I want to be deaf…
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
The words glare back at me. I can hear the anger in their tone in my head; my head that holds my eyes that sink down at the meaningless words I’ve read over and over again, with the same page repeating itself in the same distraught, questioned voice: “You’ve looked me over seven times. Doesn’t that mean you like me? Get that frown off of your face!” But I can’t smile. A college book is another assignment, another grudge that any distinct sound, any sudden shift of particles reminds me of a world outside this little white frame that I curse. I can’t smile with all the sounds. I reach into my white shelving unit and pull out a little baggie of earplugs. Six in total remain - bi-colored with half the end in neon yellow, the other half neon orange – and I take two out. I plop back down on my couch, knead the yellow side into an elongated worm, and stuff one into each ear. The sizzles and pops of foam fitting my ear canal are the exploding brain cells from the heroin the book must have gotten into while I was up. I look back down and all is calm. The words are mute, and the voice in my head is docile. The only sounds are through feeling and sight; the pages whisper softly as they are pulled up, tossed over, and flutter onto the “discard” pile.
I want to be deaf…
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on obscure bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
It’s Saturday, November 20th, 2010, and I’m at St. Andrews Hall in Detroit, Michigan. My favorite band – Circa Survive – is playing a sold out show. They are the only band on the lineup I care about though. Animals as Leaders? Codeseven? Dredg? “Never listened to them before. No point in wasting what good hearing I have left on obscure bands.” I take the bi-colored earplugs from my pockets between sets, cram them in my ears, and the gradual muffling of sound is led by a thump. I can hear the blood thumping through my ears, I can feel the bass drum thumping in my chest, but all sound comes from a foot below the water. “Is this what it’s like to be deaf at a concert? How long until Circa Survive plays? The next set? No point in wasting the quality of a good show.” I pluck the plugs from my ears and cram them back in my pocket. I rejoice in the uninhibited coat of loudness that the songs from my favorite album, Blue Sky Noise, are ejected through the venue speakers with. My sister and mom always warn me that I’m going to be deaf by the age of thirty from all of these concerts. “So what? It’s good music. I’d rather be deaf.”
I want to be deaf…
Is this real? Do I have to listen to this? The pile of Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. He’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. He rants, rants, rants about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
Is this real? Do I have to listen to this? The pile of Sicilian ex-step-dad idles in my doorway, running his breath out with the woes and ill tidings both him and my mother suffer. He’s still in love with her, but the medical system has run their lives through. He rants, rants, rants about her next surgery, her new expensive medicine, his planned stay at my house for the entire Spring of 2011 after his next surgery, my flux of responsibilities as the “man of the house,” and what I need to do, do, do. “I can’t change a damn thing about your health care system, I can’t do a damn thing about medicine prices, and I sure can’t do a damn thing about my own devotion to college. I’m still young! Let me worry about that when my time comes, but for now, let me get back to this book!” He was in my life since I was four years old; always told me to listen until somebody’s finished speaking. I bleakly stare back at him with the pads of my fingers depressing the two piles of “discard” and “to do” pages with urgency, watching the same muah-muah-muah scene of Charlie Brown over and over again before me, wishing horribly that I was just deaf.
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