Everything Is All Right (Blog #123)

1 Comment

Currently I’m in Springfield, Missouri, at the Savoy Ballroom, where for the last two days I’ve been eating and sleeping upstairs and dancing downstairs. This afternoon I took a nap. (Please alert the media.) Y’all, naps should be a required activity for adults in America. What a shot in the arm. I feel like a kid again. My brain is working. What a great life. Honestly, the only thing that could make this place any more magical would be a fire pole. Just imagine–wake up from a nap, slide downstairs, dance.

Perfection.

Last night my friend Matt (who’s teaching dance now and in the photo above) and I rearranged furniture and decorated the dance studio in the upstairs apartment. The challenges were 1) the room has a lot of weird angles, and 2) the room is really four rooms in one–a dance studio, a guest room, an exercise room, and a “the rest of our crap goes here” room, and 3) we couldn’t put any furniture in the middle of the room because people have to dance there. So Matt and I scratched our heads for about an hour (no, THAT won’t work EITHER), and finally decided to “do something even if it’s wrong.”

It took a few hours, but we finally figured it out. I don’t have any “before” pictures, but here’s what we ended up with. This is the view when you walk in the room. The “dance/music section” is on the left (partially pictured here) and extends to the middle of the room. The “exercise section” is in the back right corner. My most favorite part is the Apple poster with Pablo Picasso that says, “Think different.” Notice how his shirt matches the piano keys beneath it. Because the wall behind the piano is concrete, we decided to hang the poster by fishing wire from the exposed pipe behind the air duct. It was our way to “think different.” I said, “We’re just following directions.”

This is the view from the back of the room. On the left (on your right as you walk in) is the “guest room section.” The screen on the far right is by the doorway. To the right of the TV is an old wooden music stand with a book on it called From the Ball-room to Hell, which is no-kidding about the evils of dancing. Maybe it could be subtitled Dancing Your Way to Damnation (And What a Way to Go). I’m reminded of Mark Twain’s quote, “Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company.”

As Billy Joel said, “The sinners are much more fun.”

Here’s a close up of the “dance section,” to your left as you walk in, straight across from the couch. (You can see it in the mirror in the picture above.) Isn’t that the cutest thing you ever saw? The dress is the one Anne wore for the opening night of the Savoy.

This afternoon after my nap, Anne and Andy and I went next door to eat Peruvian food (yum). Next door! In the course of conversation, we talked about what it was like living with my parents. I said, “You know, Mom and Dad are pretty cool. Of course, sometimes they (and by they I mean Dad) know how to push my buttons.” Then Anne said the best thing ever.

“Well sure they know how to push your buttons–THEY MADE THEM.”

Seriously. Is she right or is she right?

Now there’s a flash mob class in progress. I met one of the couples (Della and Dusty) before when I was here for a sock hop. They recognized me by my name because they used to live in Van Buren in the eighties. I guess when our house burned down, it was a pretty big deal. (It was a pretty big deal.) Anyway, Della told me tonight that her husband had gone downtown (where the car accident and subsequent fire happened) that evening, but he hadn’t called to say he was okay. She said she was sure he’d been hurt. Then she said, “It’s really amazing you weren’t home that evening.” I said, “My parents went to dinner and had planned to get a babysitter for me and my sister, but they couldn’t find one. Several years ago a lady who used to take care of us told me my parents called her that evening. She said she lied and said she was busy so that she could hang out with her friends.”

Let’s hear it for liars (sometimes).

Today I’m fascinated by how one life touches another, how a tragedy that happened in a small town over thirty years ago can create a point of connection for two people, and then how those same people can be brought back together in a beautiful ballroom long after the deep sigh of relief that comes with surviving a near-miss has been breathed. Still I’m fascinated how part of me remembers the fear like it was yesterday, how even writing about it now makes my eyes water up. I look around at all the people dancing and it’s still such a relief–everything is all right.

Earlier tonight I watched Matt teach two of his students how to do the frog jump, which is an aerial I taught Matt a few months ago. I watched him talk about how to take time to prep, how the girl’s hand needs to stay under her belly button for support, how they need to do a rock step when it’s all over. And whereas I’m not Matt’s only instructor, I feel like it’s fair to say that most of that came from me. Watching Matt, I felt like a proud dance parent. Watching his students, I felt like a proud grandparent. Naturally, everything I know came from someone else, so I think that just as one life touches another, we can never really say how far our influence goes. Truly, our story goes on and on in both directions. Truly, we are infinite.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

"

Keep Showing Up (Blog #122)

2 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anne said, “You’re such a girl.”

I said, “I know I am.”

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

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

Yep. I overdid it.

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You really do belong here.

"

The Difference between a Sneeze and a Fart (Blog #121)

Leave a comment

For the first time in a while, I’m actually writing during the day. It’s 3:45 in the afternoon. The sun is up! My brain is–functioning. I guess you could call it a miracle, but I’d call it a deadline. I’m going out of town to dance tonight, and then I’m driving to Springfield after that (to teach dance and aerials tomorrow), so if I want to sleep (which I do), I’ve got to write (right) now. Okay, that’s seventy-five words. I’m aiming for at least five hundred. I told Mom that I may need to underachieve today. She said, “That’s okay.”

At breakfast I went into a sneezing fit. I think I sneezed four or five times. This is something I may have inherited from my Mom, except when she does it, she somehow screams at the same time. It’s the type of sound that can take paint off the walls, break crystal glasses. I have one friend who–whenever he sneezes–says, “I must have something up my nose.” Then immediately adds, “It’s not there anymore.”

Anyway, after I sneezed in the kitchen, Dad said, “What do they say? Every time you sneeze it takes a minute off your life?”

Mom said, “I’ve NEVER heard that, Ron.”

I said, “I don’t know about sneezing, but if farting takes time off your life, you’ve got A SERIOUS PROBLEM.”

The conversation made me think of something my grandpa (my dad’s dad) used to say–“You’ll learn the difference between sneezing and farting.” Well, this is the type of statement that can really confuse a child, and I honestly don’t know that I completely understand it now. So I asked my dad about it, and he said he honestly didn’t know either, but that I could ask Google (thanks, Dad). He said he thought it was Grandpa’s way of saying, “You’ll learn the way of the world,” just like he used to say, “You’ll learn how the cow eats the corn.”

What the hell? Is it any wonder foreigners have trouble learning the English language?

For the last two hours I’ve been trying to think of a specific example of when Grandpa used the sneezing/farting comment, but I can’t. But I do remember what I felt like whenever he’d say it, and it wasn’t smart. When I asked Google about the phrase, it brought up a scene from the movie Varsity Blues in which a coach tells a player, “You show me the kind of smarts makes me wonder if you know the difference between a sneeze and a wet fart.” In other words, “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stupid, son.” I doubt that was Grandpa’s intention with me, but it’s the way I felt, the same way I felt whenever he’d say, “When you start paying those bills, you’ll learn where the light switches are (damn it).” The sense was–you don’t know everything–I do–this is the way the world turns.

So there.

I wish I could tell you that what you say doesn’t matter, but words make up our entire world.

In more than one self-help workbook, I’ve been asked to identify where my beliefs have come from–beliefs about God, health, self-worth, money–you name it. Of course, in almost every instance, my beliefs have come from my parents or grandparents, maybe from teachers at school. I don’t think there’s any blame in this statement, as all of our beliefs get passed down, and we can only know and teach what we know and have been taught. That being said, whenever I meditate on my thoughts about abundance and scarcity, I think of that statement about the light switches. I think about our cars being repossessed when Dad was arrested. Whenever I think about my intelligence, I think about being told, “Use your brain for something besides a damn hat rack.” Plenty of times I think other people know more than I do, and that always makes me feel like I don’t know the difference between sneezing and farting.

So I wish I could tell you that what you say to your children and grandchildren–what you say to anyone–doesn’t matter. But that’s not my experience. People remember. Words make up our entire world.

Once when I was talking about my health, my therapist said, “Well, you’re in your thirties now,” like, you’re not a spring chicken anymore. (WHOA! Watch your mouth, please!) As I am pushing forty, this is something I’m starting to hear a lot–from doctors, peers, the media. And whereas I’m not suggesting anyone bury their head in the sand over a health problem, I do think we underestimate ourselves. I think we start giving up and giving in much sooner than we have to, simply because “that’s how the cow eats the corn.”

Caroline Myss says that our first experience in life is the tribe, which is represented within our first (base or root) chakra. That’s our primal instinct, our need for security, our root to the earth. Tribal mentality is always–always–about the survival of the tribe–it’s we, never I. Whenever you see people getting heated, yelling at a football game or a political rally, whenever a church or family kicks someone out for not following the rules, that’s the tribe at work. It’s not good or bad, it’s just the way it is. But the thing about the tribe versus the individual is that they both have different beliefs and different experiences. In other words, the tribe may believe that there’s not enough money to go around, and that can be true for the tribe, and the individual can believe there’s abundance everywhere, and that can be true for the individual.

This is why when it comes to something like healing, the tribe can believe–it takes six months to heal this problem–but someone can come along and heal whatever it is in one month, maybe two. It’s not that they are an exception to the rule, it’s that they aren’t “ruled” by the tribal belief. Again, nothing wrong with tribal beliefs, but Caroline says you’re bound to move at the speed of the tribe if you identify with it. So she recommends unplugging from the tribe (the journey of the self/the spiritual path). But if you go that way, don’t expect the tribe to cheer you on. (Yay! You’re leaving us!) It doesn’t work that way.

In my experience, it can be difficult to break free of ideas and beliefs you’ve had since you were a child, to see abundance where your family didn’t, to own your own intelligence, to really learn the difference between a sneeze and a fart, which as I see it means that you can be smart enough to not believe everything you’re told. Deepak Chopra tells the story of a primitive tribe in which THE BEST runners were the guys in their fifties or sixties. They got better with age, not worse. My meditation teacher says this is the reason she dyes her hair–she doesn’t want the daily reminder that (as society says) she’s old.

This, I think, is what authenticity is about–following the truth that’s inside you, not the truth someone else tells you, the truth you read about in a book. Tribes, of course, have their purpose. They introduce us to the world, protect us when we can’t protect ourselves, give us a sense of belonging. But we’re not meant to stay there. In terms of the chakras, we’re literally meant to rise above, into third (self-empowerment), into the seventh (our personal connection to the divine). We are meant for so much more than sneezing and farting and how the world turns.

[Even though I’m writing in the middle of the day, I’ll post this close to midnight.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"

Pennies (Not Panties) from Heaven (Blog #120)

Leave a comment

Today I’ve tried (tried) to give God a little more credit. More credit for being–I don’t know–intelligent. More credit for being–interested. Because I’m just going to say it. I’ve spent plenty of time thinking he (or she, if you like) doesn’t give a damn. I mean, about me, my checkbook, and the fact that I go to bed alone every night. (Although I do think I’m currently sharing the room with a mouse.) I just figured he’s–well–busy. But last night I read something in The Artist’s Way that went something like this–Oh, God can figure out the subatomic structure of the universe but can’t find answers to your problems?

Well, when you put it that way.

Lately I’ve been saying to myself and out loud, “I’m willing to accept gifts from the universe.” Today I added, “God’s pretty smart. He wants to help me and has lots of money and lots of answers.” So get this. Today I had a chiropractor appointment, and that was supposed to be it–no massage because all the therapists were booked. But in the middle of my appointment, one of the therapists (a guy who worked on me last week) had a cancellation, so I got in–without even asking. Well, he worked on my uneven hips, a problem that’s been a problem for ten years, maybe twenty. And in less than an hour, there was definite progress. They aren’t twisted as badly as they were before, and they hurt less. Tonight I went running and had to get used to a new rhythm because my gait is actually different.

How about that?

After the appointment I binged on reading material because my week of reading deprivation is over. (Hallelujah.) Then I went to get a smoothie because I may be addicted. And right there in the parking lot were about seventy pennies–pennies from heaven. I know it’s only seventy cents, but I wasn’t about the tell the universe, “I’m sorry, that’s not enough free money for me to bother,” so I scooped up every one of those suckers.

Then while I was running some errands, I got a message from a friend who offered me free tickets to Art on the Border and the Peacemaker Music Festival tonight. So I scooped those up too. (Thanks, friend.) Well, while I was at the art exhibit, I ran into two of my favorite people, Bruce and Lyn, and since they were headed to the music festival, I shamelessly asked if I could hang out with them. (They said yes, and on the way there we saw a pair of panties on the sidewalk. No, we didn’t touch them. Bruce said I should blog about it, so that’s what I’m doing. So just to be clear, I’ll pick up pennies from heaven, but not panties from heaven. There’s a difference.)

One of the reasons I wanted to go to the festival was to see the inflatable art installed (for this weekend only) by D*Face, an artist who’s done two murals in downtown Fort Smith. Well, from far away, all I saw was a blow-up Snoopy and Hello Kitty, something like you might see in Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Isn’t that cute? I thought. But when I got closer, they turned out to be zombies. Zombies! Snoopy looked like Hannibal Lecter, and Hello Kitty looked like she got into a fight at a lesbian biker bar (and lost).

Personally, if I’d seen something like this as a child, I would have wet the bed for a month.

I ended up spending most of the evening with Lyn’s daughter Leigh, who was also at the music festival. Since this is quickly becoming a blog about abundance and gratitude, I’ll go ahead and say that Leigh gave me a free beer–and a half. (Thanks, Leigh.) That’s all four of us (Bruce, Lyn, Marcus, Leigh) in the picture at the top of the blog. Aren’t they adorable? Lyn made us retake the first picture and told Bruce to “show your teeth,” then afterwards he facetiously asked if his hair looked okay.

Bruce and Lyn and I left in between acts, and then I walked around to check out the mural progress. Here’s the other side of the double-decker bus that’s at the Park at West End. It’s a giraffe in a spacesuit. Pretty sweet, huh? Notice the big cock in the background. (First panties in the street and now this. What’s the world coming to?)

Lastly I checked out the alien in the bamboo hat–and friends. Take a look. I’m assuming at least one of the people who bent over right as I was taking the photo is the artist. Talk about bad timing. Or–if you prefer–serendipity.

To(may)to, to(mah)to.

One one hand, it’d be easy to say that “nothing spectacular” happened today, that it was just “a really good day,” and as for the unexpected and wonderful massage, the pennies from heaven, and the free tickets and beer (with people I love!)–well–isn’t that neat? But Albert Einstein said, “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” So I’m choosing to see all the things that happened today as miracles, even the sidewalk panties. Granted, manifested underwear isn’t on the same scale as manna from heaven, but it’s a start. And if God can arrange a last-minute massage (that helps fix a literal long-standing problem), and whip up some free entertainment (just for fun), then surely He can do any number of things. What’s more, surely he wants to.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We think of hope as something pristine, but hope is haggard like we are.

"

Don’t Be Cruel to a Heart That’s True (Blog #119)

Leave a comment

A couple of nights ago I spent the evening in downtown Fort Smith looking at the new murals/art projects for The Unexpected. The Unexpected is a project started in 2015 that annually brings world-known street artists to Fort Smith to construct art and paint murals (with aerosol cans) on old buildings in downtown. It’s probably–without a doubt–the coolest thing Fort Smith has ever done ever. This year’s event is currently underway and will culminate this weekend along with the Peacemaker Music Festival.

One of the attractions this year is inside an old theater that was built in the early nineteen hundreds. Apparently it was a gift to the city from a wealthy businessman (Sparks) after he died. It sat over a thousand people, had two balconies, and went from live entertainment to silent pictures to not-silent pictures to eventually (and lastly) x-rated pictures (which I’m guessing were probably not silent as well). The building has been closed for twenty or thirty years, so this week was my first time inside. Here’s a picture of one of the two murals in the old seating area. Both of them–I think–are weird as fuck, but beautiful.

There are only two murals being painted on the outside of buildings this year (I think), and they’re both at North 9th and A Streets, behind Saki. When I stopped by a couple of nights ago, both were in progress, and one of the artists was working on a hydraulic lift with the help of spotlights even after the sun went down. Here’s a picture of one of the murals. I’m not sure what it is, but I love the colors. I can’t wait to see the final product, since I think this will be one of my favorites out of the over-thirty pieces of art that have come out of the three Unexpected events.

This is the second mural, along with the artist at work.

The first picture on tonight’s blog was taken in the middle of Garrison Avenue. It’s me by a sign on a storefront that says, “Pretty Things Inside.” I thought it would be funnier if I’d been INSIDE the story (because I’m pretty), but I actually like what’s implied by standing beside the sign–that pretty things are inside ME, inside YOU.

The other new projects are at the end of Garrison Avenue (the main downtown street). There’s a small park with a Ferris Wheel and Merry-Go-Round, a restaurant in an old train car, and a couple of random giraffe statues because–you know–every city needs some. Anyway, here’s a picture of an double-decker bus that’s being painted by local university students. This side of the bus shows a monkey in a space suit. I mean, I guess that makes sense. We all know people who get promoted to jobs beyond their intelligence level.

Lastly, here’s–uh–something that’s being installed on what’s left of a building that got wiped out in a tornado twenty years ago. It’s made out of chicken wire and hot air balloon nylon and is held together by 40,000 zip ties! Looking at the zip ties, I’m reminded that I need to shave.

After looking at the artwork, I ran into my friend Donny at Core Brewing Company. I met Donny through Little Theater friends, and he’s one of the most creative and encouraging people I know (try something, make something, get a tattoo!). Anyway, he currently plays at Core on Tuesday nights in an Irish music band, and although I showed up too late for the music, I showed up in time to catch up with Donny. One of the topics we discussed, in addition to our favorite movie quotes, was what I’ve learned by writing every day. “Well,” I said, “one of the lessons has been how to be more patient with myself, how to judge myself less for not being at a certain point in life at a certain time.”

Tonight I drove by the alien in the bamboo hat mural, and some of the outlines you can see in the above photo had been painted in. I didn’t take a picture (sorry), but a lot of progress had been made. When I got home, I spent some time reading The Artists Way, and one of the Week 5 exercises said, “List ten ways you are mean to yourself.” Hum. Take a deep breath, Marcus. This may hurt a little. I’m going to be intentionally vague here, since I think it’d be worthwhile to think about the ways in which YOU are mean to yourself. But I will say that the answers I wrote down had mostly to do with my internal (and sometimes external) self-talk, that voice that compares me to other people, says I’m not good enough, says I’m not worthy enough.

You know–THAT voice. The mean one. (The asshole.)

Allowing someone else to put you down or discourage your dreams is, quite frankly, anything but self-care.

It’s not that I haven’t known about that asshole voice in my head before night. I just hadn’t put it in terms of–whenever I listen to and believe that voice, I’m being mean to me. I’m certainly not recognizing what’s good (or pretty) inside me whenever I’m being self-critical. So I guess the advice–as Elvis would say–is, “Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true.” Plus, I wouldn’t let anyone else talk to me like that. (Actually, I probably would, probably have. One of goals after making my ten things list was to speak my truth more, to take less shit off people because allowing someone else to put you down or discourage your dreams is, quite frankly, anything but self-care.)

I expect this to take some time. Changing habits usually does. But just like the murals downtown, it’s simply a matter of vision and dedication. And sometimes things go faster than you think. Remember the movie Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, the way everything and everyone was “excellent”? Well, when I told Donny that I was working on being more patient with myself, he said it reminded him of a line from that movie. Honestly, I think it’s so great that if I were a teenager in a punk rock band living in my parent’s basement (instead of their spare bedroom), I’d probably have it tattooed on my arm. The more I think about it, it’s the perfect reminder to treat myself better. So here’s the quote–for me–for you–for us.

“Be excellent to yourself, dude.”

[For you history buffs, here’s a link for more information about the old theater, along with more photos.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Normal people don’t walk on water.

"

Humpty Dumpty Fell off the Wall (Blog #118)

Leave a comment

Today my therapist was in rare form. I swear, sometimes I think she should be a standup comedian. When I walked into her office wearing flip-flops, shorts, a tank top, and a bandana (hair all wild), she said, “Please don’t take offense to this statement, but you look very Olivia Newton John.”

“On the contrary, I take that as a compliment.”

For some reason, my therapist was super chatty our entire session. For a while, when I first got there–we actually talked about her life. (This doesn’t happen very often.) At some point, when I moved on to “the list,” she said, “I guess you’re going to make me WORK today. I was really hoping to just shoot the breeze with you.” Then she added–

“And I don’t care–put that shit on your blog.”

In the course of unpacking things today, we got on the topic of synchronicity (which I blogged about last week), and she said that Jung (his friends called him Carl) believed that everyone (and that means you) has a psyche that’s been broken, since being a human is a real kick in the pants. Like Humpty Dumpty, you end up with all these fragmented pieces. She said, “You’ve got Insecure Marcus, Self-Critical Marcus, Marcus That Can Be A Snot.” (It’s a lot, I know. At least I look like Olivia Newton John.) Anyway, she said the process of putting yourself back together is called “integration,” and therapy is just one of the many ways to do it. (Meditation is another.) As for synchronicity, Jung believed it’s happening all the time, but we become more and more aware of it as we integrate. Integration is how we “get on that wavelength.”

I spent this evening with my friends Barbie and Steve. Barbie and I met through dance (she’s an instructor) about ten years ago, and she’s one of the most positive people I know. Hell, one time she hosted a positive people party–no Debbie Downers allowed. Just picture a day of hanging out on the lake and drinking beer with a bunch of smiling unicorns. That’s how fabulous it was. Anyway, Barbie and I haven’t seen each other in forever, so she invited me over for dinner to catch up.

So get this. After dinner we went downstairs to Steve’s workshop. Several years ago he started a hobby of making knives, and now he’s gotten really good (really good) and sells them. So Steve laid out several of his latest knives, as well as some that were in process. Here’s a picture. Most the blades are Damascus steel, which is steel that’s been folder over on itself and hammered out several times over. I think some of the handles are giraffe bone. The belt buckle and one of two of the smaller knives are made from pietersite, or as the kids these days would say, “Peter’s A’-ight.”

So Steve was showing me several boxes of knife parts and rocks, stones, and bones. And then he brought this sucker out.

Any idea what that is? No clue? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a walrus penis. That’s right–you heard me. As Steve said, “Now THAT’S a boner.” Apparently, although humans don’t, a lot of mammals have literal penis bones (the better to screw you with, my dear). Of course, like any pecker, they come in all shapes and sizes. Steve said that a some hunters will wear a raccoon penis bone as a necklace. They call it a tooth–wait for it–prick. A toothprick. Yes, you too, can take any old, wornout penis, shine it right up, and turn it into jewelry–a necklace, a knife handle, whatever.

Talk about recycling.

As if that weren’t enough entertainment for the evening, when I told Barbie I needed to go to the bathroom, she led me to the back of the house, pointed out a toilet that looked like a spaceship, and said, “I’ll leave you two alone together. Oh my god, y’all. Not only was the seat heated, but it was also a bidet, this magical gift from the gods that sprays warm water on your backside and then–AND THEN–blows warm air in all the right places. I swear. It was better than a boyfriend. Like a meditation, really.

Before I left, Barbie played for me on her wooden flutes, a new hobby she’s picked up. Here’s a video I snagged while she was playing one of them. There’s something about that sound that’s so mesmerizing, so calming. I honestly feel more spiritual just for having listened to it, although I’m guessing I shouldn’t be bragging about that.

As I drove home tonight, I thought about pieces and parts. When Steve makes his knives, he takes the frame of an old knife, steel he gets from a friend, a Walrus penis he gets from–I’m just guessing–Ebay. Of course, there are other parts, but he has to bring them all together, and it takes a lot of sawing and hammering and sanding and buffing. I’ve never done it, but shit–I’m sure it takes a lot of time and patience. It’s like learning to dance or to play an instrument. But when all the work is finished, you’ve got his beautiful, integrated thing. All parts working together as one.

I used to wonder if healing was really possible, if you could take a broken egg, superglue it back together, and have the same egg again. Well, obviously you can’t. Once your psyche breaks, that person is gone. (Sorry for the bad news.) But I do think that just like one of Steve’s knives, you can piece yourself back together. A little therapy here, a lot of therapy there, some meditation, time spent with people who love you for who you are. Before you know it, you’re a new person, even better than the one before, a far cry from the one who fell off the wall.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

"

Matthew’s Box (Blog #117)

2 Comments

At least once I’ve written about the time when I was a child and became so upset that I didn’t have enough space to organize my newly acquired birthday presents that I began to cry. I remember my mom sitting on the side of my bed. The room was dark. Maybe a nightlight was on. My mom left the room, came back with an empty Cool Whip container. She said, “Let’s put all your worries in here. You can get them out later.” So I took my hand and placed my invisible worries inside. Mom put the lid on the container, tucked it away in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and then tucked me away in bed.

Somehow, it helped.

Perhaps this is the first time I’m sharing this part of the story on the blog, but I’ve written about it elsewhere before and told some of my friends, so I feel like I’m repeating myself. Anyway, we’re talking about it now because this afternoon (at breakfast) I found out where the whole Cool Whip container thing started.

Sometime before I was born, my mom attended nursing school at the Walter Reed Army Institute of Nursing in Baltimore, Maryland. My aunt Terri attended there with her. One of their classmates and friends was a lady named Pat. I’m told that when I was six or seven I met Pat and her husband when my family went to visit them. I’m not sure that I remember, but the story goes that Pat said we could stay with them, but I said, “Thank you very much, but I’d like to stay at a hotel where I can use the vending machines.”

Not much has changed.

Since Mom’s recently joined Facebook, she and Pat have reconnected, and when I got back from Austin yesterday, I noticed a hand-written letter to Mom from Pat on the kitchen table. It was mixed in with some other cards addressed to Mom as well as a small bouquet of flowers (in a smiley-face vase) from the cancer support house. This morning I also noticed a small glass box, which at first glance looked looked like a jewelry box about the size of the palm of your hand, beveled on all edges, beautiful, with a silver clasp. Mom said the box came from Pat, that it was called a “Matthew’s Box,” that I could read about in an article Pat sent with her letter.

Matthew, Pat’s son, was born in 1976, four years before I was even thought about. At age four he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a typically terminal form of cancer that cut off the blood supply to his spinal cord and put him in a wheelchair. For over a year, Matthew was treated with chemotherapy, which left him weak, nauseated, and prone to infections like pneumonia. Two months before he turned six, an x-ray showed a new malignancy on his spine. Hope gave way to reality. At home and at treatment, Matthew held onto a toy he got when he was a baby, a stuffed dog (outfitted in engineer’s overalls) named Dooby.

One day while listening to records, Matthew began to sob. Hearing him from another room, Pat went to him. “Mommy,” he said, “if I die, will Dooby go with me?”

As time went on and Matthew struggled with the idea of dying, Pat said, “Matthew, think about taking all your concerns and troubles out of your mind and putting them in a box. Close the box and hand it over to God, and let him take care of it for you.” The day after that conversation, Matthew’s demeanor had changed. In Pat’s words, he was cheerful, chipper, glowing. When asked why he was so much happier, Matthew said, “Well, Mom, last night I changed my brain.”

Matthew died eleven months later. Even now, Pat keeps a glass box on a her desk. Into the box she slips little pieces of papers on which she’s written her worries and concerns. Whenever a friend has cancer, or maybe whenever they’re just having a hard time, Pat sends them a “Matthew’s Box” like the one she sent my mom.

Healing’s not an item on a to-do list.

Today I woke up tired and started the day by reading about Matthew and then crying into my grapefruit. I’ve been slightly on edge because I’m quitting coffee (for a while), and I’m overwhelmed that Mom is starting chemotherapy this Friday. (It’s the little things, it’s the big things.) Isn’t it all happening too fast? I spent the afternoon with my physical therapist, my massage therapist, and my chiropractor. My physical therapist actually described me as having, “almost perfect posture,” and my massage therapist got my shoulders to not round forward so much. And whereas all of that is exciting, it also feels like I have a long way to go. Tonight I’ve been thinking, What if I can never get my hips perfectly level or my ears above my shoulders?

What if my dreams never come true?

Tomorrow I see my therapist, and I honestly can’t wait. It’s been a couple of weeks, and–as always–I have a list of things I’d like to talk about, things that have bothered me but I haven’t been able to figure out on my own. This evening I realized that my therapy list is a lot like a “Matthew’s Box” or a Cool Whip container. It’s a place for me to put my own worries and concerns until I can get some help with them. My nature, of course, is to want a solution “right now,” to be able to check another item off my list. Thank God, I don’t have to worry about that anymore. But I realize that’s not how healing works. Healing’s not an item on a to-do list. No, healing is crying for breakfast, laughing for lunch, and eating peanut butter from a jar for dinner. It’s flowers on the table and asking a friend for help when you need it. It’s doing everything you know how to do while simultaneously acknowledging what’s not yours to control and admitting that often the only reliable thing you can change–as Matthew might say–is your brain.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Your emotions are tired of being ignored.

"

Feeling Vulnerable and Raw (Blog #116)

Leave a comment

Last night while I was working on the blog, Bonnie came back to the bungalow with doughnuts–Voodoo Doughnuts. I’d never had one before, but apparently they are a thing–creative packaging, filled with sugar, a great way to go up a pant size in less than twenty-four hours. But maybe the best part about them is that they are a little naughty–okay–a lot naughty. Their packaging is pink, and on the cover, along with a snake, is a magician with the words, “The magic is in the hole.” (Wow.) AND THEN it says, “Good things come in pink boxes.” (If you don’t get it, I’m not going to be the one to explain it to you. Especially you, Mom.)

So filthy–so funny–so tasty.

So that’s how today started, and I don’t mind saying that it’s gone downhill from there. I mean, Bonnie and I ate some delicious tacos before leaving Austin, and we listened to a lot of good music on the drive back to Arkansas today. But returning home after a great trip–to Austin of all places–can quite frankly blow. Let’s face it. Austin is where there’s live music, plenty of dancing, and amazing tacos. Van Buren, on the other hand, is where all my bills get delivered, the home of my bathroom scale, and the place where Mom has cancer. In short, there’s a lot of reality here.

Go away, reality, we don’t want your kind here.

I’m sure it doesn’t help that I’ve been extra tired this week and functioning on caffeine and sugar. Plus, I don’t mind saying that blogging every day about my emotions and internal life is–well–a real bitch at times. As if three years of therapy weren’t enough, now I’m personally journaling every day about what I think, feel, desire, and loathe, AND putting the highlight reel online for everyone to see. And I guess sometimes that leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable and raw, like what might happen if you had a scab that stretched from your face to your groin and intentionally ripped the whole thing off–you know–for fun. (Let’s start a blog and talk about our feelings!)

I don’t recommend it.

No, let’s eat doughnuts instead. And if you don’t think that will help, you can always take a pretzel and shove it in the heart of a one-eyed doughnut (that’s filled with red jelly) while pretending it’s everyone who’s ever 1) lied to you, 2) cheated on you, or 3) done you wrong.

When I got home tonight (about 1:30 in the morning), I went for a walk/jog to help clear my head, readjust. I’m not sure that it helped. But here’s something. My family has lived on this street for thirty years, and for as long as I can remember, situated between several houses and a local church, there’s been a patch of land that’s been a bit wild. From the road it’s looked like a bunch of overgrown trees, although sometimes it would get cut back, and maybe I remember seeing a cow or two back there. Whenever I would go for walks by there in the summers, there’d be a honeysuckle bush, and often I’d stop and smell it, even taste it.

Well, tonight as I walked by that plot of land, I thought something was different, but it took me a minute to figure it out. Y’all, the entire plot of land–maybe an acre or two of overgrown trees and honeysuckle–had been clearcut. (This is why I wouldn’t make a great detective.) It was just one big slab of dirt. Gone in the blink of an eye. Part of me was immediately sad–I’d gotten used to something being there, and now it was gone. Another part of me was delighted. Without the trees there, I could see all the stars shining through. There was all this–space. I wondered what would come along to fill it. There were so many–possibilities.

Sometimes I look at the way my life was before, and I miss it. On days like today when I’m wiped out and emotional, it’s easy to tell myself that life was better when I had a steady job, lived on my own, and every summer the honeysuckle bloomed in the same spot. Looking at my life now feels like looking at that empty plot of land–oh crap, where did everything go?  Again, it’s vulnerable and raw, in every way exposed. But at the same time, I can see stars I haven’t seen in years, and who knows who or what will come along, who knows what dreams may come.

There’s a poem by Robert Frost that says, “We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the Secret sits in the middle and knows.” What this means to me today is that it’s easy to look at the physical pieces of your life and think–that’s it–this blows. It’s easy to get caught up in what you can see, taste, and touch. But it’s the unseen dimension, I think, that gives the most shape to our lives. This is, of course, where divine wisdom lives, along with possibility. To be a little naughty, the magic is you know where. Additionally, it’s the holes or the spaces in our lives that give us room to breathe and room to rest in, room to contain both good and bad days, and–when the time is right–room for something else to come along.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

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

"

The Universe Communicates (Blog #115)

Leave a comment

Okay, so I’m addicted to Facebook just like the rest of the world is. There, I said it. Phew, I feel better. Anyway, this afternoon after Bonnie and I went shopping, we came back to the Airbnb, and I took a serious nap while Bonnie took a semi-serious nap and then went for a walk or whatever she did that I don’t know because–again–I was seriously napping. I mean, the sun was down when I finally opened my eyes. I think it was eleven. But the first thing I did when I woke up was–you guessed it–Facebook. Scroll, scroll, scroll–Bette Midler interview–stop.

The next thing I knew, I was caught up in this story about Bette’s rise to fame that started with her singing in The Continental Baths, which I guess was a place in New York City that homosexuals could get naked, take baths together–um, whatever–and listen to the likes of Bette Midler and Barry Manilow–live. So basically it was soap, sex, and a song. I mean, we all need entertainment. Well, Bette said that she and Barry had a falling out, but she hoped they could patch it up. And sorry, said the interview guy, but to find out more, you’ll have to go to our website.

Fine. You have my attention.

I mean, I really didn’t wake up today itching to find out more about Bette Midler and Barry Manilow, but that’s what I did. So now–without meaning to–I’m even gayer than I was before.

I guess some things you can’t avoid.

This evening while Bonnie went to her final Kizomba dance, I went for a jog. One of my closest friends from high school, Neil, messaged me this weekend and suggested that I meet him in Seattle for a half-marathon. “I think it’d be really good for both of us,” he said. “And it will also guarantee me a spot on the blog.” (We all have dreams.) Anyway, I’m lately in the mood of saying yes to life (as well as beer, donuts, and cigarettes), so I told Neil I thought that would be a great idea, both for our friendship and for my waistline. That’s as far as we’ve gotten with the plan, but now it’s in print, so maybe it’s more likely to happen. Either way, I figured now was as good a night as any to start training.

I’m not sure how far I jogged tonight, but I’m confident it was the farthest I’ve gone this year, maybe ever. All I know is I was gone for two or two-and-a-half hours, and I jogged the majority of the time. But I also tried to take in the city and dream about living here one day, so I stopped to look around, explore. I saw a shirt with a kid hugging a unicorn that said, “Hold your horses.” I found out hotels are a great place to use the restroom and grab a drink of water–just walk in and look like you belong.

Here’s a picture of a gay bar that I thought had a great name–Cheer Up Charlies (like the song from Willy Wonka).

My jog took me to South Congress, which if you’re going south to north and cross the Colorado River, becomes just regular Congress and runs smack dab into the capitol building. Anyway, first I went south (away from the capitol), and then I turned around and went north (toward it). I can’t tell you how much I’ve fallen in love with this view and this city while being here this week.

There’s a quote by Chris Prentiss that says, “Not only is the Universe aware of us, but it also communicates with us. We, in turn, are constantly in communication with the Universe through our words, thoughts, and actions. The Universe responds with events. Events are the language of the Universe. The most obvious of those events are what we call coincidence.”

I thought a lot about this idea while I was running, the idea that the universe communicates. Honestly, I used to think that the universe–or God–didn’t notice me, wasn’t interested. But I’ve been coming around to the idea that it does, not just saying it but actually believing it. And I guess you could make a meaning out of anything, but sometimes when I see particular road signs or hear certain songs, I like to think that God is talking me.

Tonight on South Congress, I found the sign above that says, “I love you so much.” After that, there was another sign on a hotel that said, “Let love in.” Neither message was earth shattering, but both were subtle reminders that there’s a lot more good in the world than I’ve previously believed. I can’t prove to you that I was “meant” to see those messages tonight, but I could have ended up on any other road tonight, run by any number of other signs. And of all the signs I did pass, those are the ones that caught by attention. So whatever you call it, I think there’s something “out there,” or more likely “in here” that’s nudging me in the direction of “life ain’t so bad.”

Cheer up, Charlie.

When I got home from the run, I was drenched, breathing heavily. And I guess I can only stand so much healthy living for one day, since I drank a soda and smoked a cigarette (and then threw the rest of the pack away). Then I took a shower, made some toast, and sat down with a to-go container of peanut butter and a miniature jar of strawberry preserves that someone had left in the refrigerator.

And get this shit.

The lid on the jar said, “Straw Berry Manilow.” Barry Manilow! How great is that? I actually laughed out loud. I mean, it’s clever marketing to start with, but I love that I was learning about Bette and Barry earlier this evening, and then there’s this funny little reminder that not only is the universe capable of lining up some pretty amazing messages if we’re willing to see them (how much work would it take YOU to put Barry Manilow in someone’s Facebook feed AND Berry Manilow in their Airbnb refrigerator on the same day?), but that also God has a delightful sense of humor.

Barry, berry delightful indeed.

The quote earlier referred to events like these as coincidences. Carl Jung called them synchronicities, and he believed they stemmed from the fact that all of life is connected. He called that connection Unus Mundus, which is Latin for “one world.” Sometimes I just imagine that God is like a child playing hide-and-seek. After a while, it’s no fun to stay hidden, so you have to start dropping hints. Hey, I’m over here. Look at this sign. Now I’m over here–in the Straw Berry Manilow preserves. That’s right, I’m talking to you.

Oh hey, God. Fine. You have my attention.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Being scared isn’t always an invitation to run away. More often than not, it’s an invitation to grow a pair and run toward.

"

Birds Will Shit on You (Blog #114)

Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

A box of quackers!

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

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

I guess time changes everything.

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

Because they didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

You know when someone crosses a line. You may not want to admit it, but you know.

"