Monday stream of conciousness
I am counting. This morning it’s a waltz. One two three four five six. I hate running, except for the feeling afterward, when it’s done. I do like being outside, listening to the birds, the gentle morning light, the quiet. One two three four five six. Is the wild turkey there this morning? The duck in the stream? I count to distract myself from the fact that I’m running, when I can’t distract myself with my thoughts because breathing is hard or my body hurts. What will I write about today? Should I post something old on my blog? Something new? Something borrowed, something blue? Often my tempo is 4/4, standard. I count to eight on those days, like I’m still in dance class; …five six seven eight. The image of my college dance studio comes to mind, on the second floor of a building perched high on a hill, overlooking the expanse of forty-mile-long Cayuga lake. Today it’s 6/8 time. I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…one two three four five six. Aaah, Sleeping Beauty. Actually, Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, the ballet. Disney borrowed it; added the words. Squirrel! Nope. Chipmunk, rustling in the brush. Should I turn that novel I started into a short story? Should I turn that short story into a novel? Finally, I’m on the main road. Will those golden retrievers be outside to wag at me? They never bark. Will their owner be enjoying her morning cigarette? The tide is out. The sky is baby blue. Thunderstorms later. Hard to believe. Maybe the fox will be in the marsh again. That was neat. Should I write about childhood trauma? I’m not unique in that. Nearly everyone I know had some sort of childhood trauma. Except my husband. He didn’t. One two three four five six. Time to turn back. Hooray! A car approaches from behind. Is there a professional running coach in it? Is he or she judging my pace? My pronation? Am I doing it right? That’s ridiculous. People have better things to do that look at a forty something, mildly out of shape woman running down the side of the road. Did you know some people’s thoughts don’t have a narrative voice? How is this possible? One two three four five six. There’s the bald eagle, circling above its nest. Its new nest. The other one came down in a storm. Another car approaches from behind. I quicken my pace; don’t want to look lazy. Fisherman. The smoke from the cab of the truck stays with me in a cloud for the next tenth of a mile. One two three four five six. My feet remember the feel of performing a Viennese Waltz, then a pas de bourrée. Haven’t done one of those in a long time. Those were they days when my body could do all sorts of things. Honk two three four five six. Honk two three four five six. A goose is honking in time with my pace. Or have I adjusted my pace to match the rhythm of the honk? Who am I to think that nature bends to my will? What will I write about today? How about the dichotomy of growing up in a feminist household while the women I watched on tv were the likes of Daisy Duke and Chrissy from Three’s Company. The coming of age movies were all about getting the guy and being a rebel, or using your sexuality to get what you wanted, and while my feminist mother eschewed all of these things, she was very proud of her long, shapely, legs and her super-low weight and made sure to put them in the best light. We all have vanity. I sure do. Why do you think I’m running? One two three four five six, one two three four five six. The osprey are nesting. I wonder if they’ll stay. Last year they left early. One two three four five six. Almost done. The end is in sight. I still don’t know what to write.