Responsible (Blog #1081)

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When you stay home all day (#flattenthecurve), you can get a lot done. This afternoon I watched two videos about the esoteric history of Egypt with my dad and finished two custom-order brooch projects. Then this evening I dusted and vacuumed my room and cleaned my bathroom and shower. And washed my sheets. Woowho. That’s twice this year already. Then I cried while watching American Idol and took a much-needed shower. Now I’m basking in all the cleanliness. I’m clean, my sheets are clean, my room is clean. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.

Except for COVID-19, of course.

Along these lines, this morning I read a Facebook post about COVID-19 that used the phrase “we’re not in control.” And whereas I agree with this statement and said as much a couple days ago (that at some point we have to surrender), I think it’s a statement worth clarifying. Because how often do we through up our hands and say, “What can we do!?” when, in fact, there’s plenty we can do? Too often, that’s how often. What I mean is that although we are not in control of viruses, epidemics, and pandemics, we ARE in control of ourselves. To this end, we can make CHOICES, to wash our hands, to stay home, to practice social distancing, to reflect and act consciously rather than out of panic, and to be kind at the grocery store. To fill our time, hearts, and homes with patience and understanding rather than blame and fear.

Unfortunately, so many of us spend our lives cleaning our physical homes, even to the point of obsession, but not our internal homes. In other words, we have sloppy minds, filled with rage, guilt, finger-pointing, worry, and anxiety. Alas, we think, This is just the way I am. (Deal with it.) Having spent the last several years purposefully working on my interior, I’m happy to report that, no, it’s not just the way you are. Rather, if you spend your days feeling stressed or nervous or being rude and inconsiderate (and I know it’s not fun to admit these things about yourself), chances are it’s simply the result of past dramas and traumas (like, you’ve developed defense mechanisms) or because you haven’t learned a better way (or haven’t wanted to). It’s not because, although you may have been told this once or twice, you were born a wretch, totally rotten, beyond hope.

This is a complete lie. Utter nonsense. Sure, you may have some work to do, but–I promise–you were made from stardust. You are a mystery, and your life–as it is right here, right now–is worthy of your respect, gratitude, and awe.

Getting back to the idea of control, six years of therapy and consistent introspection have taught me that there are few things we don’t have SOME say in. Indeed, in all this time there hasn’t been one rough relationship or situation that I haven’t been able to do SOMETHING about. Sometimes this has looked like having a difficult conversation or distancing myself, and sometimes this has looked like changing my attitude. Or forgiving. Of course, the challenging part about admitting that you have choices even in gross circumstances is that you have to be responsible for the consequences of those choices. For example, recently I flipped off someone that I actually care about. Now, I did it with two fingers, but the look on my face said the second finger didn’t count. Anyway, I could have handled it better. But I’ve been upset with and hurt by this person for a while now, and this is the way my held-in feelings came out. So there’s been some relief. And if I ever have to own up to being a little shit in that moment, I’m ready to. My actions are never anyone else’s fault.

My life is mine to own.

Perhaps this is why more people don’t get into therapy or otherwise take a good, hard look at themselves. It sucks. I mean, who wants to be responsible? Tonight on American Idol there was a contestant in their mid-twenties dressed like an eight-year old. Indeed, they handed the judges a book they wrote–when they were nine. And whereas they had a beautiful voice and did well, it was clear that their inner child was running the show. Oh well. We all act like children or little shits occasionally. Because we all have parts of ourselves that still need healing and show up from time to time (daily) in order to let us know.

In times of crisis like these Mr. Rogers is often quoted as saying, “Look for the helpers,” and its our unhealed parts that like to hear this. But one of his staff pointed out in the podcast Finding Fred that that advice was meant FOR CHILDREN. As adults, we’re meant to BE the helpers.

So this means growing up. And this sucks.

I recommend it anyway.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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If another's perspective, another's story about you is kinder than the one you're telling yourself, surely that's a story worth listening to.

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On Getting What’s Inside, Out (Blog #691)

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It’s 9:20 in the evening, and I suddenly find myself frustrated. I took the above picture about an hour ago and tried using a photo editing app to caption it, “This is watermelon juice, but I wish it were a Bloody Mary,” but I couldn’t get it to work. Damn technology. Damn watermelon juice that’s not a Bloody Mary.

This afternoon I saw my massage therapist, and she said something I frequently say–“I hate winter.” And whereas I tried to be positive by pointing out we only have four more weeks until the first day of spring, I really am over all this dark, cold, and wet business. (I could feel differently about winter once allergy season kicks in.) My massage therapist said it seems like everyone is irritable this time of year. No kidding. Later I went to a coffee shop to read a book by their fireplace, and I nearly threw my man bag across the room at a kid who was witnessing to another kid about Jesus. Not that I have anything against Jesus. It’s just he was talking about him so loudly, it was difficult for me to concentrate.

Like, Do you have to shout? Even the baristas in the back know you’re a sinner.

Maybe it is the winter that’s making me irritable. Maybe it’s my recent knee surgery. Regardless, I’ve been stir crazy lately, just wanting to move. And whereas I can walk and even ride a stationary bike, I still can’t get out and jog, still can’t dance, still can’t break a sweat. I guess that’s it–I can’t do everything I normally do to blow off steam and work out my emotions. Sure, I’ve got this blog. I can say I’M PISSED in all capital letters, but it’s not the same as pounding the pavement, not the same as physically expressing all the little frustrations and irritations that build up day after day after day.

Last night I listened to a podcast with Rob Bell and his guest Nate Staniforth. Nate’s a magician, and last year I blogged about his glorious memoir, Here Is Real Magic. Anyway, in the podcast Nate said it took him four years to write his memoir, and one of the positive things about the project is that it gave him another outlet. That is, previously he’d been funneling the majority of his creativity and emotions into magic, and that’s limiting, just having one thing. That’s my point–we all need multiple ways to express ourselves. Lately I’ve been using my car horn when someone ticks me off in traffic or cuts in front of me. I’m such a people pleaser, I never would have done this in the past. But after five years of therapy, I’ve finally learned to communicate. Hey, watch where you’re going, asshole! And as one of my horn-honking friends says, “And then it’s over. Then I don’t carry that frustration into any other part of my day.”

Emotions don’t die until they’re acknowledged.

During a conversation about stuffing down and bottling up, another friend of mine recently said, “What’s inside eventually comes out.” Talk about the truth. Since starting therapy, I’ve had so many thoughts and feelings come up and out that I’d thought were long buried. As it turns out, emotions don’t die until they’re acknowledged. Once when I was talking to my therapist about something I was mad about, she kept saying, “Say more, tell me more, keep going,” until I started crying. Wiping my eyes, I said, “Jesus, did they teach you that technique in therapy school?” She said, “No, I’m just that good,” which made me laugh. Then later she explained, “We just needed to pop that pimple, and we weren’t quiiiite there yet.”

My therapist says that you can express your emotions in multiple ways. For example, if you’re angry with someone, you can honk your horn, have a confrontation, tell them to fuck off, go to the gym, or–hell–write a blog about the jerk. Personally, I think it’s good to have a go-to strategy and several backup plans. I also think that when we find ourselves overly irritated with the world around us, it’s our body’s way of letting us know that something is off. Maybe there’s a deeper issue involved. Maybe it’s time to rest. Maybe it’s time to start a creative project. That’s what I’ve been thinking lately. How else can I be creative? How else can I get what’s inside, out?

Until I come up with an answer, don’t cut me off in traffic.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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One day a change will come.

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

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Things that happened today–

1. I woke up

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

2. I remembered how much I’ve forgotten

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

3. I faced my fears

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

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

4. I became famous

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

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

5. I cleaned my room

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

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

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. And whereas it's just a single step, it's a really important one.

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Do Something Unexpected (Blog #424)

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It’s ten in the evening, and Bonnie and I are driving back from Nashville. Well, she’s driving, I’m riding. We got a slow start this afternoon, largely because I wanted to stop downtown and get my picture taken by the famous angel-wings mural, then stop again at McKay’s, a warehouse-sized bookstore outside of town. So we’re just now coming into Little Rock, which means we should be home close to midnight. And whereas I’m wired with coffee and could blog when I get home, I have to be up early tomorrow, so I’m trying to knock this out now.

When Bonnie and got downtown today, there was a long line of people waiting to have their pictures taken with the mural. So we waited. Here’s a picture of the whole sitch. (That means situation, Mom.)

While waiting in line, I was sort of eavesdropping on the people around us, sort of checking myself out in the shop windows, trying out poses for the angel wings–arms spread out like I’m flying, hands on hips like a sorority girl, legs crossed like I don’t give a fuck–you know, possibilities. This went on for a while, everyone talking–Oh my god, it was so nice to meet you!–then Bonnie and I rounded a corner and saw a Rolling Stones lips-and-tongue sculpture like the one we saw a couple days ago. (It must be a thing.) Well, since I’d naughtily sat on the first tongue, I immediately thought, I’ve GOT to sit on this one. I could start a–what’s the word?–tradition.

Ooh-la-la.

So I casually inch closer to this big pair of lips, while Bonnie’s getting the camera out and scooting closer to me in order to crop out the other people who are standing around and not taking advantage of such a great photo opportunity. Then I quietly put my hands on my knees and push my butt toward the giant tongue, like I might for a spanking. (Don’t worry, Mom, I’m not into spankings.) Y’all, up until now, everyone is yak-yak-yaking. But as soon as my butt touches that tongue, everyone shuts up. Then I open my mouth, like “oh my gosh,” or “my, that feels nice,” Bonnie takes the picture, and everyone starts talking again. Later Bonnie said, “You effectively silenced the whole crowd.” Mission accomplished.

Look at the top of the blog for this morning’s photo, below for the one that “started it all.”

The drive home has gone well. I read for a while, first in a book about stand-up comedy (which I finished), then in a book about writing (which I just picked up today at McKay’s). Then it got dark, and Bonnie and I listened to a podcast called Really Dirty Words, about–you guessed it–really dirty words and their histories. I realize this might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it was right up my alley. Today Bonnie and I Iearned about the origins of the c-word and the other f-word, one a derogatory term for women, the other a derogatory term for homosexuals. Both have fascinating stories, like the fact that the c-word was once associated with status, power, and influence, and the fact that the other f-word is now being “taken back” by many in the gay community. (You can’t insult me with a name I call myself). My big takeaway was that what’s unacceptable in speech to one person is often more-than-acceptable to another and that intent can make a big difference.

Here’s something I forgot to mention yesterday. A couple nights ago, we all went out for Bonnie’s birthday. First, we ate at a rooftop bar (very cool, very Nashville), then we went to see a 90s cover band. Y’all, talk about a retro-fabulous time. These guys sang the music I grew up on. I sent my sister a video of the group singing “Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls” by TLC, and she replied, “Fun. Also–because we old.” So that felt good. Anyway, in between the rooftop bar and the concert, our group piled onto an elevator with a couple strangers, and I pulled out my camera and said, “Elevator selfie! Everyone in who wants in.”

And just like that, we all crammed together, and it was this beautiful, exciting moment–so exciting I cut half my own face out of the picture. But it was SO MUCH MORE FUN than your normal elevator ride. One of the strangers even asked if I could text her the photo, and I hope even now she’s showing her friends, saying, “You won’t believe what happened to us the other day on an elevator.”

Any mundane thing can be turned into something joyous.

Today while waiting in line with Bonnie, we noticed that almost everyone was doing THE SAME THING at the angel-wing mural. They just stood there and smiled. But once I heard a magician say that if you want to reconnect with wonder and awe, which you only find in the present moment, you have to break up your routines. You have to do something unexpected. For me, this looks like squatting in front of a mural instead of standing, or sticking my rear-end on a humongous tongue, or taking an elevator selfie with strangers. Granted, these are small acts, but this life-long planner is finding that there’s often more joy to be found in small acts of the spontaneous than in big acts of the perfunctory. I’m trying to remember this, that any mundane thing–an elevator ride!–can be turned into something joyous, that “really dirty words” and even life itself aren’t inherently good or bad or boring or fun, that these are things we decide–we decide–in each present moment.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our shoulders weren’t meant to carry the weight of the world.

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Me, The Moth, and The Eyeball Oracle (Blog #285)

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Currently it’s 9:15 in the morning, and I’m in Somewhere, Oklahoma, waiting to see The Oracle.

Let me back up.

I woke up at five this morning, although my alarm wasn’t set to go off until six. You know how it is when you’re both eager and anxious about something. You can’t sleep. Plus, the waterbed was especially hot last night, and my legs kept jerking. They do that sometimes, go into these violent, sudden twitches just as I’m starting to nod off. It’s startling, maybe related to my magnesium levels. Of course, the internet could be wrong–it’s been wrong before. The body is a mystery. Anyway, at five-thirty I decided there was no point in continuing to try to slumber, so I got up, got dressed, meditated, wrote in my journal, and made breakfast and a full pot of coffee in preparation for my big day.

Last week my friend Elisabeth messaged me and said she’d been hearing a lot about a woman near Tulsa who practices iridology, a field of alternative medicine that basically identifies problems in one part of your body based on the appearance of another–specifically, your eyeballs. Like–I don’t know–that fleck there means your liver is broken and is in need of repair. (Take this vitamin, do a colon cleanse, and call me in the morning.) Elisabeth said four different people had recommended this lady, that she was thinking about going, and that I should go too. (If I wanted.) “Maybe she could help with your allergy and sinus issues,” she said. Well, on the scale of weird things I’ve tried over the years, eyeball gazing actually ranks pretty low, so I said, “I’m in. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Since the vitamin shop where the iridology lady works ended up being closed last week, I’ve been on pins and needles ever since, just waiting for today. I’ve spent a lot of time reading reviews online, and everyone that talks about this lady absolutely raves. They call her The Oracle. (Personally, I like The Eyeball Oracle.) They say they’ve been seeing her since they were a child, she’s always spot on, she helped when no one else could–shit like that. So I’m hopeful. That being said, this isn’t my first alternative medicine, stranger-things-have-happened rodeo, so I’m trying to keep both feet grounded in reality. I’ve mentioned recently that I’m seeing a new medical doctor this week, and that’s still happening. I’ve been telling myself, Do your weird shit first, get all the information you can, then go talk to someone who went to college.

Like, “Doc, a Native American told me my liver was broken. Fact or crap?”

On the drive here this morning, I listened to my new favorite podcast, The Moth. If you’re not listening to it, you’re missing out. It’s basically real people telling stories about anything and everything, without notes, in front of a live audience. It’s delicious. This morning I heard a story about a girl who grew up with a mom who was both a nudist and a stripper. The story started when her mom stripped for her and her brother one evening as her step-father manned the music. This reminded me that there is no such thing as normal–there’s only “normal for you.”

Another story I heard earlier was about a gay actor and writer in California who had two different psychics tell him that Montgomery Clift, the famous actor, was trying to communicate with him from beyond the grave, trying to get the man to write his story. (Clift was closeted, and apparently both he and the man had had facial reconstruction following respective accidents.) Whether you believe that something like this is possible or not, the story really is fantastic to hear, and as the host of The Moth pointed out, is true to the person who told it.

Now I’m inside the shop, waiting. The lady isn’t scheduled to be here for quite a while, but the online reviews said to show up early, so that’s what I did. At first, I was the only one waiting. Now there are two other ladies, and Elisabeth is on her way. We’ll see what happens. Originally I’d intended to blog after this person looks into my eyes, looks deep into my eyes, but I’ve decided to make this a cliffhanger and post about the results tomorrow. But I’ve been thinking, This is a little crazy, but the universe is a big place. How do we know what’s possible? Who’s to say what’s “normal”? Maybe a dead movie star can talk to a stranger. Maybe a medicine woman can look into my eyes and reveal my body’s secrets. I’m open to it. After all, the universe, like the body, is a mystery. Of course, I’m trying to stay grounded in reality, but am more and more open to what reality can look like.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Normal people don’t walk on water.

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Gay Parties in 1981 (Blog #224)

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Introduction

Well, hell. It’s 3:36 in the morning, and I’m just sitting down to blog. This is nothing new, of course, but blogging at this hour always comes as a surprise, since I always mean to start earlier. But for over six months I’ve also been meaning to reread Practical Intuition by Laura Day, and I finally started that project tonight. For the last few hours I’ve had the book open, hunched over it like the monster of Notre Dame. But now the book is closed, and I’m sitting here at the kitchen table slightly more upright and eating pineapple chunks out of a can. It’s a glorious life, I know, but someone’s got to live it.

Earlier today I had the idea that tonight’s blog needed to be presented in vignettes. I suppose that’s often how my writing works, but today’s the first time I’ve thought, Just give the highlights, even if they don’t clearly tie together. And not that I always pay attention to every thought I have, but my relationship with this blog has taught me to trust my hunches more, so I’m going to pay attention to the thought about vignettes and see where it leads us. So far, my internal sense of “this is what I should write about today” hasn’t let me down. My internal sense of “this would be a good person to date,” however, is a different matter altogether.

Scene One

Today I got up at 2:30 in the afternoon and ate my first meal about an hour later. Considering the recent time change and the fact that I don’t see much daylight to begin with, I’ve started feeling like I’m living in Alaska. (I’ve wanted to use that line for five days now.) Anyway, Virgos tend to worry about their health, so I’ve been concerned that I won’t get enough Vitamin D this winter and will develop Seasonal Affective Disorder, a medical condition related to depressed moods with the best abbreviation ever–SAD. With all this in mind, I took myself for a walk today at 4:15, the same time senior citizens have dinner at The Golden Corral and only an hour before the frickin’ sun went down.

Scene Two

Recently I started listening to a podcast called A Mother of a Murder, which is about the murder of Ruie Ann Park that took place here in Van Buren in 1981. My friend Anita Paddock wrote a book, Blind Rage, about the murder and is featured in the podcast. Anyway, the podcast is delicious and takes under two hours to listen to, and I finished it while walking today. My favorite line from the whole thing, referring to some of the murder suspects and said by an older man in a deeply southern accent, was, “They were gay and they were having gay parties.” I didn’t get the impression the gentleman thought this was a good thing, like something to be celebrated or attended, but I certainly did.

Just think of all the glitter.

Scene Three

As the podcast was ending, I looked up and saw a boy, a toddler, running–absolutely running–toward me, his arms spread out as if he were an airplane. His mother was behind him, by their house, and she tried to stop him from “bothering me.” But he just continued his long journey across their big front yard–thump, thump, thump–until he made it to me and the street. His little red head no higher than my knee, he flung both his arms around my left leg as if it were his best friend and said, “Hi!” Wrapping one of my arms around his back, I said, “Hi! You are so cute!” then continued walking. When I turned a corner two houses down, he waved and screamed, “Bye!”

My heart is still melting.

Scene Four

This evening I attended improv class and afterwards went to Starbucks and finished reading Rising Strong, the book by Brene Brown I blogged about yesterday. While sitting at a table trying to concentrate on the book, I kept getting distracted by the conversation at the table next to me, where sat a nineteen- year-old in the reserves and–from what I could gather–a potential mentor who wanted to know the kid’s views on money and whether or not he had a five-year plan. I thought, I’m thirty-seven and I don’t even know what I’m going to do tomorrow. Anyway, while this whole thing was going on, a total stranger asked if he could sit at my table until his friends arrived. I said, “You bet” and returned to my book, but as he sat down he reminded me of that kid running across the yard with his arms spread out, someone unafraid of asking for what they want.

Scene Five

The book I started rereading tonight is about how to use your intuition. The idea is that our inner wisdom is willing and able to communicate with us on all subjects if we would just slow down enough to listen, so each time you go through the book you get to ask three questions. Will I get married in the next year? What stocks should I invest in? Could I pick up extra cash as a drag queen? Whatever you’re curious about–sky’s the limit. When I worked through the exercises in the book five years ago, I wanted to know what profession I’d enter into after dancing. I dug out my answers from an old notebook tonight, and my intuition was obviously spot on and getting me ready, since the pages were littered with words like writer, author, and communication.

As I understand it, your intuition can answer questions about your past, present, and future (and anyone else’s) because a part of you is connected to everyone and everything else. As the mystics say, “We are one,” and, “There is no time and space.” Of course, it’s hard to wrap my head around these ideas, but I’m inclined to believe they’re true. One of the warm-up questions in the book tonight was, “Without thinking, what do you need most?” and my answer was, “A hug.” Later it asked, “Upon reflection, what do you need most?” and I answered, “Authentic connection.”

Conclusion

Only later while reviewing my answers about needing a hug and authentic connection did I remember about the little boy and the hug he gave me this afternoon. And whereas my first thought was, I guess I need more hugs, I later realized my inner wisdom was telling me that all my needs are met before I even ask for them. Now I realize I’ve spent so much time thinking about what could go wrong–what could happen if I don’t wake up in time to get enough sunlight–that I’ve often missed what is going right, including the sleeping in and worrying about Vitamin D that were necessary to get me walking by that boy’s front yard at just the right moment. So in the same way that he wrapped his arms around my leg, I’m starting to wrap my arms around this glorious life, this life that connects me vignette by vignette to toddlers running freely across front yards, strangers sitting down at tables in coffee shops, and even gay parties in 1981.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Sometimes you have to go back before you can go forward.

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