“It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship.”
Jorge Luis Borges, “Borges and I” (1957)

Like Janus, the two-faced god of duality, she and I battle for control. I seek spontaneity. She is risk-averse and vigilant.

Her:     Optimism is misguided and naive.

Me:      Is there no place for random generosity, solitary walks in the forest, hotdogs smothered in mustard and pickles from a street vendor, cartwheels in the park, smiling at strangers?

Her:     Don’t indulge in horoscopes and meditation. Don’t be fooled by magic charms and rose quartz and incense made of myrrh. Don’t be deluded by ridiculous promises to protect, heal, and purify.

Me:      I always feel oddly disembodied, my mind floating free, sometimes oblivious to my surroundings. The astrologer told me that I have no earth in my chart: “You’re not grounded in your body. To be safer in the world, foster a connection to the earth.”

Her:     All the more reason to pay close attention! Sometimes you think you’re audacious but you’re just reckless and impertinent. Be invisible, not bold. Tomorrow will not be better than today.

Often I want her to stop hectoring me and shut up. Really, she can be an irritation and tediously persistent.

When I’m riding my bicycle, she cautions: “Don’t look up to admire the trees swaying in the wind or the clouds drifting by. Don’t be distracted by a red-winged blackbird perched on a bulrush. You’ll fall and break your leg.”

When I insist on walking in the woods, she warns: “Don’t touch the trees in the mistaken notion that you can communicate with them. You’ll get a rash.”

When I bend down to caress the small crocus shoots coming up in a spring garden, she reminds me, “Be attentive to the presence of bees and wasps and mosquitoes, and small brown rats. They’ll bite you.”

When I was a kid and saw the movie The Three Faces of Eve, I wondered if I might have multiple personalities. Later I read about inner dialogue and thought it more likely that she and I were involved in self-talk. I know her so well and we live together in my mind, if fractiously. Sometimes we even whisper like old friends, affectionate and soothing.

She claims that heightened awareness and vigilance will keep me safe. It doesn’t. Magical thinking, I tell her, but she refuses to listen. Her warnings erupt in my head like an incessant mosquito buzz. I try to resist them but they clench my heart. I have discovered that many people don’t have a constant, draining, annoying, nagging, unrelenting innerdialogue. What a relief silence would be.

Her:     If you feel happy or find yourself humming, check your surroundings for   imminent threats.              

Me:      I do check—incessantly. Walking head bent, watching for a curb unexpectedly      deep, a crack in the sidewalk, a stray rock on the hiking trail.

Her:     You can’t escape the fates—three bitter old men who relish tripping you up.  They gloat and cackle at their success. 

Me:      Those fates live in my head. I know they’ll never be on my side. I’m afraid ignoring them will incite their anger.

Her:     Forget spontaneity. It’s overrated.

            Me:     Your warnings have leached that impulse right out of my bones.

But on some days, not often enough, I talk back to her. Defy her. Savour it.

Her:     If you feel happy or find yourself humming, check your surroundings for imminent threats.              

Me:      I’m going to hike up the hill, humming, breathe in the fragrance of dry desert        grass and caress the boldly-red flowers on the chuparosa.

Her:     You can’t escape the fates—three bitter old men who relish tripping you up. They gloat and cackle at their success. 

Me:      I see those fates gathered around a dying fire but I plan to kick them hard and watch them roll down the hill.

Her:     Forget spontaneity. It’s overrated.

Me: It’s not! It’s the surprise smile from a random kindness, the pleasure of walking at midnight when the stars are visible, twirling to “Some Enchanted Evening” on a rainy Sunday morning, licking the salt off ripple potato chips one at a time just before supper.

Sometimes I imagine her as a fretful child I want to calm. I try to relieve her worries and fears and teach her to improvise. Sometimes she sounds like my mother who was often afraid and repeatedly warned me that the world was dangerous and unpredictable. Be vigilant. Protect yourself. Find a safe place. Expect the worst. Maybe it’s my mother I’m trying to soothe.

In calmer moments, I recognize that I rely on her warnings. Although I long to embrace spontaneity, I really don’t like to be taken by surprise. She knows it. I appreciate that she wants to protect me. Her familiarity can be comforting.

Too often, though, I become her, my lips tight, my posture hunched, a brown scarf wound securely around my neck. Sometimes I’m scared not to be her.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I throw that brown scarf to the winds and delight in its carefree dance in the treetops. I dress in dramatic red stripes and stride boldly down the street, singing “Rise Up.” On a rare occasion, I hear her laughing, cautiously.

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Linda Briskin is a writer and fine art photographer. Her creative nonfiction bends genres, embraces hybrid forms, makes quirky connections and highlights social justice themes—quietly. In her fiction, she is drawn to writing about whimsy, fleeting moments, and the small secrets of interior lives. Her writing has recently appeared in Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Write Launch, Bluebird Word, Prairie Fire, South 85, Fictive Dream, South 8, Barren, Masque & Spectacle,  Canary, The Ekphrastic Review and Cobalt Review among others. https://www.lindabriskinphotography.com/pdf/writing.pdf