A letter I’m drafting to give to my new neighbors.

Just to warn them.

I am not given to overflowing expressions of emotion. In general, I’m a fairly reserved person. It’s been commented on. In the…in the sort of Yelp Reviews of people, you would probably find that people had said of Oliver that, “…he’s okay to have at a party, if you can find him. It turns out that he was there all along, just, sort of…lurking. Natural lurker, if that’s what you want. Cor! Tops lurker, him.”

That’s what they might say of me in my Yelp reviews. Things like that. You know, maybe, “…you can always tell what he’s thinking, because he’ll tell you, but you can never tell what he feels about it, because of that face. It’s like it’s someone else’s face. You’re always kind of looking for the less good looking, more intelligent person nearby who’s using him as their puppet. Sort of like that.”

Okay, maybe I’m getting a little self-indulgent here. You kind of get it, though. If poetry is defined as “an overflow of powerful emotions” then my poetry is not a thing I express, in general, in my interpersonal outbursts. Because there aren’t any. I don’t burst out like that.

In general.

Except…

Well, okay, put it this way: I just moved into a new apartment, so I’m sharing walls with some strangers. And I feel the urge — the need, really — for the basic sanctity of the neighborhood to go around with this informational letter and give it to people I meet. And especially to my immediate neighbors…

“Dear new neighbors,

“You may, on occasion, hear some peculiar wailing from my rooms. Before calling the cops or animal control or an occult investigator, as may be your first impulse, I humbly request a moment of pre-explanation.

“The sound is not, as it may seem, some occult chanting including the howling of various sacrificial animals. I’m not into that stuff. Far too much mess in the Old Religion. I subscribe to a much more progressive doctrine.

“No, I assure you, that I live alone, I have no animals — sacrificial or otherwise — and all you are probably hearing is happiness.

“See, my grandfather liked music. Most of my family did, but my grandfather in particular was a rocket scientist, so you know that he knew which way the buttered toast was falling, if you know what I mean. And when I was rather younger, my grandfather encouraged me to sing my heart out, and he encouraged it with historical lectures, technical explanations, and diagrams. Who could say no, right?

“My point is that I do, occasionally, elect to use my newly conquered space to ‘rustle the old sponges,’ if you know what I mean. It’s just like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. You know, the one that makes you a little uncomfortable because you empathize with it more than you’d like to admit.

“Anyway, if you’ll be so kind as to take a moment to listen for the words a little before calling the authorities, just to make sure it is an incantation and NOT a rendition of Carmen’s ‘Habanera,’ we’ll save each other a lot of paperwork, you know?

“Sometimes, I just need to sing. We all have our little quirks, right?

“I know what you’re thinking: ‘No, you don’t know what I’m thinking. Why would you say that?’ That’s what you’re thinking.

“But after you get to know me a little, you may start thinking, ‘Why — WHY! — couldn’t he have decided to express himself through mime, like his grandma tried to encourage?’

“Well, my answer to that is, how do you know that I’m not? I may be. I probably am, as far as you know.

“Warmest regards,

“ — Oliver”

By distributing this letter, I hope to mollify all concerns about my basic sanity and how easy I am to approach.

I can’t think of any way it might go wrong.

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