A Welcoming Prayer (Blog #621)

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Today I have felt overwhelmed. The dictionary describes feeling overwhelmed as feeling “buried or drowned beneath a huge mass.” (Accurate.) Synonyms for feeling overwhelmed include feeling swamped, deluged, flooded, inundated, and submerged. (Also accurate.)

Somebody send in a lifeboat.

My main gripe today is a rash on my skin, the cause of which is unknown. That is, it could be a simple irritation, eczema, or a fungus. (I’m not a doctor.) Being paranoid, I assume it’s all of the above, and I’m TRYING (trying) to not freak out and cover myself in unnecessary creams and ointments and thus further exacerbate the issue. But I don’t like sitting around doing nothing either.

Nothing except itching that is.

I grant this isn’t a HUGE problem in the grand scheme of things. People have skin issues MUCH worse. But in light of the fact that my left knee is currently FUBAR (that’s Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition, Mom), it’s just another thing to deal with. This is a difficult thing for me to do, taking care of my skin while I’m worrying about my leg. I keep thinking, You’re kidding! I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Plus, not that I’m going to ignore this problem, but every time I put an anti-itch cream on my skin, I feel like I’m trying to comb my hair in the middle of a hurricane. That is, I’m not sure my efforts are doing any good.

This is part of feeling overwhelmed, the thought that nothing you try or do is ultimately helpful. Picture a hamster running around the inside of a wheel–absolutely working its ass off but going nowhere. My one sliver of hope today came from a dear friend of mine who said, “If an old lady like me can recover from knee surgery, so can you. You’re young and have strong muscles.” (So that’s nice–somebody thinks I’m young.) Oh–and–I guess one other thing gives me hope. I’ve had this small patch of dry skin on my elbow for a while now. My doctor said it’s psoriasis (so it probably is). Anyway, she gave me some stuff to use, and now my skin is actually getting better. So obviously my body is capable of healing and repairing itself given the right conditions.

I have one square inch of skin to prove it.

This afternoon I started working on a travel writing article about my recent trip to Tennessee. And whereas I made progress, I quit when my brain turned to mush. It was that feeling overwhelmed thing. My brain just couldn’t handle the stress. I kept thinking, I have to heal my skin, have surgery, learn to walk again, AND write this story? Anyway, figuring my body could use all the rest I could give it, I took a nap. The nap itself only lasted an hour, but I stayed in bed for two, maybe three, during which time I did my best to “breathe” and “relax.” This is difficult for me to do, to actually slow down and feel my feelings and whatever is going on in my body. I’m so used to tightening up and pushing through. But today while tuning in (or, turning inward), I sensed that my skin was “angry” and my lungs were “sad.”

Maybe this sounds weird. Oh well. I really do believe emotions get stored in our bodies and that our bodies have something to say to us if we’re willing to listen. That’s the part I’m working on, simply slowing down and listening. Because I honestly have no idea what to DO with my emotions. My first thought when I realized parts of me were angry and sad was, How do I get rid of these feelings? But upon reflection, that’s what I’ve been trying to do for years, to get rid of my feelings or, at the very least, shut them up. (You there, go sit in the corner.) So now I’m working on NOT doing that.

In certain spiritual traditions, there’s something called a welcoming prayer, which is a prayer that’s said in order to invite in those emotions or situations we’d normally push away. An example of a welcoming prayer would be Welcome, Anger, or Welcome, Sadness. Really, it’s that simple, and the idea is that by treating your feelings as you would an honored guest, you open yourself up to learning something from them. So I’m trying to do this, to welcome this feeling of being overwhelmed and see what it has to teach me, to let not knowing what to do sweep over me, to really sink into not being in control.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We are surrounded by the light.

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On Today and Becoming Famous (Sort of) (Blog #593)

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Things that happened today–

1. I woke up

Last night I passed out way early but only slept for a couple hours. Then I tossed and turned for a couple hours, then I finally fell back asleep. Then when my bladder woke me up this morning/afternoon, I was in a fog, which I’ve been in ever since. My hips hurt, and–I know this sounds like something an old person would say, but–it’s probably because the weather’s changing. Seriously, I do not thrive when it’s cold outside. Still, as my dad says, “Any day above ground is a good day.”

2. I remembered how much I’ve forgotten

This afternoon I worked more on my photo-sorting project. I’m getting close to done. A few more days like today, and I should have it licked. Anyway, nothing profound came up today, at least nothing that hasn’t come up before. But here’s a photo of me and my friend DeAnna, who taught me how to dance. (She’s the responsible party.) I know it was taken in Biloxi, MS, but I can’t for the life of me remember when. Well wait, I think it was sometime around (either just before or after) Hurricane Katrina, which was in 2005. So that’s a clue. I swear, trying to remember my life is like trying to solve a murder mystery.

3. I faced my fears

For over a year I’ve been meaning to add a “donate” page to the website, but have been putting it off, putting it off because it brings up a lot of issues for me. (Fear of money, fear of rejection, fear of acceptance.) But my therapist and I set a goal to have it done by next week (ish), so tonight I “drafted” the page. And whereas I was initially terrified to sit down and “write something, write anything,” it went fine and wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I imagined it would be. I mean, it was just putting my honest thoughts on the page, and that’s something I do every day. Plus, my therapist and I have done a lot of digging around WHY this is such a big damn deal for me, and as I heard Shakti Gawain* say tonight (and I’m paraphrasing), “When we really look at the root of our fears and acknowledge them, they begin to dissolve.”

*Shakti Gawain was the author of Creative Visualization. She passed away this last week.

4. I became famous

Well, sort of. Recently while I was on a travel writing trip in Tennessee, my friend and fellow journalist Tom Wilmer interviewed me about swing dancing for his podcast, Journeys of Discovery, on NPR. Y’all, I was totally nervous. I’m so used to ASKING questions, not ANSWERING them. But Tom was super, like “this is no big deal,” and put me at ease. Later, Tom combined my interview with another interview he did about belly dancing, and the show went live tonight. Here’s a link to the entire thing. It’s about thirty minutes long, and my part starts at 13:55. Personally, I’m thrilled with how it turned out. Thanks, Tom!

Be sure to check out some of Tom’s other interviews. He gets to meet the coolest people and does a fabulous job sharing their stories with the world.

5. I cleaned my room

While listening to the podcast, I dusted my room. Woowho. Now I won’t have to do that again for another six months.

[One final shout-out to Tom for taking the picture of me at the top of tonight’s blog. It’s from our trip to Tennessee and was taken at Fall Creek Falls State Park.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Go easier on yourself.

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The Fly in the Ointment (Blog #570)

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This morning I woke up at four-thirty in order to come back home to Arkansas after spending the lion’s share of this last week in Tennessee on a travel writing trip. Holy crap, y’all–four-thirty is not my finest hour. It was all I could do to pour a cup of coffee and pour myself into the mini-van that took me and another journalist to the Nashville airport at five. Even with the addition of caffeine, I was moving with all the agility of a three-toed sloth as I navigated airport security then went in search of breakfast.

If I haven’t explained it before in writing (and I don’t think I have), travel writing is a job. The way it works is that a business–usually a local or state tourism department–contracts with a public relations (PR) firm in an effort to promote their product (in this case, a particular area of the state and its included businesses). Then the PR firm gathers journalists from around the region or country, flies them in, arranges their lodging, and busses them around to various and sundry restaurants, activities, and tourist attractions, many of which donate their food or service in exchange for exposure. The understanding, of course, is that the journalists will write an article for their respective publications based on their honest experience. To be clear, there’s absolutely no pressure from the client or the PR firm to include every business visited or activity completed in your story, nor is there any pressure to say or focus on something specific. Indeed, many travel writers ONLY write about beer and wine or outdoor adventures, and some ONLY write personality profiles (like, about a local craftsman or artist), although they experience MUCH MORE while on “press trips.”

Here’s a picture of our group from this last week (along with some of the trip organizers/sponsors), minus one journalist who left sooner than the rest of us. Our group included writers from Virginia, Texas, Kansas, California, Minnesota, Alabama, and Arkansas (me).

I say all this for context, since someone watching a travel writer’s social media posts could easily get the idea that it’s all fun and games (look at me on the lake!) and that there isn’t any work involved. But there is work involved–it’s up early every morning, and then it’s go-go-go. And whereas a short hike and a glass of wine with a reasonable meal sounds like a good day and absolutely nothing to bitch about, travel writing is all of that IN EXCESS. Yesterday we visited two state parks, a beer festival, and a privately leased lake. Two days before that we visited three wineries and one state park. At each stop, someone wants to share their story. So you have to pay attention. You have to remember names. You have to cultivate relationships. Even when you’re tired or your back hurts, you have to be pleasant. Then later, you have to sit down and sort through all your photos and notes, not to mention the six-inch pile of pamphlets, brochures, and business cards you’ve been handed throughout the week and miraculously managed to cram into your already overstuffed suitcase. Eventually you have to somehow make sense of the whole mess. Long after the good times are over and your memories have faded, you have to write a coherent story.

This is us working–taking pictures–at Standing Stone State Park.

Here’s a picture of the area we traversed this week, the Upper Cumberland in Tennessee. The Upper Cumberland is between Nashville and Knoxville. Every pink highlighter mark is somewhere at least part of our group went. Every circled city is somewhere I went personally. Reasonably, a person would visit one or two cities in a week. Maybe three. If I counted right, I visited thirteen. This is why my brain is currently mush.

All that being said, I’m not grousing; TRAVEL WRITING IS FUN. This last week I got to experience half a dozen state parks and many, many good meals that I never would have otherwise–essentially for free. The entire time, I only paid for one thing–a glass of wine (because alcohol, as a general rule, isn’t included with meals.) So that’s pretty fucking great–five days of lovely lodging, five days of being chauffeured around, and five days of adventures and excitement–all expenses paid. As they say, it’s nice work if you can get it.

So get this shit. After five days of the royal treatment, this morning at the Nashville airport I had to pay for my own breakfast. Like, my waitress brought ME the ticket and wouldn’t let me leave until I’d reached into my wallet and given her fourteen dollars and eighty-seven cents (plus tip). The nerve!

Harumph.

This was a serious reality check. A definite departure from Fantasy Land back into The World of Normal. As if that weren’t enough, on my first flight I ended up in THE MIDDLE SEAT (I HATE the middle seat) between TWO DUDES, one of whom was TWICE MY SIZE in height and girth and–I think, technically speaking–took up his entire seat and twenty-five percent of mine.

Just before the plane took off, I texted my friend Marla, “What did I do to make Jesus mad?”

Marla said Jesus was doing me a favor, easing me back into the life of living with my parents and watching Days of Our Lives.

Folded on top of myself and starting to break a sweat, I thought, This is the lord’s definition of easing?

Since this guy had the aisle seat, for two hours I tucked my elbows into my ribcage and leaned toward the window–into the other dude’s space. Now I’m pretty sure I have scoliosis. On top of that, this man (who did seem nice, by the way) FELL ASLEEP, which meant–because I’m a Southerner and didn’t want to disturb him–that I couldn’t ask him to stand up so I could use the bathroom. Which I really needed to do.

So I just held it.

This was ANOTHER reality check. Today’s proverbial fly in the ointment of this last week.

That Jesus–always looking out for me.

Now it’s 11:35 at night, and I’m home and settled in. All told, it took nine hours to make it back to Fort Smith. My Dad picked me up from the airport, and after we went out for Mexican food (I had to pay for that too!), I came home and took a three-hour nap. When I woke up, I unpacked and reorganized my things. This process took two hours, since I went straight from house sitting to this travel writing trip and therefore had multiple suitcases to sort through. Then I started laundry. I’m on my last load now. With any luck at all, I’ll be back in bed within thirty minutes, will sleep through the night, and will wake up tomorrow morning ready to face reality and whatever new adventures come my way.

Ugh. Even if I have to pay for them.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Getting comfortable in your own skin takes time.

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The Griswolds, Pirate Sam, and Devil Bullshit Ale (#566)

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Holy crap. It’s 8:00 in the morning, and I’ve been awake since 5:30. How did I get myself into this?

I should back up.

Yesterday I arrived in Tennessee for a travel writing trip, and after lunch in Cookeville was deposited in Crossville at Cumberland Mountain State Park. Um–y’all–the cabin I’m staying in is straight out of the 1930s. Like, I bet it was been THE SHIT back in the day. (The Griswolds would have loved it.) As it is now–well–let’s just say it’s rustic. And big–it’s way big. I’ve got the whole place–cabin 24–all to myself. Which is a little lonely. But hey, I can run around naked.

Don’t worry, Mom, I shut the blinds.

This is one of those “bring your own” places. What I mean is that it has a coffee pot, but no coffee. (Bring your own.) Likewise, it has plates, dishes, and cooking equipment, but no food. (Bring your own.) This is fine, of course, but after I went to the bathroom yesterday and wanted to wash my hands, I realized there wasn’t any soap–or shampoo or conditioner. (UH–bring your own.) That being said, I DID find a small bottle of Palmolive, which worked for washing my hands, but I thought, I DON’T WANT TO SHOWER WITH THIS STUFF!

Call me stuck up, but we all have standards.

Thankfully, the group that’s organizing this trip picked up soap, shampoo, and conditioner for me and the rest of the journalists staying in the cabins. (We’re in Crossville; some other journalists are in hotels in Cookeville.) So all is well.

Cookeville, which is an hour away from Crossville, is where most of our activities are taking place this week. This means that for us cabin-dwellers, there’s a lot of driving (or rather, being driven) back and forth. This also means we have to be ready to hit the road at 6:00 most mornings, since breakfast starts at 7:00. And whereas I’m not in love with the early-bird thing, it’s going to work out. This morning when my alarm went off, I got dressed, shoved a chocolate-covered donut in my mouth, then simply poured myself into a minivan and let someone else (who got less sleep than I did) do the driving to breakfast. In other words, it may be a tired life, but it’s not a difficult one.

One of the positives to being in the car so much is that it gives me time to blog, so there’s always a silver lining. With such a packed schedule, I’m not sure I could make time for it otherwise without giving up valuable sleep hours.

Last night the Tennessee Tourism Department hosted a reception for us journalists. (I think there are 12 of us.) Y’all, they really went over the top–the reception was in a huge barn, and there were about a dozen local vendors to welcome us–a barbecue restaurant, a coffee shop, a distillery, a jewelry store, an outdoors store, a yoga retreat center–you name it. There was even a pirate–Pirate Sam–who works with a canoeing group on the Caney River. He’s their mascot. Talk about cool.

Here’s a picture of me and Pirate Sam discussing very serious pirate things. ARG. Buried treasure. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

The craft beer people at the reception last night were with Calfkiller Brewing Company, and they told me they were recently voted the #3 worst-named beer brewing business in the US. (They’re actually named after a local river, not after animal-harming activities.) But I guess unique names is their thing. One of their beers is called Scorched Hooker, and another one, which I tried last night, is called Sergio’s Ol’ Evil Ass Devil Bullshit Ale. (Say that three times fast.) The company employees I spoke with said sometimes they just call it Sergio’s.

I wonder why.

Yesterday one of the other travel writers referred to Tennessee as The Swag State, meaning that the tourism department and businesses here are famous for giving away free shit to journalists. And boy was he right. Last night I walked away with half a dozen grab bags full of goodies (including the donut I ate this morning). When I got back to the cabin and sorted it all out, I found–among other things–hand sanitizer, a lint roller, coffee beans, a mug, a hand towel, three small travel bags, and several pieces of handmade jewelry.

And get this shit. Apparently Cookeville boasts a famous Crossfit athlete (Crossfit is, as one journalist said, “Where people workout and shit”), and he and his extremely-large-muscled friends were at last night’s event. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many bulges in all my life. Or felt so gaunt. One guy’s boobs were so big, I swear you could have balanced a dinner plate full of fried chicken on them. At least a saucer and a tea cup. (Imagine that–a tea cup on a d-cup.) When we first saw him, one of my friends said, “You know that t-shirt he’s wearing is a small.” No kidding! It was SO TIGHT. Anyway, the Crossfit swag bag included a postcard of the famous dude showing off his ripped abs and bare chest.

Oh-la-la.

[Note: I stopped blogging here for a while and picked it back up after lunch.]

This morning after an early breakfast at a coffee shop in Cookeville, another journalist and I, along with one of the trip organizers and a state park employee, went kayaking on Byrd Lake, which is part of the Cumberland Mountain State Park here in Crossville. And whereas I’d anticipated it being cold and miserable, it was truly delightful. Just the perfect, relaxing thing on a cool, sunny day.

Check this picture out. I love how the water reflects the trees and sky.

While kayaking, I learned that Cumberland Mountain State Park and Byrd Lake were built during the years following The Depression by the Civilian Conservation Corps, a government program created by Franklin D. Roosevelt as part of The New Deal in order to both provide for America’s single, unmarried men (and their immediate families) and conserve and expand the nation’s natural resources and parks. In fact, our last stop while kayaking was the local dam and bridge, which is the largest masonry project built by the CCC during its entire history.

After kayaking, we went to lunch. Now we’re on a break (back at my retro-fabulous cabin), which is good–I can finish this blog. Shortly, the same group that went kayaking and I will go for a hike, then tonight we’ll meet everyone else for dinner. So far, I’m having wonderful time. Everyone I’m meeting is super southern sweet, even those who aren’t from “around these parts.” In terms of food, I’m moderating more than I did the last time I went on a travel writing trip by drinking less beer, watching my portions, and not eating every damn dessert in sight. Plus, I’m doing the hiking thing. So that’s something–having caloric boundaries and exercising.

Woowho.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"We were made to love without conditions. That's the packaging we were sent with."

Scared of Everything (Blog #417)

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It’s one in the morning, and I’m at my friend Bonnie’s house using her fancy, in-the-air, high-speed internet. I just finished working on a travel writing story and am now onto the blog. I keep getting distracted by QVC and the Home Shopping Network, two channels that Bonnie is flipping back and forth between on the big screen TV on the other side of the room. Thank God I’m not a girl or into drag because I’d be buying one of everything–little strappy sandals, dangly earrings–and all of it on sale for five easy payments of $29.99.

Look away, Marcus, look away.

The travel writing story I’m working on is due tomorrow, so naturally I didn’t start working on it until yesterday. I put it off, put it off, and really worked the whole thing up to be a big monster in my head. I thought, This is going to be awful. I mean, I’ve never written a travel writing story before now. That being said, I have WRITTEN before, so yesterday I just dug right in–and it wasn’t that bad. Three hours later, I was more than halfway done. But then I did the same thing today, practically convinced myself, I can’t do this. But then I did. Except for changes that come back from my editor, I’m done. (Phew.)

Although I do have to get pictures together, and that terrifies me.

I’m not sure why I scare the shit out of myself about everything even remotely new–writing a travel story, meeting a stranger, hell, taking a trip down the vegetable aisle. I’ve never picked out an eggplant before! I’m sure this started somewhere in my childhood, thinking that something was going to go wrong. And yet I have years of evidence that something–most things, actually–are going to go right. Sure, I’ve never written a travel story before, but I’ve written plenty of other stories, and all of them have been “good enough” or better. Even the ones that came back from my editor marked “start over” were stories that I learned from.

Like, don’t do that again.

Earlier tonight I taught a dance lesson and showed a couple how to do a dip, a move that’s almost always a disaster initially. Everyone has to figure our how to hold their own body, then the guy has to support the girl, and the girl has to trust the guy to support her. It’s a lot. But after a while, things start to come together, and I guess it’s that way with everything new in life–awkward at first, but then you find your rhythm. That’s how it’s been with this blog. I used to sit down petrified. What am I going to say now? And whereas I occasionally still think that, for the most part, this project has become a lot like brushing my teeth–a routine.

It’s a big deal.

Maybe I’ll always have a trepidation about new things–job opportunities, improv shows, visiting foreign cities. But more and more I’m trying to interpret that feeling not as my body’s way of saying, “Don’t do this,” but rather my body’s way of saying, “You HAVE to do this.” Because now that I’ve written the story I’m thinking, What was all the fuss about? That was easy! That was even fun. I’m proud of myself. It may seem like a little thing, writing a thousand-word story, but I think it’s a big deal anytime you do something you’ve been scared of doing, anytime you prove to yourself that you’re more capable than you previously thought you were.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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More often than not, the truth is a monster. It gets in your face and makes you get honest. Sometimes the truth separates you from people you care about, if for no other reason than to bring you closer to yourself.

"

The Beauty of Life’s Presence (Blog #376)

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8:19 AM | Dallas Airport

This morning I woke up at a quarter to five, normally the time I’d be going to bed. And whereas I can’t say that I sprang to life, I managed. After eating breakfast, I was miraculously able to fit all my clothes, electronic devices, and toiletries (including all my creams, pastes, and lotions for my various skin issues) into my luggage. My dad drove to the Fort Smith airport, and the check-in process was quick and seamless, one of the few advantages to living in a small town. Well, there was one snag. My granola bars, all twelve of them, were individually wiped down and checked for explosives residue by TSA. The guy who performed this health-food pat-down actually did so with a serious look on his face, as if he, like Sherlock Holmes, were going to uncover some ill intent of mine by fondling my raisins and nuts with his blue-gloved hands. It took everything in me, including my faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, to not roll my eyes.

Like, I’m not going to hijack the plane, sir, I’m just watching my waistline.

The flight here to Dallas went well. The plane itself, operated by American Airlines, was a puddle jumper, but since the seat next to me was empty, I felt like I was flying first class. The coffee was lukewarm, like those Christians God wants nothing to do with. He and I had the same thought–I will spew you out of my mouth. The miniature pretzels came in a bag that said, “It’s crunch time.” Cute, right? The Biscotti biscuits, made overseas, didn’t have a calorie count on the back of the package, so I made up my own–zero.

Now I’m in Terminal B at the Dallas airport, drinking hot coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts and charging my phone. The flight to Memphis should be boarding soon. As I’m typing, my hands are shaking from lack of sleep and the fact that they’ve been shaky a lot lately. It’s probably “just one more thing” or–more likely–an inherited condition. (Thanks, Dad.) I’m sure the coffee doesn’t help. Earlier I made a lap around the terminal to get the lay of the land, and no one–including the hot TSA agent with biceps as big as my thighs–looks happy to be here. I know we take things for granted, but come on, y’all–we’re flying!

3:56 PM | Memphis

I spoke too soon. Earlier when I said, “We’re flying,” I meant to say, “We’re sitting on the runway for two hours!” Y’all, our plane had a problem with the steering mechanism, which I guess is important. Anyway, it took a while to fix, then we had to wait longer because someone got pissed off (I assume) and wanted to exit the plane. What do you do? In my case, I tweeted American Airlines about it, suggesting they give everyone on board free alcohol. Believe it or not, they responded, like, we’re sorry you’re having a bad day.

But no free alcohol. (For a link to my Twitter account, which I’m trying to use more often, click here.)

Also, I found out I was wrong about the number of calories in Biscotti biscuits. The correct number is 120, not zero. What a drag–what a serious drag.

When I arrived in Memphis, the public relations firm I’m working for this week transported me and a few other journalists to our respective hotels. Arriving at the Hotel Napoleon in downtown Memphis at one, I decided to kill some time (that is, eat some pancakes at the Blue Plate Cafe) until the official check-in time at three. After the pancakes, I walked Main Street, stopping at a used bookstore and the National Civil Rights Museum (the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated). The museum itself was closed today, but there were still a lot of people outside looking up at Room 306, where the murder took place. It felt like sacred ground, everyone quiet or speaking in hushed voices.

Now I’m settled into my room, and y’all, it’s swank. There’s a sliding barn door between the sink area and the shower, and a mirror with a built-in light that makes my skin look radiant. The hotel is new (a year and a half), so everything is up-to-date and modern with USB wall plugs and shit like that. I’ve got the room to myself and a couple hours to kill before dinner (our first official group activity), so I’d like to catch a nap. It’s been a long day, and I imagine it will be an even longer week, albeit a fun one. More later.

10:45 PM | Memphis

OMG, y’all, I’m stuffed. After my nap, I met the group for dinner at Blues City Cafe, and it was SO good. (Everyone else had ribs and catfish; I ate steak because I’m that guy.) Also, I’m not just saying that because I’m sort of being paid to promote everywhere I’m going. I’m doing that elsewhere (and meaning it), but this is still my blog. But seriously, so great. There was live music, and just, well, the south and its food. Also, the waitress gave us a handwritten note, thanking us for being there. It said, “The beauty of your presence was my pleasure.” This reminds that each person truly is beautiful, if we only stop to notice.

After dinner I wandered around Beale Street and visited with some of the folks who work for the company that brought me here. One of them was even kind enough to walk me back to my hotel when I was ready to leave so I wouldn’t get mugged. Talk about a gentleman!

So far everyone I’ve met has been really great, kind, interesting. I was stressed getting here, but now that I’m here, I’m thrilled. It’s good to be out-of-town.

It’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3.

Earlier this evening I got the results of my latest blood work, the blood work the immunologist ordered. I’m not doctor, but everything (except my tetanus antibodies) came back within range. When I told my dad, I said, “At some point, I wish they’d find SOMETHING wrong.” But what do I know? Some of the levels were right on the line, so maybe there is something to “fix.” I should hear from the doctor in a day or two with his interpretation. But it is frustrating, not feeling well and seeing test after test that says I’m perfectly fine–on paper. I swear, it’s like white people who clap on the 1 and the 3. You know just as well as I do–something ain’t right.

While looking around Beale Street, a necklace I often wear, a spiritual necklace of sorts, broke. Specifically, the chain broke. I felt it give, then the pendant on the necklace just rolled across the floor like one of Elvis’s records, bumped right up against a display full of shot glasses and t-shirts. According to the group that gave me the necklace, this is supposed to mean something (not good), like–I don’t know–stay away from booze and rock and roll. More likely, if it means anything, it means I could pay more attention to my spiritual life, which I’ve admittedly had “an attitude” about this last year. I truly do believe that the beauty of life’s presence is everywhere–in a good meal, in the face of a stranger, in the sound of the blues. All of this is sacred ground. There’s not a square inch of the universe, including you and me, that isn’t. But I know that when I don’t feel well, when life is “challenging,” that’s when I lose that connection. That’s when my chain breaks. That’s when I don’t see life for what it actually is–love, baby, love.

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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Have You Seen a Gay Man Pack? (Blog #375)

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I have been adulting all day–paying bills, dealing with credit cards, sending official letters regarding medical bills and car accidents. I hate this stuff. However, I’ve also been teaching dance, which I love. But then I’ve also been doing laundry and packing to go out-of-town tomorrow, and I hate doing laundry and packing. Well, I guess I’m indifferent about it. But in the process of packing I realized I left my only pair of tennis shoes in Dallas a few days ago, and I hate that. Also, I have to get up early to go to the airport, so that’s another hate.

I’m ready to scream.

As a species, gay men don’t travel light.

Really, I’m just stressed. I thought I was going out-of-town for five days, returning for one, then leaving again for four more. But I found out today that the two trips I’m taking (to Memphis and Hot Springs) are literally back-to-back. I’m going from one place to the other, which means I have to fit ten days worth of clothes into a small carry-on bag. Y’all, I realize I’ve been living as a minimalist this last year, but–HELLO–I’m still GAY. Have you SEEN a gay man pack? As a species, we don’t travel light. Seriously, I could fill my carry-on with hair products alone. Currently my bag is filled to capacity, and I STILL have clothes in the dryer.

I’m going to have to pray about this.

About forty-five minutes ago I went to Walmart to look for a replacement pair of tennis shoes. This was a waste of time. Not that they didn’t have plenty of shoes to choose from, but none of them were the right brand. Again–I’m a stuck-up homosexual. I thought, I’m desperate, but I’m not THAT desperate. I’ll make do with my Polo boat shoes. Even if they hurt my feet, at least they’ll look nice. I realize this line of thinking is in direct opposition to yesterday’s post about the inside mattering more than outside. I make no apologies for this. As Walt Whitman said, “I contain multitudes.”

Surely I’ll find a way to make it work.

Now I’m trying to talk myself down from a ledge. I still have some packing to do and also need to take a shower. Oh, and sleep–I need to sleep. I’m telling myself that the upcoming trips are going to be great. Regardless of how much rest I get tonight or what clothes I end up taking, I’m sure I’ll have a fabulous time. Plus, if I need a new pair of shoes or anything else, I’ll find a Target or a shopping mall. I’m also worrying about how to do my job (travel writing) on the trip AND continue this blog, but I’ve obviously found a way to make this blog work so far, so surely I’ll find a way to make it work again. Like tonight’s blog, some of my posts may be shorter. (And that’s okay, Marcus.)

Also, some posts may conclude abruptly.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All things become ripe when they’re ready.

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When It Comes to Luggage and Bodies (Blog #374)

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Today I am worn out. I feel tired behind my eyes. Additionally, my skin is acting up, and the muscles in my neck are tight, tight, tight. I’ve said these things before, but I say them again because I’m about to go out-of-town for several days on a writing gig and am worried about how my body will handle the busy schedule. So I’m giving it a pep talk even as we speak. Hang in there.

Not the most original pep talk, I know.

The occasion, the writing gig, is a travel-writing trip to Memphis. Y’all, this is my first-ever travel-writing trip, but it promises to be a pretty sweet deal. Basically I’ll get flown to Memphis, put up in a hotel, fed twice or more a day, and bused around to local restaurants and attractions along with several other journalists, the understanding that we’ll all go home and write about the city and the things we saw for our respective media outlets. (I’m officially writing for a local magazine I used to work for and not my blog, but I’m sure I’ll talk about my adventures here as well). Actually, I have two travel-writing trips planned back-to-back, so I’ll be running around the region for the next week and a half. This will be the most travel and work I’ve required of myself since my immune issues flared up six months ago, which–again–is why I’m worried.

Hang in there.

In preparation for the trip, today I spent three hours shopping for carry-on luggage. One bag, specifically. Y’all, what a chore, finding something that was the right price, the right size, the right color, had the right number of pockets, and also looked cute. I went to five stores before finally narrowing it down to two at Academy Sports–a bright red and black hard case and a navy canvas with small, red accents. I really, really wanted the hard case. Not only was it cheaper, but it was perfect on the outside. HOWEVER, I went with the canvas bag (by Coleman), since it was good enough on the outside and perfect on the inside (deeper storage and a compartment for wet clothes). So once again, remember–when it comes to luggage and bodies, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Last night I dreamed that my car was being repaired at a garage. The hood was up, and I was working on the engine. I guess I was a mechanic, but I didn’t know exactly what to do. Then another mechanic appeared (as if by magic), and we worked on the engine together.

You’re exactly where you need to be.

Y’all, of all the dreams I’ve had the last few years, this one excites me the most, since cars in dreams almost always represent the physical body. The engine, I think, represents my immune system, the thing that makes my body run smoothly. Me and the mechanic, then, would be me and my doctors, indicating that I’ve finally landed in a place where things can be fixed (in the dream, the garage). Alternatively, the dream could simply be about the direction my life is going and the fact that I’m currently working on the stuff under my hood (my insides), the stuff you can’t see but that really runs the show. Either way, I’m hoping the message is the same–Hang in there. You’re exactly where you need to be. Don’t worry. You’ll be back on the road in no time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You’re exactly where you need to be.

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