Since I've been fixated on dreams lately, I'd like to take this opportunity to announce that I had a dream last night that Steve Martin was my boyfriend. Old Steve Martin. Banjo playing Steve Martin. I started my day confused enough by who I was dating that I had to state, in my head, Steven Martin is not my boyfriend.
Riddle me that.
Sometimes I go for runs and that's when I do my most inspired thinking. We have an indoor track at our gym here that I love--my sister says running on a track bores her, going in circles for that long. I find it meditative. The track is three stories up and surrounded by glass on three sides, so I get to see the elements but I don't have to be a part of them, and there aren't usually very many people up there so I don't have to deal with the fray. Today it was raining outside which made me happy, perhaps you've heard that I'm only happy when it rains. I never run very fast because I don't like to be in pain if I can help it, which is why I never made a great endurance athlete. Also my lungs are the size of peanuts, but alas, that's a story and excuse for a different day. I know the mind though mind works in mysterious ways, though, and I know this because of the weird and wonderful paths my funny little consciousness wanders down when I go for runs. I know you're supposed to get to a runner's high or whatever when you run for long enough, where you get to a place where you don't think anything, but I much prefer the inner narrative that starts when I pick up the pace. It's unfortunate though, because much like a dreaming, I can never remember very clearly what it is I think about when I'm running. Those thought and ideas start dissipating as soon as I slow, and I can't chase them forever. I get tired. My feet give out much past 40 minutes. But for awhile I'm a wry comic, a genius, sometimes I think up long, elaborate plot lines, sometimes a philosopher. Sometimes I describe everything I see, with me in it.
Today though, the run thoughts floated through, they wandered from how the best way to break a culture is to rape the women and produce a generation of bastard children to the comment Michael made the other day--he thinks I look like my Dad but my facial expressions are taken from my Mom, to what separates humans from animals and that is perhaps the concept of love, and needing to be loved. Today there was no rhyme or reason, I just needed twenty minutes to think. I can't clarify exactly what it was now that brought me to each thought or the specifics of anything--that's not how run thoughts work. But for a while I was churning the world through the wringer in my head and that feels good to me, that makes me happy. I get to put my observations and experiences into a format that makes sense, I like to listen to the stories I tell myself whenever I get the chance, and not just because I've long held that I'm the funniest person I know. I just like to.
I have a confession to make--there are days that I think my mind is special. There are days that I know I have the mind of a writer, that I will forever be telling a story even if everyone stopped listening. Even if I never wrote another word. This is what I've got. This is what defines me. I can become dull and old, ignore that ever narrating voice, and still know that who I am and what I do is write. My Uncle told me that this is my job, that writing is my profession. I am the next Pam Houston, the next Goldberry Long. He just told me that but I've been thinking about it for a long time. I have to write everyday. I know it won't be easy. They say nothing worth doing is--I'll hold back some inappropriate comments and let you know when I'm a starving artist. He told me a long time ago that he's waiting for me to write just to write, too--it hasn't happened yet. But you know, I do keep a journal.
Perhaps someday when I'm rich and famous and very-well known, Steve Martin will read about being in my dream and be offended I was sort of of freaked out that he was floating around my subconscious at all. Who knows. If nothing else--I'll tell my therapist.