Things I think about while I think while walking.

A car whizzes by and I hear, “Bad enough it’s a Porsche. It’s worse when it’s a guy driving a white Porsche convertible!” I’m walking along Lake Hollywood when Grey makes her inimitable observation.

It’s a warm sunny Sunday and Grey has joined me for a walk. It’s the first time we’ve done anything like this together and the change of venue is a nice new way to spend time with her. It’s also the first time I’ve brought anyone here to join me as I normally do my walks alone. Grey looks beautiful in her outfit—the only woman I know who could look so dazzling even when she’s working out.

As we walk down the path we’re talking about things in general when I realize that’s it’s also the first time I’m having a conversation while doing my routine. Normally I’m lost in my own thoughts, or in some type of void listening to music.

Things I think about while I think while walking. What? You say. It a not so good attempt at a play on words from the title of a book I’m reading. A couple of weeks ago I thought about what I think about while doing the hour-long walk. I remember doing this because it was a particularly mind-fleeting day and the book title kept rattling in my mind. It wasn’t as if I were looking for parallels, but for some reason I felt strangely attached to this book and the almost riddle-like title.

I hadn’t walked for a few days as I was away in the Bay Area and just returned. It’s a bright, beautiful afternoon at the reservoir—the sky blue and the course deserted. I’ve been walking around Lake Hollywood most recently now for about three years and it’s amazing how such an area can exist in the middle of Los Angeles and also be devoid of people.

With my iPod turned on I start my walk. I’m feeling pretty good but surprisingly I have a pretty blank mind. I can’t seem to concentrate and it almost feels as my mind is resisting all attempts to formulate any thoughts.

I’ve been walking now for about ten minutes and nothing comes floating through. So that’s when I decide to ask myself the question, ‘what do I think about when I’m walking?’ Usually it’s a smorgasbord of thoughts ranging from work issues, things which happen to be circulating about in my life at that moment, Grey, writing topics and just about everything else. But today, nothing seems to gel.

This was the question, which reminded me of the book I’m reading, Murakami’s “What I talk about when I talk about running.” It’s his memoir about the influence running has had on his life—the marathons, training and of course the intermingling of the sport on his writing pursuits. Of course it’s written in his usual irrelevant style—a style I immediately took familiarity and a strong attraction. It’s an immediacy I felt when I first read Calvino’s ‘If on a winter’s night a Traveler’ and in more recent years, Kleinzahler’s ‘Cutty, Two Rocks’. Leave it up to Murakami to write a book with such a kooky title. And ok, leave it up to me to get fixated on something kooky—this I say to myself as I make my way through the first half-mile.

My first thought drifts towards the past few days I spent with my mom. Nothing eventful, just the usual visit running errands and spending time with her. I did however on this occasion notice that for the last six months or so, whenever I visited her, the conversation at some point always turned to her experience and life during World War II. Usually it was about the hardship, hunger and working at the Toshiba factory and how she returned home after being told that the family home had been burned from the B-52 bombings. But this time, our conversation took a decidedly different turn. We were talking about where we should take my uncle and aunt when they arrived for their visit in late October. Monterey, the wine country and the Mendocino Coast were my suggestions. My mom, while agreeable to such an itinerary, wanted to talk about the possibility of taking a day trip to a nearby Japanese POW camp in Tracy, California. Apparently it was the WWII equivalent of Guantanamo where Japanese POW’s captured in Polynesian were brought to Tracy and interrogated. This expose was apparently on the Japanese television station recently in part to commemorate the anniversary of the Hiroshima/Nagasaki atomic bombings. We talked at length about the bombings and the residual and lingering effects to the survivors and of the resultant gruesome deaths. It was a rather unsettling conversation we were having and I’m sure not the type the other folks eating at the Red Lobster would normally have taken up as part of their dinner conversation. Oddly for us, through our tears and grilled shrimp, it seemed like a necessary conversation. Actually, necessary for my Mom, myself, I was just a listener.

I’m clearing the first mile as while recalling my conversation with Mom. The rest of the Bay Area trip was fairly uneventful. The work part of the trip to Sacramento was similar. My only annoyance was the constant need for reassurance or validation from my senior staff. It seemed that every minor detail of their decision-making process had to be confirmed or ‘passed by me’. I’m not a micro manager and tend to give my staff a lot of latitude. But unfortunately, I’ve recently come to view them as being overly needy and for some reason unable to make any of their own decisions. I can’t recall myself as ever being that way. Sure I’d go to my supervisor on occasion when I needed some guidance, but in general I was essentially self-sufficient. Asking for forgiveness seemed much more productive than asking for permission. I suppose growing up pretty much on my own conditioned me in this way. Indecisiveness makes me crazy—which may seem ironic as I can be indecisive and am oftentimes viewed as being aloof and wishy-washy. But it’s usually for those decisions where I really don’t have much of an opinion one way or another, nor do I see as being critical.

I’m probably at my mid-way point now as I walk hugging the perimeter of the lake below. It’s my first walk since Sunday, which of course is the day I met Grey for dinner. It had almost been a year since I saw her last and I was a bit anxious anticipating the evening. I remember telling myself that a walk would do me good—empty my mind and relax me. Well as it turns out I thought about Grey the entire hour. I couldn’t stop thinking about how she might look—not so much physically, but given her condition and the trying year she had, I wondered if she might really be up for this. At the same time I couldn’t wait to see her. Longed for her was more like it. I was dying to see her beautiful face and smile and experience her laugh once again. Just a few more hours…my pace quickened as these thoughts race through my mind, anticipating my evening with Grey.

A few minutes pass and I start thinking about Murakami again. I recently discovered that he was taking part of the New Yorker Festival. In addition to a lecture, he was also attending a signing. As soon as I read about his participation, I started toying with the idea of flying to New York. Wouldn’t it be fun? A nice October weekend in New York, listening to what he has to say and straddling up to his table for a book signing---joy! I’m playing with this idea as I walk and simultaneously try to come up with an excuse or reason to visit the Corporate office so I can write the trip off. However, I can’t think of any reason and am actually amazed at how things have changed. Only a few years ago there were a myriad of reasons [both real and imagined] to visit the home office. I’ve created a distance from them the last few years and too some degree still harbor feelings of anger over the clashes I had with the Corporate group which led to my departure and return to Los Angeles. Unpleasant thoughts. Forget it. Instead I turned my thoughts back to the book signing and mulling over which book I should have Murakami sign. I’m thinking maybe his latest as it’s fitting that his memoirs are about running and the title is giving me the basis for this entry. Maybe I could slip in an extra minute and anecdotally mention what led to my decision to come for the book signing. We might both have a chuckle—maybe invite him to dinner at the steakhouse he apparently frequents near his hotel. Would his wife care to join us? I always wonder what type of person she might be—I mean you have to wonder about someone who could tolerate such a nut case of a guy. Well I suppose the same could be said about me—more chuckles! Ok, enough with the delusion daydreaming. I decide in the end I’ll bring two books, the latest one and ‘Norwegian Wood’, my favorite and most touching I feel, of all his books. And as quickly as I’ve made my decision, my mind has already embarked on yet another topic.

I’ve been listening to the same iPod collection for about two weeks now and getting pretty tired. Even though it’s on the “shuffle” mode, it seems the titles are in some type of pseudo-random order. ‘Long Cool Woman’ started out the day’s set followed by ‘Yolele’ a South African tune and a few other odds and ends. My pace quickens appropriately with the beat and exponentially when a punched out song like ‘Thrill Me’ plays. A few high school era songs slip through and bring back wisps of faded memories. In between the beads of sweat and the gasps for air I think back to the first time I heard ‘Persephone’ or ‘Ramble On’. Tony’s rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ plays followed by his ‘My Favorite Things’. His music makes me remember his concert I saw recently. At 85 or so, the guy can still belt out the tunes.

My feet are on autopilot. ‘Hypnotized’ starts to play. How long have I been listening to this song? And is that Peter Green on guitar or was he already gone from the band at this point? I used to know all of those useless factoids at one time. Somehow it was important once. So does that mean what was important to me once and what is important to me now are two completely different things? No. I don’t think so. All I know is that what I think while I’m walking gives me an opportunity to check in with myself. And I suppose that’s why I look forward to spending this hour.

I turn the corner into the last stretch before the path dead ends. I step into the brightly lit passage. My mind is off wandering again, no doubt thinking about things I think about while walking. Off in the distance I hear La Belle Dame Sans Regrets. Funny, I could have sworn my iPod had run out of batteries.