Hello there, neighbour!
On the off chance that you’ve forgotten, this is just a friendly reminder that you own windchimes — and have owned windchimes for three full days.
You’re probably asking how the heck would he know that?
The answer is: because you have windchimes.
I’d also like to kickstart your memory about where you chose to hang your windchimes: outside on your front porch. Additional memory jog: outside is also where the rest of the street containing houses and sleepless people are located.
I’m reminding you about a lot of stuff here, and that makes me a little worried. Worried that perhaps the memory centres of your brain — hippocampus, neocortex, amygdala— are already full.
Maybe they’re so overstuffed with a lifetime of breathtakingly unselfaware actions that any potential memory nugget detailing what your windchimes sound like and do to other people might not have been able to find purchase there. So again, I’m happy to lend a hand.
With all this spare awake time staring bleary-eyed at your house, I’ve been jotting down vivid descriptions of exactly what they sound like to me. Yesterday I carved some favourites into the handles of an axe, a ball peen hammer, and a lacrosse stick, but unfortunately those items have been confiscated by my wife. Here are two new descriptions that I’ve crafted over the past three hours as I was listening to your windchimes instead of sleeping and not listening to your windchimes.
Your windchimes could be described as sounding like the torturous never-ending ringtone of a phone belonging to an ample-bearded incense salesman from Oregon.
Or the aurally agonizing disharmony of a fading, heavy-eyed drunkard trying to play a riff on an ill-tuned xylophone missing half its keys. Imagine mallets more dropped than swung, committing appalling disrepect to key musical passages from Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water or Guns n’ Roses’ Sweet Child o’ Mine, for example.
But anyway, over the bong gonga bong gong gong of your windchimes (or is it bonga bong ga-gong bong? I’ve heard every possible ear-gouging permutation over the past three days (and nights)), you no doubt have not been hearing the screams and/or hollered curses from my house, so that’s why I decided to write this letter to you.
And then tape it to your door, remove your windchimes, take them to a shopping mall parking lot, meticulously back over them with my car a number of times (I’m pretty sure it was nine), and leave them on the curb in front of your house for that scrap metal guy who passes by every few days. I think he’s going to do well with those silent, flattened copper tubes (fingers crossed).
Anyway, thanks for reading. I think it’s great when neighbours listen to each other.