alyssa milano never wrote me back.

I've thought about writing a million times. And then I didn't, and now I don't remember what I had to say in the first place (So it probably wasn't important.). Thoughts are like that. They just float in and out; I bet 3/4 of them aren't even mine--just remnants of some universal thought bank, wafting, passing through our membranes like smoke through clothes. I wish we had a way to track that (cross-country thought traveling). I guess we do. I guess it's called stories and art and music and dance and stuff. You know, expressive stuff. Maybe that's why the arts are so important--they connect us--maybe more so than banking does.

Although, that's not fair to say. I once had a pretty interesting connection with a lady who worked at a bank. Many many years ago I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the ground floor of an old house. The Mormons came a-knocking: a young woman about my age, and her mother. There was something about the young woman that I instantly liked (I think it's pretty easy to tell if someone is bringing you light.); plus it really interests me how people develop such strong convictions. I mean, it doesn't really matter what you think about Mormons: knocking on people's doors uninvited because you feel like you have a very important thing to tell them is a pretty ballsy thing to do.

Wait. Not Mormons. She wasn't a Mormon. Mormons are young men in black slacks and white button-downs. She was… I don't remember. But there was a kid in elementary school in Kansas who was this, too, and he had red hair and wasn't allowed to participate in any Christmas stuff.

It doesn't matter. Balls.

So, this young woman, I said, "Sure, come on in." And we talked for a while, and I learned that she had really explored different faiths extensively--traveled, read, experienced--and arrived at these convictions thoughtfully. I was impressed by that. She asked if she could come back, and I said "Sure" to that, too. So, for several weeks, she would come over, usually just by herself after that, and we'd hang out and talk about God and her faith. It wasn't a debate. I didn't agree with her, and I wasn't going to convert, but I liked hearing her talk about it. I think we just both kind of enjoyed the shared time. Then she left for a year-long mission trip.

Anyway, all that to say she worked at a bank. So you can work at a bank and still connect with humanity in meaningful ways. Actually, one thing my mom always told me, which I understand more and more, is that it really doesn't matter what you do for a living--that you always always always have an opportunity to make a difference to someone. (Relatedly, my dad always says it doesn't matter what you do for a living as long as you do it well and with integrity: doctor, attorney, barista, garbage collector, cable man, pizza delivery dude… whatever) I think that's why it's important that no matter how you earn your paycheck, you should try really hard not be an asshole while you do it.

[I don't know where this crap comes from. Sometimes I sit down to write, and I have no idea what I want to say until it starts coming out, and then I think, "What? What's that doing in there?"]

My body feels gross. It needs to get back to the gym. It needs me to stop putting so much garbage in it. It needs me to cut back on the wine. Really, I've been drinking too much wine. It needs me to rein it in, for crying out loud. It needs several days of fruit and veggies and water. It needs me to not stop at Walgreens on the way home from Chrispy's gig at midnight because I have a sudden overpowering urge for Milanos.

Which reminds me that I once wrote a letter to Alyssa Milano asking for advice about becoming an actress, and she never wrote back.

Jehovah's Witness. That's it. Man, I'm glad we got that squared away.

tangled woods

I just signed up for nanowrimo. It starts tomorrow. I have no idea why I've done this, except that it is fall, and this is just what I do in the fall. Write 50,000 words of a novel between November 1 and November 30. I'm currently overwhelmed--at work and in life, have 500 travel days planned for November (which is an incredible feat for a month with only 30 days), and at least 3 other "self-improvement projects" in the stalls. Oh, P. What are you doing, dear?

Today is the first day of my "structured free time" time budget. I have already regressed, which is hard to do when you haven't actually progressed yet.

Breakfast? Yes.
Clean? No.
Gym? No.

Lunch is on the schedule for 12. I guess I could catch up then.

I have no idea what I'm writing about. I have a vision of an upscale cul-de-sac of houses cut into peaceful woods and neighbors full of weird stories. But I don't know who the neighbors are or what their stories are. And I have "Tanglewood" because when we lived in North Carolina, I remember a big park and swimming at the Tanglewood pool.

I started nano last year and didn't finish. I'm not sure I ever even made it to 20,000 words. I don't remember what I was writing about, either. what was last year? Did last year happen? Hm. This is going to bug me.

2007 = Apples for Alessandra
2008 = The Chili King
and…
2009 =

Poop.

2009 = Sideways Study of a Brown Bag.

I just had to hunt for it. You know what's crazy? I have absolutely no recollection of writing this! None. I think that's the goofy thing about writing--that it really feels like it comes from somewhere else. Like I get possessed and I just become some kind of lame, weak, typing body bag. Creepy. Writing is creepy. I have no idea why I want to do it at all.

Other things that are creepy: chickens. Last night I put on a chicken suit and went to a halloween party and then to Chrispy's band's halloween gig. By the time I got to the gig, I was really tired, and my guts hurt because I've been eating toxic waste for days. I made it to about midnight, and then was just kind of full of the noise and the peacock pageantry of it all, so I took my leave. Sometimes I feel kind of bad for C, like he got stuck with a crappy spouse. Poor C and his lame chicken suit wife.

It's 11:10. Maybe I can squeeze in a nap before lunch.

solitary particles

I think that maybe if I write some words, my legs won't hurt so much. Maybe that's what builds up in my muscles, in the ligaments around my knees, in the crooks of my ankle joints--words. Maybe all the running shakes them loose, and they bonk around in my frame making messes and swelling things up. Maybe I'm running to distract myself from writing. Maybe I write to distract myself from participating. Maybe it's just my big hairy ego that gives such a big dumb crap about running a marathon. Maybe my big hairy ego is a big stupid asshole.

Maybe I haven't been stretching enough. Maybe I got overly confident about the glucosamine and the Zyflamend. Maybe I thought my knees were a-double-okay, and so I stopped rolling out my IT bands. Maybe over-confidence makes you all stiff and sore and slow and dumb. Maybe confidence is best balanced with a little healthy fear and trembling. Maybe people should stop giving insecurity such a bad rap.

Lonely horrible miserable business today's run was. So cold and wet and spitty. What I think I have loved so much about running, even the long, tough ones, is the liberation of flinging myself into the universe. Shoes and music, white lines, yellow lines, cars carrying strangers. I don't have to talk to anybody, don't have to constantly examine the things that come out of my mouth or the banners that loop through my head. Don't have to read anybody else, except drivers and whether or not they're going to barrel over me. (I have learned that there are people right here in my city who truly do not care whether I live or die. I'm sure I must have known this before, but when SUVs push you into ditches, it's surprising.)

But what I think is peculiarly true about the things we love the most is that they are the most delicate. These are the things with the greatest potential to shift and turn, to become the things that hurt us the most. Maybe that's not right. Maybe they are as they are, and we are the ones who shift and turn. Maybe that's not quite right, either. Maybe the things we love most are as colored squares on a Rubic's cube, and it's a simple case of circumstantial rearrangement. The blue used to be next to yellow, then the cube turned, and the blue--still blue--sidled up next to red.

I'm not sure that makes sense.

At any rate, today, liberation, me, my shoes, yellow lines, white lines, strangers in cars, felt vulnerable and menacing. Something in my left ankle exploded. My knees felt stiff. My hands went numb (Note to self: Gloves.). Every layer of clothing was soaked and chilled. I think when the body hurts, it's easy to forget it's being driven by soul, and that soul is hard-wired to everyone and everything else's soul. That is to say, I think sometimes when everything hurts, it gets much too easy to feel like a solitary particle vulnerable to the elements. And I don't like that very much, if you want to know the truth.

electric wriggling ball of stuff

I found a thick and intimidating spider scrambling across the carpet to the wall next to my red readingwritingandthinking chair today. I believe in the souls of things, that they are sacred and important, and we should do our very best to not tread all over them. ...But spiders flip my shiz. Snakes are cool. Spiders, not so much. (Actually, I do think spiders are kind of cool, but in the same way poltergeists, are. I don't want either one of them in my living room.) (I don't really want snakes in my living room, either, but.. I don't know where I'm going with this.)

At any rate, I saw the spider, spontaneously revisited my vow to go gently on the earth and do my very best to not tread all over souls, then grabbed a shoe, said, "Thankyouforyourserviceandpleasegoodjourneytoyoursoul," and I killed it dead. Squished it and its soul.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Spider. One day I will cancel my fear of spiders and live with you harmoniously. But not today. Today I will kill you.

Next, I will write 3 paragraphs about my skill for camouflage:

In this first paragraph, I will review something that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I taught at the community college, which is the same thing that happened to me very very (very) frequently when I worked at the gym. I had taught at the college for 3 years, and in that 3rd year, teachers I had been seeing in lounges and hallways, some I'd already been introduced to, often approached and re-introduced themselves and welcomed me to the staff. I'd been at the gym almost a full year when members often commented, "Oh, you're new." And I would smile and say, "Nope, [first name], I've been here a while."

Now, in the second paragraph, I will tell you a story about what happened last week in the cafeteria of my current job, where I have worked for 1 year and 3 months. The man who makes the deli sandwiches, L, to whom I have said hello at least 137 times, and who has made me at least a dozen tuna salad sandwiches, said, "Oh, hi. What's your name? You're new here."

Finally, in this paragraph, I will note as I have many times in the past, that I would make an excellent spy, because I apparently blend very well with my surroundings. I mean, sure, if it happens once, maybe even twice, you could argue that people are thick-meloned and don't pay attention. But if it happens 10 times, by 10 different people, you really ought to take a long gander in a mirror just to make sure you are actually present in your body, and that it wasn't snatched and replaced with a stranger's.

Now that I've talked about that, I guess I'll just ramble on about how creative I've been the past few weeks, and like I've really squeaked open a hidden pantry. Songs are coming out. A new tale-telling venture is hatching (which I will keep secret until I am sure I won't self-sabotage, as that is kind of my way of things -- to self-sabotage, a very special trick I've been perfecting since I was about 22.). A cool work project is lighting my noggin on fire. In passes such as these I get a vision of myself, and I like it. I'm buoyed by it. There is even some spirit of creation in the marathon training, which I can't quite put my finger on.

At the exact same time, there's a little undercurrent of Holy Shittedness. And I think I have a better understanding of why I keep the reins so tight. Every time I nudge the door open, all this stuff, this exciting, electric, wriggling ball of stuff, starts barreling toward the light. Although I know it's good, and it's liberating, and it's as it ought, it's alarming. So I gasp and kick shut. Typhoons just aren't sustainable.

Mr. Ebu-Pants is laying across my legs. I feel his motor running, and I love this cat. His is my favorite feline soul.

until the spots stopped

I spent an unnatural amount of time trying not to pass out this morning. Bad run. It was a "back-off" week, and I may have been over-confident. 12 miles just seems silly now. 12 miles is for children and puppies. 12 miles is for heels and skirts while eating pie.

Not so much, no.

I ran 6. It was hot. My body didn't feel right. I kept having to pause in the shade and squat until the spots stopped. So I walked the rest. It took a while, so I had time to think on things.

I thought:

Music--really, when it comes to running, whatever works, you know? If you want to listen to a bunch of 90's Pantera, nobody can revoke your hippie card. Same for Britney Spears and Fergie. But if you're 36, and Miley Cyrus's The Climb has snuck into your iPod, you should make sure you have plenty of Grace Potter and Eminem to balance things out.

Grace Potter--Totally badass. I want to sing and write songs like that.

Foresight--Foresight is funny business. I can't look ahead 10 minutes to say, "Hey, P, if you eat these potato chips, you're going to be sick." But put an idea in my head, and I will--in an instant-- project 20 years ahead to some kind of fantastical outcome that usually includes an interview with Diane Sawyer and a Grammy. Seriously. Give me any idea. Any idea and all. And I will tell you how it leads to Diane and a Grammy.

It's All In Your Head--I hear this about running, that at a certain point, it's just a mind game. I'm on the fence on this. It seems like kind of a dumb thing to say, because it's only a mind game if your body is already on board. My brain is a pretty magical place, but no amount of fantasy is going to put fluid in my body when I'm dehydrated.

Phones--I wish we didn't have cell phones. I wish we could go back to phones with twirly cords mounted on the kitchen wall... and no voicemail. I really do. And letters. I want to write letters. And I want people to write letters to me. And I want them to come in the mail with a cool stamp.

Pride--I think I may have quit this marathon training business a few weeks ago if it wasn't for my personalized race bib. I registered early, so my race bib will have my first name printed in big letters. It is the thought of that lonely race bib laying unclaimed at pick-up--so sad--that makes me too proud to quit. I mean, how many PATRESAs are going to be running this thing?

Swimming--I think I would swim if I could properly execute a flip turn.

Triathlons--I think I would train for triathlons if I could properly execute a flip turn. I don't like riding bikes, but I could get over that. But swimming. No, I need flip turns. And space. I don't want all those elbows and feet in my face. And also, I don't think I like the idea of riding a bicycle with a wet butt.

Running As Life Lessons--It's too obvious. I can't bear to print it--training for the long haul, pushing beyond your limits, slowing down when your body says to, anything is possible with a plan, it's always hard at first, keep going... I know the application. I just don't (apply). But I'm pretty sure if I can yank this marathon out of my buns, I probably have a novel up there, too.

Swim: a song blog

I really like songs that tell stories -- too-many-words songs. So, with my last beautiful day of staycation, I tried to write one. I found it... hard. And for someone with normally very fine rhythm, kind of... annoying. But I like it, in a not classically good sort of way.

Here is the song:

(And if that doesn't work: Here is the song...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUmL65WPews)

And here are the words:

You know, when I was six I was

sucked in by the ocean

on vacation to the beach and the waves pulled me

under, pulled me under

and sideways.

And I still remember toes

in seaweed, kicking for sand,

searching for land,

But the tide flipped me on my side, and I

took in water

so much water 'til I

couldn't breathe

I couldn't breathe.

Ocean in my ears, I heard what

whales hear

what squid hear

what seals hear

when they're underwater.

So, my uncle pulled me to shore

wrestled me through choppy waves,

and I cried into the castle

my sisters built.

He's gone now, that uncle

Taken too soon, too young

No warning, and

isn't that the way with the tide,

it takes and it gives and

you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Yeah, you never know

which or what or when, so you

just swim

and swim

'til you're tired.

Every summer we went to Minnesota, to

the lake to my grandparents' river, and

we floated downstream in rafts with

turtles and fish

and snakes.

They had a canoe, too, but

between me and you,

I hate canoeing.

There, I've said it.

I really frickin' hate canoeing.

Flimsy, stupid, unstable vessel

wobbling like a drunk on water

just me and a paddle

and a partner, and we tip

side to side, and

spill into the water,

Athough, I'm a good swimmer

a strong swimmer, I still

hate it.

It's just, I want to know when

I'd rather jump than be pushed.

Do you know what I mean?

Boats, they dump you into water &

conspire with the river who drags you

downstream, upstream, sidestream, wherever

she wants. So I muscle through

and scream, "This is not my choice!"

Not my choice.

Maybe I'm too high strung

Never been too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

Yeah, maybe I'm too high strung

Not too good at floating, so I

swim

and I swim

and I swim

'til I'm tired.

break your heart 1000 times over

I've not been writing, and I think I miss it.

I mean writing, writing. I don't really consider this writing. This is burping sentences. I just wrote a free-write at edit less more. I wrote it with my eyes closed. I don't mean that in the "I'm so great, I could do that with my eyes closed" sense. I mean it in the, "I actually closed my eyes so the room would be dark" sense. Sometimes I just want to free whatever bird is in my cage, and it works better to not look at anything or notice too many colors or light plays.

In general, I think it's best to think as little as possible when I write. Maybe that's what I miss--the not thinking part. Maybe I've been thinking too much and would like to start writing again just to get a little break from my brain.

It's just so much work: It is surprisingly hard work to do so little thinking and so much writing. I keep telling myself that the book hasn't been born yet, because it's still growing a central nervous system, and when it's meant to happen it will happen. It will birth itself, and I will be some kind of doped up womb channeling genius through portholes in my fingertips. But that's such a giant fat lie, I'm embarrassed to even say it. The truth is that it's an excuse to be lazy. Birthing them is one thing, but then you have to clean off all the crud and raise them and teach them to walk and to chew with their mouths closed and to be responsible and make sure they don't swear at their teachers or throw wet towels on the floor. And you have to send them to college and that's expensive. And after all that, they break your heart 1000 times over.

Who needs that crap?