May 22, 2008
It's supposed to be spring but the temperatures aren't convincing anybody. It's cold. I'm rather disgusted and yet, with a sweater wrapped around my shoulders, I defiantly keep my windows open anyway, as though the weather might yield to my stubborn nature (as so surely it should). No matter the weather, I like having my windows open. Otherwise I miss so much of what's going on down there in the world below my apartment.With the windows closed, I cannot hear the sounds of couples passing by, laughing during their evening walk. I cannot listen to the wild roars of the crowd cheering over a home run at the baseball diamond just across the river or the crazy antics of Saturday night's party goers using our parking lot as a short cut. With the windows in lock down mode, I would miss the sounds of motorcycle engines, the mail truck lady blocking the exit when I need to get back to work and the horrific snarls of rotund raccoons ransacking the dumpster in the dark. I would fail to notice the noise of the city, replete with the unmistakable bustle of another car stereo system in the process of being donated to a thief in need. I'd miss all of that.
That and the completely deaf ear of the Karaoke Kid who lives below me. He has his windows open, too.
But I get it, so I don't close mine.
In fact, I used to do that. I used to have to sit at my window at night and sing not just for myself but for the droves of surely-just-as-equally-passionate persons in the general vicinity who would naturally appreciate such a poor yet valiant effort. I used to do that. I admit it. Though somewhat unwillingly. (And therefore I apologize directly to the supposed audience who might now be a bit more worse for wear.)
Perhaps it was all in an effort to be heard, after only having listened for so long, hoping the sad lines of a hopeless harmony would pierce the heart of just one affected listener. A feeble attempt at bridging a gap between these four walls and the vast space existing an arm's length beyond. Perhaps it was an expulsion of misery and joy and all the frustrated points in the middle. Perhaps it was just an error in judgment -- three parts Diet Coke to an unsightly amount of Captain. A little boldness in a bottle. Who knows how to perfectly explain the impulses of a person without company? He has his karaoke box, I have my little cursor; blinking at me like a dare in a wink.
Neither of us may be especially good but we do it just the same. We do it because we have to. We do it because something inside of us is screaming to be heard. It may not be music to your ears -- hell, it may not even be music to our own -- but why should that stop us?
That's just the sound of life. Not all of it's in harmony with our own predispositions but how much we'd miss if we didn't listen at all.