On the other hand, what was money, really? Wouldn’t it be better to be poor and doing something I loved than rich and doing something I hated?
Not that getting rich at anything was a guarantee. Knowing my luck, I’d be poor and stuck in a job I hated. I swore to do everything in my power to avoid that eventuality.
A Little Frankincense
December 17
After our confrontation, Mum forced me to go back to KO. I had no good argument to avoid our sessions, since Deafman was done and Roo and Sad Alan were too busy playing in Slave Leia to practice with me. The only other person I had willingly spent any time with lately was G, and as enjoyable as I had found roller derby and our brief make-out session, it didn’t seem fair to co-opt her as a convenient excuse.
Time had neither altered KO nor lessened his interest in my case. He had seen the article and wanted to know how it made me feel, so I gave him one of the cassettes Mum had rescued from the recycling bin and told him to listen to it. Explain in words, was the response he typed into our shared document.
Like I’m shouting into a pillow, I told him. Smothered.
By the reporter’s inability to understand? I thought the interview was an exercise in selling more copies of the cassette.
I had to admit that it started that way.
But she didn’t want to talk about the music. Not really. All she wanted to talk about was me losing my hearing.
You DID lose your hearing, though.
KO finger-spelled D-E, and I thought he was going for deaf, but with a grin he finished R-P.
I know, I know. But I want to be more than deaf.
How?
Like . . . I want to be a musician, not a DEAF musician. Being deaf shouldn’t be who I am just because I can’t hear.
Does it help to tell you that this is what it’s like to be in a minority?
Not really, but—
You were born a healthy white male, Simon. You’ve grown up in a bubble of privilege. Now the bubble has popped, and you’re living in the world most people inhabit. People of color, for instance, or genderqueer, adoptees . . .
I get it. You sound like Mum.
Because we’re both right. But I understand: it doesn’t help, being told WHY you’re hurting WHILE you’re hurting. If dentists . . . no, that doesn’t bear thinking about. He rubbed his jaw, obviously speaking from recent experience. All right. Here’s what I think we should do. We’re going to conduct a ritual.
A what?
Our modern world has forgotten the power of rituals to help us transition through difficult phases in life. The rituals we DO have sometimes seem designed to embed feelings of emotions like fear, anger, and grief rather than help us deal with them. For instance, the way you spend so much time at your father’s studio. That’s a ritual, of a kind. What does it do except reinforce the fact that you can’t hear? I want us to try something different, something that might shock you out of the state of mind you’re in, into one that’s more accepting of possibilities.
If it involves sacrificing chickens, count me out.
Nothing as metal as that, I swear!
KO made a sign I remembered from deaf class because it was the same as one from childhood: a cross drawn across the heart: Promise.
Let’s see . . . I can fit you in tomorrow at five. Go home and make a collection of things that remind you of music, things you’re prepared to let go of. If they’ll burn, all the better.
What the hell?
Trust me, Simon. I’ve done this before. It can be very powerful.
I gave in, figuring this wasn’t an argument I could win. Besides, what did I have to lose?
Do I have to wear anything special?
Unfortunately, this isn’t Harry Potter, either. Just come as you are and keep an open mind.
With a kind of wary trepidation, I did as he said, perusing my bedroom during the sleepless hours for anything that might be suitable. It was amazing how much I had accumulated since holding my first guitar. That wasn’t going on my pile of potential burnables, but my first music lesson book did. Various scraps of paper I’d written progressions on that had become songs for bands I’d played in. A series of Post-it notes on which I had tried to turn T. S. Eliot’s “The Hollow Men” into lyrics. The poster of infamous rock guitars that had hung over my bed for more years than I could remember. The sleeve of a T-shirt ripped in the mosh pit of my first Bring Me the Horizon concert. Deafman. A copy of Madeleine Winter’s newspaper article, retrieved crumpled from the bin.
To that pile I added a random selection from the notes that Selwyn Floyd had written to me during our early consultations, and the brain scan on which my damaged area had been highlighted. If we were exorcising ghosts, as a quick Google search suggested this ritual might be aspiring to do, I’d be happy to get rid of those.
The next day, Mum came home early to drive me to the clinic. I didn’t twig that she was going to be part of the ritual until she insisted on coming in with me. Dad was there too, and Sandra Mack. It was a regular reunion.
KO awaited us in his office. He had prepared big cards with messages written on them, like in Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” video. The first simply said, This way, and we followed as he led us outside, into the parking lot behind the back of the building. There, we found a waist-high steel drum that had clearly done incinerator duty before. Its interior was scorched black and exuded a fragrant charcoal smell.
We are gathered here today, said KO’s next card, displayed once everyone had finished saying hello. I rolled my eyes. Mum shot me a stern look.
to help Simon bury the past
that’s standing in the way of his future
while here in the present
I’d appreciate it if you kept this a secret
or I’ll totally be fired
(you may laugh at my joke now)
KO gave us a card each and made tearing motions with his hands. We did as he instructed, ripping the messages into strips and placing them on a mound of twigs and firelighters in the barrel. When that was done, KO handed me a box of matches.
I shrugged, lit one, and set the paper ablaze. The small gathering made room for me as I moved around the barrel, making sure the fire reached everywhere. It took three matches to get the flames really going, and by then my head was ringing from the scented smoke rising up from the smoldering twigs. It smelled nothing like cigarettes or dope. This was silkily smooth and full of fine, white ash.
KO gave me a thumbs-up, then indicated that I was to start throwing stuff onto the fire.
It was harder than I expected. With each item, I felt a small tug, deep down inside me, like I was tearing out part of myself and tossing it into a grave. This wasn’t just any old ritual, I perceived: it was a full-on funeral for the things I loved and, most tragically, for the part of my brain that had made me who I was.
My eyes watered, which might have been the smoke, but seeing me wipe tears away, Mum came and gave me a hug. Then the wind turned, and smoke enveloped us. We broke apart, coughing.
The last thing to go on the fire was the cassette of Deafman. It bubbled and blackened along with all the hopes and dreams I had entertained.
Except they didn’t. They were still there, burning a giant hole in my heart. Meanwhile, nothing new rushed in to take their place.
Sandra Mack took Dad’s hand and reached for mine. That did it. No way was I forming a happy-clappy circle over the cremation of my dreams.
“I’m going inside,” I said. “This smoke is giving me a headache.”
* * *
I waited in KO’s office for the others to join me. He came in first, holding a fire extinguisher in one hand. Tugging open the bottom drawer of his desk, he placed it inside. For next time, I guessed.
Mum, Dad, and Sandra came next. There weren’t enough seats, so Sandra stood by the door. KO produced a second laptop and invited them to type.
“This is bullshit,” I said aloud instead, to forestall anythi
ng too upbeat. “Burning magic firewood in a parking lot isn’t going to make anything better.”
Sandra’s hands moved, translating. I recognized the sign for “bullshit.” But who was she signing for? Not me, surely, because I was the one who had spoken.
She was looking at KO, who nodded, and suddenly I felt very, very small.
KO was Deaf. I had never known. Either I hadn’t noticed or I hadn’t cared, and I wasn’t sure which made me feel worse.
I told you it wouldn’t be magic, KO typed on his own laptop, turning the screen so I could read. It WAS a special mix of firewood, though. Ivy, holly, birch, elder, pomegranate, wormwood, and a little frankincense for good measure—for transformation, renewal, rebirth, that kind of thing. My boyfriend is into this. He shrugged. I’m sorry it didn’t help.
You tried, typed Mum. Thank you.
Yeah, thanks, I typed back, shamed into being more gracious by my faux pas. I felt as bad as Madeleine Winter: he didn’t look deaf . . .
I know you’re all just trying to help me do . . . this. Be Deaf. And maybe I can. In time. I guess I’ll have to, or else life is going to be pretty fucking confusing.
Everyone made encouraging faces, and Sandra typed Yay you! on the laptop.
But I don’t see why that means I have to give up everything, I went on. The silence in my head doesn’t mean music doesn’t exist. Right? It’s still out there. And still in here. I tapped my chest. I just need to find a way to bring it out so I can enjoy it too. I need . . .
There, words temporarily failed me. My innermost thoughts said, I need everything to go back the way it was, but the greater part of me was beginning to understand that that wasn’t ever happening. Perhaps with a little more practice throwing out the things that were no longer relevant, I could find a way forward that didn’t involve constantly torturing myself with what couldn’t be . . .
I pictured myself standing over another bonfire, holding my black Schecter Omen in one hand and signing Goodbye with the other.
No, I told myself. That isn’t an option.
I think I just need time. More time. To try studying composition at uni. If that doesn’t work, then we can talk about something else.
All right, typed Mum. If Professor Dorn will let you in.
I’ll email her today. I promise.
Deal.
Mum and I shook on it. Forced into a corner by life and KO, what other option did I have?
That wrapped up the wake. Sandra Mack signed goodbye and went to deal with her own clients. Dad patted KO on the shoulder and didn’t go near Mum, which meant that he didn’t come near me either, and that left me feeling a little wounded, considering we hadn’t really communicated since the night in the studio. Did he think I was still angry at him? Or was he angry at me for making Mum angry at him? When he was gone, KO pressed a small cloth bundle into my hand, like one of those potpourri sachets Mum keeps trying to sneak into my dresser drawers. It smelled like the bonfire before we’d put it to the torch, and with good reason. It too contained a mixture of ivy, holly, birch, elder, pomegranate, wormwood, and a little frankincense for good measure.
Stephen made it, KO typed. I’ll be in trouble if I don’t give it to you. Let’s humor him, shall we?
I signed, Thanks, and he signed the same back. I slipped the sachet into my backpack, wishing it really did have the power to solve all my problems.
* * *
There was a message from Dad waiting on my computer when I got home from Deaf Solutions.
Simon—
Well, that was a load of wank. But it made me think about your mother and me—no don’t hit delete! I’m not going to talk about our sex life. Hold that thought for your 21st.
One of the reasons she and I broke up is because I’m terrible at committing to things. Just awful. It may not look that way because I’ve got the business and have been in bands, etc., but I’m only in them when they’re safe, and once they stop being safe, I run. That’s why I stopped playing for Contact, right at our peak. I’d rather be behind a mixing desk than in a spotlight, even with my mates.
I see a bit of me in you. Lots of your mother, luckily—but everything to do with music, and a bit of my fear of joining in. You definitely get those from me.
I think that’s what the whole funeral thing today was for. The words KO wrote didn’t matter. It was about bringing us together, so you’ll know you’re not alone, no matter how much you might want to be right now.
Hiding behind the mixing console of your life isn’t going to work. Just look at how things turned out for me.
Anyway, this is probably the longest message I’ve ever sent you. Here’s some
Love, Dad.
I didn’t respond. Although I felt better for knowing that he hadn’t meant to brush me off and I’ll admit that I might have teared up a little on reading his words, what did they solve? Nothing. His email was just another ritual designed to make someone else feel better, like he was helping when actually he wasn’t. What “mixing console” was I supposedly hiding behind? The one in his studio, literally as well as metaphorically?
My promise to Mum weighed heavily on me until I actually made good on it. Perish the thought that the thing I shared with Dad was actually a fear of powerful women.
Fortunately, that was easily dismissed.
To my amazement, Professor Dorn replied within five minutes to my request to study composition.
A deaf composition student? Are you serious?
I don’t know if you realize it, but once every year, all the music teachers in the country get together to brag about their students. The ones who’ve won awards, the ones who’ve had pieces performed, the ones who’ve got real jobs. But it’s the ones who’ve struggled against the greatest adversity to get a passing grade that really make us shine. The brainless, the clumsy, the lazy. The bigger the challenge, the bigger the kudos.
I’ve been slipping down the tables lately, so keep talking!
(Everything in this email is a lie except for the last three words. Seriously, let’s talk.)
When you’ve got little left to lose, any victory feels immense. I played some air guitar to celebrate.
Then her second email arrived:
Oh, I meant to say, improvisation is not composition, so whatever goes in your portfolio, it can’t be Deafman. Sorry. Try again. You’ve got until February.
I groaned. There went that plan. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I would just have to come up with something else. The alternative, resigning myself to facts and figures and a life without music—Mum and Maeve’s vision of the perfect future, not mine—was too awful even to contemplate.
“Subtitle Sonata”
January 3
There’s no such thing as unmusical sound. Fine. That’s been my philosophy ever since I realized that noise music exists. But is there such a thing as musical un-sound? Proving that it might exist, or attempting to, is how I fill the first days of the new year, while waiting for G to get back in touch, for the second round of test appointments to finish, and for Professor Dorn to respond to my most recent ideas. Fear is a great motivator.
* * *
Impossible Music #3:
“0.00005”
Mechanically, the human ear is limited by its ability to perceive sounds above certain durations. In other words, if an event happens too quickly, we can’t hear it at all. That’s why notes higher than 20,000Hz are inaudible.
Each prerecorded work in this series is performed so quickly that not only can individual notes not be discerned, but the entire work will pass unnoticed. This doesn’t limit the size of the works themselves: they could range from a short sonata to an entire symphony, played very, very fast. In the end, they’ll all flash by in an instant.
At the exact moment when each work is broadcast into the performance space, the lights will switch on and then off again, generating a very bright, multicolored flash that will leave the audienc
e feeling like they have just missed something. It’s too late for them to hear it. It’s gone, finished, over—forever.
The title of this series reflects that fact that one cycle at 20,000Hz lasts 0.00005 of a second. You can’t get more minimal than that.
In answer to her earlier question, I told Professor Dorn that I would be okay when I got into the composition program. Hint-hint.
* * *
There’s nothing I can do to make her response materialize any quicker, so in the meantime I conduct tests of my own devising to see if my maybe-hearing is getting any more reliable. For one, I slam doors like Prameela did and strain my damaged brain for the slightest sound. For another, I turn my phone’s sound back on and tell Roo and Sad Alan to text at random times. Finally, I glitch a volume pedal and close my eyes while playing power chords through my dusty amp, never sure whether it’s making any sound or not.
All this does is make Maeve annoyed.
LOUD NOISES I’LL GIVE YOU LOUD NOISES, she scrawls in all caps on the whiteboard. Then she opens her mouth and screams.
Did you hear that? I yelled “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
I didn’t hear a thing, but her lip movements and facial expression were pretty unambiguous.
“All right,” I tell her in defeat. “Sorry.”
Impossible Music Page 14
