it is 9:06 on a thursday night...

...and I feel like I should write something. Many thoughts back-logged. Don't feel like editing or arranging or being overly eloquent or prophetic. Don't even feel like double-guessing my use of the word prophetic (in fact, I don't think it's what I meant to say, but I'll leave it. Maybe it really is what I meant to say, and I just didn't know it. Sometimes I don't know what I mean until it comes out.).

Week 1 of marathon training is over. It was fine. The long run was only 8. But I ate a bunch of crap and didn't hydrate well. I have recorded that in my Mistake Log.

Oh, I'm training for a marathon. Did I tell you? I am. The Des Moines Marathon in October. This is my plan.

But I've been learning about plans and how easily upturned they are, and I've been nervous. My plan is to train for a marathon between now and October and to run the marathon in October. My plan is to live long and happy and healthy, and have some kids who also live long and happy and healthy with a spouse who lives long and happy and healthy. And my plan is to work a good job and write a few good books and play some good music and eat and drink and have long happy healthy times of fun and frolic and awesomeness. That is my plan.

But I don't know if it matches the big honcho cheese nugget of the cosmic plan. I have no idea what that plan looks like, and I hope I am not horribly off, because as free-spirited as I would very much like to be: I don't like surprises. The anticipation of a surprise twists my guts and makes me breathe funny. I do not like it at all.

You can't live without plans. I mean, I suppose you can, but it seems like if you never made a plan, you'd just sit on the front porch and never experience anything. People make plans. Even people who say they don't make plans... they make plans. Maybe they don't plan further out than an hour, but they make plans. They buy bus tokens and pay phone bills and make meals. All three of those are indicative of plan making to one degree or another.

Sometimes people plan the births of their children. They work with midwives and rent birthing tubs and set up birthing rooms off living rooms and read books and go to natural child birthing classes. And then they labor for 30 hours before they have to have drugs and C-sections. And then they go to their homes with their babies and their scars and they return the tubs and put their rooms back in order.

Sometimes people plan to go get some medicine for a twisty abdomen and come out a week later with cancer and no hair.

Sometimes people plan to see their dad again, but then he dies, and they don't. Jesus! Or they plan to have a beautiful outdoor wedding, but then a hurricane blows away the cake and the dance floor. Or they plan to run marathons and then break their legs in freak walking accidents.

I want everyone I know to just stay inside eating oranges so they can't get sick and they can't blow away and they can't disappear and they can't have goofed up births and they can't get hurricane cake face. It will be fine. We can communicate by email and facebook. Please, just stay where you are. It's not safe outside your plan making den.

Is it so much to ask?

If you need me, I will be here with my hands over my face. You'll hear me before you see me, because my breathing is funny and loud.

i ran in the rain and it was good.

I am logging back in long enough to recap Dam to Dam 2010.

My favorite thing about today's race--at the risk of sounding Corn City--was remembering how capable I am of relentless positivity. Oh, I am capable of mind-numbing bitching and moaning, for sure; but ultimately, I'm quite nice adjusted and sunny disposed, and I like that.

Due to some flooding and road closures around Saylorville Dam, transportation to the starting line had to be re-routed. I think they did the best they could, but it caused a bit of a cluster fudge at the shuttle buses. We stood in the cold and the rain and the dark and then elbowed our way onto school buses. But mostly, I just hung out, ate my apple, and people watched. It was good.

Then, from where they dropped us off, we had to walk over a mile (in the cold and the rain and the dark) to get to the starting line. Incidentally, it was a mile over the dam, in the opposite direction we would run once the starting gun went off. And then we stood in the cold and the rain--but no longer the dark--waiting to start. And then, we started late probably 15 minutes late, because latecomers were on the dam walking to the starting line.

So... by the time the gun went off, we were soaked and shivering and had shoes full of mud and water. BUT, I was still happy to be there, and I mean that. I figured cold and wet would make for a more interesting experience.

Plus, people make me laugh. People who make me laugh the most are: 1) people who jog in place; 2) people who close their eyes in concentration; 3) people who wear spandex biking shorts with heavily decorated spandex biking shirts with biking hats and fanny packs... to run; 4) men who wear tiny running shorts with no shirt and carry a towel.

And so we ran. In the rain.

I'm a slow, easy runner; I like to look around. And there is lots to look at. The route, for the first 6 miles, runs through the country and is surrounded by green. And of course, I like looking at all the people. You know, when it comes to running, body type just really doesn't matter. Tall skinny short fat, whatever. You train, your body figures it out, you run, it's okay.

Once we got into town, the energy picked up. There were more spectators, hanging out in lawn chairs under umbrellas and ponchos. I LOVE seeing spectators find the runner they are spectating--love the big yelling and screeching and the fist pumping of the runner. I think that's cool, and it makes me happy. I like people who smile and tell you "Good job!" even though they have no idea who you are and may never see you again. There's a lot of generosity and spirit in the world, and that's cool as ice.

My parents and my husband hung out at the end of my driveway, which was along the route. That made me happy, too. I don't know why anyone would want to hang out in the rain just to see me for 5 seconds (Fine. 10. I'm not that fast.), but I'm glad they did. Plus, I got to take off my jacket, which was soaked with rain and weighed 100 pounds. And I gave up my sunglasses, which keep sliding off my giant melon until I finally tucked them into the waistband of my shorts, which also weighed 100 pounds and kept slipping down my waist.

Now, I understand this is going to sound insane, but... I like hills. Not the super steep ones, but the ones that are intense enough to feel but gentle enough to be nonlethal. I like those. I think I'm kind of good at hills. I actually run hills on the treadmill when I start to get tired. I find something about them very invigorating. I'm reading a book about marathon training and last night got to a part about how important it is to train positive thoughts. There was a goofy note about greeting hills instead of grimacing at them. So at each hill, I said (quietly, to myself), "What's up, Hill?" And then at the top of the hill, I said, "Thank you for rolling gently, Hill." And that kind of made me laugh to myself, because it's a pretty corny thing to do.

I love the moment of the run where you know for sure it's going to be okay--that everything is working and you don't have to stop and your legs know what to do and your breathing is steady. That is my favorite. That happened to me at mile 8. I had 4.4 more to go, and I knew all 4.4 of them were going to be just fine.

And they were.

acoustic june.

It's official: I am unplugging for the month of June.

I don't know how this is going to sound coming out, but: I have a lot of stuff in me. Ideas. Plans. Stories. Words. Music. Art. Creations in General. And it overwhelms me. I don't know where to start. I don't know what would happen if I completely unzipped and let it all out. (Does everyone feel this way? Chris said he would if he didn't play his guitar.) My long-standing habit/approach when dealing with overwhelmption is to avoid. The time I spend doing--truly--the dumbest things (like playing Tiki Resort and Cube Crash on Facebook) is classic avoidance. Classic! And they are 100% habit behaviors.

So I'm going to stop doing them and see what happens.

I'll be logging out of Facebook for 1 month. I'll be logging out of here for 1 month. I'll be logging out of my free write site for 1 month. And if I want to write any blog entries or free writes, I'll just have to do them offline. Maybe I'll even take to handwriting like Tawni and her old-fashioned lady pens.

Other things I look forward to doing with all my new spare time:

meditating

writing music

painting

working through the Gotham Writer's Workshop book

journaling (by hand and without an audience)

practicing guitar

practicing piano

learning to like yoga (I don't like yoga. I feel bad about this.)

working on my giant landscaping project

reading

cooking new and interesting things

sewing

This is exciting. I'm excited! I probably won't write tomorrow, so see you in July.

nevermind.

Yesterday I realized I talk about the same things over and over and over again:

• my guts
• food (and what it does to my guts), and
• running (as it relates to food and my guts)

Kind of embarrassing, really. It sort of makes me want to not talk anymore; and I don't talk that much to begin with. Now, I don't know what to talk about here. Because right now I'm thinking about:

• my guts (and how they don't feel all that great)
• food (because I've been eating all the things I shouldn't, which is why my guts don't feel that great), and
• running (specifically about the 10 miles I'm about to run and how that will go considering my guts and the food I've been eating).

I've been thinking about unplugging for a while -- closing up facebook, the blog, etc. I think I might pick a month -- maybe June (It's best to do things right away as I think of them, before I think myself out of them or just forget.) -- and dedicating that month of spare time to creativity and books. I'm happiest when I'm being creative, in whatever capacity, and yet that's not what I choose to do with my free time. That doesn't really make any sense -- to know how great something is and how much you love doing it and how terrific it makes you feel, and then choose over and over again to not do it, even though it wouldn't take any more time or energy than the lame stuff you choose to do instead.

I've decided humans exist in shifty planes--mind body soul crisscrossing out of alignment--and that makes us defy logic repeatedly and habitually.

But I talk about that too much, too. So nevermind.

baubles

I had lots to say, then I didn't say it, and now it's gone. So I'll say something else.

For my birthday, Chris took four of my songs we recorded in our old basement several years ago, to his friend's recording studio and had them mixed onto a CD. One of the coolest gifts ever, for sure, but I'm having a hard time listening to them. Chris presented them to me last night. Two are okay, because they're full of harmonies, and I'm a thousand times more comfortable with harmonies. The other two...not so much.

When I listen to them, I hear every flaw in my voice--sinusy. Nasal-y. I think about how corny the lyrics are. I hear my guitar baubles and cringe. Oy oy oy. I want to listen to myself/observe myself as a stranger. But I can't. Not really. It's silly. I don't really know how anyone gets over that.

Blah. This blog entry is boring and dumb and I want to delete but I won't. Sometimes I'm boring and dumb. So be it.

I also do not feel like crafting a conclusion. So I'm just going to stop writing. Now.

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?

is as is does

You know what I think it might be? -she said, assuming you must know exactly where she is picking up her train of thought. I think it's that sometimes I don't want to talk about it (a myriad of its), because as soon as I arrange words to explain, it changes. It doesn't even have to be a particularly special it. It could be just a regular it. But sometimes (actually, a lot of times, if I'm being honest), I just want it to be my it and just be the it that it is, and I don't want it to morph as soon as I start talking clumsy, and I don't want to assign it any meaning, and I don't want to try to make it make sense to anybody else or line its details up word by word or paint a picture or anything else. I just want it to be it and me to be mine and is as is does and there it's done.

That's all it is.

more stuff about running

I think I can correlate the success of a run to the amount of snot produced. More snot = less success. This morning's run = very snotty.

[I'm sure it is bad etiquette to use the word "snot" in the first sentence of a blog post. But when it comes to running, I don't really think a lot of etiquette is necessary--other than wave at cars who give you room to cross the intersection, give bikes the right-of-way on the bike trail, and say, "On your left!" when you're passing walkers from behind (unless you are passing them on the right). Oh, and don't spit your gum in somebody's yard. That's crass. Just stick it to your ipod and worry about it later. But otherwise, you are free to spit, blow your snot straight into the sidewalk, curse, and mouth-breathe without repercussion.]

However! I am still calling this morning's run a success, because it was. I proved a point to myself that attitude is the key to many operations. I was sure today would be a failure. I was sure because in the past 3 days, I have eaten nearly every single one of my trigger foods. Chips? Sure. Chocolate? Yep. Baked goods? Several. Greasy baked cheese? Delicious. Fried XYZ? Bring it. I've also been drinking too much wine. All of this turns my guts inside out (not quite literally, but almost), which depletes all my good stuff, and makes everything else harder.

I had low expectations. And the first mile felt horrible. So did miles 2-6. Finally, right around 6, I had to stop. I saw spots and squatted in a strangers yard until they went away. I chugged my gator-water (The woman at the gym who told me start running with a water bottle that straps to my hand is a genius and a saint and a very lovely person.). Then I walked. Then the Self-Bashing started. (This is a very familiar routine. I know I've said this before, but there is no one on the planet who could say anything even remotely as awful as the things I say to myself when I think I've screwed something up. I would guess you're the same. Why are we like this? It's so mean!)

BUT! And here is where success happened. I observed the auto-current of self-bashing and then stuck my finger in it. I said to myself, "You know, P. This is irrational and it gets old. Don't do this anymore." And I said Okay. I noted the weather was nice. It felt good to walk. I was glad I had my gator-water. Then after about 5 blocks, everything felt fresh. My body felt good to go, so I started running again. And the remaining 3 miles went without hitch. I didn't even falter on the Euclid hill that usually sucks the life out of me. My body just needed a quick break to replenish. What's the crime?

I don't know why I think it's such a colossal failure to stop and walk in the middle of a run. I think it's some kind of warped association between rest and weakness. That's such a skewed way of thinking--really about any endeavor at all, not just running--that perfection is possible and looks only one way. I think I might be done with that.

chocolate cake on the soul plane

Today I was going to write about how recent nutritional changes have really changed my life -- my mood, my body, my skin, my digestion... everything. I was going to write about how I think I've finally stumbled into my future, and the beautiful world my digestive disease had been trying to lead me all along. I was going to wax long and poetic about how we nurture our physical form as both a symbolic and literal measure to nurture our spiritual selves on a soul plane. I was going to get very self-righteous and preachy about how everyone should be treating their bodies as sacred temples and beneficent entities, divine vehicles for universe exploration and character growth, vessels of oneness with nature and the transcendent.

Then, I ate 2 cookies, pizza, fried ravioli, and a giant piece of chocolate cake. And man, it was good.

red feathered fedora

I really loved my birthday. It felt like spending the day with an old friend. I like my job, but it was okay to have some time off to just wander and relish. There isn't a whole lot about the part-time teaching gig I miss... but the schedule and the coming and going of it. I miss the freedom of it. I love freedom. I love the lightness of flitting around, stopping when I want to stop, going when I want to go, basking when I want to bask. I miss flip flops and windows and coffee stirring and book reading. I miss open and quiet and color. So much tan and pressed clothing and elevators. My soul is a sun soul; it needs light and air and water.

They dug up the tulips on Locust. No replacement, yet. Just pock-marked dirt clods.

I sat in the sun at Nollen Plaza today, and a man in a pimpy red fedora asked if he could buy me lunch. I said No Thanks, indicated my husband. Tried to balance open and protected at the same time. I bet he has interesting stories. Don't doubt I'd learn something. Don't doubt he needs a warm soul to talk to. I don't like the walls that go up when I'm trying to commune with sky. I don't like how distrustful I am, immediately; but I'm not sure how else to be with men in red feathered fedoras who swagger even though they don't have all their teeth. Even if everyone is kind on the inside doesn't mean everyone chooses kindly on the outside. He left, and I gave him a 5-minute head start before I strolled back across the bridge in my flip flops up the capitol steps, through the heavy smudgy brass doors, elevator, to my cubicle, where I changed into my dress shoes and logged on.