On Growing Up (Blog #897)

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Well, hello. Today is my birthday. Thirty-nine years ago I came charging into this world. And whereas I’ve slowed down–a little–I’m still going. (Look out, future, here I come, at my own pace.) All day my dad’s been telling total strangers it’s my birthday. Thankfully, none of them have sung to me or put a sombrero on my head. But this afternoon a waitress did say, “Thirty-nine! Time flies! Where does it go?”

“Behind you,” I said.

Byron Katie says, “Do you know what I love about the past? It’s over.”

Amen. Thirty-nine years. Over.

To celebrate my big day, this morning my dad and I got up early–at six-thirty–and went to Irish Maid Donuts. This is something we normally only do on Father’s Day and his birthday, but I guess it’s becoming our thing. You won’t hear any complaints from me. From my insulin, maybe.

Diet starts next week.

When dad and I got home from the donut shop, I went back to bed for a few hours. When I got up, my mom, my dad, two of my aunts, and I went to The Egg and I for more celebrating, more eating. This is what my entire weekend promises to be filled with–food. And whereas my stomach is already starting to put up a fuss, I plan to hang in there.

Diet starts next week.

So far today over a hundred friends and family members have messaged, texted, posted, or called to wish me happy birthday. This happens every year, but it continues to take my breath away. It’s so easy to think that people don’t care or remember you, but they do. What’s more, if only for a moment, they’re willing to take time out of their day to wish you well. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. No one owes me anything. Not my friends, not my family, not my lovers (well, ex-lovers; I’m currently taking applications). Caroline Myss says that if someone loves you, it’s not because they HAVE to, it’s because they WANT to. When you really get this, it’s a game-changer. When I really get this, it even shifts my perspective about people I don’t want to see again. Not that it makes me want to see them, but it does make me grateful for any love that’s been exchanged between us. Because again–anything I’ve received from another has been a gift, not a payment of a debt owed.

This morning my dad and I had a conversation about liars. We both know a few. I once dated one. Dad said, “Do you think they ever think about the damage they cause?” I said, “I think everyone has a soul and a conscience, so sure, but I also think it takes a big person to just come right out and say, ‘I know I hurt you and I’m sorry.'” Think about it. How often do YOU think you’ve done something wrong? Isn’t it always someone else’s fault? I know that’s how I usually feel, so I can only assume it would be the same for someone else, even someone who lies, cheats, steals, or kills. We all justify our behavior.

I’m talking about this now because as I get older, I think about these things more. How do my words and actions affect others? I know that I’ve broken more than one heart not because I was straight-up lying or cheating but because I was lying to myself (and them) about how compatible we were. That’s what I realized with my ex. I observed their bad behavior but lied to myself (and them) about it not mattering. When it fact it mattered a lot. We think of lies as these big, huge things, but they’re not. They’re subtle things. Little stories we tell ourselves. For example, how many times have you said, “Diet starts next week,” when you know damn good and well it’ll most likely never start at all? This is why the truth is scary. This is why it’s painful. It shows you who you really are. The one who isn’t disciplined. The one who’s too afraid to leave. The one who’s scared to be alone. It cuts you like a knife.

What’s outside you is inside you.

Earlier today a friend posted something like, if you could go back and give your younger self advice in two words, what would you say? People said things like, be strong, be kind, keep going. I thought, get laid, but my answer was, speak up! This has been both one of the best and most difficult things I’ve learned to do since starting therapy–learning to speak my truth. Because looking back, I’ve always known what it was. I knew my ex was a liar, and I knew other exes were cheaters. But again, by not saying something or leaving sooner, I was lying to myself, cheating myself out of something better. This is what “the world is your mirror” means. It means what’s outside you is inside you. It means we all play a part in things. It means no one is to blame.

I hate this as much as you do.

But it’s part of growing up.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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All emotions are useful.

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Something Sweet Indeed (Blog #394)

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This morning I woke up at eight and couldn’t go back to sleep because I was worrying–well, thinking intently–about my bank deposit that magically disappeared yesterday. I spoke with customer service last night, but my plan today was to show up to the branch where I made the night drop and, if necessary, raise hell. You know, flip tables, use words like “preposterous” and “unacceptable,” ask, “Just what kind of institution are you running here–losing people’s hard-earned money?” I actually envisioned this scene unfolding as I lay in bed this morning, all the tellers standing around stunned and apologetic as I’m threatening to “take my money elsewhere.” Then, after a moment of appropriate silence, the manager would grovel–

“Would you like that in nickels or quarters, Mr. Coker?”

Fortunately, this didn’t have to happen in reality, since just before I crawled out of bed at nine, I checked my account online one final time. A friend had messaged during the night and told me that their deposits had frequently gotten “stuck” in the night drop, so I thought, Maybe the bank will find it first thing this morning. And y’all, just like that, after all my worrying and convincing myself that the universe hated me, the money was there. Phew, that was close. Another crisis averted.

I guess you’re okay, universe. But let’s not make a habit of this behavior.

In addition to (apparently) needing time to worry about nothing, I got up early this morning to attend a three-year-old’s birthday party. When I asked his parents, my friends Aaron and Kate, why they were having a birthday party at ten in the freaking morning, Aaron said in complete seriousness, “All of his friends have naps later in the day.”

You should have heard him wail.

The party itself was great. It was outside at a local park, and the weather was glorious. (It’s beautiful today.) And whereas I’d planned on not eating anything at the party and generally feeling sorry for myself for being on a restrictive diet (Autoimmune Paleo), that didn’t happen either–there were plenty of fruits and vegetables for me to snack on. (Once again, life doesn’t totally blow.) However, there was one problem at the party. Aaron and Kate’s kid had a TOTAL meltdown, all due to the fact that his cake looked like a puppy dog and he didn’t think it was at all cute when his mother put a carving knife through the little doggie’s face. You should have heard him wail as Kate sliced that little sugary pooch into several (what I’m assuming were delicious) pieces. “No, Mama, no!” he cried.

“It’s okay, baby,” Kate soothed him. (Slice, slice.) “It’s not real.”

Eventually, Aaron and Kate’s boy calmed down. I think he got distracted by a football. Later when I was talking to Kate, she said, “He was up late last night.” I replied, “See, this just goes to prove my theory–nothing good happens before noon.”

When the party ended, I spent part of the afternoon overanalyzing the situation (like I do). Y’all, nobody knows what to do when a child cries. Hell, when anyone cries. For example, the whole time this adorable child was bawling and squalling, most the adults were laughing, like, “Isn’t that precious? He thinks it’s a real puppy dog. (Nom, nom, nom.)” Not that I knew what to do, but I did remember a time when I was little that something similar happened. I was maybe six or seven, and the family had gathered at the dinner table to eat cornish hens. Baby hens! Well, I was undone. I couldn’t imagine such a thing–eating an adolescent bird.

I left the table crying.

When you believe something, you’re locked in.

My family and I joke about this story even now, but y’all, I can still remember what it felt like to believe that we were EATING something that I thought should be my little feathery friend. (It didn’t feel good.) And if Aaron and Kate’s boy this morning felt even part of what I felt all those decades ago, then it’s no wonder he went from demure to Defcon 1 in 3.2 seconds. I mean, when you BELIEVE something, you’re locked in. (My puppy friend is being cut up and devoured!) For you, the world is falling apart, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else says or does. As Byron Katie says, “That’s the power of imagination.”

Thirty years after the cornish hen incident (or, “the cornish hencident”), I guess I still get caught up in imagination. Last night I was convinced that the money I deposited in the bank had been lost, that my world was falling apart. This morning I was sure I needed to have a confrontation, that my oratory skills and powers of vocal projection would be best used by me walking into a local bank and proceeding to flip my shit. And sure, I assume several people who read about this predicament last night thought, It’ll be fine, Marcus. There’s nothing to worry about. Maybe they even laughed, just like part of me did, the part that “knows better.” I look at what happened now and think, That’s the universe for you, once again proving to me that it’s not such a bad place to live, that things really do work out. And yet for a while most of me was caught up in a dream. Not unlike my young friend this morning with his birthday cake, I was looking at something intended by life as a gift and innocently terrifying myself instead of seeing it for what it was–something sweet indeed.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Obviously, God's capable of a lot. Just look around."

Courage and Those Who Hold Our Hands (Blog #205)

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When I woke up this morning around nine I coughed up some bloody snot. It looked like what I felt like the time. Now it’s four in the afternoon, and things could be better, things could be worse. Statistically speaking, my brain is functioning about sixty percent–well, considering I can’t figure how to end this sentence, let’s say forty-five. Anyway, I figure it only goes downhill from here, so I’m blogging now. Plus, I’m planning to go out this evening to see An American in Paris, the musical, since that seems like a good gay way to wrap this trip up. Anyway, the show starts in less than four hours, and the clock’s ticking.

Last night I went dancing again with my friend Kaleb, this time at a country-western bar called The Dirty Bourbon. Is that a great name or what? Anyway, The Dirty Bourbon is primarily a straight bar, but I guess they’re accepting. Kaleb and I were the only guys I saw dancing together, but I did see some women dancing together, and–most importantly–nobody got their ass kicked. Actually, I saw several people smiling at us, one guy at the bar complimented our dancing, and a lady in the crowd videotaped us doing the rumba.

Situations like the one last night are always affirming for me in the best way. Typically, if a guy holds my hand–let alone dances with me–in public, I usually feel like jumping out of my skin and running away because I’m afraid of what everyone else will think, say, or do. I know straight people have their problems–everyone has their problems–but I imagine this isn’t one of them, being afraid to publicly show affection for or connection with another person. A while back a guy held my hand on Garrison Avenue in downtown Fort Smith, my hometown. As we got close to our car, a couple dudes were standing outside a rather seedy bar, and I thought, Thank God I know a good plastic surgeon because this is not going to end well. Everything in me wanted to drop my date’s hand, but I didn’t. Then as we passed the dudes, one of them said, “Hey, fellas.”

And that was it.

Granted, I know bullshit happens to gay (and straight) people all the time. Strangers are total assholes, say mean things, commit acts of violence. Sometimes parents even cut ties with their own children when they come out of the closet. That being said, thankfully, my experience has been quite the opposite. Despite the fact that I’ve spent much of my life afraid of rejection and confrontation based on my sexuality, so far the only person to make a big deal about it has been me. Part of me still worries, of course. Last night at the country bar I was very aware that Kaleb and I were the only gay guys dancing together. But why should fear stop you from doing something you not only want to do but also have a right to do? Obviously, it shouldn’t.

This morning my sister and I took Christopher to an acting class. Y’all, it was absolutely adorable. The teachers were animated, patient, and amazing. There were maybe fifteen or twenty kids, and the teachers taught them about stage directions, getting into character, and memorization. Some of the kids were shy and timid. Others like my nephew had no problem projecting or asking questions (that didn’t actually have to do with acting).

For one of the exercises, the kids had to memorize a line from the movie What’s Up, Doc? The line was, “What do you think I am, a piece of ripe fruit that you can squeeze the juice out of and cast aside like an old shoe?” Best quote ever, right? Hell, I should probably use it on a few people, maybe add it to my Tindr profile. (I don’t have a Tindr profile. My therapist said the guys on there have a quality rating of “zero point fucking shit.”) But I digress. In addition to memorizing the line, the kids had to come up with a character, stand on stage, and perform the line as that character. (One girl was a cat.) Anyway, here’s Christopher performing as a robot. My sister and I were super nervous for him, but I don’t think he was nervous at all–and he nailed it.

This afternoon my sister and I took both the boys to a costume-themed birthday party at a local park. Ander dressed as “Captain Hook,” but he really just looked like a pirate. My sister’s husband said, “Don’t say anything.” Isn’t he adorable? (Christopher dressed as Peter Pan and was adorable too, but I forgot to take pictures of him. Since I took so many this morning, I hope he doesn’t end up in therapy due to this one oversight.)

At the party there was a piñata, and if you’ve never seen a bunch of blindfolded toddlers swing a stick at a moving paper-mache cat head, you’ve still got a lot of life to live. It was really more cute than I could handle for one day. Well, even before all the kids got a chance at swinging the stick, the piñata burst open, and every single one of those children went from zero to sixty in 1.2 seconds. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. They were on that candy like white on rice. My head’s still spinning thinking about it.

As I’m sure you know, sugar is the great motivator, so the kids were quickly all over the playground equipment. For a while I looked after Ander, and he kept wanting to go down this one little slide over and over (and over) again. I kept asking if he wanted to try a different one, a longer, taller one, but he kept saying, “No, it’s scary,” so we kept returning to the familiar. Even at that slide, every time he said, “Stand at the end to catch me–closer–no, closer.”

I suppose we are all timid like this now and then. After all, life can be a big, scary place. Of course, there are days we wake up feeling as if we can conquer the world, and these are the days we stand proudly and confidently on the stage of life. Other days–maybe most days–we feel as if we’re swinging a stick blindfolded, just hoping to connect with what we want. These are the days when our brains function below one hundred percent, when we are shy and unsure of our right to be here, to taste and enjoy all the goodness life has to offer. But I’m starting to believe that courage always looks like trying something even when you think you’re not ready, even when you’re afraid. Thankfully, we often have others who are willing to take us by the hand and courageously walk, dance, or slide into the unfamiliar with us. This reminds us, of course, that no one is alone. Also–more often than not–things turn out just fine and the world ends up being a safer place to live than we realized.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"Beating yourself up is a far cry from self-respect."

A Million Pieces of God (Blog #58)

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

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

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

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

So get this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

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