So I'm sitting at J's desk (don't tell him) next to an open window listening to the morning city sounds. Of course there's the car and truck traffic, kids walking by on the sidewalk, once in a while a hum-and-clatter of the train a few blocks away. Many birds. Neighbors' air conditioners (why do they never turn these off to check how lovely it is outside?) and the occasional dog prancing past. The steady beep of a truck backing up. The squeak of someone opening or closing a window (maybe having turned off the AC!). The clang of the courtyard gate. Neighbors dropping things (heard through the walls). A man sneezing in a nearby apartment. An awful alarm clock beginning to buzz.
And I'm just thinking, as I often stop to think, about how many lives are crammed into this tiny space, and how many stories. It boggles the mind. What sort of epic pomo novel weaves in and out of my own apartment building, and how do they relate? Is my choice of what to cook for dinner shaped by the lingering scent of some unnamed neighbor's lunch? And does my mood after that dinner influence how loudly I play my radio, either annoying or pleasing the family across the alley? And does the occasional eerie and beautiful synchronization whereby I leave my apartment halfway through a symphony on the classical station only to heard it continued behind another door -- does that happen just accidentally, or do we catch whiffs and glimpses, shaping each other even though we don't do more than nod and smile on the street, if that?
Another alarm clock. A grunt. A car horn. A jingle of keys.
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