I did. A lot. And often. I thought that conversation was the highest of art forms. I admit I was never a great listener. I subscribe to the David Mamet school of conversation—everyone talking at once and trying to get the attention diverted to their point of view. It is not necessarily a popular school, but when the stars align and everyone in your party is on the same page, it is divine. It is the closest I will ever get to believing in God. But I have become quiet. Internal. Silent. I do not know exactly when this happened or how. Part of it is working at home alone. Part of it is having children whose needs seem to extinguish my ability to have my own. I have no one to blame but myself. So I used a camera to speak for me. It is an armor of sorts. When I have the camera I do not need to be fully present. But all of this leads to a lonely, internal life that I am not built for. And now conversation and social interactions exhaust instead of feed me. Is this just getting older? Even my community at the gym is quiet. Each of us silently in our heads thinking, "Knees out, back up, one more". We chit chat and that is lovely, but we are truly on our own with the task in front of us.
I just finished Louisa Hall's wonderful new novel Speak. It is what has me currently pondering this subject. It is one of those books that sticks with you. There are many themes running through the novel, but the one that I took away most is the one of the little girls who lose their speech and literally stutter and then begin to freeze and eventually become mute. At first it seemed a little far fetched, but when I sat with it for a few days I realized that the analogy is apt. I feel that in myself. A shutting down. A freezing. I am not sure where it is all heading, but I notice it. I am unsure if it is up to me to stop it or if it is the natural course of things. But I fear that all of this facebook and instagram for me are a false sense of connection and a poor substitute for the real thing. I miss that feeling. I still have it with several people in my life and I very grateful for it. But I think back to one conversation in particular with one of my longest friends Rebekah. It was about 25 years ago. We were sitting in a Spinelli's coffee shop in San Francisco on Fillmore street. The shop had a window seat and we were snuggled tightly in that cozy space facing one other. We talked and talked for three hours and ingested several cups of coffee. The conversation had that sense of urgency that I think you only feel in your twenties. That sense that if you do not get the words out of you immediately you will burst. I do not remember what we talked about, only that it was splendid.
"I understood that ideal conversation moved in widening spirals, starting with the minute then building toward statements of ever growing importance." —from Louisa Hall's novel Speak
* full disclosure: I personally know Louisa and photographed her for her novel. You can see that photo and hear an interview with her about the book on NPR here.