A letter I’m drafting for my new neighbors.
Just to warn them.
I’m not inclined to overflowing expressions of emotion. In general, I’m a fairly reserved person. It’s been commented on. In the sort of Yelp Reviews of people, if there were such a thing — which might be a good idea — you would probably find that people had said of Oliver that, “…he’s okay to have at parties, if you can find him. But usually it turns out that he was there all along, just, sort of…lurking. Natural lurker, if that’s what you want. Best lurker on the Front Range.”
Things like that.
Or, 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 trying to spot that more charming, less good looking, more intelligent person nearby who’s using him as their puppet.”
Or another one I’ve heard is, “He’s like the poorly-rendered audio-video interface of a next-gen search-engine.”
Things like that.
In general.
Except…
All right, put it this way: I just moved into a new apartment, so I’m sharing walls with some strangers. And I feel a powerful urge, sometimes, for the sanctity of the neighborhood to give the following informational letter to my new neighbors.
It goes like this…
“Dear new neighbors,
“You may, on occasion, hear some wailing from my rooms.
“Before calling the cops or animal control or an occult investigator, as may be your first impulse, I would like to take a moment to explain.
“The sound is not, as it may seem, chanting to the Elder Gods and the howling of sacrificial animals. I’m not into that stuff. Far too much mess in the Old Religion, I think. 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 did. And he was a rocket scientist, so you know that he knew which way the buttered toast was falling, if you know what I mean. And my grandfather encouraged me to sing my heart out, and he encouraged it with historical lectures, technical diagrams, and flow charts. Which, as you can imagine, got my little imagination fired at an early age.
“My point is that I do, occasionally, elect to express my joy in 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 before calling the authorities, just to make sure it is an unholy incantation and NOT a rendition of Carmen’s ‘Habanera,’ we’ll save each other a lot of paperwork.
“Sometimes, I just need to sing. We all have our little quirks, right?
“I know what you’re thinking:
“‘No. 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 encouraged him to do?’
“To which I answer, how do you know I’m not? I may be. I probably am, as far as you know.
“I’m sure we can be good friends.
“Warmest regards,
“ — Oliver”
By distributing this letter, I hope to mollify all concerns before they’re raised about my sanity and approachability.
I can think of no way it might go wrong.
Let’s have an adventure.
Here’s my email list, which I sometimes distribute.
I’m on Patreon, where you can encourage me with regular money.
And on PayPal, where you can encourage me with irregular money (pounds sterling, ducats, dubloons…).
