Monday

My Space

Think rocketships. Think a rattling, banging cacophony, jets of fire and hot air and the deafening roar that signifies the end of the world. This is the sound of our air-conditioner. Every 15 minutes or so it begins again, sheilding me from the sounds in the rest of the house. I don't mind it so much, really. It prevents my brother from hearing every sound I make from his room in what used to be the attic. The walls are too full of cracks and little holes to really be any of kind of sound barrier. At night, between the angry dragon noises being emitted by our air-conditioner, I can hear my brother breathing. I can hear the birds that seem to have made a nest in the vent above my bed. I can hear our neighbors on the other side of the house clacking around in their high heels. I can hear when they drop things.

I sometimes play my guitar when I get home from work. I walk around the house strumming and generally playing the seven or eight chords I know over and over again in different arrangements. I wonder if they can hear me. I sometimes hope they can, as if I'm putting on a little performance. Just the fact that someone might hear my music and my movements, or read my writing seems to alter my movements and music and writing. Everything becomes a performance. Few things are just for me. I enjoy the air conditioning as it encloses me briefly in my own world. Everything I do or say is mine. I can dance rythmlessly to the songs on my iPod, or stay up late without being concerned that my brother might here me walking around my room while I think or try to write something.

There's that question: "What are you thinking?" Kind of an intrusive question, usually met with a little white lie: "Nothing." There's usually something going on in my head, and I don't always want people to know what's in there. MySpace might let me personalize it with my colors and words and pictures, but as soon as someone else sees it, it's theirs too. The space in my head is mine, and you don't get to go in there unless I let you. My writing, you can have it. My music, I want you to hear it. But my thoughts, they're mine.

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