head chatter

i didn’t know i had it in me. i never know, until i’m in it. dropped into a space, an environment, a view

this photo could quite possibly sum up the optical illusion of where i go in my head to write. many people i know in life are trying to quiet the voices but here i am welcoming them. meredith, this is your mother speaking. brisk and to the point. it’s as if i’ve done something wrong, reverting back to my teenage self i push her away and try to concentrate on what i was doing before i was so rudely interrupted. what was i doing? laying on my bed staring up at the ceiling? her voice raises over the mundane unimportance, she speaks over things. she knocks again and something in me bolts upright and pays attention.

this is a gift. these voices. now i invite them in, begging them to follow me to the end of this dock and sit with me awhile. we can look out at the edge of the water where it meets the land. you can talk. and i will listen.

sometimes i set out with an intention for something. a plan, a forethought, a seed i want to grow. and it’s in space like this that i am kicked and come up bloody {toothless yet grinning} always too late that i remember writing doesn’t work that way. you can’t ask someone to speak a certain story. you know, the perfect one that makes you all chipper. you can’t dictate what an environment or space or view will bring to mind. and for me, it is often the opposite of what i had hoped for. not knowing the truth is more beautiful than the dreamy half created illusion.

when i lived in colorado it was a man’s voice that perched on my shoulder as i walked through the painting that was my real life. i still don’t know who he was. but he spoke eloquently. i rode as a passenger and caught only pieces of words scribbled on memo pads. starts and stops. because back then i didn’t have the brain cells to rub together. no spark of sentence would fan into a flame of story. not then. i’m sorry now, i whisper my apologies to that man in his patience who gave me his story and i left it untold.

for a long time the voices scattered and then finally the haze cleared. then it was only my own voice that i heard. i learned to hear. it did not come naturally. i learned to recognize it above the others. that was a hard chore i beat into myself. who am i who am i who am i.

and now. just days ago. moments really. years in the making, she finally spoke. i know her story but i don’t know who she is. and i try not to wonder how long i will be along for the ride. i try not to look directly into the voice and tone. out of my mother’s superstition that act of eye contact would cause it to disappear forever. so we have a peripheral vision relationship, me never catching a full glance at her. always sideways with the music blasting and dinner on the stove and a five year old in my pocket. i nod my recognition in her direction. her voice is stronger than the rest, i know that now. and i want to promise her i’ll listen. as long as she’s talking, i promise i’ll listen.

to see more photography from my 28 hours in space, check out my slideshow.

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