The Audio Files

It's infinitely interesting, the kinds of human drama you pick up when no one is aware you're hearing them. When you live in an apartment with a high volume of residents like I do, unintentional eavesdropping is optimal as is camouflage from the world I absorb, being on the third floor with high railing. Sitting quietly (and most often pensively), I employ the balcony in my apartment as a way to escape, but am privy to other bullshit-ery while doing so. It's people hearing, instead of people watching, a modern day equivalent to the radio soap opera episode, if I were spinning the dial and tuning in at random. I ignore it as best I can to preserve my sanity and their privacy , even if it's they themselves that are shouting TMI whilst clomping around in noisy shoes, at all hours of the night. I hear snippets of salacious stories, odd/comical sound effects, and routine living sounds of those I live feet from but know nothing of. It's a very surreal connection, a far cry from the old school days of knowing everyone on the block and their life story. I know the busy business, but wouldn't be able to place them if I saw them around. If I were so inclined to get some surveillance gear and start up an investigation firm, I'd have a prime perch to do so. Thankfully for those ne'er do wells around me, I'm not.

By the ebb and flow that social life affords, I don't have much time out and about these days, albeit by choice. It's frequently, briefly lonely, and that can stagger even the strongest after a while. Without the ebb, the flow doesn't mean much though, you know, that whole thing. You would think that hearing juicy tid-bits would be all the more welcome, but not really. The fact that I'm trying to just BE in my own space, not around others, makes it slightly more annoying to be jarred out of thoughts, movies, or phone conversations of my own by those in the same residential boat. You think they'd realize and empathize.

It IS amusing to internally riff on the statement, "I hate you guyzzzz....you me drink that shot of Jager...if you think I'm drinking more yur crazzzy." slurred to the heavens by a nameless, faceless neighbor/friend of as she scuffles past the first wing and farther into the bowels of the complex, most likely to pass-out or even more likely, drink more. It's funny to hear the unmistakable sounds of a car hit the speed bump at way too high a speed in the courtyard parking area, then screech to halt before plowing into the loud and rickety motorized gate that "protects" said courtyard. I can glean a chuckle from an almost fist fight between party going alpha males over a coveted late night parking spot. A candid-camera type commercial in my routine.

Then there's the sobering stuff. Among the worst, a domestic dispute between a young sounding, Jerry Springer-y couple next door. Hearing the sound of a slap connecting on the jaw of the instigating female in the equation, accelerating my own heart rate, sending adrenaline and frozen alertness down my spine. It's not my boyfriend, or my jaw, but for an instant, it feels that way. A police helicopter circling the building with increasingly low altitude, having no idea if it's something to be concerned with or to just shrug and hope they are out to catch the right man, whomever they're after. The sounds of neighbor kids being despicably mean to one another, all the pain recalled instantly from your own catalog of heartache, from when you were that age. The sound of an unhappy baby, wailing it's little heart out, spiking your blood pressure despite your lack of responsibility or knowing of he/she (it's a medically proven thing that baby cries=physical stress). I feel like I should know these people, for all the residual static. I've been secretly, inadvertently, included. We should shake hands or trade a recipe.

At the most intense times I want to lean over the railing and answer whoever is shouting obnoxiously, just to shut them up. Just to see if they really want an objective answer. Just to see the look on their face to hear a polite response to a rhetorical question. I wish I could beat up the would-be bullies for those bullied just below me. I wish I could console those that I hear having a bad day, toss them a cupcake or something.

Maybe that's the whole point to what I hear, how it impacts me. The day I stop noticing is a big red flag for my own humanity and empathy for others. When lives are broadcasted, I can send back my own quiet prayer for them or a subtle appreciation in whatever way. If I were to actually let them know I've heard them, it might be embarrassing or awkward or slightly dangerous maybe. So I'll maintain my silent sporadic vigil. All in all, it's good imagination fodder and good reflection fuel, even as I curse the momentary loss of (the illusion of) autonomy.

I'll keep smiling, grimacing and musing to myself, and remember to keep the personal crisis on the low when I get back in the flow myself. Either that or I'll holler a good sea shanty or dirty limerick, for all those fellow fellows in earshot.

Pencil It In

From about the age of 13 (onset of puberty, I'm looking at you), I've been predominantly nocturnal. Since those formative years, I haven't wanted to wake up earlier than about noon

nor hit the hay at anything close to sensible hours. Even when I know I need to. I love to sleep, dream and luxuriate in a comforter far more than I love most daily demands (nothing against the demands just ain't my bag). The best side of morning is on the tail end of the night, when the sun has yet to slice through the dawn in my book. Night time is the right time, as it brims with spontaneous and mysterious possibilities to do what you will, how you want to. Maybe it's an overly romantic/rebellious way of viewing the world, but still. Unfortunately for fellow nocs like me, the majority of societal structures and operating hours are set up to begin early morning and end just after we've begun to feel most productive, rendering us at odds with obligations, frequently. Jank, I tell you.



No matter how my soul shudders and sputters as the alarm bell jangles me hence, it's a big part of being a grown-up, and you can rarely get around it after you procreate or attain lofty career goals, or both. I think the element of daily drudgery is what hinders us most. It just so monotonous. There are bright, beautiful things that occur, but mostly, just monotony. There has to be a way to get through it all.



Sitting on my beloved balcony, where I do the lions share of pondering/writing/communing with celestial powers, I fantasize a lot about how the day would go if time, immediate surroundings and reality were on my side. The name of the game is swimming, for a moment, in what you want not dealing with what you don't have, when you daydream. Call me crazy, that's why I dig it so. I'd wake up ready to tear the world a new one if only I had this mythical schedule of excellence. The phrase, "Wouldn't it be nice if..." thought lovingly gets me through many a dull moment. Feel free to incorporate the Beach Boys song of the same name if you need some extra set-the-carefree-tone zazz as you conjure up your own spirit lifting scenarios. Mine goes like this:


Wouldn't it be nice if...I woke to the warm nuzzling of Joseph Gordon Levitt and/or Tom Hardy (they're the top drawer pretend tag team in rotation currently), with just the right amount of inspirational, comforting whisperings such as, "Today, the world will benefit from your unique humanity, you beautiful creature, you" or "I love how effortlessly gorgeous you are when you wake" and then commence in the type of wake-up ritual that everyone should have (time tables are non-existent, as are any intrusions). Then, said gentleman dissipates with a wink and smile, only after handing over a Venti White Chocolate Mocha and a "go get 'em tiger" ass slap.



Wouldn't it be glorious if your completely assembled for the day, sweetly cheerful child appeared and hugged you, saying, "I'm truly thankful for all you do for me" or "My world is wonderful, thanks to you" and then the two of you eat a delicious breakfast that you neither have to prepare or clean up after, with no trace of post-breakfast bloat. Then she heads out the door to her next adventure, safe, content, and secure. The rest of the day would be adequate smatterings of gleefully creating amazing art, sun bathing, shopping, and feeling at ease and whole. Never a moment of stress or ill side effect, never feeling a moment wasted or squandered.


It would be more than nice, my friends.


I have yet to nail down that particular scenario, but I'll be damned if it doesn't put a smile on my face in the early hours when I need one most. And for that, I'll have Secretary of Brain Function make room. Even if it means getting my groggy ass up to do so.