Little Speakers
People all around and talking, all around, and I have nothing in common with any of them, I realize, and I leave the scene.
An odd feeling, really -- to have nothing in common with your own. Human beings are supposed to be interactive people, people people.
I'm in my room, door closed, but hear them outside.
"Listen, um," she says. And I tune out. And think about thoughts that have nothing to do with the situation, or conversation, then tune back in further in. It's an unideal point in her conversation: "I feel like I just keep growing," she says. "I've never felt this way before."
It's strange. I'm a people person. A common person. A human being. An interactive being, someone who this wouldn't happen to. Man, what a twist, I think.
The little speakers keep playing from the stereo in my room, bass and all. Thumping to the rythem. I wonder what the neighbors will think of the noise.
I've lived in my apartment now for two weeks and the first interaction I had with the neighbors was a noise complaint. The man knocked on my door. I answered. It was 10:30 at night. He said he had to get up at 4 a.m. and the music was too loud. It was a good song, though. Can't he understand that it's a good song? And that it's 10:30 p.m., a resonable time? And that you play good songs loud? Weird. It's strange. Who gets a noise complaint at that point in the night? I wonder if he can't do something about outside noise. I have a fan to drown out sounds, personally, white noise to give me a sense of solitude. He may not have a fan, though, I think. And I turned down the music.
It never used to be a problem.
She keeps talking: "I think I got some wild growth disease, something wild. I never used to grow like this." And I think that I have nothing in common with these people.
Someone asks: "How are you dealing?"
The little speaker plays and I lean back to enjoy the music, savor it. I'm alone in my satisfaction. I never used to be this way, so singular. Always was a people person.
The broken piano plays on the little speakers in my room, bass and all.
My roommate comes in: "You're still up, right?" I have no idea what he is talking about and realize I've been out of the interaction picture for some time now. "Did you get these from around here?" He means the cookies, showing them to me, from where I left them on the kitchen counter. "What store? They're great."
I can't figure it out, the situation, too drowned in the music I am. The rythem.
I tune out. And look away. And start to think about nothing, start to go back to the sound.
That same sound that got me in trouble, I think.
The little speakers.
And they play.
It's a devilishly nice sound. Bass.
I turn it louder, because goods songs should be played loud and the neighbors should know that.
"You're feeling well, though," someone says to her. And that sounds great.
An odd feeling, really -- to have nothing in common with your own. Human beings are supposed to be interactive people, people people.
I'm in my room, door closed, but hear them outside.
"Listen, um," she says. And I tune out. And think about thoughts that have nothing to do with the situation, or conversation, then tune back in further in. It's an unideal point in her conversation: "I feel like I just keep growing," she says. "I've never felt this way before."
It's strange. I'm a people person. A common person. A human being. An interactive being, someone who this wouldn't happen to. Man, what a twist, I think.
The little speakers keep playing from the stereo in my room, bass and all. Thumping to the rythem. I wonder what the neighbors will think of the noise.
I've lived in my apartment now for two weeks and the first interaction I had with the neighbors was a noise complaint. The man knocked on my door. I answered. It was 10:30 at night. He said he had to get up at 4 a.m. and the music was too loud. It was a good song, though. Can't he understand that it's a good song? And that it's 10:30 p.m., a resonable time? And that you play good songs loud? Weird. It's strange. Who gets a noise complaint at that point in the night? I wonder if he can't do something about outside noise. I have a fan to drown out sounds, personally, white noise to give me a sense of solitude. He may not have a fan, though, I think. And I turned down the music.
It never used to be a problem.
She keeps talking: "I think I got some wild growth disease, something wild. I never used to grow like this." And I think that I have nothing in common with these people.
Someone asks: "How are you dealing?"
The little speaker plays and I lean back to enjoy the music, savor it. I'm alone in my satisfaction. I never used to be this way, so singular. Always was a people person.
The broken piano plays on the little speakers in my room, bass and all.
My roommate comes in: "You're still up, right?" I have no idea what he is talking about and realize I've been out of the interaction picture for some time now. "Did you get these from around here?" He means the cookies, showing them to me, from where I left them on the kitchen counter. "What store? They're great."
I can't figure it out, the situation, too drowned in the music I am. The rythem.
I tune out. And look away. And start to think about nothing, start to go back to the sound.
That same sound that got me in trouble, I think.
The little speakers.
And they play.
It's a devilishly nice sound. Bass.
I turn it louder, because goods songs should be played loud and the neighbors should know that.
"You're feeling well, though," someone says to her. And that sounds great.
posted by Chris Miles at 11:14 PM
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