When You Can’t Get A(Head) (Blog #478)

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Today’s in-a-hurry, down-and-dirty bullet points/thoughts–

1. So tired, so thankful

Last night I stayed up until four in the morning helping my friends pack. I’m happy to have the work. Then I went to Walmart to prepare for my upcoming family road trip and went to bed at five-thirty. Today I am–functional. I just got a haircut and need to get ready to meet friends for dinner. I should shower. They might appreciate that.

2. I’ve got to be crazy

The road trip tomorrow will be to Albuquerque, where my sister lives. It will be me, my dad, my mom, my aunt, and our dog (Ella), and we will all be crammed into my car, Tom Collins. If nothing else, the trip will give me plenty to write about. Stay tuned.

3. You never know

Here’s something I found while helping my friends pack. It’s a poem from a 1960s (?) elementary-school autograph book by some kid named Joe that says, “Roses are red, Violets are blue, The shorter the miniskirt, The better the view.” (Geez. Straight people.)

You never know where your words will end up.

4. Can’t get a(head)? Here are two.

For six years when I had the dance studio, I hosted a dance event called Southern Fried Swing. Even now, no one gets the name right. They call it Kentucky Fried Swing, Deep Fried Swing, Chicken Pot Pie (my favorite). Anyway, the head of my decorating committee, whom I’m helping pack, was and is always super-creative, and we came across these painted mannequin heads that were leftover from our 2010 event. (I think it was 2010). Check them out. I’m still amazed. People are so talented.

5. Holy Mother of God (Batman)

I’m writing a lot about my friends who are moving. I mean, I have been spending twelve-hours days at their house quite a bit lately. Anyway, I’m not usually moved by religious iconography, but they have a picture of the madonna and child that stops me in my tracks every time I see it. I said something about it, and the next day my friend gave me a smaller version of the painting, one she found in an old school book. So yesterday I bought a frame for it and hung it in the small space between my closet doors. The painting is by Raphael (the painter, not the Ninja Turtle), and I’m not sure why I love it. I guess I think Mary looks like a nice lady–accepting. Plus, the painting makes me think of the Beatle’s song “Let It Be,” although the song was about Paul McCartney’s actual mother and not the Blessed Virgin.

But still.

When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be. And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be.

6. Have a Coke and smile

Yesterday I taught a dance lesson at the local Coca-Cola Bottling Company. Talk about a cool gig. I used to be obsessed with Coca-Cola, decorated my room with Coke wallpaper, and yesterday’s lesson was held in their museum. (Sometime’s life is pretty bitchin’.) Anyway, afterwards I got to find the Coke calendar from the year I was born. Check it out.

7. Hey, loser

Everything is all right and okay.

After yesterday’s cool experience at the Coca-Cola plant, I got an email about a writing fellowship I applied for. There were 700 applicants, and I wasn’t one of the winners. Neither was a friend of mine, so when I called her to commiserate, she said, “Hey, loser,” and I said, “Hey, loser.” I don’t know–I’m a little disappointed, but not really. Normally I’d think, I can’t get ahead, but today I’ve been thinking, This feels right. Perhaps this is a sign of progress, a sign of my being able to let it be. More and more, I’m not sure I know what’s best for me. I have these dreams I’d like to see happen, but WHO AM I to say if they should come about or HOW they should come about if they do? Who am I to push the universe around? That thinking is stressful, the idea that something should be happening that isn’t. No–I’d much rather image the universe as the madonna and me as its beloved child wrapped safely in her arms, where everything all right and okay, exactly as it should be.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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No emotion is ever truly buried.

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On Being Out and Proud (Blog #477)

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Last night I worked until three in the morning helping my friends pack. Then I came home, showered, slept for four hours, and got ready to go back to work. But not to help my friends–it’s two o’clock in the afternoon now and that starts in an hour–I had a dance lesson this morning at 9:30. 9:30! What an ungodly hour for dancing. Of course, you know my motto–If you’re paying, I’m dancing–so I was there with bells on.

And plenty of coffee in hand.

Let’s talk about being gay. Specifically, let’s talk about the fact that I am and the fact that at the age of thirty-seven, I’m almost completely–but apparently not always–out of the closet. Sure, I’ve made a lot of progess. In my early twenties, I used to lie about it. People would ask me if I was gay, and I’d say, “No–Who, me?–I like girls–Vaginas are just the BEST THING ever–Can’t get enough of them.” Then in my mid-twenties, I came out to my family and close friends, then eventually stopped lying about it. If someone asked, I’d tell them. But I wasn’t “out and proud,” whatever that means. Like, I didn’t put a rainbow bumper sticker on my car or wear a t-shirt that said, “No one knows I’m gay.”

Although–people have told me–this was close to the truth.

Ugh. Coming out is such a gradual process. I’m a little bitter that straight people don’t have to deal with it. But then, of course, they have to worry about getting pregnant and, sometimes, making child-support payments, so maybe it all comes out in the wash. Anyway, when I started this blog, I just decided to say it–“This morning I was standing in a waffle line and saw a guy who asked me online for casual sex [and I said no, Mom].” I mean, that’s what had happened that day. It was the truth.

And I was tired of not being honest.

But back to the dance lesson this morning. It really did go well–one of the best and most fun I’ve ever had with a new couple. We worked for two hours. Then at the end of the lesson we were all just sitting around chatting–the groom, his mother, and his fiancée. And the guy, who grew up here, said he now lives and works in Dallas, and I said, “Oh–I was just in Dallas.”

“What were you doing there?” he said.

So I said, “I was in Houston working on business, but stopped in Dallas to see friends and have dinner.”

Then, like someone would in a normal conversation, he said, “Where did you eat?”

“Some Mexican place, I can’t remember, but they had a dessert that made smoke come out my nose.”

And then–and then–he said, “DID YOU GO TO THE BARS AFTERWARDS?”

All right, well, he didn’t scream it like that, in all capital letters. But that’s what it felt like. Immediately, it was like I was a closeted teenager again, afraid. I thought, Yes–if you must know–I went to The Roundup to dance with the gay cowboys BECAUSE I’M A HOMOSEXUAL. But what I said was, “No, I just went to dinner–because I had to drive home.”

Then I thought, That’s a fucking lie, Marcus. But, God, it was so awkward. I just met these people! This was a casual conversation, and–what?–I’m supposed to use it as an opportunity to talk about where I like to put my dick? (Is this too graphic?) Because that’s what saying, “I’m gay” often feels like to me, at least when all the other person’s doing is exchanging social pleasantries and NOT asking about my personal life. It’s like when you go to the proctologist or the OB/GYN and later meet someone new, and they say, “What’d you do today?” and you DON’T say, “This morning I had a digital rectal (or vaginal) exam,” but instead say, “I ran some errands” or simply, “I had a doctor’s appointment.”

Because it’s weird to bring up images of your WHO-HA with someone you don’t know from Adam.

And Eve. Or Steve. (Or who-the-fuck-ever.)

Like, you don’t spill your guts to everyone, every time.

I guess I still haven’t figured out when and where and how it’s okay to say, “I’m gay.” Again, I’m not sure if the straight community understands this–and I’m not asking them to–what it feels like to have to navigate every conversation and relationship, to always be “feeling out” how others might respond, to not know whether it’s okay to say, “I went to a gay bar this weekend” or whether it’s safe to walk down the street holding another boy’s hand. Because people have been seriously hurt or killed for this type of behavior. You know, being themselves. I’ve never had a negative experience, but that fear is certainly present, and I know that’s what was really driving my silence this morning.

Granted, I could have said, “Yes, we went out in Cedar Springs [which, everyone knows, is the Gayborhood in Dallas]” and seen where things went from there. Actually, as the conversation continued this morning, I did say that, when the groom asked where the restaurant we ate at was. “By the Warwick, in Cedar Springs,” I said.

“Oh, the Warwick is awesome,” he replied.

And that was it.

No big deal, no “You must one of those Friend-of-Dorothy, Cher-loving, thong-wearing queers.” None of that. Ugh–this is such a slow lesson to learn, that most of the world is more open and accepting and kind than I’ve previously imagined, that this is 2018 and someone from Dallas isn’t going to be shocked that their thirty-seven-year-old rumba instructor without a ring on his finger would go to a gay bar. Likewise, it’s a hard lesson to learn that being out of the closet doesn’t mean you have to be an out-and-proud screaming queen every minute of every day. I’m a homo, and all I talk about is homo things, and I’m never, never, ever afraid of what other people think of me. Because come on–I am afraid of what other people think of me sometimes, just as I’m afraid of being rejected and–here you go–of letting other people accept me just the way I am.

But I’m working on it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Just as there’s day and night literally, there’s also day and night emotionally. Like the sun, one minute we’re up, the next minute we’re down. Our perspectives change constantly. There’s nothing wrong with this. The constellations get turned around once a day, so why can’t you and I? Under heaven, there’s room enough for everything–the sun, the moon and stars, and all our emotions. Yes, the universe–our home–is large enough to hold every bit of us.

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Scheat Happens (Blog #476)

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Last week, on Friday, July 13, my car Tom Collins and I (technically) celebrated our one-year anniversary. I “bought” him a year ago, although that sounds so trashy to say it like that. I like to think he CHOSE to be with me. Regardless, I was so distracted by our trip to Houston and Dallas that I COMPLETELY forgot about our important day. (So sorry, Tom.) Normally I’m stellar with dates and anniversaries, but in this case, I’m THAT guy.

Thankfully, Tom isn’t the type to hold a grudge.

Or maybe he is.

A few months ago, Tom’s “check engine” light came on. It’s a long story (which I’ve already told), but I ended up having his spark plugs replaced, and the light went off. But some days it will come on for maybe an hour or two, at most a day, then go off again. My mechanic said, “Don’t be concerned.” Well, on THE VERY MORNING of our anniversary, just as I was leaving Houston, that damned yellow light came on again. This time, Tom was kind of shuddering, which is what happened when this problem originally popped up. It’s like he was saying, “Hey, asshole, aren’t you forgetting something?”

Of course, I still didn’t remember.

Instead, I pulled over and turned off Tom’s engine. (Calm down, darling.) Then I started it back up, and the shuddering stopped. The light, however, has been on ever since. My family and I are leaving town in a few days to see my sister in Albuquerque, and since I’ve been needing an oil change anyway, I figured I could have everything–the oil and the engine light–looked at and taken care of at once. But since I’ve been doing odd jobs for some friends this week, I haven’t had time to attend to these matters.

Again, so sorry, Tom. Please forgive me.

Miraculously, the light went off yesterday, and my dad–thank God for fathers–arranged to have Tom’s oil changed and everything inspected. So last night I dropped Tom off at the shop a few blocks from our house and walked home, looking for stars the whole time. The constellation Pegasus is up after midnight or one, and it’s pretty easy to spot. It’s a huge square in the east, and I like it because it contains a star named Scheat (Beta Pegasi), which is probably pronounced “sheet,” but I pronounce “SHEE-AT.” (As in, Scheat, I forgot my anniversary.) If you’re looking at the screenshot below (from the Stellarium app), Scheat is the bright corner star just to the left of the label “Pegasus.”

This morning (well, afternoon), when I woke up, Tom Collins was ready to go. My dad had coordinated with the shop, and they’d done a clean-up for Tom’s insides. I’m not good with automobiles, but I’m picturing a car colon cleanse, something that flushes all the gunk out. Anyway, when Dad and I went to the shop to pick Tom up, the guy said the flush should take care of the engine light issue and that we were “all set” to go to Albuquerque.

Scheat happens.

Now it’s time for me to do more odd jobs. Most likely, I’ll be up late tonight–like Pegasus–then up early again tomorrow. The next few days promise to be a whirlwind. But this is life. Some days we rest, and there’s nothing to do. Other days it’s go-go-go. We forget anniversaries. Scheat happens. Meanwhile the stars slowly and calmly make their way through the heavens. One day rising and the next day falling, they don’t make a big deal about any of it.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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In other words, there's always SOMETHING else to improve or work on. Therefore, striving for perfection is not only frustrating, it's also technically impossible.

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Number 6: My Tits (Blog #475)

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This morning I had a checkup with my doctor. “I’ve been feeling pretty good, but my energy levels are still up-and-down,” I said. “We should check your thyroid and your testosterone,” she said. (I distinctly remember asking about my thyroid and her saying it was fine a couple months ago, but whatever.) So that’s the next step–those two tests, which I have to go back for because one of them (I don’t remember which) is most accurate at the butt-crack of dawn. (These are my words, not my doctor’s.) Also, she also said it’s time to re-test my cholesterol and B12 levels to see if the supplements I’m taking are working. More accurately, in the case of the B12, to see if my body is absorbing the supplement.

You know, some things don’t sink in with certain people.

Let’s talk about my nipples. I never used to think about them before puberty. But then “the change” happened (as it does to us all), and–uh–I don’t know–they kind of grew. Ever since then, they don’t stick flat against my chest. They “pop out” a little, the right one more than the left. There, I said it. My tits are asymmetrical. I’m telling you this because for twenty years now, my boobs have been a source of personal concern and worry. You know, I use them to compare myself to others. Not constantly, mind you, not every minute of every damn day. I do have other things to fret about. My hairline, for example, or my fallen arches.

I’m glad we can talk about these things.

As a teenager, I HATED taking my shirt off. I remember swimming practically fully clothed at junior-high pool parties; I was so anxious about my chest. Not that anyone ever cared or said anything. In high school I worked at a summer camp–I was a lifeguard for crying out loud–and I bore my torso constantly. Not once–not one single time–did someone say, “Good Lord, Marcus, you’d better start wearing a training bra or you’re gonna put someone’s eye out with those things.” But you know how shit becomes a bigger deal in your head than it is in actual reality. I just knew I was different because I didn’t look like him.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve mostly made peace with my nipples. But every now and then my old worries creep up like a pair of cheap underwear. Sometimes my right breast will–um–itch or something, and I’ll think, It’s growing! (or) I’m going to get man boobs! (or) I probably have too much estrogen because I’m gay and eat soy sauce!

Like you don’t think a lot of crazy things.

Anyway, this morning while I was preparing to see my doctor and making note of things I wanted to talk about, I added my nipples to the list. (Number 6: My Tits.) Last year while watching Embarrassing Bodies on Netflix, I learned that it’s normal for teenage boys to have “growing nipples” and that many men who have MOOBS (that’s “man boobs,” Mom) opt to have surgery to have them reduced, and since I’ve been wondering whether or not they’d have to cut my nipples OFF and SEW THEM BACK ON as part of the procedure, I thought, Marcus, This is neurotic. You trust your doctor. She’s a professional. Just ask her about your pop-up nipples!

And no, they are not also scratch-and-sniff.

So there I was in the exam room, waiting, determined to do this, hoping I wouldn’t get nervous, yank my shirt up, and blurt out, “DO MY TA-TAS LOOK NORMAL TO YOU, DOCTOR?!” Well, get this shit. Today–for the first time ever–my doctor brought a medical student into the room with her. Jesus Christ, I thought, I wanna talk about my hooters, and there’s a frickin’ job shadow standing in the corner! I almost backed out. But then my doctor started talking about women’s nipples during another conversation about sensitive skin, stating that they can change colors after childbirth. (Like, from pink to brown, not from pink to chartreuse or anything cool like that.) So she was the one who technically broke the nipple-conversation ice.

All this to say that I asked. “You Googled gynecomastia, didn’t you?” she said.

“Twenty years ago,” I replied. (And maybe once every three years since.)

Then she looked. (When she lifted my shirt and read the text across the front, she said, “What does LUCKY U mean?” I said, “Lucky is a brand. Their thing is that when you unzip the zipper on their jeans, it says, ‘LUCKY U.” She said, “That’s cute.” I said, “I wish it were true.”) Anyway, get this shit. She said I was normal. (Me! Normal.) Her exact words were, “I don’t see ONE THING that would make me think you have high estrogen levels. If anything, some people are genetically predisposed to deposit fat in certain places.”

“So maybe a little fat there, but not breast tissue?” I said.

She laughed.

“No, not breast tissue. But don’t start smoking pot or go crazy–since both marijuana and certain anti-psychotic drugs can make you GROW breast tissue.”

So that’s a serious relief. I mean, honestly. How else are you supposed to feel when you’ve been off-and-on worried and concerned about something for twenty years and then an authority (like, a doctor with an actual medical degree and NOT some stranger from Fargo, Minnesota, with internet access and a keyboard) tells you that you’re okay? Personally, I feel a little confused, a little disoriented. I’m so used to believing that something ain’t right. Now part of me thinks, Maybe she’s wrong. It’s not like she SQUEEZED my nipples. (It’s not like anyone has lately.) Maybe she’d change her diagnosis if she SQUEEZED THEM. But most of me thinks, This is really good news, Marcus. One less thing to worry about.

Freedom lies on the other side of everything you’re afraid of.

Personally, I think it’s important to talk about your nipples. I mean euphemistically. This afternoon I saw my therapist, and we discussed my experiences last weekend with the dancing homosexual cowboys and the fact that several of them “rejected” me. I said, “Is it normal for me to feel icky after being turned down on the dance floor over and over?” She said, “Yes, it is. And people can argue with me until Christ returns, but gay bars are places of judgment and oppression. When minorities feel excluded by society, they unfortunately pass it on to others. It’s a cycle.” My point is this–I can’t count the number of times I’ve discussed my fears, worries, and embarrassments with my therapist and how many times she’s gently offered ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE. Because mine obviously isn’t the only one. So often my perspective is–in fact–a leftover viewpoint from childhood, a small fear that grew into a big, cumbersome fear because I either didn’t know better or didn’t know whom to discuss it with. This is why I’m all in favor of asking the difficult questions, of having the hard conversations, of being–well, honest–because I’m fully convinced freedom lies on the other side of everything I’m afraid of.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds. A dove appears--the storm is over.

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Taking the Heat Off (Blog #474)

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It’s 1:20 in the afternoon, and I’m getting ready to go to work. I woke up this morning tired and sore from yesterday’s manual labor, and today promises more of the same–painting, grouting, going up and down a ladder, hauling shit around. (It’s good to be employed.) Currently I’m in the SAVERS parking lot. I just bought a pair of two-dollar shorts so I’d have something to paint in and get dirty. This is a problem I didn’t anticipate having, needing “work” clothes. A year and a half ago I got rid of all my remodeling attire. I thought, I’m done with that sort of behavior.

You’re never done with you think you’re done.

Since I worked yesterday until 1:00 in the morning then came home, showered, and blogged until 3:00, I want to get this finished for the day. I hate blogging when I’m exhausted, asking my brain to function when all it wants to do is rest. Push-push-push. Earlier while I was eating breakfast, my dad and I were talk-talk-talking about an upcoming trip. (We’re both considering going to see my sister at the same time and are discussing going in one vehicle.) But my brain wasn’t awake yet–I kept getting irritated. It was too much noise, too early. Too much information, too quick.

Push-push-push.

Part of me is thinking about the stars, the way they come out one-by-one as the sun sets. It’s so freaking hot today, especially in this parking lot, and I can’t wait for things to cool down, for the stars to come out. It seems to me they show up as the heat is taken off. Now it’s 1:37, and I have things I want to talk about and process on the page, things that have happened lately, dreams that are rolling around in my head. But I have to go to work. Plus, to push-push-push them onto the page at this moment would be an exercise in self-flagellation. For this reason, I’m choosing to take the heat off myself, to stop push-push-pushing. Surely my own personal stars will come out as I do.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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The Cologne of Success (Blog #473)

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Things I have done in the last 24 hours–

1. Counted the number of crystals on the chandelier I hung yesterday

There are 407. I intend to write about why this is significant later, when I have more time.

2. Dreamed that I was at a restaurant or place called The Whole Spirit

This is important to me because it describes how I want to live the rest of my life–whole, not fragmented.

3. Helped a friend relocate and hook up their DVR box

4. Hung this mirror for some friends, whom I worked for the entire afternoon and evening

The rest of this list refers to things that happened at their place.

5. Realized that someone besides my mother reads my blogs and remembers them

The below picture, a six-pack of beer labeled “Two Beer Marcus–or Whatever” is what I found in my friends’ refrigerator this afternoon and refers to one of the very first blogs I wrote, #24. You can read it here. (The very top picture tonight is of two of the bottle caps. One says, “An honest day’s work might take days.” The other says, “Sweat is the cologne of success.” Since I sweat a lot, I guess this makes me successful.)

6. Ate half of this half of a whole chicken

7. Repaired this ceiling

9. Took down this awning–

and two others like it.

10. Crawled in a dumpster–

to organize the trash inside. (And you thought YOU were a neat freak.)

11. Laughed a lot

Things I have NOT done in the last twenty-four hours–

1. Changed the oil in my car

2. Flossed

3. Eaten an apple

4. Seen a shooting star

5. Gotten laid

6. Been worried or concerned about how my life will turn out

7. Ended my blog in the usual way

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Solid help and solid hope are quite the same thing.

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The Perfect Front (#472)

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When I lived in The Big House for a few years, I had a lot of chandeliers, only one of which sold during my estate sale, what I call The Great Letting Go. Since I moved in with my parents last year, all my leftover lamps and lights have been in the garage collecting dust, getting periodically kicked or moved around. A few times I’ve tried to sell them on Facebook or Craigslist, but to no avail. Finally, a couple weeks ago I decided to dust them off and bring them in. Now two of the lights are hanging in my room (I wrote about one of them here), and three are hanging in a spare closet.

All safe and sound.

This afternoon I determined to bring in the final chandelier, my favorite one, actually. I’ve been putting it off because it’s loaded with crystals, and I’ve assumed some of them were broken or damaged during the move or while in storage. Plus, there’s not really a “great” place to hang it here at Mom and Dad’s. Our ceilings are low, and this thing is somewhat substantial and dramatic. It needs a big space. But I thought, Hanging it is better than not hanging it. At least then I’ll get to look at it.

Well–immediately after taking down the old light fixture, I realized I’d have to go to Lowe’s for a few supplies. I’ll spare you all the details, but I needed some hooks to secure the chandelier to the fixture box (in the ceiling), as well as a medallion. (The “hood” of the chandelier, the part that goes flush to the ceiling, is three inches in diameter, but the ceiling hole is four. I figured a medallion with a three-inch hole would solve this problem.) Of course, all of Lowe’s medallions have the standard four-inch opening, still too big for my chandelier’s particular hood to cover up. Shit, I’ll have to improvise, I thought.

For over an hour, I strolled around Lowe’s and then Walmart, looking for something–anything–I could turn into a suitable ceiling medallion. FINALLY I stumbled across a set of small, circular sunburst mirrors and thought, Eureka–I can take out one of the mirrors and fasten the frame to the ceiling!

If none of this makes sense, stick with me. I promise I won’t go all Bob Vila on your ass and tell you everything that happened next, step by step. Suffice it to say, in home decoration and repair, everything is a process. But here’s the most important thing–when I got home from Walmart, I took out the actual mirror part of the mirror I liked the best, then drilled several one-inch holes into its plastic backing. Here’s what it looked like when I was done.

At this point, I was ready to hang the chandelier. So that’s what I did. And whereas I was all worried about the crystals being broken or damaged, not a single one was. In fact, only three of them had slipped off. (So I slipped them right back on.) Here’s what it looks like now that I’m completely finished. (Ta-da!)

This afternoon my inner perfectionist was all a-twitter about the chandelier. Even after my taking out all the extra chain links, it really does hang a bit low for our ceilings. Also, since the mirror wasn’t made to be a medallion, it’s not “exactly” flush to the ceiling. And–I think–it’s a little small for the size of the chandelier itself. But I’ve been reminding myself–1) The chandelier is gorgeous, better than what was there before, 2) No one besides me will notice or care, and 3) A small medallion, in this case, is better than no medallion at all.

Now I’m absolutely thrilled that the light is inside. I really do adore it. While dusting it this afternoon, I noticed that–honestly–there’s nothing perfect about it. (And that’s okay.) Each crystal is hung by a bent piece of wire, and every single piece is different. (I assume they were made by hand.) Also, the carousels that hold the hooks (and therefore the crystals) are all bent. Maybe they were made that way or have just warped slightly over the years. I mean, it is an antique. But really, what a ridiculous idea–perfection. As if there is such a thing.

Whom are you really kidding?

Earlier when I started to take tonight’s selfie, I decided to turn around. There’s a saying in psychology–the back is as big as the front–and since my front gets plenty of attention on this blog (God knows), I figured my back should get some too. I’m being cheeky here (and in the photo), but there really is something to this idea. We all have this face we show to the world–the one that smiles, the one that’s “nice,” the one that lives in the house where everything is “just so.” The Perfect Front. But that’s all it is–a front. I mean, whom are you really kidding? You want your chandeliers and pictures to hang perfectly straight? Good fucking luck. Life is messy and emotional. In fact, it’s damn ugly at times. That’s what The Imperfect Back is–all the things we don’t want to look at, all the parts of ourselves and the world we think are bad or wrong or embarrassing. But these parts deserve our attention too and (like my chandelier) are worthy of being seen. Plus, we forget that it’s not ultimately about The Perfect Front OR The Imperfect Back. It’s never about what’s outside, what’s physical. It’s about what’s inside, the light.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can rise above. You can walk on water.

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Feeling Oh-So-Welcome (Blog #471)

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Yesterday I left Houston about one o’clock and drove to Dallas for dinner with a friend. We ate Mexican and were given complimentary magic desserts that were cold to the touch and made fog come out of our mouths and noses. I’m not kidding. Some sort of dry ice thing, maybe. Anyway, after dinner I dropped my friend off at a play, then went to ANOTHER bookstore–number six in the last two days. But this time I just looked–I didn’t buy anything. I did, however, notice how badly my toe was hurting, I guess because I stubbed it earlier in the day. So when I left the bookstore, I taped my hurt toe to the toe next to it with electrical tape, which–believe it or not–helped.

Sometimes I can be really clever.

Having decided that I would stay in Dallas, I went to The Roundup, the land of unicorns–or, rather, gay cowboys. I’ve been there a number of times to two-step, and it’s always been fun. Last night, however, didn’t live up to my expectations. For one thing, I went alone, and although I recognized some faces, I didn’t “know” anyone. So for thirty minutes I just stood around watching, trying to work up the courage to ask someone–anyone–to dance. Finally, I did–I asked a girl who was a great, probably trained, dancer–and she said no, she was taking a break. So that sucked–it’s never fun to muster the courage to ask someone to dance and then be turned down, even if they’re “nice” about it.

Going back to my perch, I waited a while then tried again. This time I asked a lesbian, but someone else got to her at the same time I did. I said, “Will you save me a dance for later?” And get this shit–she didn’t say yes. Instead she said, “Do you know how to dance?” Opening my mouth like a codfish and bobbing my head, I said, “Yeah.”

So that sucked too. In nearly twenty years of asking others to dance, this was the first interview process I’ve ever been a part of. Strike two. I think I waited close to an hour before I tried again with someone else. This time I asked a guy who was the best dancer there. I’d met him once before, although I’m sure he didn’t remember. Anyway, he said yes and was very kind. However, he treated me like a beginner and only led the basic pattern. He said, “I’m testing you.” I guess I didn’t pass. Granted, they do a different form of two-step in Dallas than I’m used to, but I HAVE danced it several times in the past. Plus, I’m no slouch on the dance floor. I can almost always keep up. (I do teach dance for a living.) Of course, he didn’t know that.

Regardless, it bruised my ego.

After these three successive experiences, I had a series of good dances–nothing amazing, but good. All with kind people, one of whom approached me. And that was nice. But the point is this–even with all my years of dancing and objectively being able to say that I was one of the top five dancers in the club last night, it never really gets easier to approach strangers and ask them to dance. No one wants to be rejected. I don’t know if you’ve ever had this experience, trying to break into an already established crowd. I really think that’s what it was about. Most the places I go, people know that I can dance. But to the group last night, I was just an outsider.

I definitely felt not-so-welcome.

Caroline Myss talks about tribal dynamics, the way any group instinctively protects their own and is cautious of The Other. She says it doesn’t matter if it’s a crowd of teenagers, a fraternity, or a bunch of dancers–there’s always an initiation process or hazing for new members. “I’m testing you,” is what the guy told me. Back to the idea of the tribe, had I passed the guy’s test, he probably would have introduced me to his friends, let them know “this dude’s all right.” Maybe he would have asked me to dance again. Since I didn’t pass his test, however, I stayed outside, at least for him and his friends.

Understanding this helps me to not take last night personally. It didn’t help last night, mind you. What did help was a man named Carlos, who danced with me and smiled the entire time. (Never underestimate the power of your smile.) He said, “Don’t be nervous.” Still, I couldn’t shake that icky feeling from earlier, so about midnight I thought, I’m done with this shit and left, heading across the street to meet my friend from dinner. Then when we finished visiting, I ate chicken and waffles, loaded up on coffee, and hit the road for home. I thought, I don’t want to wake up in this city. So I drove all night–from two until seven in the morning. Not that I would recommend this behavior to anyone else–driving while you’re exhausted–but that’s what I did. And it did help chill me out a little–I got to see some stars–I even got to see the sunrise–I got to sleep in my own bed.

Today has been better. I’m still tired from this past week and staying up last night, but things are coming into perspective. This afternoon a good friend reminded me, “We all have off days.” Plus, I’ve spent today taking care of myself, doing things I love–reading, window shopping. Tonight I installed a fun light-switch cover a friend gave me over a year ago. It has gears and a lever that moves up and down to turn the switch on and off. This reminds me of my childhood, since I made something similar out of Tinker Toys when I was little (and I AM IN THE SAME ROOM).

Because I’m living with my parents.

Earlier I stepped outside to look at the stars. Because of my travels and light pollution in “the big city,” this is the first time I’ve been able to “take in” the full sky in over a week. I really have missed it. Lying down in our driveway, I began to relax. There’s just something calming about the stars, especially once you begin to recognize the constellations. Hercules, The Serpent Bearer, Bootes (pronounced Boe-OH-teez)–it’s like they are their own tribe, smiling down upon and welcoming every single one of us. Now I can’t wait to go back out there. There’s a meteor shower going on in Aquarius this month, and I wonder if I can see it yet. (It peaks in two weeks.) It really is wonderful how the heavens can erase your worries; how their quiet, steady movements can gently remind you to slow down; how their large open arms can make you feel oh-so-welcome here.

[I snagged the above screenshot from a desktop application called Stellarium, which allows you to look at the stars as they appear anytime, anywhere in the world. Shown here is what the sky looked like in Van Buren, Arkansas, at 11:00 this evening. (It’s 1:00 now.) Notice the three planets–Jupiter, Saturn, and Mars–and the imaginary line that they appear to travel along, the ecliptic. The text in green on the left-hand side is where the meteor shower should be, just “behind” Mars.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Help is always on the way.

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The Connected Universe (Blog #470)

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It’s just before noon, and I’m still in Houston. I woke up a couple hours ago, ate a healthy breakfast, then read for a while. It’s been a leisurely morning. A perfect day so far. Now I’m blogging–obviously. I need to finish this and get on the road to Dallas. I have dinner plans. My current soundtrack is Fleetwood Mac’s “Monday Morning.” (I realize it’s Friday.) I’m struck by the lyrics that say, “I can’t go on believing this way … [I’ve] got to get some peace in my mind.”

Last night on our way to dance, my friend Sydnie and I listened to a CD of a spiritual guru of sorts (for fun, believe it or not). Anyway, the teacher said that every problem is automatically paired with a solution. It’s simply the way life works. Answers come built-in. There are no “just problems.” When we arrived at the dance, Sydnie said, “Those spaces in front are free, but you have to pay for the others.” At that moment, someone took the open spot Sydnie had her eye on. (A problem.) “Oh, poop,” Sydnie said. But then we drove closer to the door of the dance, and there was a single, solitary empty spot front-and-center. (An answer.) It was that fast.

You can say it was a coincidence–the way everything happened–but I think it was all connected.

The book I’ve been reading this morning is one I picked up last night–Myth and Body by Stanley Keleman (with my man Joseph Campbell). The book is short, and I’m only about a third of the way in, but it’s honestly one of the most profound things I’ve read in a while and helps make sense of and contextualize a lot of other material I’ve read over the years. In short, it says that our myths refer to our physical bodies (he compares the serpent in the garden to our spinal cords). In other words, our myths and dreams teach us and draw us into our interior, our personal cosmos or universes. I immediately thought of how deep and wide and wonderful the night sky is. I’m coming to believe that each one of us is THAT large and THAT wonderful as well.

Earlier I set down my book and stepped into the back yard. There’s a lavender bush (or something purple) out there, and I wanted to smell it. I’d just finished reading that parts of our bodies, like our necks and shoulders, can be rigid because we’ve literally “embodied” an attitude of fear or hesitation. And get this shit–the first thing I noticed when I opened the back door was a power tool that said, “Rigid.” You can say it was a coincidence, but I think it was all connected. Then as I smelled the purple plant, I saw a lizard crawl onto a flower-pot and puff out an orange-colored throat bubble (his dewlap). It was so gorgeous that I squealed. Then it scurried off.

It was this brief moment of beauty, and I was the only one who saw it.

Now I need to take a shower, probably shave my face. This last year I’ve been thinking about and talking about how “surely” there’s an answer to my problems, how “surely” my body is a mystery that has things to teach me, and I’m beginning to really believe it. There’s proof all around and in me. I wonder what it would be like to truly “embody” these ideas, and I just know it’s got to happen. Having lived for decades in fear and a state of being rigid, I know that I can’t go on believing this way. I’ve got to get some peace in my mind, in my body. And perhaps there’s not a difference between my mind and my body, even between this body and your body, between our bodies and the entire universe. I think it’s all connected.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Pressure, it seems, is necessary to positive internal change. After all, lumps of coal don't shine on their own.

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Without a Definite Plan (Blog #469)

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I hate not having a plan. You wouldn’t know it to look at my life, but I’m always mapping things out. For example, when I came to Houston several days ago, I planned to leave this morning (Thursday) to go back to Arkansas. Not that there’s anything to go back FOR, but I did imagine the trip this way, and I only brought so much underwear. Then last night I thought, Maybe I could go dancing in Dallas Friday night. But I don’t have a place to stay in Dallas. But I want to go dancing.

Shit. What am I going to do?

Anyway, this morning I got up, packed my bags, and had a short meeting at ten. When that was over I didn’t know WHAT to do, but finally thought, For crying out loud, Marcus, you’re free. Do whatever you want to do. So I went to a used bookstore. (This is honestly my idea of decadence.) I spent probably two hours there and walked out with two books–one on meditation, the other on dreaming. Then I went to another used bookstore, then another. At the last one, I got a book on the meaning of symbols. And whereas part of me kept thinking, Are you really doing this again, Marcus, buying a hundred books you may not read?, another part of me thought, What’s fifteen bucks for a fun afternoon and a little knowledge?

While I was at the first bookstore, my swing-dancing friend Sydnie messaged me and said that she was in Houston and that if I wanted to stay with her, we could go dancing tonight. So that’s what I decided to do. (A plan!) After the third bookstore, I ate an extremely late lunch at Boston Market, a place my friends and I frequented when we used to come here to Houston for a Lindy Hop conference. Anyway, the restaurant is sort of (kind of) like a cafeteria, and when I picked up my tray at the end of the line, I spent an entire minute hunting for a plastic fork. When I finally noticed there was one wrapped in a napkin next to my plate and I made a joke about my oversight, the server honest-to-god rolled his eyes.

This is why I like macaroni and cheese more than people–it’s less judgmental.

After eating, I met Sydnie and got settled into her guest room, then we went to the dance. Y’all, it was so much fun–I saw several people I knew and had some lovely dances and conversations. And then–and then–I went next door to ANOTHER used bookstore and bought two more books–one on spirituality and one on myth and psychology. My friend Kyle (who was at the dance and is pictured above with me, Sydnie, and our friend Robin), said, I see you just lost your sobriety chip for BAA.

“What’s BAA?” I said.

“Book Addicts Anonymous.”

“Truth me told, I never EARNED my book-buying sobriety chip.” (Another failed plan.)

Life is better when we’re not in control.

Now I’m back at Sydnie’s for the night, nursing a slight headache. Tomorrow my plan is to sleep in, then drive to Dallas and see a friend. I’d love–absolutely adore–staying to dance afterwards, but–again–I’d need to find a place to stay or fork over the money for a hotel room. So I might just drive home. I’m trying to be open to whatever happens, trying to trust that I’ll know what to do in the moment. That’s the way things worked out today, after all, without a definite plan. Perhaps life is better this way, when we’re not in control. Perhaps when we mentally leave room for anything to happen, anything can.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Things that shine do better when they're scattered about."