A Million Pieces of God (Blog #58)

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

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

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

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

So get this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

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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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Our struggles unearth our strengths.

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On What Really Matters (Blog #56)

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This afternoon I drove my aunt to Oklahoma so she could spend the holiday weekend with her son and his family. I needed to come up for a quick business errand anyway, and apparently my aunt and I have similar bladder schedules, so the whole thing worked out perfectly. During the drive, my aunt talked the entire way, which she said was to help keep me awake, and then later apologized for. But honestly, I loved it. We’re always saying we’re going to go out for Mexican food and catch up, but–you know–life happens. So it was actually really good to be locked in the car together so that we could reconnect and, of course, gossip about the rest of the family.

When we got to my cousin’s house, life was in full swing. His three kids had their last day of school today, and everyone was celebrating in their new above-ground pool. I guess we arrived just in time because dinner was ready, and at least two of the three kids were running around the kitchen, asking for more of this and more of that. Seriously, I’ve never seen a loaf of white bread disappear so fast. It was like a magic trick.

After dinner, I ran my errand (taking a look at a potential remodel project for a friend) and came back. Well, when I returned, everyone, including my retired aunt whose had two knee surgeries, was in the backyard having a water gun fight.

So I thought, what the hell, put my phone away, and joined in.

Well, the great thing about little kids is that they run away from people who are bigger than they are. Even better, sometimes they drop their weapons, which means that in short order, the adults had all the big guns. (Insert evil, sinister laugh here.)

I guess their oldest son is pretty sharp because he went around the house for the water hose, but–thank God–he didn’t really know how to use it, so I managed to stay pretty dry.

When the water gun fight was over, I went inside to use the bathroom and noticed that my underwear was on inside out. (I went to college. How does this happen?) So I started to take off my shorts to get things turned around, and then I remembered I had shoes on and thought, Fuck it, this is too much work.

Before long, all the kids were camped out on the floor watching the cartoon movie Sing. So even though I had planned to get back on the road to Arkansas, when my cousin gave me popcorn with white cheddar sprinkles on top, I sat down on the couch instead. And when their dog hopped up on my lap and started going for my popcorn, she was so cute about it that I almost didn’t care.

Almost.

My cousin kept inviting me to stay the night, but I kept saying no, but thank you. I mean, I didn’t bring a change of clothes or a toothbrush or any anti-fungal spray for my armpits. (It’s gross, I know, but as the lady at the natural health food store said, “Isn’t the body fascinating?”) But as I watched the movie, I thought, I really don’t want to drive back AND THEN blog. And when I saw this, I decided to stay:

Yesterday my mom and I ran some errands–Walmart, Best Buy, home decor store–normal, boring stuff like that. But my mom said my dad doesn’t like doing that sort of thing, and she wanted my input on the home decor part. (Parents–if you have a gay son who can decorate, let him.) Anyway, before we left the house, Mom told me that she really enjoyed having me at home again. And even though nothing spectacular happened yesterday, I kept thinking how glad I was that I could be there for it. Obviously, one day my mom and I won’t be able to go to Hobby Lobby together.

When I picked my aunt up today, I went inside and spent some time looking at all the pictures on her wall. It’s the home my grandparents used to live in, so as I looked at the photos of them, the memories were that much stronger. You know, there’s always that part of you that wishes you’d had more time with your loved ones.

I guess that’s part of the reason I decided to stay at my cousin’s tonight–that, and the fact that he said he’d make waffles in the morning. Really, I know it’s the simplest of things–a family starting summer break by eating popcorn and watching a cartoon movie they’ve seen A HUNDRED TIMES THIS WEEK. But with my cousin in Oklahoma and my sister and her kids in New Mexico, I know I’ve missed a lot of water fights already, so I think sometimes the simplest memories are the best ones. In the end, it’s not the things you do, it’s who (or whom, rather) you do them with.

So now the house is quiet, and I’m in the oldest kid’s room. Next to the bed is a lamp that looks like a pirate ship, and the bedspread looks like the ocean, and it has an octopus on it. For some reason, I keep seeing octopi everywhere I go. I even had a dream about one. I haven’t figured out what it means exactly, but I do know those creatures represent creativity, mystery, and regeneration, so that seems to fit my life right now. Also, they represent flexibility, a quality I don’t always possess. I mean, normally I’d insist on driving home in the middle of the night just so I could have clean underwear in the morning. But in this moment I’m here with people I love–my family–and I’m thinking, Hell, tomorrow I can just turn my underwear right side out, and it will be almost the same thing. I mean, what’s really important here?

Well, I think the answer is obvious.

[Thanks to my cousin Don and his wife, Rachel, for hosting me in your lovely home. I’m so glad I stayed. Thanks, Rachel, for the photos of the water gun fight. Also, bring on those waffles.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Authenticity is worth all the hard work. Being real is its own reward."

Weak Brain (Blog #54)

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This morning after four hours of sleep, I had breakfast with my friend Bonnie at The Fort Smith Coffee Company. (That’s us in the picture. That’s also a guy I think I know but am not sure how. I hate it when that happens.) Anyway, Bonnie has been in freakin’ Paris (Paris, France) for the last month (a whole month!), so we decided to catch up, eat some bread, and pretend like I was there too. It sort of worked for about an hour, but it’s REALLY HARD to forget you’re in Fort Smith when you’re in Fort Smith.

Other than catching up with Bonnie, here’s the best thing that happened during our time at the coffee shop:

Bonnie’s laughing because the cup says, “ho room,” which we figured meant, “no room,” as in, “no room for cream or sugar.” But ho room is way funnier, so Bonnie took the cup home with her, kind of like a souvenir from our time together in Paris (Fort Smith, Arkansas).

I spent this afternoon running all over God’s green earth on a mission to find a new cell phone because the one I’ve had for over two years has been seriously acting up, and I finally had enough of its bullshit. Anyway, it was a six or seven hour ordeal, and it included trips to Best Buy, AT&T, the Fort Smith Public Library (twice), Sprint, and Verizon (twice). I’ll spare you all the details, but I’ve been with Sprint for eleven years, and they don’t sell the phone I initially wanted, so that led me to the other providers. Well, I figured out that if I left Sprint, I could get better coverage, the same deal I have now (unlimited everything) for less money, AND I could use my phone as a WiFi hotspot. (Specifically, that means I can use my phone to connect my laptop to the Internet so that when I’m at home, I don’t have to write blogs on my laptop, copy them to my phone, do all the editing on a screen only slightly bigger than a deck of cards, and then post everything from there.)

This is really, really good news.

I ended up saying goodbye to Sprint (It’s been real) and going with Verizon. A super guy named Gavin helped me out the second time I was there, and the dude spent over two hours with me in order to get me signed up, switched over, and set up. I mean, it’s never a fun feeling to drop money on a new phone with all the amenities, but my monthly fee stayed about the same, and that includes the new phone. Plus, good customer service, like a good personal lube, makes all the difference.

After I left the Verizon, I joined Bonnie and her husband Todd and some of their family friends for a Paris-style dinner at their home. The whole affair lasted for two or three hours. There was cheese, bread, salami, bread, crackers, bread, salad, bread, some sort of chicken and vegetable situation, and dessert (fruit, more cheese, and more bread). Also, there were three types of alcohol. (Todd told us that in Paris (Paris, France), you’re required to look everyone in the eye when you clink your glasses together for a toast. I love that.) Basically, between the bread and alcohol, it was everything I probably didn’t need to eat in order to make the yeast infection under my arm pits go away.

But it sure tasted great.

After dinner I spent about four hours setting up my new phone. This may come as a shock to some of you, but I’m pretty anal-retentive, so I couldn’t really put it down until I got all my favorite applications installed and placed on my home screen in just the right place. Plus, I had to log into all my accounts and set up my voicemail and the hotspot. Those last two items took the longest, since I guess I had to log into Verizon’s application first, but no one told me that. Still, I finally got it all done, so now I’m at home on my laptop–blogging!–and I’m actually connected to the Internet.

Welcome to the 21st Century, Marcus.

There are still a few things I need to do in order to get the new phone set up, but having it mostly taken care of, especially the part about switching networks and actually getting a new phone, feels fantastic. The whole situation has been a point of stress for a while now, so now maybe I can move on to figuring out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life or, as one friend so delicately put it, attend to my moldy armpits.

Almost ten years ago, I visited some friends in Dubai. Well, one day we saw a local medicine man, some sort of witch doctor who made his own potions and healing ointments. I told him about my sinus infections, but there was a language barrier, so I kept pointing to my head a lot. And the guy just stood there and nodded his head, and he finally said, “Oh yes, weak brain.”

That was actually his diagnosis. Weak brain.

At your service.

Even now my friends and I joke about that. And whenever I’m exhausted and can’t focus (like now), I think–weak brain. I guess the body just wasn’t made to blog until six in the morning and then get up four hours later, even if it does mean coffee in Paris. I mean, I thought I was going to take a nap today, but that didn’t happen. And really, I’m glad it didn’t because sometimes when I get tired, I can’t really fake anything. It’s like exhaustion is a shortcut to authenticity. This afternoon at Verizon and this evening at Bonnie’s, I kept thinking that I should chat more, but I just didn’t have it in me. So I chatted some, and the rest of the time I quietly enjoyed what was going on, which left me grateful for good customer service, and–even better–long meals and good friends who look you in the eye, wish you well, and don’t require that you be anything other than who you are–tired, weak brain, and all.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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Well, This Is the Pits (Blog #53)

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I’m just going to say it—I think I have a yeast infection—probably everywhere on my body that doesn’t see daylight, but mostly in my armpits. (I’m sorry if this is gross to talk about.) I think it started in December when I was prescribed antibiotics for a sinus infection, but it took me a while to figure out what was going on. Well, in February, when I seriously cleaned up my diet and started taking some supplements I found in the feminine hygiene section of the natural food store, it went away.

It felt like a miracle. You know, a miracle that doesn’t last very long, since the stuff came back sometime during the last month while I was taking two additional rounds of antibiotics for cellulitis and an upper respiratory infection. I mean, I’m assuming it’s a yeast infection—I’m not a scientist—but that would make sense.

I’ve really tried to have a good attitude about the whole thing, fight the good fight, and keep a stiff upper lip. This last week I’ve been taking some of those feminine hygiene supplements and watching my diet, but I’m not being nearly as strict as I was before because diets take a lot of mental energy and frankly, damn it, I’m tired and am starting to wear down. So it’s more like I’m fighting a mediocre fight and keeping a stiff-ish upper lip.

Do they make Viagra for upper lips?

Sometimes the universe can really kick you in the balls.

Sometimes I think the universe can really kick you in the balls and make you drop to your knees. Maya Angelou says there are times when life makes you cry uncle, and on days like today, I’m just about there. This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and to make matters worse, when I rolled over, I could smell my own armpits. It wasn’t sexy. (I don’t know why I’m worried. It’s not like anyone else has their nose down there.) Anyway, every time I smell myself, it’s the most frustrating thing because it feels like (or smells like) things are never going to get better.

After I took a shower, in the midst of trying to accept the fact that I’ve become a traveling playground for fungi, I put my phone on the bathroom counter and applied athlete’s foot powder to every crevice of my body. Still irritated about my phone because the charging port is broken, I then put the powder back on the counter, and it fell over, spilling the powder on my phone’s speaker, filling up a hundred little holes with white dust.

Uncle.

There’s a saying in the self-help word—no feeling is final—so I keep thinking that my bad mood about everything going on with me will eventually pass (or I will). Wayne Dyer says, “In all of nature, no storm can last forever,” so I’m reminding myself that I’ve been through storms before, especially storms dealing with health issues I didn’t think would go away. A couple of years ago, I had little warts on my face (also not sexy), and I made monthly trips to the dermatologist for over a year. The doctor kept saying that one day they’d go away, and one day—they did. It just took a lot of time and a lot of patience.

So I know the yeast thing will level out at some point. This morning I felt like quitting, but this afternoon I went to the natural food store and talked to one of those weird natural food store people about what’s been going on. I thought, I can do this—I can try something else.

The lady at the store said my body was worn out (and all God’s people said Amen) and recommended a probiotic with at least 50 billion (!) bacteria, but she said it had to be refrigerated, so I said I’d have to come back when I wasn’t on my way to the library to use the free Internet. But the lady also said that I could up my garlic, to which I replied, “UP YOUR GARLIC, Lady!”

Okay, I didn’t actually say that.

Lastly, the lady said that I could apply coconut oil topically. So while I was at the library, I looked up coconut oil and garlic for yeast infections because I was intrigued. Honestly, I’m not sure the Internet was a lot of help, but I did come across an interesting article about a woman who put a clove of garlic up her who-ha in order to get rid of a yeast infection. (I guess that would also be a creative way to ward off vampires.) Anyway, I’ll try just about anything once, but I draw the line at vegetable suppositories.

So this evening before I went for a walk, I got out the coconut oil and rubbed it under my armpits. And actually, for a while, things didn’t smell so bad. But that was a few hours ago, and as I sit here in my tank top, I keep getting a whiff of myself and am not amused. It smells like a dead animal. And by it, I mean me. (Things not to put on a dating profile.)

However, I’m determined to get this problem figured out, and that’s one of the reasons I believe in the soul. (Bet you didn’t see that coming.) What I mean is that no matter how hard life kicks me in the balls and no matter how frustrated I get about it, there’s a part of me that never seems to be fazed, and I don’t think that sounds like the human ego. I don’t think that sounds like anything made of flesh. Maybe stardust. Of course, if it is the soul, it’s just a whisper, a still, small voice reminding me where I came from and what I’m really made of. “Keep going,” it says. “You’ve got this. The storm will pass soon enough.”

[My friend Matt from summer camp did the drawing, at least his wife and I think he did. I’m assuming that was the year I taught tennis, so I would have been sixteen. Apparently I’ve been having rough days for a while now.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Rejecting yourself is what really hurts.

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Self-Critical Cowboys (Blog #52)

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Five minutes ago, I was down on my knees giving myself carpet burn. And whereas I wish I could tell you that someone was down there with me, that was sadly not the case. Rather, I was on the floor with my phone—the closest thing I have to a relationship—because the charging port is broken. So once or twice a day, I have to lay the phone on its back, futz with the cord so it connects just right, and then put a book on top of the cord to hold it in place. All this I do with one hand while I cross my fingers with the other, recite five Hail Marys, and hope to god that Mercury has moved out of retrograde.

This routine has been going on for the last several weeks, and it’s starting to get old. Honestly, I think it’s time for new phone.

Lately my days and nights have been flip-flopped, and because I got up early this morning to have breakfast with my friend Lorena, I’m currently functioning on about three hours of sleep and two pots of coffee. (I’m pretty sure union requirements state that my brain has to have six hours of sleep to work properly, so it’s a wonder I was able to dress myself this morning and not end up with my underwear on the outside of my pants.)

After Lorena and I had breakfast, I went with her in her Subaru to unload a couch at her office. Lorena’s a therapist who’s opening a clinic in Booneville, where she plans to specialize in pet bereavement, which I didn’t know was a thing, but Lorena says is for people who are grieving the upcoming or recent loss of an animal. Anyway, somehow Lorena managed to squeeze a couch in the back of her Subaru, and in order for me to fit in the passenger seat, I had to enter into a yoga pose.

Lorena called it “balls to the wall,” and I held it for forty minutes.

This evening I drove to Fayetteville to take family photos for a friend. I imagine I’ll say more about it later when I can share some of the photos, but toward the end of the three-hour session, I started to feel stressed. And although I’m sure some of that stress had to do with trying to get two adults, a two-year-old boy, a two-week-old baby, and a dog to smile and look at the camera AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME, I’m also sure most of that stress had to do with the fact that I’m tired, and whenever I’m tired I usually get self-critical and think things are going worse than they actually are.

The Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

For the longest time, I’ve had this thing with cowboys and the Old West. And no, it’s not a fetish, although I guess that could be fun with the right person. (Bad cowboy, bad.) It’s kind of hard to explain, but it’s this mental game I play with myself in order to make big things seem smaller and easier to deal with. Like, in today’s world, it’s easy to look in the mirror and then pick up your cell phone and compare yourself to the entire world and end up feeling pretty shitty. But if you lived in the Old West, your world would be a lot smaller, you’d have fewer people to compare yourself to, and you’d probably be less self-critical.

Still thinking in terms of the Old West, I’m now imagining my self-critical and “things are going worse than they actually are” thoughts as outlaws or cowboys. And I guess most of the time there’s a town sheriff keeping those guys in check, saying things like, “You’re drunk. Go home. We don’t want your kind around these parts.” But all I can imagine is that my mental sheriff belongs to that union I mentioned earlier and went to bed a long time ago, leaving the outlaws to run amuck and tear up the town.

My friend Barbie says that negative thoughts are like ants. If you let one in your house, it’s going to bring all its friends. Well, I guess that self-critical cowboys are the same way because even as I’m typing this blog, I’m already getting self-critical about it too, thinking it probably sounds as if a drunken cowboy wrote it. And I guess drunken cowboys don’t have ANYTHING POSITIVE to say, since I’m also thinking I’ll probably wake up fifty pounds heavier because I ate at Waffle House tonight, and I’ll probably die alone because let’s face it—the Old West was anything but a heyday for homosexuals.

All that being said—

I think my personal battery has been running low for a while now, and when I get extra tired, I have to remind myself that I’ve been through a lot lately. And by a lot, I mean—Earth. I have to remember that life these last several months has been a lot like the Old West—new and exciting, sure, but also scary and unpredictable. (The Old West ain’t for sissies.) I guess it feels like I’ve been riding my horses hard, and that simply can’t go on forever. No, my horses need a long, cool drink of water. If only for a night, I need to recharge my battery and I need to rest. And then in the morning, my sheriff will be back on duty, the world will look different, and those bad, bad cowboys can be the ones to sleep for a while.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous.

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Available Grace (Blog #51)

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Last night I noticed on Facebook that the author David Sedaris was coming to Tulsa in a few weeks and there were tickets on sale for the event that included a copy of his newest book and a guaranteed spot in the autograph line. Facebook said tickets would go on sale at ten this morning, so I thought maybe that would be a reason to get up before noon. But then I stayed awake until seven this morning watching a movie, so I thought, Eff that noise—I’m sleeping in. Besides, I figured it couldn’t hurt to save some money, especially since, you know, I don’t have a job.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about going to pay the hospital part of my sinus surgery bill and meeting a woman in the billing department who was dead-set on helping me. At that time, she said there was an assistance program for middle-aged men who lived with their parents—or something like that—and it would possibly cover seventy to ninety percent of my balance. That night I sent in all the paperwork by email, but I never got a confirmation, so I’ve been wondering if I should follow up on it. (The control freak in me said yes, but the rest of me said to chill the fuck out, so for the first time ever, my control freak sat down and shut his mouth.)

Since deciding to have the surgery, I’ve been telling myself that no matter what it cost or how long it takes to pay it off, it would be worth it. Having had the surgery, I still believe that. That being said, I have this big hang-up about not having any debt, so I’ve spent a lot of time over the last several months worrying about how I was going to take care of everything.

When I got up this afternoon, there was a letter from the hospital for me on the kitchen table, and it came in one of those envelopes with a see-through window, and I could read the part that said, “RE: Charity Approved.” Well, my legs went all rubbery, so I leaned up against the kitchen counter and tore through the envelope and tried to force myself to read the letter from the beginning and not cheat. But I couldn’t help it, and my eyes went straight to the part in bold.

Y’all, the hospital paid one hundred freakin’ percent.

So I’ve had a great day. This evening I went for a really long walk, and I practically skipped the entire time. Of course, I’m still responsible for the doctor’s part of the surgery, but the gift—the grace—I received from the hospital takes a huge load off. That’s the way I’m looking at this, as a grace. For me, it’s a reminder that good things happen even during those periods in our lives that don’t work out like we think they should, those times that seem like one disappointment after another.

For all of the things life takes away, it gives so much more in return.

They say that it’s always darkest before the dawn. First, I hate that. But I do think there’s something to be said for a light that breaks through the clouds just when you’re struggling to maintain hope. I know that’s what it felt like when I had the surgery—hope at the perfect moment. I’d been struggling with sinus infections for so long—twenty years—and I was about ready to give up. And then this magical prince of a surgeon came galloping up on a white horse and saved the day. (Okay, so I actually drove to him in a Honda Civic, but still.) And then, everyone at his office and everyone at the hospital that day were patient, kind, and professional. And if that weren’t enough, the hospital just said, “Oh don’t worry about that bill. We’ll take care of it.”)

Talk about a fairy tale.

(The above photo is of me and Lee Roy, the closet thing I could find to a prince on short notice. It was taken around Easter, which is why he looks like a rabbit.)

Of course, I don’t know why God and the universe do things the way they do. I imagine that having less medical debt means that I can start the next phase of my life sooner, but it may have nothing to do with that. But I do know that the news today has given me a lot of hope, and it’s reminded me to be patient and let things unfold in their own time. It’s also reminded me to do everything I can to walk through life with humility and gratitude. After all, each of us needs help at times. No one gets through life completely on his own.

When I got home from the walk, I decided to get those tickets to see David Sedaris for me and a friend. I thought it would be a great way to celebrate, to give something back to someone else, and to keep me excited about writing. So that’s what I did, and I’ll let you know how it goes.

When I sat down to write tonight’s blog, I started by looking through my computer files, which I sometimes do for inspiration. I came across a poem, a meditation called I Come to Him Running. It’s one of my favorite things, and the first time I heard it, it brought me to tears. I guess it feels like hope, and it does for me in words what the hospital did for me in actions. It reminds me there’s a lot going on behind the scenes, good things are being prepared for all of us, and they’re being prepared in abundance. For all that life takes away, it gives so much more in return. Whether we realize it or not, there’s always grace available.

***

I Come to Him Running
The Mishkat Al-Masabih

The Prophet said,

God Most High has said:
When my worshipper’s thoughts turn to Me,
there am I with him.
And when he makes mention of Me within himself,
I make mention of him within Myself;
and when he makes mention of Me in company,
I make mention of him in a better company.
If he draw near to Me a hand’s breadth,
I draw near to him an arm’s length;
and if he draw near to Me an arm’s length,
I draw near to him the length of both arms
wide outstretched;
and if he come to Me walking, I come to him running.
And if he meet Me with sins equivalent to the whole world,
I will greet him with forgiveness equal to it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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There’s nothing you can do to change the seasons or hurry them along.

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Taking Ownership in Therapy (Blog #50!)

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Tonight’s blog post is number fifty, which means that every day for the last fifty days, I’ve snuggled up in a chair or in bed with this blog, held the keyboard in my arms, and poured my guts out. (You’re welcome.) In other words, this blog is quickly becoming my longest and most intimate relationship.

Over the last fifty days, I’ve had several conversations with my friends and even my therapist about the benefits that writing this blog have provided me. First and foremost, it’s the reason I’m writing, and even though I’m not getting a check in the mail, it still feels really good because writing is one of the things I want to do with my life. But above that, it’s given me a huge sense of ownership regarding the last three years in therapy and all the things that I’ve been learning.

For most of my life, I’ve felt like a child, like everyone else was a grownup and had it all figured out (whatever the hell that means), but I didn’t. Well, at some point during the last few years, I was able to look around and realize that everyone else is just as fucked up as I am. (Sorry if you’re hearing this for the first time.) As my therapist says, some people just hide it better than others.

Still, that tendency to feel less-than has hung on. Once during therapy, I was talking about how it felt like a lot of other people were “further ahead” in terms of sexuality. Maybe I was talking about a guy I used to date that had a lot more experience than I did. (I heard somewhere that the definition of a whore is someone who’s slept with one more person than you have, so he was definitely a whore.) Anyway, my therapist said that we all mature in different areas at different rates. If someone isn’t as far along sexually, it’s probably because they’ve been spending their time growing in other areas like self-awareness, business skills, or spirituality. She said it’s simply impossible to be advanced in all areas of life.

We all bring different things to the table (or even the bedroom).

I think that conversation has gone along way in leveling the field for me. It’s often easy for me to compare myself to others in a particular area of life (looks, talent, money), and walk away feeling less-than or even more-than someone else. But when I consider that all of us are good at certain things and not so good at others, I’m reminded that we all bring different things to the table (or even the bedroom). Life, it seems, isn’t a competition, but a potluck.

Sometimes I think that the very act of going to therapy has reinforced my tendency to feel like a child. What I mean by that is that since starting therapy, I’ve had A LOT of dreams about being back in school, so it’s felt like being a kid again and starting over. And even though my therapist has always treated me like an adult, the process has often been awkward and new–childlike–on my end. I can only imagine it’s what many of my dance students feel like, maybe why so many people quit. It’s easier to not learn something new than it is to constantly be reminded how much there is to actually learn.

Of course, in both dance and therapy, I think the growing pains are worth it. And here’s something interesting. For most of the last three years, I’ve kept a dream journal, and I just went back and did a search for my dreams about school. Well, for the first year of therapy, all my dreams about school placed me in high school. And then at the start of the second year of therapy, I graduated from high school in one dream, and my dreams after that placed me in college. Earlier this year, I had a couple of dreams about being a substitute teacher, and just last night, I was a teacher. (When I woke up this morning, I wanted to call my therapist and say, “I’m not a student anymore!”)

But I have boundaries, so I didn’t.

I can only assume that the progression regarding school in my dreams has to do with the work on my mental health and the relationships in my life. (If anyone ever tells you that those things aren’t work, tell them to eff off.) And even though I think the teacher dream had a lot to do with the fact that I’m sharing my experiences online, I also think it was my subconscious saying that I’ve come a long way. Sure, there’s more to learn. In the dream, I was five minutes late to class. (If you know me, this won’t come as a shock.) But just because there’s more to learn, doesn’t mean I haven’t come a long way.

And that’s the sense of ownership that I mentioned earlier that the blog has given me. Flannery O’Connor said, “I write because I don’t know what I think until I see what I say,” and I’m finding that to be true. There have been so many times over the last fifty days that I’ve typed something only to start crying or get angry as soon as I read it. Like, Oh my god, I didn’t realize that hurt me so much, or, Obviously, I haven’t let that go. But more than anything else, I get to the end of a blog and think, Wow, I really have learned something. My life is completely different than it was three years ago. I don’t feel like a child anymore.

So to everyone who has shared any part of the last fifty days with me, thank you. And for those of you who have known me before and after the last three years and are still around, I’m grateful for your sticking by and all the space you’ve given me to grow in. I hope each of you have people in your life who do the same for you.

And, of course, if the people in your life don’t give you space to grow in, tell them to eff off as well.

[Tonight’s photo is of me as a child—in school. I was probably writing a math problem, but I like that I was writing nonetheless.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We follow the mystery, never knowing what’s next.

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Running into the Storm (Blog #49)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our struggles unearth our strengths.

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Simplifying My Digital Life (Blog #48)

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This evening I went to the library and spent most my time cleaning up emails and going through saved links on Facebooks—articles I wanted to read, videos I wanted to watch. The process started when I saved a link and then noticed I had twenty others just like it. So after a couple hours, I’m down to seven, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to have marked so many items off my to-do list. But then again, I’m the type of person who sometimes adds items to my to-do list AFTER I’ve done them just so I can mark them off, so I may have a problem.

Don’t worry. I’m in therapy.

My “things to read/things to watch” list is something I’ve started consciously monitoring since I had the estate sale and seriously downsized the number of physical objects in my world. Since I don’t have a job, I have a lot of time on my hands, so I want to use it to clean up digitally and simplify my life even more than I already have.

For over ten years, anytime I surfed the Internet, I’d bookmark a page if I thought I would come back to it. Well, most of those bookmarks were all lumped together, so I’d end up with—for example—a recipe for Paleo brownies right next to an article about 36 Terms for Lesbians You Didn’t Know Existed. (My favorite continues to be “bumper-to-bumper.”) Anyway, it was impossible to find anything, so a couple of months ago while I was healing from sinus surgery, I went through EVERYTHING. In my typical anal-retentive fashion, I checked every link, decided whether or not I could still use it, and either deleted it or put it into a corresponding folder (Dance, Writing, GAYTHINGS). And here’s what’s great—I went from 2,000 bookmarks to 200—200, well-organized, anal-retentive bookmarks.

Personally, I think the Lord would approve.

When I had the estate sale, the biggest thing I had to come to terms with was getting rid of hundreds of books, most of which I had personally purchased with the intent to read. Plus, I tend to think that the written word is sacred, so it didn’t feel like I could get rid of them. But what tipped the scales for me was a little thing called honesty. One day, I admitted to myself that although I loved to read, I didn’t love to read as much as I thought I did. I kept thinking, I’ll read that one day, but one day never came.

Several years ago, a friend of mine who lost all her possessions in a fire told me that you don’t realize how much psychic weight your stuff takes up until it’s all gone. That phrase—psychic weight—has stuck with me ever since I heard it, and I think it went a long way in helping me let go when I had the estate sale. Now that almost everything is gone, I agree with my friend. I feel much lighter without the stuff. It’s less to take care of, fewer things to dust, hundreds of books I’m not telling myself I’ll read one day. In short, less stuff is less stress.

What I’ve found is that just like less physical stuff is less stress, so is less digital stuff. When I got rid of the hundreds of Internet bookmarks, it felt just as good as getting rid of the hundreds of books. In both cases, I ended up with not only something simpler, but also something much more manageable. But whereas it’s gotten easy for me to go shopping for three hours and not make a single purchase, I still fight the tendency to save links online and add videos to my Watch Later list. Sometimes I’ll watch one video and then immediately add three more “suggestions” to the cue. But psychic weight is psychic weight, and especially for a personality like mine, it’s stressful to add to-do list items faster than they could ever possibly be checked off.

I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Just after I started typing this tonight, I looked up a Facebook friend’s podcast and added it to my digital to-do list. But then a few minutes ago, I went back and deleted it because I’m already listening to three other podcasts, I honestly don’t have that much time in my life, and hell, I just met the person at a coffee shop one time, and I’m simply not ready for that kind of commitment.

Maybe it sounds like a little thing, but it feels like I just got thirty hours of my life back.

As I think about it now, I think the big sense of relief, that psychic weight that’s gone, is largely about the pressure I put on myself day in and day out. For the last thirty years, I’ve made a habit of thinking, I should read these books, I need to organize those things, and I can’t get rid of this thing because it was a gift. But the truth was that I wasn’t reading those books, I had other things to do other than organize, and I thought that gift was fucking hideous. So I let it all go, and the pressure went with it. The truth set me free.

Of course, old habits die hard. I get on the Internet and see so many shiny things that I want to read and watch and buy. But I’m only one person and there’s only so much time in the day and John Stamos is not for sale. And sure, I think it’s fine for me to want and to have shiny things, but as soon as a shiny thing becomes an excuse to should on myself (like I should read that, watch that, or dust that) then it has become my master and not my servant, and that’s not okay. After all, I’m the only shiny thing around here that gets to tell me what to do.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

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