{"id":7077,"date":"2010-03-19T06:46:15","date_gmt":"2010-03-19T10:46:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7077"},"modified":"2018-10-20T14:29:34","modified_gmt":"2018-10-20T18:29:34","slug":"trouble-hearing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/03\/trouble-hearing\/","title":{"rendered":"Trouble Hearing"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image:<\/em> Toothpaste for Dinner, June 3, 2007]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

People write letters
\nto me from heaven, but I’m not listening.
\nThe hermit said: “Because the world is mad,
\nthe only way through the world is to learn
\nthe arts and double the madness.” Are you listening?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Bly, “Listening”1<\/sup>)<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

We like to think that we are finely evolved creatures, in suit-and-tie or pantyhose-and-chemise, who live many millennia and mental detours away from the cave, but that’s not something our bodies are convinced of. We may have the luxury of being at the top of the food chain, but our adrenaline still rushes when we encounter real or imaginary predators. We even restage that primal fright by going to monster movies. We still stake out or mark our territories, though sometimes now it is with the sound of radios. We still jockey for position and power. We still create works of art to enhance our senses and add even more sensations to the brimming world, so that we can utterly luxuriate in the spectacles of life. We still ache fiercely with love, lust, loyalty, and passion. And we still perceive the world, in all its gushing beauty and terror, right on our pulses. There is no other way. To begin to understand the gorgeous fever that is consciousness, we must try to understand the senses<\/em> — how they evolved, how they can be extended, what their limits are, to which ones we have attached taboos, and what they can tell us about the ravishing world we have the privilege to inhabit<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Diane Ackerman, from A Natural History of the Senses<\/em>)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

In the Argentinian film Man Facing Southeast<\/em>, Rantés, an extra-terrestrial playing an organ in the chapel at an insane asylum, says, “It’s only a series of vibrations, but they have a good effect on the men. Where does the magic lie? In the instruments? In the one who wrote it? In me? In those that hear it? I cannot understand what they feel. Yes. I can understand. I just can’t feel it.” Later he explains that sensations upset the people of his planet, who can be destroyed by a catchy saxophone melody or a luscious perfume. He is not the only emissary from his planet sent to ours to investigate our one weapon against which they have no defense: human stupidity. Sometimes the agents lose their way, become traitors, destroy themselves. A young, beautiful woman, Beatriz, who visits him in the asylum, we ultimately learn, is one of those lost agents who have become dangerously infatuated by the beauty of human sensory experience, unhinged by hearing a clarinet solo, “corrupted by sunsets, by certain fragrances…”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Diane Ackerman, ibid.<\/em>2<\/sup>)<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Man Listening to Disc<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is not bad —
\nambling along 44th Street
\nwith Sonny Rollins for company,
\nhis music flowing through the soft calipers
\nof these earphones,<\/p>\n

as if he were right beside me
\non this clear day in March,
\nthe pavement sparkling with sunlight,
\npigeons fluttering off the curb,
\nnodding over a profusion of bread crumbs.<\/p>\n

In fact, I would say
\nmy delight at being suffused
\nwith phrases from his saxophone —
\nsome like honey, some like vinegar —
\nis surpassed only by my gratitude<\/p>\n

to Tommy Potter for taking the time
\nto join us on this breezy afternoon
\nwith his most unwieldy bass
\nand to the esteemed Arthur Taylor
\nwho is somehow managing to navigate<\/p>\n

this crowd with his cumbersome drums.
\nAnd I bow deeply to Thelonious Monk
\nfor figuring out a way
\nto motorize — or whatever — his huge piano
\nso he could be with us today.<\/p>\n

This music is loud yet so confidential.
\nI cannot help feeling even more
\nlike the center of the universe
\nthan usual as I walk along to a rapid
\nlittle version of “The Way You Look Tonight,”<\/p>\n

and all I can say to my fellow pedestrians,
\nto the woman in the white sweater,
\nthe man in the tan raincoat and the heavy glasses,
\nwho mistake themselves for the center of the universe —
\nall I can say is watch your step,<\/p>\n

because the five of us, instruments and all,
\nare about to angle over
\nto the south side of the street
\nand then, in our own tightly knit way,
\nturn the corner at Sixth Avenue.<\/p>\n

And if any of you are curious
\nabout where this aggregation,
\nthis whole battery-powered crew,
\nis headed, let us just say
\nthat the real center of the universe,<\/p>\n

the only true point of view,
\nis full of hope that he,
\nthe hub of the cosmos
\nwith his hair blown sideways,
\nwill eventually make it all the way downtown.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins3<\/sup> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

One of my favorite movie scenes — of all, really, not just those involving listening — is the library scene from Wim Wenders’s Wings of Desire<\/em>. If you’re not familiar with the film, the plot revolves around two angels in the city of Berlin. But these angels resemble the conventional ones not at all. They wear long dark overcoats and move about invisibly (except to children and other angels), not able to change the course of events but able to comfort people who are troubled. (They simply place their hands on the shoulders of the worried, whose thoughts — like the thoughts of all humans — are heard as whispered voices.) In this scene, the two angels visit the Berlin State Library<\/a>, clearly a favorite haunting ground: full of whispers.<\/p>\n