A dear old friend once referred to me as a good book. Good seemed a dubious qualifier at best, but the book reference resonated with me. Each of us is indeed a big, complex book—some more interesting than others, to be honest. I don’t know what my title would be, but I suspect it would likely include references to Texas or Elvis, or both. I’m quite certain my weird little inner world would be of interest to exactly no one. But maybe I’m wrong. (If you’re reading this then you’re either incredibly bored or you actually identify with this strange inner world.)
My inner world, my inner dialogue—the one that no one else can see or hear (at least I hope not!)—would constitute more than half of the book, and I wonder if that is unusual. I am so much in my head, bouncing and pinging and clanging away as I think, deliberate, fret, rationalize, contemplate and argue with myself virtually all day and night.
In my dreams my mind endeavors to work through the complex and conflicting emotions from my waking hours. And from the moment I awake at quarter to five each morning, my mind races through myriad untethered thoughts and emotions.
Random memories from childhood mix with images from middle age. A cacophony of sights and sound…talking heads shouting political epithets on MSNBC; loud high school house parties ending with a visit from the cops; work meetings and endless spreadsheets and crosstabs; my youngest daughter’s 6th birthday party at a local swimming pool; exploring medieval Edinburgh with my wife on a cool summer evening; Dim Sum in Hong Kong; Spielberg movies on my mom’s boxy TV set; my dad telling us he’s leaving; tripping in a track meet after leading for three laps; sitting in the hot sun near dad at Texas Stadium to cheer on the Cowboys; my oldest daughter learning to ride a bike; my first and last days of high school; awkward fumblings in the back seat of my ’77 Monte Carlo; standing in line at O’Hare; hour upon hour painting in the visual arts studio at SMU; listening to Van Halen on vinyl upstairs with my big brother; oil paint on my hands and jeans; learning to play Claire de Lune and my mom urging me to work on my dynamics; late-nights in the library writing about Elvis; studying for my sister’s chemistry exams and making her giggle in class; early mornings reading history at the Village Coffee Shop in Boulder; dad teaching me to tie a tie; sobbing at my dear Papaw Kelley’s funeral.
No thread ties these random experiences together apart from the fact that they’re all banging around in my gray matter trying to find purchase.
Travel, especially solo travel for work, intensifies this internal dialogue. I am such an extrovert that long periods away from my beloved wife and daughters — and away from close friends and trusted work colleagues — sends my internal dialogue into overdrive. Like a shark, when traveling I must keep moving or else die. When not on appointments or answering email, I find myself walking endlessly. Exploring the exotic sights and sounds of each new city, creating new memories and expanding the available references that will help my mind interpret future experiences. I crave conversation and find myself talking to cabbies and waiters and flight attendants and shopkeepers. Travel is simultaneously exhilarating and lonely, and I find I tend to dwell on the latter.
When I go jogging, memories crash together until my mind becomes clear—or at least clearer—and I find peace for a brief but fleeting moment. Running is the one activity that pulls me out of my self-absorbed inner dialogue and ever so briefly relaxes my otherwise restless soul.
These memories and the emotions they conjure help me to interpret each new experience. And as I search and yearn and strive for meaning, the cacophony blares and wails.
My book is more Joyce than Hemingway. Perhaps that’s why I prefer Hemingway. Most of my chapters are confusing and boring. In all honesty, they are the not very profound ramblings and half-measures of a man trying to make sense of middle age. But it’s my book. My book and I have many more chapters to write.
