this blog post would be entirely pictures. I mean, I danced a lot, but I did a lot of staring. There we so many fascinating people of all colors, shapes, and sizes–probably a hundred people or m0re—and I don’t think a single one of them gave a fuck what anyone else thought of them.

It was magic.

At one point I had to stop for food, so I went out to the patio and found this handy sign. (I’m guessing I wasn’t the first person there to have more than a couple beers.)

And then, y’all, I ordered and ate the best freaking all-beef hot dog I’ve ever had in my entire life. It had pineapple, chips with ruffles, and some sort of sauce made by fairies.

The hot chicken, the ice cream, and the hot dog may have had something to do with the fact that while I was dancing, I ripped the crotch out of my dress pants. Note to self–no more high kicks until we diet.

Oh, and cheese. There was mozzarella cheese on the hot dog.

One of the highlights of the evening was when Bonnie danced with a pirate, this hipster dude with skeleton pants, guy-liner, a handle bar mustache, and a mohawk. Seriously, he had to be the coolest person there. Check them out in this short video.

So before the evening was over (and with the encouragement of four–or five–beers), I asked the guy, who said his name was Zach, for a photo. (He said yes. That’s the photo a the top of the blog. His mohawk, sadly, had succumbed to gravity.)

As cool as Zach was, he was one of dozens of cool people tonight. There was one large girl who had her stomach showing, but she had the coolest glasses, and she was an absolute badass of a dancer. And there was another guy with a hat like Indiana Jones, and another guy with a shirt that reminded me of Ronald McDonald, but all of them were, well, awesome. I mean, it’s not like they were trained dancers. But they had what I’ve figured out is one of the sexiest things a person can possess–confidence. Confidence takes whatever you have an amplifies it. Confidence makes anyone sexy. Just ask this guy.

Beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And that was my big lesson for the day–confidence. There was this one hipster guy there tonight. He had long hair put up in a man bun, cut off shorts that were a little too tight, and a tank top that was also. But he was owning everything he did on the dance floor, and it was beautiful. And for a guy who spent the afternoon at a fried chicken place judging himself for carrying a few extra pounds, watching that hipster guy–and so many others tonight–was so refreshing. It reminded me that beautiful isn’t something that comes in a particular package. Beautiful is confidently doing what you love. Beautiful is simply being yourself.

And as for judging yourself–comparing yourself to total strangers at a fried chicken joint–that’s outdated thinking–some old guy to spill your coffee on and throw up against a wall. So take those self-judgmental thoughts and send them packing on a stretcher. Look at them and say, “I’m sorry, but ain’t nobody got time for that.” And then when that’s over, go dancing with the hipsters and the pirates. Clearly, they’re much more fun.

[Bonnie–Happy Birthday! Like all those hipsters, you’re an inspiration. Laynee, you’re simply awesome. Thanks for introducing us to The 5 Spot. Zach, wherever you are, thank you. Keep being yourself. Also, you’re invited to every party I host for the rest of my life.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It takes forty years in the desert for seas to part.

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On the Road (Blog #59)

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Last week my friends Bonnie and Todd invited me to go with them today to Nashville to visit their family, look at real estate, and celebrate Bonnie’s birthday. Well, I’m usually a control freak, anything but spontaneous, so I hesitated. But I love Bonnie and Todd, I’ve never been to Nashville, and I’ve been trying to be more open to whatever life brings me. (Lately it’s brought me a crick in my neck, Days of Our Lives, and Friday nights with my parents.) So I said, “I’d love to go. Carpe ducking diem,” or at least that’s what the autocorrect on my phone said.

We hit the road this morning, so I’ve spent most the day in the backseat of Bonnie and Todd’s truck lusting at Bonnie’s bag of snacks, which included a box of cereal, a jar of peanut butter, and a bottle of tequila. I kept thinking, I knew I made the right decision.

Bonnie’s birthday is this coming Tuesday, so for a few hours, we jammed out to a birthday playlist she created on Spotify. On it were songs like Super Freak, Pretty Young Thing, and Billie Holiday’s Getting Some Fun out of Life. Bonnie said the playlist was all about “narcissism, woman power, and,” my favorite, “fuck this shit.” That’s a phrase Bonnie and I have used a lot the last year, since both of us want to move to a different city. (I want to move to Austin, she wants to move to Nashville.) But it’s also a phrase I’ve used a lot in therapy over the last few years, and sometimes I think it’s necessary when you find yourself in a difficult or unsatisfactory situation. I mean, if you’re stuck in a place–or with a person–that won’t let you grow, do (and say) whatever it takes to get you out of there.

Here’s a picture of Bonnie dancing in the car. I’m surprised we didn’t get pulled over for having too much fun.

When we got to Nashville, we spent the evening with Bonnie and Todd’s son Ben and his wife, Mallory. Mallory is super southern in the best way–friendly, hospitable–talks like sweet tea tastes. She said that she was obsessed with big hair, verandas, and china cabinets. I said that big hair should be pretty easy to come by with the humidity in the south, but she said that wasn’t the big hair she had in mind. Bonnie said veranda was just a fancy name for a porch. (I don’t think anyone said anything noteworthy about china cabinets, but maybe we could make that a goal for the week, which is how long we’ll be here.)

Before the evening was over, Bonnie and Todd’s other son, Tim, and two of Ben and Mallory’s friends joined us. Bonnie and I left for fast food for me and beer for everyone else, and the trip took about an hour because apparently the entire city of Nashville was at Walmart for Memorial Day Weekend. Anyway, by the time we got back, I was pretty much shot because I didn’t sleep much last night and the large cup of coffee I had from McDonald’s was doing a terrible job of propping me up. (It still is.)

But I was semi-alert for this moment, when Mallory passed her phone around to let everyone see how a local graffiti artist creatively defaced a neighborhood sign.

Tonight we are staying at Tim’s apartment. There’s a small bathroom downstairs, and you have to turn sideways to sit on the toilet. But Tim (or his roommate, Tim, which makes remembering names easy) must be pretty cool because there are glow-in-the-dark stars on the walls and ceiling, along with a picture of an astronaut, which also glows in the dark. (The picture is at the top of the blog, not glowing, so use your imagination for that part.)

Since I saw the astronaut in the bathroom about an hour ago (there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say), I’ve been thinking about how I’ve felt just a tad bit uncomfortable this evening. What I mean is that although I love everyone that I’ve met and everyone has been delightful today, this is my first time spending a week with this family, and everything is new to me. I’m not in my city, my house, with my family, in my car. I’m glad I’m here, it’s just unfamiliar.

When I first started talking to my therapist about moving to Austin, she said that moving to a new place isn’t a small thing. She said there would be a lot of loneliness, a lot of times I’d be uncomfortable. (She probably didn’t say that exact word because she says, “Uncomfortable is not an emotion.” Personally, I think it should be, but no one asked me.) Anyway, she didn’t say the trip wouldn’t be worth it, just that there would be an adjustment period. I’m sure she’s right. If I’m a little uncomfortable on a trip to Nashville with some dear friends, I’m sure I’ll be plenty more uncomfortable when I finally move out of Fort Smith.

But going back to that astronaut in Tim’s bathroom, I’m sure he felt the same way when he left the earth. It’s just what happens when you decide to do something unfamiliar, to strike out on a new adventure. Sure, you could stay at home where it’s familiar–you could stay comfortable–but anyone can stand on the earth and see the moon. Sure, it’s going to feel awkward if you decide you need a new perspective, and that applies to taking spontaneous vacations, moving to another city, or even starting therapy, just as it applies to astronauts breaking free from gravity. And maybe it takes a bottle of tequila or the right playlist on Spotify to make you say, “fuck this shit,” but before you know it, you’ll be on the road or up in the air, so far from where you started that you’ll wonder why anything ever held you back.

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)

"Miracles happen."

One Single Loud Clap (Blog #57)

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In 2008 I started uploading dance videos to YouTube. At the time I wanted a way to keep track of what I knew and what I taught at my dance studio, and I also wanted my students to be able to review what they learned. So each week after class, we’d film a review, and I’d post it online. Nine years later, I’ve posted 1,101 videos, which have a combined total of 5,149,733 views. That last number really blows my mind, since oftentimes the classes I taught at the studio had no more than eight or ten people in them. Sometimes, there were only one or two.

Witness the power of the internet.

Over the years, there have been quite a few comments on the videos, and most of them have been positive. I’ve even had a number of emails and phone calls from total strangers–people in Tennessee, Florida, Europe–who’ve said they’ve learned a lot from the videos. However, for the longest time, it was the negative comments that stood out to me, like the person who ripped me a new one for starting rumba on a quick instead of a slow, or the dozen of people who were pissed off that I wrongly referred to Triple Two Step as Texas Two Step, or the guy who loved the videos but said that dying my hair blonde was “a mistake.”

Five years ago, bullshit like that would upset me for days. Now, thankfully, I’m able to take most of it in stride. For one thing, I have no idea who these people really are. Maybe they know what they’re talking about, maybe they don’t. But I finally decided that if you have nothing better to do than criticize the hair color of a total stranger who’s giving you dance lessons for free, that’s your problem–not mine.

This afternoon my friend Sydnie and I performed at a local nursing home for National Lindy Hop Day. I used to get really worked up and nervous about this sort of thing, but I had a great time today. Sydnie was on her way to another dance event, so she was with a friend of hers, another dancer. He took the above picture of us, which is why he’s not in it. (Thank you for the picture. I didn’t know if it’d be okay to use your name.)

Anyway, Sydnie’s friend told me that he started watching my dance videos on YouTube a few years before he started dancing, and then he continued to watch them once life slowed down and he was able to actually learn. He said the videos had been helpful on his journey, so I was kind of like a celebrity to him. (This sort of thing has happened a couple of other times, and it always makes my day. Still, I’m never sure how to properly react other than to say, “Thank you. That makes my day.” Perhaps if it happens again, I could add, “Thank you for not criticizing my hair.”)

Ironically, when I saw the picture of Sydnie and me, I didn’t like my hair, so I sent a message to my friend Bekah to see if she could cut it. Well, sometimes miracles happen, and she said to come right on over. When I got there, both her teenage sons were there too, and although I’m sure they were speaking English, I really didn’t understand much of what they were saying. (This is one way you know you’re getting older.) But at some point, Bekah’s older son, Christian, suddenly raised both his hands over his head and struck them together in one single loud clap. He explained that when he wants a high-five from a friend but he either doesn’t have one present or his friend won’t give him a high-five, he gives himself one.

Strange, I know, but I still think it’s gold.

(Here’s a picture of the haircut. This last year, for the first time in my entire life, I started parting my hair on my right side instead of my left. I’m not sure why. But Bekah added a hard part to the right just for emphasis. The lady in the picture is my friend Betty. She’s one of the friends I was with in 2008 when I went to Dubai and was told by a witch doctor that I had “weak brain.” She was in town tonight and invited me for dinner.)

As I look at the picture, I realize you can’t actually see my hair, but I promise this won’t be the last selfie I post, so don’t go anywhere. (This is called a cliffhanger. Sort of.)

After dinner I went to return some headphones to Best Buy, and while I was there, I got a notice on my phone that a friend had commented on the blog. Like almost every other comment I’ve received so far, it was positive, but my friend asked kindly that I not use the F word. Well, I responded and said (in the spirit of honesty) that probably wasn’t going to happen.

What I don’t want is for this specific blog post to become a conversation about whether or not cussing is okay. Obviously, for me it is, although my boundary about it is that if I’m in the grocery store, the doctor’s office, or a home where people don’t cuss, I don’t cuss. Clearly, other people have different boundaries regarding the words that come out of their mouths or keyboards. But this is my blog, and I pay the bills around here, and the result of that logic is obvious to anyone who reads a single one of my posts. (I think there’s only been one post completely void of a cuss word, and it just happened that way.)

When I first started therapy, my therapist told me that she didn’t care what I did the other twenty-three hours of the day, but she said, “During the one hour we’re together, we’re going to sit in truth, and we’re not going to judge ourselves.” So for the last three years, that’s exactly what’s happened. If at any point I’ve tried to bullshit myself or her about something, she’s called me out on it. And if at any point I’ve judged myself (which I have plenty of times), she’s called me out on that too.

So my goal with the blog is the same. Here, we’re going to sit in truth. More specifically, I’m going to sit in truth because I’m the only one currently in this room, sitting behind this keyboard. Secondly, I’m going to do my level best to not judge myself. And if I do judge myself at the beginning of a blog, I hope to use my writing as a way to work myself into a more compassionate place by the end of it.

What you see here is what you get.

Those two rules being established, what I can promise anyone who is interested and kind enough to spend your precious time here is that I’ll be as honest with you as I am with myself, as honest as I know how to be. I know there are plenty of other things you could be doing, and there are plenty of other places you could go for fake news. So I promise I won’t bullshit you and pretend to be someone I’m not. God, I did that for the longest time, and it sucks. It’s the worst feeling to pretend you’re straight when you’re not or, maybe worse, pretend you just don’t have a sexuality when everyone else around you is talking about the person they’re interested in, or in love with, or go home to when you go home alone. Likewise, it’s the worst feeling to pretend you’re “just fine” when you’re actually falling apart.

So that shit stops here.

What I would say to anyone on YouTube who doesn’t like the way I rumba or doesn’t like my hair, or to anyone who doesn’t like the F word, is that I understand. Honestly, sometimes I don’t like the way I rumba, and I wasn’t crazy about the blonde hair either, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat if the person I thought I was going to marry cheated on me and then later lied and told me he had cancer when he didn’t. And as for the F word, I remember (twenty years ago) when it used to bother me too. So I get it. We all have our opinions about how to act, and I don’t believe mine are the only ones that matter. But, again, I’m doing my best to not judge myself for failing to live up to a certain level of imagined perfection.

But back to being honest. What you see here is what you get. This is the most authentic I know how to be, and this is currently who I am–warts, cuss words, and all. Personally, I don’t like any sort of negative feedback. It never feels good to think I’ve disappointed someone, especially someone I care about. But as Abraham Lincoln said, you can’t please all of the people all of the time. And what I’ve learned about authenticity is that it doesn’t have to. Better that you’re true to yourself and the whole world be disappointed than to change who you are and the whole world be satisfied. And whereas I’m eternally grateful for every positive comment on YouTube and the blog (and there have been hundreds, thank you), I know that it has to be enough if only one person–the guy behind this keyboard–raises his hands above his head and strikes them together in one single loud clap.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Each season has something to offer.

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