A noise, not a sound. A large egg-yolk-yellow bus almost without windows parked under my window. Last night when I went to bed, the parking spaces on the street had been roped off. Some kind of event in the church? A concert? Tonight? The bus’s motor is on and has been on for a couple of hours. There are people grouped around the door of the bus. Is the star inside? I don’t care. I don’t like the noise. I don’t think a bus should be able to idle its bus motor for hours under peoples’ windows.
There is a building in California on the Stanford campus which, at the level of the street-level, ground-floor office windows has a big sign: Drivers! Please turn off your motors! People are trying to work in here!
The thing about noise is that it only bothers me when I feel persecuted by it. If it is unavoidable city noise, I can enjoy it. I do have sound-proof windows, but the rooms behind them feel tight, claustrophobic, airless. I like the breeze on my skin, even the polluted city breeze with its many stinks.