Sound And Me E-Book

Peter Berg

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Lesen ist das neue Reisen
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 331

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

If a picture (visual impression) paints a thousand words . The author Peter Berg questions the accepted view of audiovisual perception. His protagonist, the painter PiTTo, shows us that our rather „subservient“ sense of hearing, coupled with the uncanny 4‘ 33“ app, can also paint clear and vivid pictures in our mind. Devastated by a sudden and severe Tinnitus, PiTTo takes us along with him as he reluctantly befriends the constant droning in his ears, and in doing so, re-discovers the infinite power and possibilities of sound.

Leseprobe

Sound and Me

Fly with your Spirit

PETER BERG

Second revised edition 2019>>Sound and Me<< Copyright © 2018 Peter BergISBN-13: 978-3-9820209-0-7Translation: Martin UlrichCover Photo: Kindle Cover CreatorWebsite: www.flywithyourspirit.comContact: [email protected] on: Peter Berg: »Alles ist Klang«ISBN: 978-3-9820209-1-4

All rights reservedNo part of this book may be reproduced or utilized inany form or by any means,electronic or mechanical, without permission in writingfrom the Publisher.PiTTo

DEDICATION

Peter Berg is an author with a keen interest in sound. By deep listening to the sound-scapes of 4’33", his imagination creates wondrous pictures and sceneries whichhe weaves together into well-written narratives. It is a real pleasure following him on his sound travelsround the globe!

(Prof. Dr. Karlheinz Essl)University of Music and Performing Arts Vienna,Institute for Composition and Electroacoustics.

Asked once to put his philosophy in a nutshell,John Cage replied:

“Get yourself out of whatever cage you find yourself in.”His playfulness is fully revealed here as well as his wisdom.I think this book would please him as showing us another way out of our cages!

The author has furthermore captured the essence of Pauline Oliveros’ Deep Listening as he travels the world exploring its wildly varying sonic environments through the marvelous Cage-inspired 4’33” app. His stories of encounters with the people who have made the recordings are rich in imaginative detail and provocative in their inviting the reader to join him in listening and thinking about our intricate interconnections with all life.

(Prof. Norman Lowrey)Professor Emeritus of Music,Drew University, Madison, New Jersey

PREFACE

Everything in this book is pure fiction. Its source is the author's imagination. But as is also true of any novel, it builds a bridge between fact and fiction. The free play of the imagination transforms experience into a new, different reality. When the author steps into the virtual reality of a software program, the App 4'33", and navigates that dimension as he would the real world, then the boundaries become blurred.The narrated world contains the act of its conception.It contains itself, as it were.So as long as we find ourselves in the reality of the app, similarities to real persons or events are purely coincidental. Outside the app we know that the world as our mind conceives it is in fact an image of external reality that has been edited by our senses. Nothing that humans think is necessarily as it really is, but much of itcould be exactly as it occurs.

1 THE BEGINNING AND THE END

When we speak of home, we first think of it narrowly as the geographical place in which we were born. We grew up there; we have our roots there. But gradually the region that we have settled in also becomes our home, because we begin to feel at home there.

This time I am not returning to the place which I have called my home for many years. For as I was crossing the dateline, from the perspective of space, I was suddenly struck by the idea that the entire earth is our home. If our home is everywhere then it does not matter where we are at any given moment.

Then what could be wrong with permanently settling in my favorite place?

I land exactly where we started before, slipping into that green dot at the Bay Bridge in the middle of this fantastic city of San Francisco.

"We all have our own reality, always and everywhere.” A sonorous voice greets me immediately after my arrival. He speaks with a deep, confident voice, and gives me a friendly smile.

“So are you finally visiting me too, PiTTo?” It seems that Phil has been waiting for me for a while.

He stands across from me at the bar, just where Judy had sat. The tall, slender man with the casual three day beard looks at me expectantly. “Great that we didn't miss each other,” he says, laughing, and slaps me on the shoulder.

Phil is Judy's best friend, life partner, supporter and much more. She introduced me to him at the very beginning of our friendship as one of the app’s developers. We exchanged a few emails, and since then I have repeatedly followed his lead on the app.

Anyone who has the ability to create an entire world must be gifted with tremendous creative abilities. From the very first moment of our acquaintance Phil has remained a mystery to me.

Immediately after my arrival we leave the water bar together and go to his car in the nearby parking garage. We don't want to lose any time before getting to the essentials.

Phil turns onto US Highway 101 that cuts through the city at a northbound angle and soon merges with the famous coastal Highway 1. On the right we see the Coit Tower, a sign pointing the way to Fisherman's Wharf, Fort Mason, the Palace of Fine Arts. On the left the Walt Disney Family Museum, the San Francisco National Cemetery. Soon we are making a large right hand swing toward that amazing structure. For many generations of people this trademark of the San Francisco region has been a symbol of the place of their longing.

We drive silently for about 10 minutes in heavy traffic and now suddenly in front and behind us, we see nothing but cars lined up bumper-to-bumper in the morning rush-hour.

There it is in front of us: the Golden Gate Bridge. But as is so often the case, the ingenious structure from the year 1939 is entirely enveloped in fog. Meteorological inversion around the bay in the summer regularly results in an impenetrable pea soup of fog for the eyes. When the air over the land becomes warmer than that over the ocean, then the billows from the ocean waft in and swallow everything visible. The moisture cools and condenses into tiny water droplets.

Not until I see the thick, red, steel support directly next to the vehicle can I believe that we are here. We sit in the car silently. The fog demands Phil’s total concentration. Suddenly he makes a decision and turns off the road onto the exit to the northern observation point of the bridge and he stops in one of the parking spaces. In good weather this is an ideal place to lure any tourist to take a picture of the entire panorama of the city with the bay and the bridge in the foreground.

We get out of the car in order to listen from the railing of the observation point. The recording, FOGHORN, GOLDEN GATE, at the north end of the bridge offers an entry into this unique sound scape. The foghorn on the south tower, from here a good distance away, emits a deep, loud tone, and repeats it after a number of seconds. The foghorn in the middle of the two bridge towers follows shortly afterward at a higher pitch. The two signal horns seem to correspond to each other in a composed interval. It is briskly cold, I pull up the zipper of my imaginary jacket.

“Each foghorn has a different pitch and marine navigational charts give ships the fre-quency, or signature, of each fog horn." Phil speaks directly into the moist morning mist.

Ears as navigational instruments? When ship pilots pass under the bridge into the bay or onto the open sea, the tones tell them the locations of the bridge supports, they do not want to ram under any circumstances.

Phil begins the conversation. ”It is the power of our spirit, isn't it? We can move the world with it.”

“Indeed we can.”

“I have been following what you are doing for a while, PiTTo. You have been drawing internal images out of the sound and the noises of the world with the power of your imagination, images that other people have put onto the app. I'm glad about that, for that is a creative initiative in the use of our app. But I do wonder where that will lead. At first I thought of your traveling as a kind of playful dreaming. But now I am sensing there is something spiritual about it?”

At Minute 4’33” the foghorn has just sounded. We are sitting in the car again. His question remains unanswered for a moment.

2 BELLY,THE SNORING CAT

New Jersey, Denville. I find myself in a homey living room. Norman Lowrey sits across from me in a comfortable armchair, his legs crossed. The main focus of this meeting rests on his lap, sound asleep, snoring like a lumberman’s chainsaw.

Norman is a well-known professor of musicology, his big old cat is named Belly. He original named him Goldberry, a character in "Lord of the Rings", then shortened it to "Berry" and then transformed to “Belly”. The professor tells me that Belly performs this ritual every day when he is at home.

We sit for a long time in silence with our cup of tea, hardly daring to move. A moment of all-consuming concentration on a sound feels like an eternity.

New Jersey became the third of fifty states to join the union of the United States. It is the fourth smallest state and yet one of the most densely populated, perhaps in part due to its proximity to the metropolis, New York City. Many people who work in New York choose to live here on the urban fringe. The "Garden State”, as New Jersey is called, is covered with forests and farmland.

Denville is a small town situated north-west of the big city of Newark. From Newark Liberty International Airport it is accessible by car via Interstate Highway 80, or as I would prefer, by NJ TRANSIT train from Manhattan's Pennsyl-vania Station, near Times Square.

Exactly 4 minutes and 33 seconds after she begins, Belly suddenly stops her snore, blinks an eye and jumps from her resting place to the floor. The big old cat stretches, humps her back, then cranes her neck to look around the corner, and slowly steals away.

Professor Lowrey comes straight to the point."Do you know the difference between hearing and listening?"

"Not really", I answer, “the German language has only one word to mean both, hören."

"Pauline Oliveros, the late grande dame of American avant-garde composers, God rest her soul, distinguished between hearing, the physical act of perception, and listening, paying attention to what we perceive, both intellectu-ally and psychologically.”

Remembering just listening to the cat snoring for what seemed to be a long time, I wonder aloud, "It must effect our perception of time.”

"Sure," the professor agrees. "It's our common experience of time: Time past flows into time future through time present. Time past resides in memory. Time future resides in imagination. The present is all we have in hand. Time present resides in our awareness. So let's listen together to the eternal present!"

3 THE BELLBIRD

An Australian summer evening, nine thirty PM. I meet Stuart while looking for a lodging for the night. I arrived on this continent just a moment ago, quite spontaneously. Everything that had been on my mind for the last weeks just vanished. Now I am standing in the rain near the road to Wollongong.

Stuart is opening the zipper of the small tent from inside. He looks at me with his sparkling eyes, and mumbles: “Come in!“

I sit down next to him without saying a word. Stuart pulls the zipper shut. We listen to the raindrops that fall on the tent's canvas. Ever since my early childhood I've loved listening to the rain's music. It warms my heart. I'll never forget the raindrops that pattered on the wooden roof of my parents' bedroom. That sound helped me fall asleep in my little bed. Outside it was mostly cold and stormy.

The Australian summer rain is warm and refreshing. We listen to a grandiose concert of rhythms and timbres from an array of instruments: a regular, heavy pulse in the foreground, accompanied by the rushing white noise of the surrounding forest. Thousands of raindrops fall gently on the leaves of the exotic flora. Different parts of the plants make different sounds. The animals of the forest are the audience. The birds and insects, hiding quietly in their hideaways, listen to the sounds around them.

A car drives by, and sprays water at our tent. Civilization is very close when you are street camping, but it seems far away. The sounds of nature crowd it out!

A long time passes before Stuart mumbles a few words. He offers a cigarette. The flickering flame of his gas light that helped me find his tent illuminates his body. Who is he? What is he doing here beside the road? I decline the cigarette. I am a non-smoker.

“It's still raining,“ he mumbles, implying that I can stay here as long as the shower continues. A gesture of humanity. When the rain stops I will move on. Sure, for the while we sit together without saying a word.

The noise of the rain drops changes slowly, almost imperceptibly. The patter on the roof of the tent lightens, and gives way a bit to the sound of flowing water. Another car passes by.

“Street Camping!“ says Stuart, as if to explain the obvious. The background sound makes it clear. More heavy rain. We are both glad to be in a dry place. There is more noise. Are we in danger of a flash-flood?

The rain finally stops and we go to Stuart's car, which he parked on a nearby path. He offers me a ride to Wollongong. This steel and coal city is 85km south of Sydney, near the South Pacific Tasman coast between Australia and New Zealand. It has an excellent university. The Aborigines created the name “Wollongong“, meaning “sea noise“ or “rich fish meal“.

I discover that Stuart is a bird expert, and I can learn a lot from him, especially about bell miners, also named bellbirds. They are his

passion. Wherever he finds them he records their singing.

He invites me along on his research journey. The next day we head north.

“I am an unusual person in these parts“, he says,

“Australians normally don't go to bird habitats.“

“How come?“ I look at this man in his mid-forties, sitting in his pickup. We are traveling on Australia's main Highway No. 1, which con-nects most major cities.

“The bell miners usually live in groups numbering dozens. Only a few individuals breed.“

“How does that work?”

“The others keep their eyes open, help raise the little birds and protect the community.“

The big motor hums. We come to Wyong, north of Sydney, near the central coast. Pure Australian outback! Having left the northern Sydney suburbs I can hardly believe the splendor we are traveling through; brown soil under magnificent panoramas, endless blue skies, breathtaking valleys and canyons with wide plateaus, tropical forests and all their hidden secrets. This introverted man rewards my interest in his passion by helping me experience this wonderful world of Australian birds.

Suddenly, near Palmdale, he leaves the high-way and stops at a parking lot: “Here we are!“

We get out of the car and go straight into the bush. Stuart raises his right index finger meaningfully: “Listen!“

For the first time in my life I hear this clear and bright “Ping“, a sound that has driven people crazy, an intense sound that can be heard from far away.“

“This 'Ping, ping' is so crystal clear that you can never forget it“, comments my grinning friend, “this is how these birds control their habitat.“

He points to a branch high up in the bush. There he is! The mid-size grey-green honey eater!

“You can't see this bird, but you can hear him from far away. This creature is fearless. Other birds fly away from him. His loud call fills the air. After a short moment of reflection Stuart adds, ”to tell you the truth, this creature is like magic to me.“

Later, on the north rim of Lake Macquarie, I begin to understand why this man seems so introverted: his passion for this bell-sound consumes him. How does this sound affect our thoughts?

“Most of the people who come here are sailors. Their boats dock over there. People from Newcastle, some from Sydney. They go to sea to escape their everyday life.“

We are lying in soft, warm grass. I close my eyes, listening, fully concentrating on the sounds around me. I feel hypnotized by this bell sound that repeats again and again.

A dog barks far away. A car drives by. Insects hum. The bell miner produces his warning sound. It seems he wants to chase invaders from his territory.

“Not many birds dare to fly into this habitat“ says Stuart in. He seems to have read my mind. “And if they don't obey the bell miner, this bird can become aggressive, with their long pointed beak. The 'manorina melanophrys' even chase bigger birds away from their territory."

I wonder if the sailors looking for peace and serenity out at sea really know this kind of silence?

I have been trying to find this so-called silence.

I ask myself: Is there really such a thing as seclusion?

Aren’t we always surrounded by constant sound?

Every sound has some sort of meaning for us.

I imagine a bird is telling his neighbors about the best plants with the highest sugar content. Another bird answers from the other end of the habitat.

A crawl is flying over their territory, croaking noisily. A little kautz can be heard from the nearby waters. A dove coos peacefully. It sounds like she wants to let the other birds know that she will leave them alone, that she won't eat any of their food. To me all these birds are enjoying a life in perfect harmony.

Finally our blackbird-size friend, whose crystal-clear sound we have been enjoying for quite a while, appears right in front of our eyes, wagging its feathered tail, putting its beak high up, and produces its clear, bell-like sound for all to hear.

My day-dreaming Australian friend seems to ignore me. He is reciting to himself:

“And, softer than slumber,

and sweeter than singing,

the notes of the bell-birds

are running and ringing.“

While driving back, he explains to me that this is part of a well-known text by Henry Kendall from 1869. Most Australian students are familiar with this poem.

4 BY PEREGRINE TO SAINT PETERSBURG

When I see this attractive, young woman with the sad-looking eyes, I know right away it is like meeting James Blunt. In his song „You're beautiful“, Blunt describes a situation that everyone is familiar with, meeting someone for the first time with open eyes.

A short while ago, Julia caught my attention on the platform of Moskow's Leningradsky station: very tall, blue eyes, a narrow face with a petite nose, and dark-fair curly hair that gently touched her shoulders. Boarding the train, she carried a dark-blue cotton bag in her left hand and the Nowaja Gaseta in her right. Her outfit was typical of a modern, young, fashion-loving Russian female. She walked upright, looking optimistic about the future.

“Yeah, she caught my eye as we walked on by…“

I had never thought before to listen with her to the raindrops drumming on the skylight window of her Saint Petersburg apartment.

Now she sits three seats in front of me, the blue cotton bag in the luggage compartment right above her. I can only see a part of her left side, her dark blue woolen pullover and her leg with a high-heeled shoe.

“I won't lose no sleep on that.“

The “Sapsan,“ a high-speed train that the Russians proudly call "Peregrine", like the falcon, is traveling at 250 km per hour through the night, covering nearly 700 kilometers in only 4 hours. Today the train is full of passengers. Departure was just before midnight. After the food and beverage service most passengers go to sleep. Julia takes off her shoes and raises one leg on her seat. Then she puts the earphones from her mobile over her hair. Music accompanies us everywhere.

“I saw your face in a crowded place. And I don't know what to do, 'cause I'll never be with you.“

Unbeknownst to me, Julia is a member of a theater company. She is heading from the capital to spend the weekend at home. What I also don't know is that her drama director is a fan of the American composer, John Cage. In Saint Petersburg, Cage's play, “Lecture on Nothing,“ is currently playing. It's a great success and will go on tour across Russia, starting in Moscow.

Last but not least I am also unaware that the young actress just is presently using her mobile to make an audio recording of the soundscape of the train, which she will put online later as music.

We are traveling through the Russian district of Twer. It is three a.m. in central Russia. City lights flash by. The train is traveling monotonously. Its steel wheels rumble in a gentle rhythm varied only when the train rolls over joints in the rails. Someone comes back from the bathroom and shuts the door forcefully. I keep my eyes closed, listening to the soundscape that I can't escape. So I just let it happen. Travelers laugh briefly in hushed tones at the other end of the carriage. The car returns to something like silence. What I perceive is silence, filled with noise.

Someone nearby rustles paper. Someone else opens a canned beverage, drinks fast, opens the waste container and throws the can into the bin. At some point, I fall asleep.Then the train pulls into the station in Saint Petersburg called “Moscow“, and before I realize it pretty Julia is out of my sight.

“I don't think that I'll see her again. But we shared a moment that will last 'til the end.“

5 DID YOU EVER CONSIDER LIVING A DIFFERENT LIFE?

Jack McNeal is a tall man in his early eighties, but he looks much younger, thanks to his muscular physique. He is a hiker, and walks almost every day. Tanned, with sunglasses, a unique grey cap, casual clothing and an engaging smile in the corners of his eyes.

I meet Jack and his enchanting wife, Gay, both are artists, at the Avalon waterfront. Not the mythical Anglo-Saxon Avalon of King Arthur lore. Since 1191 the English town ofGlastonbury claims to be this legendary Avalon. Who knows? Perhaps it is! No, this Avalon is on the other side of the Atlantic.

I've just arrived on the island of Santa Catalina, off the coast of California. Jack and Gay are standing in front of me holding hands at the sandy beach near the harbor. They look at a white ocean liner anchored near the little boats that belong to the locals. The waves of the soft warm water gently caress their bare feet.

This is a wonderful place for romantic people and a great hang-out. This southern California island, located in Los Angeles County and inhabited by just 4000 people, fascinates me right away.

Environmental protection is a major issue here. The mild, subtropical climate keeps the island warm all year, and the people make their living from tourism. Only a small number of cars are allowed. Instead we see golf carts that are nick-named 'Avalon Autoettes'. There are ferries to the mainland, but you can also reach it by helicopter or plane.

An airplane flies over the peaceful harbor. We hear its final approach, then it disappears and the silence returns. Again the soft rippling of the waves on the shore. For a short moment I concentrate fully on the sound of the water. Jack and Gay are standing a few meters away from me. They keep still and seem to day-dream of far-away memories. Timeless.

The autoettes buzz softly by. A flag flutters in the wind. The rope slaps the metal, following the irregular rhythm of the wind. Water touches feet, giving a warm and pleasant feeling.

It felt like an eternity before Jack says a few words. They are hard to understand. Gay nods. They stop holding hands, and turn around. At this moment our eyes meet. They discover the silent witness to their scene, smiling warmly.

“Who are you?“

“I am from Germany, just came here today.“

“Oh, from Germany, that's far. In Europe, isn't it?“ We talk for a while and finally they invite me to drink coffee with them.

The terrace of their hotel is on the other side of the street. It's the 'Pavilion', an elegant island-style house within walking distance of the beach of Avalon Bay.

I discover that they very recently celebrated their 53rd wedding anniversary, that they have just arrived on the island from their home Morro Bay, Los Osos, a town on the Pacific Coast midway between Los Angeles and San Francisco. We look at the peaceful bay where the little boats of the locals bob up and down at the buoys. We look at the pristine beach, the palm trees, the tiny sun-blessed homes located uphill near the harbor.

After Gay and Jack help me find a hotel room we meet at the bar. In the meantime they have opened their hearts to me and talk about their lives. Gay wears her heart on her sleeve. She says, “The trips Jack and I take to Catalina are for rest and relaxation, as well as nostalgia. Jack used to go scuba diving there as a young man and has fond memories.

I used to spend my summers there as a child. We had family friends that owned the 13-bed hospital. It was a very carefree experience, spending my days doing whatever I felt like, pretty much without adult supervision. Mostly hanging out at the beach, swimming, collecting shells, even setting up a stand, similar to a lemonade stand, to sell shells to the tourists who arrived daily on the big white steamer. Our other money-making endeavor was to dive for coins thrown by the tourists from the steamer as it sailed into dock for the day. I believe my one regret for today's children is the lack of freedom to explore and learn on their own. Our children had the opportunity to experience a bit of this freedom, but their childhood was already at the beginning of the age when children were subjected to over-booked schedules, including 'play dates'.

More and more they are denied these more liberating experiences.“

After dinner we follow the tip printed on the hotel flyer, to “kick off the evening around the fire with a complementary wine and cheese reception in the open-air lounge.”

“Did you ever consider living a different life?”

“What do you mean?" Jack looks astounded.

“Or maybe the life of another man?”

“Not ever.” His answer comes quickly.

Gay laughs, amused. “Did you?”

“When I was twenty-five I dreamt of immi-grating to Australia. Then I met a fascinating girl who had a different dream. She wanted a family. And what can I say, she got one!“

We laugh, reminded of the ironies of our lives.

“Tell us about your family.“ Jack raises his glass, and says “Cheers!”

“We have three grown-up boys now, every one a brave man. And I am still dreaming of the big, wide world. To this day I have never been to Australia. But I should not be ungrateful. After all, I have seen half of the world. I visited America twice with my sons, I’ve been to Asia, nearly everywhere in Europe, and I’ve seen the Caribbean. That is more than I could have dreamt possible when I was a little boy. And a few days ago I still believed it would be possible to keep doing this forever.“

“I don't understand what you mean,“ both of the couple look at me inquiring.

I sip my drink. 'Kentucky Rose Water' is the Special Drink of the Day.

“I must say, from this drink alone the restaurant deserves a 5-star rating!” I laugh, a bit abashed, and after a while I add: "Now I will have to change my way of thinking. I still can’t admit that I am an old man. But now I can’t avoid thinking about my future, because one week ago I had a life changing experience. My life suddenly ended."

“So you are not really here, my friend?“

“This could be the beginning of an unusual story. I'd like to write it down, and if you would bear with me for a little while, I'd like to set it down together with you. It might be a defining experience for both of us. Please feel free to react freely and honestly. You can comment, or you can send me one of your fascinating photo-graphic visions."

Later that evening, around midnight, we go to our rooms after a few refreshing drinks. I am sure that I have found new friends. Yes, today I fulfilled the promise of the hotel flyer, when I found “my island rhythm in the cool ocean breeze on a comfy chaise lounge in the beautifully landscaped central courtyard.”

The next morning the sun shines right onto my bed. After an enchanting breakfast on the hotel terrace I leave Jack and Gay, and continue on to my next travel destination. I will meet them again soon at Morro Bay.

6 CAGE-APP 4'33''

In the meantime the attentive reader will have surmised that I have never really met any of these people in person. Yet in each case I really did encounter them. How is this possible?

The solution to this mystery is called the App 4'33''.

Since Nov 2013 there is a large mobile app available. You can find this app at the AppStore or at ‚johncage.org‘. The app enables anybody on our planet to set up a connection on their iPhone with a satellite that can locate the user’s precise position. 4’33” (“FourMinutes, Thirty-three Seconds”) was John Cage's most famous and provocative composition, and now you can perform it yourself!

Cage's work teaches us that there is no such thing as ‘silence,’ and that there is joy to be found in paying close attention to the sounds around us. This app emulates Cage’s insight. It is available in an official release from the John Cage Trust and Cage's long-time publisher, C. F. Peters. Users are able to capture a three-movement 'performance' of the ambient sounds in their environment, and then upload and share that performance with the world. They're also able to listen to the performances of others, and to explore a worldwide map of ever- growing performance locations.

In this book I want to document the fact that music can be an effective travel tool. If we assume that every human being carries his own world with him, which he develops in his own spirit, then there must be a way for us to enter that world. Required is our imagination and the ability for deep listening. The people all over the world who record these environmental sounds with their smartphones are the narrators of their stories. We join them through the app on a mental journey to re-live their tonal stories.

Traveling through the soundtracks on the app means exploring not only places, but also time. Each audio track of 4'33'' means a piece of conserved time.

7 MY FRIEND, SAM

Imagine being blind, unable to see anything, receiving all forms of information through the other senses. Can those of us who can see really understand what that is like?

Or imagine being deaf, having to live without the joy of hearing the sounds of the world around us, or the beauty of spoken language. We would clearly need to depend on our other senses, especially our sense of sight.

Each of these handicaps places burdens on the victim. But people learn to compensate. A blind person can learn to “see” by hearing, smelling and tasting, and can learn to read with the tips of his or her fingers. A deaf person “hears”, in a sense, with his or her eyes, develops an extraordinary sensitivity to the most subtle cues, becomes highly attuned to visual information, and makes use of a wide variety of technologies in order to perceive language.

Now imagine someone who for many years believed in the inviolability of silence, but whose illusion is suddenly shattered by the appearance of a constant tone in his head.From that moment on, the tinnitus overrides every sound, every message, every tone that reaches his ears. Will the auditory overkill, which he can never turn off, drive him crazy? Or will he learn to live with the tone in his head? Will he be able to sustain a reliable interpretation of the world despite the interference of this phantom sound which dominates the sounds of the real world around him?

The author of these lines is one who suffers from this latter form of handicap. In order to explain my particular thoughts on hearing and

music I must briefly describe my condition. I do this not from a theoretical point of view, which is accessible through medical studies of tinnitus, but rather from the perspective of one who has suffered from this ailment for many years. My interest is less of an academic nature than an attempt to describe my personal path for people unaffected by this condition who may find it difficult to understand.

I describe how I was able to successfully overcome the feeling of helplessness which gripped me at the time of its sudden appearance. Every time I am able to successfully decipher an audial scene, that is, whenever I can reach through the veil of this dominant tone and pick individual sense out of the clash of tonal impressions, it is a victory for me.

The standard treatment recommended by hearing specialists is the purchase of a hearing aid. Of course, I tried this, and invested a lot of money in the process. Unfortunately the distinctive tone did not disappear. The sounds that normally appeared quiet became louder. That meant that my loud internal tone was now constantly joined by many other loud external sounds.

Since our ears are constantly inundated with sounds, whether they are important to us or not, the hearing aid had the effect of increasing the stress on the brain. For that reason I chose rather to accept the tone in my head and to train myself to navigate the thicket of sounds.

The other senses, especially vision, can be helpful in this endeavor, of course. But true auditory training excludes the sense of sight.

The main task in overcoming this particular handicap is to learn to listen precisely to various sources of sound, interpret and understand them, differentiate between various possible interpretations, and finally to recognize familiar patterns of sounds. And there is always the fear of a complete loss of hearing.

But a whole new world of possibilities opens by closely listening to, interpreting and understanding MUSIC. In particular, I have found that the music of John Cage is the magic formula that relieves the tension caused by the constant tone of my tinnitus, and soothes my spirit.

In English we use the expression, “to get on one’s nerves”. With that we mean that the human spirit is losing the ability and the will to cope with something. Imagine living next to a construction site where a jackhammer is constantly pounding. Wouldn‘t you rather spend that time on vacation? Or you have set up camp under a jet airplane that is revving its engines in preparation for take-off. But the plane does not take off, and you would like to sleep, but the noise is preventing you. As an experiment, take one of those little travel blow dryers in hand, one of those cheap ones with the shrill, high-pitched motor, the kind that you would like to throw away as soon as you have finished drying your hair. Now hold it 15 centimeters from your head. Awful, isn’t it? You want to end the experiment as soon as you have started it!

Now imagine that the author of this text has lived with that condition for ten years. If I hold such a fan that close to my head, I simul-taneously hear my own inner tone at the same volume as that of the fan.

Tinnitus can happen to anyone. There were no warning signs that it would happen to me one day. I played in a rock band as a teenager, and I loved the loud, pounding music of the disco. I attended rock concerts all the time without ear protection. As a young adult I used a chain saw in the woods with no thought of protecting my ears. It never occurred to me. No doubt there were many more occasions in the following years that put stress on my ears.

One morning I woke up, and my world had totally changed. The otherwise quiet apartment was filled with a very loud, high pitched hissing, whistling sound, and I couldn’t figure out where it came from. I looked out the window, but could see nothing unusual. I was utterly baffled that my wife couldn‘t even confirm the sound’s existence. So I took a shower and let the water flow over my head, which I now understand provides temporary relief. But as soon as the shower ended I was aghast to find that the loud tone was still in both ears.

In my desperation I went to a medical specialist. The ear, nose and throat doctor had a ready diagnosis: tinnitus. And to my astonish-ment he added with inimitable empathy, “This will probably be permanent; it does not normally go away.”

I was shocked and reacted like a Roman empe-ror: I blamed the messenger. I imagined that he deserved the death penalty, which in this case meant that I changed doctors.

Had I known that the man would prove to be honest and competent, I could have saved myself the trouble.

I tried everything on the therapy market. A trusted doctor gave me two weeks of infusions, and I received a weekend of in-patient treat-ment. After that I tried an oxygen therapy in a pressure chamber, and gingko treatments, all of which were just as unsuccessful as my new doctor’s attempts at acupuncture.

In short, nothing helped.

During this time I was employed as the dis-trict administrator of a German school district, tasked with maintaining a quality curriculum and directing several dozen schools. I was the administrator of school principals and responsible for all disturbances occurring in the course of a day.

As a result of my condition I needed to take sick leave in order to recover at home. But the stress was only exacerbated by the supposed silence, so I tried to distract myself. I got in-volved with various internet discussion groups, but the result was that my mind became overwhelmed, and I fell into a deep depression.

My only option to recover from the depression was to take treatment at a special clinic. The so-called Retraining Therapy was able to gradually refocus my mind to more fully perceive my other senses. I became aware of the fact that the creative, artistic side of my mind had been neglected over the years. I turned to painting.

Today, many years later, I can look back at quite a successful career as a creative artist. Initially I presented my artworks in neigh-bouring regions, but more recently I have held exhibitions of my paintings internationally, in Europe and even in China.

In the process I made a baffling discovery that has helped me greatly, namely that I am able to see tones and to hear colors. My internal tinnitus tone is orange. In Vienna I exhibited a collection of paintings in orange. When I painted in blue, I found that the blue calmed my internal tone, and I was more able to ignore it.