Not Just on the Roof (Blog #916)

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I took the above photo several years ago from the window of my old dance studio. (Facebook reminded me about it today.) Back then I was on the second story of a cool building in Historic Downtown Van Buren. Sometimes after everyone else left I’d sit in the window or crawl out on the roof and watch traffic go by and stare at unaware pedestrians, maybe while listening to Jamie Cullum or smoking a cigarette. Especially on evenings when the sun was setting and the sky was a Crayon box of colors, it was like my little piece of heaven. I don’t miss many things about the studio now, but I miss that spot and the feeling I had sitting there. As The Drifters so accurately said, “On the roof, it’s peaceful as can be.”

Last night I went to bed sick with sinus junk. And whereas I was hoping my probiotics would heal me during the night, they didn’t do crap, which means I woke up with more (really colorful) junk this morning. This was frustrating, but not completely disheartening. I have, after all, been down this road dozens and dozens of times before, and my body always eventually finds its balance. A word that’s been popping up in my experience the last twenty-four hours is harmony, the idea of everything working together in unison. This is what I’m hoping for–harmony in my sinuses, harmony in my body. It’s what I’m praying for. It’s what I’m working toward.

Despite my having a head full of phlegm, today has been lovely. I saw my therapist this morning, ate a tasty salad for lunch, then spent the afternoon at a coffee shop, reading, learning. Then I ran all over town in search of MORE probiotics to hopefully help my sinuses. This mission was only mildly successful–I found one new thing to try–but that’s okay. I enjoy the hunt, the trial and error. Do I enjoy hacking and coughing in the meantime? Hell no. But I have noticed the last few months that being sick carries less of a “charge” for me than it used to. What I mean is that I used to really freak out, worry, and stress every time I got sick. I’d think that God was punishing me, that if I were only a better or smarter person I wouldn’t be sick in the first place. Now most of that guilt and fear is gone. I still get sick, I just don’t beat myself up about it like I did before. Plus, I have more hope. Over a year ago I had a sinus infection that lasted three months. It was hell, but I made it. So I know whatever happens from here on out, I’ll make that too.

One of the things my therapist and I discussed today was abundance, which is something she deep-down believes in and something I think sounds good if you say it fast. That being said, I’m coming around to the idea. Anyway, she’s recently been sick also, and she said that when you’re an independent operator (who gets paid by the hour) and get sick and can’t work, it’s easy to question the notion that you’re always supported by God or the universe. “But we are,” she said. “We always have more than we need.”

“I have more snot than I need,” I said.

I told my therapist that recently I’ve had some strong emotional reactions to things. For example, I got immediately angry when someone sent me a text message. I got squirmy when someone else asked me to do a certain odd job. And whereas I knew that my emotions were information from my intuitive system saying respectively, “Stand up for yourself,” and, “Run, Will Robinson,” my therapist suggested thinking of my emotional reactions as “tells.” Like, in the future when I become immediately angry or squirmy, I’ll know it’s my gut’s way of communicating, “Look alive, kid.” She said she has her tells for knowing when a potential client won’t work out and always regrets it when she goes against her inner guidance.

I realize I’m jumping around here, but this is how my therapy sessions work. Shit happens in between visits, and I make a note about it. Then when I finally see my therapist, I hop from note to note. One minute we’re talking about comedians on Netflix (we both have a thing for stand-up), the next minute we’re talking about a confrontation I’ve had or need to have, and the next minute we’re talking about relationships. Today she said, “Relationships aren’t for punks.” This came up because I’ve had a number of friendships fizzle out over the last several years and sometimes still feel gross about it. I think, Who was right and who was wrong? Am I being stubborn? Am I holding a grudge? But as my therapist explained, “Relationships are real messy. Both parties have to be adults. They have to be willing to own their shit and apologize when necessary.”

It’s easy to romanticize the past, to look back at photos and think, Those were the good old days. Bitch, please. There’s no such thing. Sure, there might have been something in your past that you enjoyed and wish you could experience again, but–I swear–it wouldn’t be the same even if you could. Additionally, we forget that life–our past, present, and future–is always a mixed bag. I miss sitting on the roof at my old dance studio. I miss that peaceful feeling. However, I don’t miss the drama of owning the studio or my lack of self-awareness at the time. Back then I had a great view of downtown, but a piss-poor view of myself and my relationships. Largely thanks to therapy and this blog, now my perspective has shifted dramatically for the better. Doing The Hard Work has made all the difference. Now I can get that peaceful feeling anywhere–because it’s inside me. Not just on the roof.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

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Yesterday’s Casserole (Blog #796)

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This evening I attended a writing class taught by my friend Marla. And whereas we mostly discussed short stories and what they are (it’s a short-story writing class), we did have one assignment. The Prompt was “I don’t know why I can’t forget–.” We were supposed to take it from there. We had fifteen minutes. So rather than fill up tonight’s space with what I did today, I’d like to share what I wrote, since I think it’s something more organic and true. It begins below in non-italics (regular print).

However, before we begin, a few things–

Earlier in the class while introducing myself and talking about the blog, I said that I’ve learned to trust the writing process, to simply sit down and be honest. I said, “I know that whatever needs to come up, will.” This is true, my trusting the process. Not just in writing, but in therapy and life. I’ve come to believe that if I do my part, life will do its part. For example, when Marla gave the assignment tonight, I immediately knew how I would complete the rest of The Prompt. One specific thing came to mind. Then I started getting images, word associations. A quick mental outline formed. Fifteen minutes later, I was done.

Sometimes I think this is the best way to go about things, down and dirty. My therapist says our knee-jerk answers and gut reactions are often–usually–what’s most true for us. I’ve been listening to an audio program about one’s shadow (the inner shadow, not the outer one), and it says the same thing–that our first thought is usually our best thought, or at least the most potentially healing one. Like, if you said, “I’m most afraid of–” or “I’m terrified that people will find out–” and then quickly, without thinking, filled in the blanks, you’d probably find out something really important about yourself.

For the assignment tonight I wrote about something that, quite honestly, has annoyed the hell out of me for years. Something akin to a song that gets stuck in your head. And yet, tonight that thing ended up giving me more than it’s ever taken away. Caroline Myss says that you think something you can’t get out of your head–a little memory–is just an irritation, but that it’s actually there for a reason. That if you dig a little deeper, you may heal in some way. This was my experience tonight and is what I mean by Trusting the Process. Two decades of being irritated by something I’ve wished I could forget, and–bam!–in fifteen minutes that thing turned me upside down for the better. Because I finally listened (to myself).

As one writer has said, the subconscious is extremely efficient.

Yesterday’s Casserole
By Marcus Coker

I don’t know why I can’t forget my junior high science teacher saying, “Water is the universal solvent.” Over twenty-five years have passed since I first heard these words, and I still can’t—for the life of me—get them out of my brain. I’ll be taking a shower or washing the dishes, really scrubbing the dirt off, and a picture of Janice Massey, this middle-aged woman in a flower-print dress, will pop into my head and I’ll hear those words.

“Water is the universal solvent.”

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years, way more than I’d like to admit. Of all the useless facts to remember. I wish I could forget it. “Water is the universal solvent.” It’s like this broken record that plays in my brain every time I use water to clean something, every time I use water to soften something. “Water is the universal solvent,” my brain keeps saying.

“I know that!” I reply.

“Do you?” it says. “Do you really?”

Hum.

Thinking back to junior high and Mrs. Massey’s science class—that’s when we had that bad car accident. That’s when Dad left. That’s when, really, I stopped crying. Everything, I guess, was too much for me to handle, to talk about. Maybe, just maybe, I stiffened my upper lip, let myself get hard. You know the way old junk—yesterday’s casserole–will build up on your dishes if you don’t wash them off now and then. This is what I’ve been learning these last few years, that you can’t let the junk build up. You can’t stop crying. Recently I was writing about that bad car accident and absolutely broke down in tears because I realized how scared I was that night, how much I’d pushed down. Sobbing as I remembered, it felt like something softened, like my plate was cleaner somehow, like something finally dissolved.

Water is the universal solvent.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You can't build a house, much less a life, from the outside-in. Rather, if you want something that's going to last, you have to start on the inside and work your way out, no matter how long it takes and how difficult it is.

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My First Rodeo (Blog #792)

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Oh my gosh. Tonight I went to the rodeo. Like horses and bulls and cowboys (in Wranglers)–the rodeo. This afternoon my friend Kim invited me. She–apparently–goes every night, every year, and had an extra ticket. And whereas at first I said no (I had plans to work and was also stressed out with car maintenance issues), I changed my mind. My dad encouraged me. He said, “Marcus, you haven’t been to the rodeo since you were a child. Live a little.” So that’s what I did. Or rather, that’s what we did–me, Kim, and her daughter Laura–slapped on our cowboy hats and had a big ole time.

Giddyup.

Don’t squat with your spurs on.

So, I don’t know if you’ve been to the rodeo, but it really is the wildest thing. Our group sat on the front row, and several times had dirt kicked in our faces by the animals. Kim said one year a bull’s leg came through the guardrail and hit her son’s knee. Talk about live drama. As if the cowboys who ride the bucking horses and bulls weren’t enough. I kept watching those guys tonight, their spinal columns whipped about like those blow-up Crayon characters in front of car dealerships. Seriously, they looked like rubber, but you know that’s got to hurt. One cowboy tonight got bucked off and landed on his knees in the splits and limped off like I did when I tore my ACL. Laura said, “I bet her broke his leg.”

I said, “This shit is real.”

On a lighter note, one of the categories tonight was called Mutton Busting, which basically involved toddlers (4 to 8 year olds) holding onto the backs of sheep for their dear lives. Oh my gosh, talk about adorable–the kids wear protective vests and helmets and clamp down with all fours while the sheep run, run, run. I’ve never laughed so hard in all my life.

When the rodeo was over, Kim and Laura visited with some friends of Kim’s, and I ate a caramel-covered apple with nuts. This is “a thing” of mine whenever I’m at the fair–and, now–the rodeo. Talk about delicious.

Next we went to an afterparty “just to check things out.” Y’all, we ended up closing the place down. First we visited (the bar and with each other), then Laura and I hit the dance floor. Talk about exciting–I love two-step, and this was my first chance to two-step since my knee injury. And whereas Laura hasn’t danced a ton before, she caught on super-duper quick, so we had a blast. A blast, I say.

At one point during the night, we joked that this really was “my first rodeo,” since I don’t remember going as a child. At least I don’t remember watching the events and understanding what was happening. And whereas parts of it really were terrifying (horses and bulls are powerful animals), that was part of the fun, part of the thrill. I commented that the bull fighting (there was bull fighting!) was our modern-day equivalent of gladiators and the colosseum. You know, where people would die. I don’t know, there’s just nothing like live (and dangerous) entertainment, seeing a cowboy fly through the air, smelling the animals, feeling the dirt land against your skin.

Recently the Arkansas River flooded in Fort Smith and Van Buren, like higher than it ever has before. My immediate friends and family are okay, but it’s gross. Buildings and homes and under water. Some of my former students are affected, not just by the water, but by looters. I can’t imagine. All this being said, it’s phenomenal to see the river up so high. This afternoon I was driving over one of the bridges, and I couldn’t believe it. There was water everywhere, covering the tree tops, just below a local retaining wall. Anyway, I was suddenly struck with the peace of it all. What I mean is that in the midst of this big, powerful river, I connected with that sense of quiet that’s always there if we’d just slow down enough to realize it. I thought, Nature is herself. She doesn’t ask for praise on a sunny day or apologize when she turns a town upside down. She simply continues to move.

It was beautiful.

Personally, I think this beauty that is life is always there for us. It’s just we get so busy that we don’t see it, feel it. We get so wrapped up in what we think is wrong that we don’t see what’s right. We go about our days assuming we’ve been there and done that. We say, “This ain’t my first rodeo.” Consequently, we get cynical. We lose our capacity to wonder, to be amazed. It takes something grand or violent–a raging bull or river–to get our attention, to wake us up the present moment. And yet each new moment offers something beautiful and amazing. You and I have seen yesterday’s sun and today’s sun, but not tomorrow’s. No, tomorrow’s sun has never risen, never set. Indeed, tomorrow itself is a whole new rodeo, which we can attend with fresh, full-of-wonder eyes if we are wiling.

Giddyup.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"I believe we're all courageous, and I believe that no one is alone."

On Feeling Safe (Blog #697)

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When I was born, we lived on Seventh Street. Since we didn’t live there too long, I don’t have a lot of memories from there, but I do remember our dog, Bootsy, having puppies in our backyard and my learning to ride a bike in our driveway. I remember trick-or-treating on Seventh Street; our neighbor had the best popcorn balls. On a less exciting note, I remember burning my hand on the muffler of another neighbor’s go-cart. (That’s what you get for trying to help push.) I remember cutting the inside of my leg open on our metal slide. A screw was sticking out. I could still find the scar until sometime in my thirties.

When I was four, we moved to what we called the drugstore house. My dad was a pharmacist, and his store was on Main Street in downtown Van Buren, the same place my dance studio would be twenty years later. The store itself was on the second story of a three-story building, and my parents had converted the rest of the space into our new home. As I recall, it was fabulous. My sister and I had rooms in the back on the second floor and a playroom on the third. We had laundry shoots that went down to the laundry room on the first, where the kitchen was. That’s where we used to finger paint.

I have a few other memories of the drugstore house, but shortly after we moved there, it burned down, the result of a bad accident involving a semi-trailer truck and a station wagon. Thankfully, we were all gone that night, but everyone in the vehicles died. Nine people altogether. I remember standing in the front lawn of my grandparents’ house blocks away and seeing the smoke, and that’s it; nothing else comes to mind. It was three months before my fifth birthday. We’d lived there six weeks.

Last night I read a blog article by Seth Oberst, a physical therapist in Atlanta who specializes in the mind-body connection and how trauma affects the body. The article’s worth your time. In short, it tells the story of one of Seth’s female patients who suffered from a number of problems–upset stomach, multiple sclerosis, back pain. In the course of her therapy, Seth asked, “When was the last time you felt fully relaxed?” Her answer? Almost forty years ago, when she was small child, playing with her stuffed animals.

As I understand it, when a person has experienced trauma, their body can get stuck in “there’s a threat” mode or “something bad is going to happen” mode. This means their muscles are often tight, ready for action, and their nervous systems are on red alert. Of course, this can cause a lot of problems when there isn’t actually a threat. Again as I understand it, the idea behind a lot of body-based therapies (yoga, somatic experiencing, even massage) is that they retrain the brain to recognize that the threat is over. The ideal outcome? The body relaxes and is better able to heal itself.

Getting back to the article, Seth says that part of his client’s therapy was for them to find positions in which she felt safe, like when she had pressure on the tops of her feet or shoulders. Eventually she learned to move without tensing her pelvis. Then get this shit–her back pain went away.

In reading Seth’s story, I confused the part when he asked his client when she last felt fully relaxed with the part when he helped her to feel safe. That is, the question I asked myself when I went to bed last night was, “When was the last time I felt safe?”

Hum, I thought. That’s a good question. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt safe. I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t afraid of something, worried about something on some level. Seriously, I racked my brain and couldn’t come up with a single example of feeling at peace here, definitely not in the last twenty-five years. But then I thought of my life before the fire. During that six weeks at the drugstore house, I had this white tent, one of those plastic poles, snap together deals. I think it was dome-shaped, and I kept it in our playroom, although I remember it also being downstairs. Regardless, I remember feeling safe there. And yet, something changed that night in my grandparents’ front yard, that night my white tent and almost everything else I owned went up in smoke. It was like I gasped and forgot to start breathing again.

Today I’ve been asking myself, Do I feel safe? Do I feel fully relaxed? Personally, I think they’re the same thing. And whereas my answer’s been, No, I haven’t felt safe and fully relaxed in thirty-four years, I’m working on getting back there. It’s tough when you’ve lost so much at an early age. There’s all this proof that the world is a terrible place. Still, I’m working on letting go of unnecessary tension. Tonight the sky was clear for the first time in weeks, so I spent fifteen minutes stargazing and spotting new-to-me constellations. And whereas it didn’t last forever, there were moments when the sky itself arched over me like that dome-shaped, white tent, moments when the brisk night air wrapped itself around me like a cocoon and I exhaled.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As the ocean of life changes, we must too.

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The Law of the Vital Few (Blog #601)

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Today has been go, go, go. This afternoon I had a Skype consultation with a posture/exercise guru about muscle imbalances in my body. And whereas he didn’t tell me much more than I already knew (my shoulders are rounded, my head sticks forward, my hips are tilted forward), he did give me a lot of good information about how things in the body work together. For example, if your shoulders are elevated (like mine are), that most likely means that the muscles along your shoulders are too strong, but also that the muscles in your mid-back are too weak. So fixing the problem–apparently–becomes a twofold task: stretch the too strong or tight muscles, and strengthen or “work out” the weak ones.

It never hurts to have more information.

As I have quite a few muscle imbalances in my body, my first inclination to my assessment today was to be overwhelmed. How am I ever going to fix all this? I mean, one of my issues is that I sleep on my left side, so my body is apparently shrink-wrapped into a scrunched-up position on right side. So what the hell, now I have bad habits even while I’m sleeping? A guy can’t catch a break. That being said, the consultant today said that some problems I thought I had and assumed were terrible (like my hips tilting sideways and my feet pronating) really aren’t that bad. So I’ve been telling myself that it never hurts to have more information.

Now I can better make a plan.

After the call, I spent the rest of the day running errands in Fort Smith. Last night after having fixed the door on my parents’ dishwasher, I discovered the dishwasher was leaking. Ugh. There was water all over the floor. Anyway, that was my first order of business this afternoon–trying to track down a new gasket or rubber seal. (After going to three different stores, I think I’m going to have to order one online.) Then I went to Lowe’s for a part to fix my dad’s leaky faucet (everything leaks around here), then I went to Home Depot because I forgot Plumber’s Putty at Lowe’s. Then I went to three different places looking for a pair of shoes for a dance performance I have coming up (I found the perfect pair for twenty bucks at the third place), then I went to the vitamin store because I was out of the few supplements that I take.

And no, I don’t mean “a few hundred.”

Finally, after the sun went down, I made my way back to Van Buren, where I picked up a new interior lightbulb for my car, Tom Collins, as well as a prescription for my upset stomach. (My doctor recently suggested something new.) Back at the house, I fixed Dad’s leaky sink. Like, it actually works. Well, except for the fact that you have to turn the cold water handle in the opposite direction now. Like away from you instead of toward you. But whatever. Dad said he’s smart enough to figure it out.

So that’s good to know.

After I’d put all my tools away and cleaned up Dad’s sink, Dad pointed out that it needed to be re-caulked. I said, “It sure would have been nice if you’d told me this sooner.” (Yeah, yeah, I know–if “ifs” and “buts” were candy and nuts, we’d all have a Merry Christmas.) “I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Dad said. “You don’t have to do it tonight.” But since I had “sink” on the brain, I dragged my supplies out again and got to work. And now it’s done. Yippee.

The consultant today told me about something called The Pareto Principle, which states that roughly 80 percent of the effects come from 20 percent of the causes. This is also called The Law of the Vital Few, and applied to business means that 80 percent of a given company’s sales come from 20 percent of their customers. Applied to my body and all it’s imbalances, the guy said, it means that 80 percent of my problems (muscle tension and soreness, headaches, etc.) come from 20 percent of my issues (back, shoulders, neck). I really like this explanation, since it reminds me that I don’t have to nit-pick and worry about every little thing in order to get noticeable results.

I think The Law of the Vital Few could be applied to one’s personal life as well. For example, of all the problems I’ve brought up in therapy over the last four years, the majority of them have boiled down to a boundaries issue. Not that I didn’t have plenty of other issues when I walked into my therapist’s office that first time, but “having healthy boundaries” is what we’ve consistently discussed from day one because–at least for me–having good boundaries solves the most problems. So I think it’s important to figure out what your vital few are. What are those few actions you take (or can take) that will alleviate the most stress in your life?

Please share your answers in the comments below.

My vital few are:
1) Writing this blog every day
2) Going to therapy
3) Having good boundaries
4) Getting enough sleep and taking care of my body
5) Dancing

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We can rewrite our stories if we want to.

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On Assholes and Doormats (Blog #517)

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Late this morning I woke up in Tulsa, then drove straight back to Arkansas, to therapy. Then I poked around in two bookstores and went out for pizza and beer. (More therapy.) Then I went to see my friend Kim, who’d invited me to Porch Pickin’, this thing where a bunch of Kim’s friends get together and play music / listen to music on her neighbor’s front porch. Now it’s just before midnight, and I’m at my parents’ dinner table. So after being on the road and out-of-town for seven full days, I’m finally home–back in glorious Van Buren.

I’m so ready to go to bed, it’s not even funny.

Speaking of things that aren’t funny, despite the fact that I was exhausted all day yesterday–like, I was dragging the tops of my feet across the carpet on the way to bed–I couldn’t sleep for shit last night. No kidding, I tossed and turned all night. Maybe it’s because it was the night after the full moon. That really does affect me sometimes. Anyway, I eventually conked out, but then my alarm went off. What the hell? Color me not impressed.

Today my therapist and I talked about someone that–quite frankly–I think is an asshole. That being said, I’ve seen this person being extremely kind, and I admire them for their ability to be direct. They always say EXACTLY what’s on their mind, and you always know right where you stand. Anyway, the subject came up because I actually have a lot of fantasies about behaving like this person–you know, saying, “Shut the fuck up, Beatrice,” or “Go play in traffic, you little piece of shit.” I realize these wouldn’t be “nice” things to say or do, but that’s precisely the point. I’ve tried the “nice” thing; it’s exhausting.

According to my therapist, I’ve been rocking the 12-step, recovering-people-pleaser program for quite a while now. Things are so much better than they used to be. And yet, I still bite my tongue more than I’d like to. My therapist says the solution is a matter of combining directness with style. In this asshole’s case, he’s ALL directness. No class. In my case, however–this is my therapist’s opinion–I’m all style. The consummate diplomat. “Sometimes when a person who’s a jerk gets under our skin,” my therapist said, “it’s because we want a little bit of what they have. Like, we’d give up some of our style if we could have some of their directness.”

There really are times when I’d like this–to be a total snot. I’m not sure I’d like the consequences–my therapist says you can burn bridges–but I’ve shoved down so many emotions and NOT stood up for myself so many times over the last four decades that having at least one full-blown tirade sounds really appealing.

So maybe keep your distance until I can get a good night’s rest.

But really, my therapist and I agreed that you can be both direct and classy (or kind) at the same time. You can not be a doormat AND not burn bridges. You can speak your truth AND not degrade, demean, or be rude to the person with whom you are communicating. It IS possible.

This should be my new mantra–

Hum. This is something I’m working on. More and more, I’m not considering my people-pleasing tendencies or any part of my personality set in stone. A book I read recently said we do that–think of ourselves as unchangeable. We say, “I’m a people pleaser,” or “That’s just the way I am.” But the book suggested saying, “I THINK OF myself as a people pleaser,” since that subtlety suggest that changes can occur when we are willing to SEE ourselves in a different way. For me–ideally–that way looks like being direct, honest, AND kind. In other words–and maybe this should be my new mantra–not an asshole, not a doormat.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Transformation doesn’t have a drive thru window. It takes time to be born again.

"

You Know, a Guy Could Take This (Blog #505)

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Twenty days ago, while I was in San Francisco for a dance event, I received a ticket (from a meter maid!) for parking on a steep hill and NOT turning my wheels toward the curb. Talk about a serious drag. I didn’t know a person was supposed to do this. Anyway, when I talked to a friend of mine who’s a policeman in San Francisco, they said, “Might I suggest a good old-fashioned protest?” Well, sure enough, there’s a website listed on the back of a ticket, in case someone wants to put up a fuss. So, in light of the fact that the ticket is sixty-nine frickin’ dollars, that’s exactly what I did this morning.

I resisted.

Unfortunately, I was limited to 1,000 characters, so I couldn’t be as “flowery” as I wanted to be with my words. Still, here’s what I said:

Hello. My name is Marcus Coker, and I recently visited SF for the first time (in order to attend a swing dance event). The event housed me with a local, on 14th Avenue. Of course, parking was a challenge, but I “finally” found a spot after 45 minutes of circling the neighborhood. You can imagine my relief. There was a sign about not parking on certain street-cleaning days, but otherwise–I thought–I was good. (Phew.) Alas, when I went to check on my vehicle the next day (a friend who is a policeman said vehicle break-ins were common in SF), I’d received a $69 dollar ticket for “parking on grades,” a term that I had to Google and means I didn’t turn my wheels toward the curb. Ugh. This really put a damper on my weekend, especially since I had no idea about your city’s policy. After all, it wasn’t posted, and, being from the flatlands of the south, I never park on hills. As I immediately corrected the problem, I ask that you forgive this incident. Please have mercy. Regards, Marcus

Then, when the website asked if I had any supporting documents, I uploaded this PDF: SF_ParkingProtest

So we’ll see what happens. At the very least, I figure I’ve bought myself some more time. This morning when I saw the ticket in my to-do pile, I freaked out. First, either the protest or the payment is due tomorrow, and that triggered my “not enough time” response. Second, the fact that this is an “authority issue,” made my butt pucker. But then I thought, You can do this, Marcus, and sat down and got to work. In no time, I was simply doing my thing–writing. Plus, I was trying to have a good time. So much of my past has been filled with my being nervous, afraid, and terrified about things that really amount to nothing. A parking ticket. A meter maid. But–regardless of how it turns out–this protest was actually fun for me.

So that’s something.

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for my friend and local artist Ralph Irwin. I wrote about Ralph in detail here (in my most highly read article), so I won’t go into great detail about him here. However, I was reminded yesterday what a profound impact one person can have on another. Honestly, although I worked two doors down from him when I had my dance studio, I didn’t spend that much time with Ralph. We only had a handful of heart-to-hearts. That being said, they were enough. Ralph left his mark on me.

One of the things that was mentioned at the memorial service was that Ralph would often take some odd, discarded object, hold it up to the light, squint, and say, “You know, a guy could take this and–.” Then Ralph would proceed into a barrage of wild ideas and creative possibilities. This was my experience with him. Once he told me, “Some people might look at a rusty old door and think of it as trash. But an artist would look at it and see possibility, something you could paint or hang on a wall or use for something else entirely.”

Possibility. If nothing else, Ralph taught me that there’s an infinite number of ways to see the world. What’s more, there’s an infinite number of ways to make your world more beautiful. But it all starts with how you see things. Do you look at the objects and people in your life–do you look at yourself–as trash? Or do you see something beautiful there? Personally, I think Ralph saw people the way he saw objects–full of potential. At least that’s how I think he saw me. I’m not sure he ever said it directly, but he took time to help me flesh out ideas and show me new ways of looking at things. He encouraged me (and I know he did this for countless others).

Of course, it’s no small thing to be encouraged.

There was something said yesterday about how Ralph felt like he didn’t get enough done. The man was teeming with creative ideas and projects, and although many of them were completed during his seventy-six years on earth, many of them were not. I get this–I love completion. But as an artist and creative, I think this is a good “problem” to have–to wake up every day with a million ideas, to see possibility everywhere you look, to not get locked into one way of seeing a situation. This is where I see progress in my own life. Five years ago I would have gotten a traffic ticket, and it would have been “awful” from start to finish. But whereas facts are facts–I got a parking ticket–I can choose how I look at the facts. I can paint them up and put a frame around them that I like and that’s fun for me. I can choose how I respond.

I can hold my problems up to The Light.

I can squint my eyes.

I can see the world differently.

Yes–

It’s more beautiful now.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing requires letting go of that thing you can’t let go of.

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The Power of Perspective (Blog #189)

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It’s one in the morning, and my friends Justin and Ashley just left. For about two hours we’ve been in the hot tub, and I’m currently limp as a wet noodle. The harvest moon shines full in the night sky, I’m not sure where the cats are, and bed sounds really great about now. But I just started the music I always blog to, downloaded the pictures I plan to use tonight, and here we go. As for where we’re going, I’m not exactly sure. (Insert long pause here.) Some nights this is easier than others.

Oh look, that’s a hundred words. Almost done.

I woke up this afternoon in the middle of a dream about the hard drive I dropped and broke last year, the one with pretty much my entire life on it. In the dream I was in Van Buren, and there was a guy with bad teeth who said he could fix the hard drive pretty cheap. Apparently he was also a hair dresser, and I was sort of apologizing for how messy my hair was. Anyway, I woke up in the middle of the dream because someone was ringing the doorbell. Well, the doorbell where I’m staying is really loud and sounds like one of those buzzers you hide in the palm of you hand that vibrates when someone shakes it, and the guy wouldn’t leave it alone. It felt like being woken up by a cattle prod.

I wasn’t impressed. Still, despite the fact that I was half-naked, I stumbled downstairs, opened the door, and tried to be pleasant.

Recently I’ve been watching the Netflix series GLOW, which stands for Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. My friend Marla turned me on to it, and it’s about some ladies in the 80s who are in the process of becoming professional wrestlers. Anyway, the last episode I watched had a scene where one of the girls ends up making out with the hot, feathered-hair pizza delivery boy, so I was sort of hoping something similar would happen when I answered the door this morning. Well, damn it, no such luck. It was just a guy (that was not my type) who’d brought the paper from the yard to the porch and was looking for some work.

So that made two of us that were disappointed.

You know, sometimes the universe is a real bitch. As if the doorbell incident weren’t enough, I discovered after breakfast that one of the cats had thrown up again, this time on my friend’s backpack. Well, being the dutiful house sitter that I am, I took the backpack outside, shook off the vomit in the yard, and came back in only to discover that the cat had also puked down the side of the dryer, sort of on a trashcan but not in it, and all over a piece of wrought iron furniture, the kind with all the loops and curly q’s perfect for holding throw up. Less than an hour before I discovered this disaster, I was raving on Facebook about a friend’s newborn he’d dressed up like a little lumberjack. I thought, Oh my god, I want one. But then as I was on my hands and knees cleaning up vomit, I thought, No–no I don’t.

After The Great Feline Stomach Upset of 2017, I went to the Fort Smith Regional Art Museum, something I’ve been meaning to do since they opened in their new location four years ago. I’ve been skimping on taking my inner artist on dates lately, so I figured today was as good as any. Having never been to the museum, I didn’t know what to expect and was pleasantly surprised to find a photograph collection on loan from the Smithsonian. The collection was a project by the Environmental Protection Agency and documented life and environmental conditions in the 70s. So it was mainly about pollution, but also about fashion, drugs, and personalities.

One of the photographers for the project referred to his camera as a passport, saying, “It takes you into the lives of people you might otherwise never meet.” This is one of the things I love about reading and writing. I can pick up a book written twenty years ago, and it’s like it’s happening today. If I walk away from that book with one new idea, one little thing to chew on, I’ve been changed in some way. Even if I never meet the author in person, our minds have met, and the world is different than it was before. I think this is the power of story, and whether it’s done through the lens of a camera or words on a page, I love that no good story ever ends.

For the last few minutes I’ve been looking at the above picture, a photograph of–I’m assuming–an Italian man who owned a restaurant. Had I known him, I think I would have liked him. There’s an exercise taught in some writing classes where you take a picture like this and make up a story about it, so my mind has been running wild with possibilities–what time he got up every day, how many kids he had, how he might have gone outside for smoke break after the lunch hour rush and ended up meeting a photographer.

You can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

My therapist says that the natural state of the universe is neutral. I take this to mean that things happen–someone rings your doorbell and wakes you up, a cat vomits, whatever–and those are just facts like photographs. Where we come in, however, is we experience or look at those facts and tell a story about them–this is disappointing, this is disgusting, this is a place I’d like to visit. In so doing, we take something neutral and turn it into either a personal positive or negative. This, of course, is the power of perspective. Maybe you can’t change what happened, but you can change the story you tell yourself about it.

When I think about the hard drive I dropped last year, the first word that comes to mind is “memories.” Because the dream had to do with fixing the hard drive and it happened in Van Buren (where I’m currently living), I imagine it was about changing my perspective about my past and current life, healing, and restoring the parts of myself I thought were lost. As for the messy hair and bad teeth, these are both things I’m pretty vain about, so they simply remind me that healing doesn’t always look like you think it will. If you’d told me a year ago I’d make my biggest internal strides by living back at home and writing a daily blog, I would have told you to get lost. As it turns out, it’s been the very way I’ve found myself. So I’m reminded tonight that underneath all of our stories about life, there’s a wisdom that not only puts a full moon in the sky and changes our fashion choices over the years, but also changes us. Often we think, I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, yet somehow, we arrive.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Our world is magical, a mysterious place where everything somehow works together, where nothing and no one is without influence, where all things great and small make a difference.

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My One-Sided Fears (Blog #162)

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After yesterday’s disappointing search for a new pair of jeans, I woke up today with a renewed sense of vision and hope. I thought, This is possible. I’ve bought jeans before. I can buy them again. So after breakfast and yoga, I ran a couple errands, parked my car outside Central Mall, and thought, Fort Smith, don’t fail me now. Well, I quickly discovered that stretchy jeans have become a serious thing. Like, they’re the new bell bottoms, or whatever. Everywhere I went, it was stretch this, flex that. I’m surprised each pair didn’t come with a gym membership. So–even though I admittedly have a bad attitude about stretchy jeans–I actually tried some on.

Well, nothing even came close because–again–small ankles, big butt. (Emphasis on the big butt.) Well, one pair did come close–my thighs looked great–but there was a big wrinkle right across my crotch. It was like one of those huge speed bumps in the middle of an otherwise perfectly inviting road. I thought, Oh no, this won’t do. This won’t do at all.

Before I go any further, I should say that I’m a fashion snob. My therapist says it’s okay to admit it–I’m vain. I mean, I’m not above wearing certain brands, like the ones sold at Walmart, but I’m above wearing certain brands, like the ones sold at Walmart. Mostly I get something in my head and go out looking for that. Like, I know Buffalo jeans fit me really well–I’m familiar with them. I like how the pockets look just so. Maybe it sounds like vanity to you, but I like to think of it as having standards. So I guess I shop with certain expectations.

My friend George says an expectation is a frustration in the making, and boy is he right. By the time I got to American Eagle, the last place on my list, I didn’t see a single pair of non-flex (regular) jeans anywhere in the damn store. When a lady asked if she could help me, I said, “Do ALL your jeans stretch?” and she said, “Yes. They’re what EVERYBODY wants.” Well, everyone has their breaking point, so I said, “Well not EVERYBODY wants them because I don’t.” Granted, I realize I’m probably too old to be shopping at American Eagle, but I almost called her a whippersnapper and said, “And why are there so many SKINNY JEANS? Don’t fat thighs matter anymore?”

Fat. Thighs. Matter.

Totally pissed at this point, I left the mall and tried to talk myself down off the ledge. You don’t HAVE to have a new pair of jeans for your birthday, Marcus. Okay, just breathe. Well, I finally decided to lower my standards and shop for pants at Target. Don’t tell the internet. (Whoops.) And get this shit. I found a pair I actually liked. I can’t believe I’m about to admit this, but they’re Levi’s–AND THEY STRETCH. Talk about eating humble pie, which–of course–is okay because now my pants will accommodate the extra calories. That’s right, I’m admitting it in front of God and everybody. I’m okay with stretchy jeans, at least I think I am. I’ll try them out next week. But apparently I just needed to find the right pair.

I hate it when I’m wrong.

This afternoon before The Great Jean Search of 2017, I ran into my friend Missy, who runs the Young Actors Guild, and she said they were putting on a show in at the King Opera House in Van Buren this weekend. So when I finished at Target, I looked at the clock and thought, I can just make it. Well–get this–when I went to buy my ticket, the lady behind the counter said she was buying it for me. Turns out, we’re friends and she reads the blog. Her name is Kim. It just took me a second to make the connection. (You know how it is when you see someone out of context.) Anyway, it completely made my day, especially after all the denim drama at the mall.

The show tonight was called Uncle Pirate and was about a young boy who’s being bullied at school and is pretty much afraid of his own shadow. As luck would have it, he has a long-lost uncle who’s an honest-to-goodness pirate. Having recently lost his ship and all his crew, Uncle Pirate shows up for a family visit, and he and the boy end up saving each other. It’s adorable. Also, I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think most the kids on stage had stretchy jeans, so I both blame and thank them for what I went through today.

One of the themes in Uncle Pirate has to do with fear. When the boy tells his uncle that he’s afraid of the bully at school, his uncle says something like, “Half the time, being afraid of something only makes you more afraid.” In other words, we often use fear as an excuse to NOT do something, and that just makes matters worse. But when we “feel the fear and do it anyway,” we better solve our problems and gain courage in the process.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but whenever I like I song, I play it over and over. Well, today’s song was “Take Me Home” by Cash Cash. There’s a line in the song that says, “But I still stay because you’re the only thing I know.” Honestly, if you listen to the rest of the words, it doesn’t sound like the singer is in a good relationship, but she stays because it’s familiar. At least, that’s my take on it, and I’ve been thinking today that I’ve been there. I’ve stuck it out longer than I should have because I didn’t know a better way. I assume this is true for all of us.

As my friend Suzanne says, “You can’t know what you don’t know.”

I’ve heard that the ego can’t see what it will stand to gain, only what it will stand to lose. I take this to mean that our fears only show us one side of the story. It’s a little thing, but as I was shopping for jeans today, I was only thinking about what wouldn’t go well, how terrible stretchy pants would be. But when I bit the bullet and tried something new, it actually worked out. On a much grander scale, I remember being in a miserable (miserable) relationship several years ago and being afraid of ending it, but I did. Then I was so sad and afraid of what would happen next that I didn’t think things would ever get better. But they did. I ran into my friend Ashley at the mall today, the topic came up, and she said, “You’re so much happier now.”

So once again, I’m learning that a lot of my fears are full of crap. Also, life doesn’t always suck–it’s pretty good sometimes. So whether it’s a new pair of pants, the unexpected gift of a ticket to see a show, or even a miserable relationship that ends up being the motivation you need to get some damn standards, I’m reminded that life is kinder than I previously thought it was. Also, in this moment, there’s nothing to be afraid of.

[Today’s song, for those who are interested.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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The deepest waters are the only ones capable of carrying you home.

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The “Enough Is Enough” Button (Blog #130)

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Last night I went to Walmart in Van Buren to buy the ingredients for dirt dessert, which are basically sugar, sugar, dairy, and Oreos. One of my creativity assignments this week was to “bake something,” so I figured I didn’t need to complicate the matter and settled on something easy. Anyway, while I was shopping, I noticed some light-up block letters used for decorating, so I rearranged the top row to spell SICK. (The only other option was TITS, and that’s not really my thing. Plus, it’s Van Buren.) Notice the letter I is actually a bottle of beer. It was the only “vowel” available, and I actually enjoyed the implication.

Been there, done that.

As it turns out, there’s a reason I’m not a cook. I screwed up the dirt dessert. Basically I thought I had to make the vanilla pudding first (with 4 cups of milk) AND THEN add an additional 3 cups of milk along with the other ingredients. Well, I was mistaken. I needed 3 cups total, not 7. So things turned out–uh–runny, more like a milkshake. That being said, the concoction did firm up a bit overnight, and it’s pretty tasty.

All day–all day–today, I’ve had a headache. Maybe I slept wrong. Maybe my body doesn’t like a month’s worth of sugar in one night. It’s difficult to say what causes these things. But it hasn’t been fun, this sort-of dull pain that just sits at the back of my head the way a vacuum cleaner salesman might sit in your living room and refuse to leave. So far I think I’ve taken Ibuprofen or Tylenol three or four times today. I lost count. Currently I have a heated rice bag around my neck and have peppermint oil slathered everywhere above my shoulders. It’s supposed to help, but I smell like a candy cane.

It’s not cute.

This evening I went out to eat with one of my favorite people, who likes to remain nameless. I mean, she has a name, uses it often, seems to enjoy it, but likes to remain nameless–on this blog. Anyway, more than once she said I was perky. (Perky–that was her exact word. I’m quoting.) I mean, I just looked up the definition. I guess perky is all right–jolly, lively, cheerful, bouncy, effervescent–that’s totally me.

At your service.

Okay, I might as well just say it. I’m starting a new project (in addition to this one because I apparently want to sleep less). The name of the project and website (which isn’t up yet) is called I Want the World to Know. I just started a Facebook page tonight (go like it when you’re done here). It’s seriously in the beginning stages, but the idea is that I’m going to start asking people, “What do you want the world to know?” or “What’s your best advice?” Then I’ll share the answers, with maybe a picture of the person, online. In my mind, the answers will cover a range of topics–self-help, relationships, automobile care, cooking (don’t use too much milk for dirt dessert!). You know, any little thing that might change your life for the better.

So far I’ve only gotten answers from a couple of people. But I asked my friend tonight, and she said she just got back from a trip to Iceland. She said the people there all lived about the same, meaning that both teachers and doctors lived in houses that were similar sizes–no one was too extravagant. What’s more, she said they seemed content with what they had. They weren’t saying, “More, more, more.” So she said that she would tell the world, “Find your ‘enough is enough’ button and be happy. Just because something is good doesn’t mean more will be better.”

Well, I guess to prove the point, she suggested that we SPLIT dessert. (Yeah, sure, I can do that. Considering all the sugar I had last night, that would probably be a good thing.)

Isn’t that adorable?

Since I got home tonight I’ve been thinking about the “enough is enough” button, and I think it has a lot of applications. Obviously, it could apply to anything we buy and collect, as well as food we eat (sugar!), and beer we drink (SICK!). But I think there are a lot of other situations where this wisdom could apply. I know that more than once I’ve reached the point in life where enough was enough. It’s like everything was “fine” until one day when it wasn’t. Maybe that meant I ended a relationship, quit a job, or finally had that difficult conversation because not having it was tearing me apart.

I guess we all have our limits. At some point we take a pain pill, go to the doctor, go the gym. I’ve said before that it was a bad, bad, really bad relationship that got me to go to therapy. But honestly, that was just my “enough is enough” button. I needed to go anyway. Not because I’m any more fucked up than you are, but because I needed some professional help in processing life. I needed boundaries because most people don’t have them. I needed to stop judging myself so much. I needed to believe in myself more. I mean, who doesn’t need all that?

I’m not suggesting you should go to therapy, but I am suggesting therapy is one way to make your life better.

It seems we all have a tendency to overindulge–in material possessions, in addictions, in bad relationships. The upside to this, I suppose, is that it shows us where our “enough is enough” button is, lets us know how much we’re willing and not willing to put up with. (We’re talking about boundaries here.) In my experience, having less–less stuff, less sugar (ugh), less bad behavior–is almost always better. Finding that “enough is enough” button, of course, can take time. But if you know where it is and you haven’t already–for crying out loud–push the damn thing.

[I would love to hear what you want the world to know, what your best advice is. Please message me on Facebook or at me (at) meandmytherapist (dot) com with your story. Or hell, let’s SPLIT a dessert and talk about it in person.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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We all need to feel alive.

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