Oh to be my neighbors.  No really it’s fine.  I mean, sure, as soon as I walk in my apartment building I begin singing and don’t stop until I finally fall asleep every night.  But I mean, come on.  It could be worse right?

So once upon a time I thought no one could hear me.  I would sing and sing my little heart out.  Life was great.  That is until I ran into one of my neighbors in the hallway, right about this time last year come to think about it.  Christmas had just passed.  And for anyone who knows me well, you know that Handel’s Messiah is my family’s Christmas anthem.  Okay, one of our Christmas anthems.  But that’s not the point.  The point is that my little rendition of the Hallelujah Chorus was so…. How shall we say… robust, that my neighbor felt compelled to offer feedback on my little performance.

I’d like to tell you that I stood, ready and open to receive such glowing feedback (it wasn’t necessarily glowing) and that I paused my day to fill up on all the wonderful listener comments.  But I didn’t.  Truthfully I didn’t quite believe him at first.  Sure, I had the volume up as high as it could go but it’s the dang Hallelujah Chorus.  So yeah, it may have been a little loud.  But that being the case, all the more reason for him to not be able to hear me attempting to sing every single part of harmony… simultaneously.  But he had heard me.  I learned this not so much by the words that were coming out of his mouth but rather by the gigantic grin on his face. 

Understand, upon discovering that the privacy of my extra-special-private-LauraKatherine-time had been compromised, I completely stopped listening to whatever words were coming out of his mouth.  I mean shit, people can hear all the bizarre (yet fascinatingly epic) adventures I have in my apartment?  This is not good.  Apparently he really does hear me.  Excuse me, they hear me…. like, all the time. 

Before I scurried off to ponder what other confidences might have been breached, I discovered that come to find out, he finds my singing comforting and didn’t mind if I continued. 
Isn’t that special.

At first I was not only hot pink and mortified but kinda… I don’t know, stunned really.  I mean I sing… a lot… and about a lot of things.  And people had been hearing me unleash my inner goodness.  And of this, I had been completely unaware.  This called for a major regrouping within the extra-special-private-LauraKatherine-time confines of my home.  I would have called a committee meeting but really, I’d be the only one invited so I didn’t see the point.  So as I pondered all my little spastic goodness I realized something.  A couple of somethings actually... 

You have to understand, I came into the world singing and performing something and by something what I really mean is anything.  My mother gains great satisfaction from telling anyone who will listen any number of stories (and believe me, she has punchlist) of how I came into the world making up songs, dance routines, anything and then forced family, friends and unsuspecting neighbors to sit and watch me perform my set lists.  I’ll spare you the meaty goodness of what all that entailed.  Let’s just say I’ve been living the “one and a two and a three!” lifestyle for quite some time.  That being the case, why stop now?  I mean really, so what my neighbors can hear me.  And yeah, I may not be able to sing with quite as much pizazz as Adele but I’m a lot cuter.  And by cuter I mean, well I’m cute.  So there’s that. 

So that’s the first reason I decided to keep up with my little nightly performances throughout this past year.  Another reason was that quite simply, I don’t think I could stop if I tried.  The reason I sing so much is not due to an inability to entertain myself otherwise.  Oh no.  Thing is, I find myself wildly entertaining just about all of the time.  I like my performances.  I like closing my eyes and singing to the point that everything else goes away.  I sing the way I paint.  And when I paint, no one else in the world crosses my mind.  Okay, that’s not entirely true... Actually it’s more of a lie than a truth.  But either way, I love singing.  So much so that one of my least favorite parts of having a cold is that my singing is compromised.  So yeah, you can fight the cold and flu season all you want.  Really, all I care about is not losing a couple of days singing time.

And it’s not like, I walk into my apartment everyday excited that neighbor #1 and neighbor #2 can hear me.  Truthfully at this point their presence is so common place that I often forget they’re there.  That is, until I pop my earbuds in and one of my special Pandora stations comes on.  Oh I have a lot of special Pandora stations.  But there are a couple that make happy things happen in my apartment.  They usually start out with a little bass… and a little bit of beat and then my feet start moving.  Actually, my feet don’t start moving first, my hips typically take the lead.  Well hips and upper body.  I have this little jiggle thing I like to do.  And apparently I do the white girl lip bite ever so slightly.  But that’s something I should probably backspace and delete.  But hey, you know what, this is our little confession time.   A little LK-share-all, so to speak.  So let’s just be real.  I spare no sass for the masses and by masses I mean for the nobody in my apartment.  It’s okay, at this point I’m no longer embarrassed by my greatness.  You see, I have a secret.  Technically, I kinda get a backstage pass to all this.  And I’ll tell you, from backstage the show is much better.  You see, I have something that those with only audio don’t have.  I have the pleasure of watching myself dance in the mirror.  And by dance I mean, I even impress myself.  It’s fine.  You don’t have to see me to believe me.  Just take my word for it.  Where my singing leaves off, my dancing can carry the show.  And that, my neighbors can’t see. 

So I think I’ll just keep up my performances.  And yes, when intoxicated the shows do get a bit more interesting.  But I think I’ll keep going for the gold.  I mean what is it hurting?… And I say “what is it hurting” because there’s a loophole to all this.  And it’s the loophole that has me writing this today.  You see, I’m kinda not alone in my apartment.  I mean, I am alone.  But the thing is I have windows…large windows.  I like to pretend they are one-way but they actually aren’t.  People can see me.  And I can see them.  And if all this time my neighbors have been hearing me sing, well there are people out there who have gotten a lot more than audio.  But to top it off, bless their hearts, they get zero audio.  And it’s here where I’ve actually had to stop and ponder the message I’m sending to the world. 

Cause I can talk up my little performances all I want.  Sure, I think they are fun and great but if I’m totally honest, if there is no audio to all this, then really, we might have a bit of a problem.  Because what my neighbors to the south see is a half-naked blonde girl, with incredibly expressive hand motions and a keen sense of rhythmic genius flailing around in my living room (and yes, rhythmic genius does not have to be heard.  Seeing is believing.)  But yeah, when I stop to picture what in the world I must look like during my little musical odysseys, I realize that it’s a wonder people in white coats haven’t shown up to my doorstep offering to take me on a little trip.  But even that, when viewed through the eyes of art… well, art doesn’t hinder, okay?  Art offers ample room to elaborate on any given need for expression. 

So it’s with that, I offer a bit of miming action to my voyeuristic window neighbors and say “you know what? I bet you wished you had moves like me.”  But the thing is, they can’t hear me.  They merely see that the strange little blonde-girl appears to be home from work…. and what is this?  For some reason she is pulling her pants down and placing her bare bum on the window.
I wonder what she’s trying to tell us.

I feel things.  I feel many things.  I feel things as I walk the streets.  Seeing the people hungry.  I feel things.  These things aren’t easy to put to words.  Feelings like this often are.  

Did you hear that?  It sounded like thunder.  No.  It’s not thunder.  It’s the sound of the car drum bass stereo outside my window.  It sings to me.  Like a little rotten bird, perched crooked-legged and backwards.  That’s that stereo or that car alarm.  That car alarm that barks at me to please come, please come make it stop. 

I went swimming today.  Right between your amygdala and your hippocampus.  I took a little trip you see.  I swam and I swam.  I swam to remember.  Further through the everglades I saw it.  Like a beacon in… the same way it should have been.  I saw it.  It saw me.  We saw it.  There was yellow and red and pink.  I saw it.  And it saw me.  I don’t always swim that far but I did today.  And I’m glad I did because it’s been a long time.  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you in this light. 

If I had told you about the curtain it’s doubtful you would have believed me.  I’m faint for thinking of it otherwise but surely you must have seen this coming.  This warmth this exclusion you must have sensed it before.  I’ve mentioned it to you while you were sleeping.  I told you.  I closed my eyes and I saw it too.  I saw the way it held us.  That space where everything and nothing lives.  We dangled there for a minute.  I remember it.  I remember what it felt like.  I remember what it looked like.  I remember the weight of your words.  I remember you.  I’ve never forgotten.  You spoke to me once that nothing is ever lost if it ever really was at all.  And I’ve been thinking.  I’ve been thinking about that dream you had.  It was me.  It was you.  There was something about trees and something about an ocean.  And I remember the air and how it felt.  I was there.  You were there.  Not much day, not much night.  We were dangling there.  Suspended above your bed.  Nothing stopped us.  And I heard it.  I heard your breath and I heard your soul and I knew your soul was my soul.   Some part of it was mine.  You were mine.  I had never felt you.  I had never seen you.  But in that dream I finally tasted you.  In that dream that foretold of your face.  It spoke to me.  When I saw you it spoke to me.  And I’ve been hearing you ever since.   

There’s a point to all this, pal and I think you’re missing it.  I heard you the first time.  The point isn’t that there’s a right or a wrong.  The point is that the time always comes for the this or for the that.  And it’s that that that I’ve been thinking about.  You liked that?  No.  That’s okay I’m not sure I did either.  But I know this.  I like the way you look on me tonight buttercup floral top.  And I think I’ll wear you tomorrow.  To work.  With a small greyblack mini skirt.

How come the street always looks windier til you walk down it?  The sideways isn’t ever so sideaways and the backwards seems like it’s miles away.  I see forward.  I don’t see backwards.  Look at this son and look pretty tonight.  Tell the road what to do.  Tell the road where to go.  Nothing holds its hand but you.  So whisper if you have to but tell it right.  Tell it all the places you want to go and all the people you want to see when you get there.  Tell about the dozens of dimes it took and the thousands of thoughts of you but tell them and tell them truthful.  You never expected to see me standing here.  At the base of your bones to the core of all you’ve known.  You never expected it.  
But here I am.  Here I am.  So tell me, from this angle, does this dress make my butt look big?