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Author: admin | 15.09.2014 | Category: Ringing Of The Ears Treatment

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As a lot of you know, I’ve been pretty ill this year, at least since March of 2013, and Elisa and I have spent a good portion of our time bailing on commitments to hare across the country meeting with doctors and groups of doctors and witch doctors. I had looked forward so much to having an apartment of my own, had carried the idea around with me so fondly all through the army, that I was astonished to discover, after my first few days there, that I was lonely.
Whoever had the apartment before me had painted the walls in wide vertical stripes in three different shades of blue. I noticed on the floor, so far below us, all of our clothes, in their arbitrary pattern, as they’d fallen–what awfulness, what falseness they represented: everything in the world which we supposedly were but really were not: how easily a historian or a sociologist could deduce from looking at this disorderly pile our precise location in the long parade of the human race–the historical moment we’d lived in, our place on the economic scale, which city, which streets, what buildings we’d inhabited, what landscapes we’d known–how easily he could describe our tastes, our beliefs, the music, the books–to all of which we could only cry out very feebly, “No! For the last year now, I’ve been working on the first production of Denver Poet’s Theater: Wallace Shawn’s chamber tragedy, The Designated Mourner. It’s appropriate that writers stage The Designated Mourner—it’s a kind of outloud novel, one that eschews stage props and customs to take shape in the theater of the mind.
The single most devastating lesson of the 1960s and early 1970s was that progressive institutional change in American society would not be permitted to happen. Like all real readers, I always have more than one book going at a time, and of course they converse. For years I’ve owned a falling-apart copy of Kenneth Rexroth’s translation of The Greek Anthology, dipping into it here and there.
It’s silly to pretend that if these English version were to appear today, in the pages of Conduit 24, shorn of all context, that they’d be a tenth as successful as they are now.
And it goes on like that: a series of short, probably true events that, now that he’s died, read like an epigraph. The Policeman's Daughter by Paula Rego“Some of the West’s best writers, from Dostoevsky and Conrad and Malraux to Mary McCarthy, Heinrich Boll, Doris Lessing, Alberto Moravia, Nadine Gordimer, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, have tried to read the minds of what Don DeLillo in Mao II called “men in small rooms.” All they’ve done is make those minds seem almost as interesting as their own, which of course they aren’t. Turning Safe Search OFF may display content intended for mature audiences.You must be at least 18 years old to continue.
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We’re going to pause our efforts for a little while, following my visit to the Mayo Clinic last week, and so this might be a good time to bring everyone up to speed on what’s been happening and what the future may hold.In a way it began 7 years ago, when I had my first vertigo attack and first heard a buzzing sound in my left ear.
Tonight, Aaron Angello, Elisa Gabbert, and myself are mounting the first performance at Dianela Acosta’s house in Boulder.I’ve wanted to direct this play since the first time I read it, somewhere between the spring and autumn of 1997. Indeed, the show’s first New York performance featured New Yorker short story writer Deborah Eisenberg in the role of Judy. It took a long time for the lesson to sink in everywhere, and whether or not it has bearing on Warhol’s eventual embrace of “Business Art,” his work became the mirror of an unameliorated capitalist ethos, at ease with portrait commissions from the Shah of Iran and taped reflections of Imelda Marcos; making the world safe for Andy Warhol involved making Andy Warhol safe for the world. So from now on , here and there, I’m going to post a few notes, in no order, about the experience of reading one through the other.
Whatever ill-defined force conscripts us to re-open books made me take The Greek Anthology down from the shelf and carry with with me for the last week and a half. Generally, I’m sympathetic to lamentations about the state of new poetry: the bland jumpiness, pseudo-naivete, in-gaming. At the time this was diagnosed as endolymphatic hydrops, or “Meniere’s Disease.” While lots of people in America are diagnosed with Meniere’s disease every year, only a small percentage actually have the condition – most have a small imbalance caused by a passing virus, or an opportunistic infection, or autoimmune disease of the inner ear.
It was one thing to feel lonely in Brooklyn or in the army, but how could I be lonely in my own place in Greenwich Village? You don’t understand!” Sometime–when?–before we were twenty–we’d reached into the heap of available thoughts and available practices and grabbed one thing and another to cover our nakedness, but always knowing it wasn’t really what we wanted. I remember buying my copy at Rizzoli books in the Copley Mall, then walking home and reading it in one fast, chain-smoking, sunlit sitting. Like Spencer Tracy in the final moments of Inherit the Wind, I left every room with two books in my hand.
The jokes you share with the very young or the very old may not be as funny as the third round of belly laughs with your good friends the night before, but you enjoy them more because you’re connecting across a chasm, and those connections feel wonderful.


But there plenty of exceptions, and there are times when, god help me, jumpiness and in-gaming work.
Still, they often lived into their 90s, and we see more death on TV in a month than the average Athenian saw in a year. To imagine otherwise is to be as ethically idiotic as Karlheinz Stockhausen, the composer who told reporters in Hamburg on September 16 that the destruction of the World Trade Center was ‘the greatest work of art ever.’” — John Leonard, Reading for My LifeIn a role reversal, the dramatis personaeare left to the end of the book. The tastes, the beliefs, the manner, the style–they all were hastily improvised approximations, as if we’d always planned to return to them later and revise them, fix them, but we never had. I don’t smoke anymore, thank heaven, but the play is going to be real, at long last, in only a couple of hours.
Writers first, we took on the text as a complex literary work and talked together about how much was packed into it, how to pull that out. They treat our generational loneliness.So many of the Greek poems sound like interrupted conversations (“Good God, what a night it was…”). When, finally, the important question about my father arose: is my life like my father’s, I found no answer.
It seemed like a minor distraction, and so I went on living with it.For 5 or 6 years I’d occasionally suffer vertigo attacks (where the room would spin for 4 hours and I was convinced all the time I was falling through space, even when comfortably tucked-in on the couch), dizzyenss (the world jumped when it shouldn’t have) and a roaring and whining and grinding sound in my hears that, as I conceptualized it at the time, often grew so loud I had trouble hearing voices around me, or making sense of what they were saying. It was loneliness that walked the streets of the Village and filled the bars, loneliness that made it seem such a lively place.
I’ll try to make a few notes on this blog, here and there, about how the production is going. Although I call myself the director here, the production was thoroughly collaborative, with lots of rehearsals indistinguishable from study groups.
I’d switch of between them, depending on my mood — did I want something 2,500 years weathered or something written by the people I knew?So what’s the difference between them?
It’s the dark background between all the soft skin and the rustling money and the red wine, but it isn’t here in Conduit (neither, oddly, is there much love or money, illustrations of dollar bills between the poems to one side).
And another; and another … But this is the conclusion reached by each and every rational heardsman sharing a commons. That sense of immediacy across time is what people mean when they speak of a classic. When I lived in Cambridge and I was making poor life choices I used to wake up at 4am and walk the streets of Harvard Square barefoot. So many of the poems in Conduit seem to be about negotiating the haunting but decidedly minor vicissitudes of modern life: arrangements of light, the touch of trees, pop songs, deja vu. My hearing began to fluctuate wildly and I began experiencing vertigo attacks once a week, then once a day. This kind of indeterminacy is valuable and it is unknown in The Greek Anthology.On further reading, correspondences between the two books multiply. Passion is muted, made pocket-sized, as if in deference to the insignificance of a single person’s emotion in such a loud and crowded world. Each man is locked into a system that compels him to increase his heard without limit–in a world that is limited. Paulos Silentiarios’ lament could be the masculine call to Paige Taggart’s response, both in a kind of passionate extremis (his mind is on her, her mind is elsewhere).
When you come to ask the question, you will see me as very old, a skull above my shoulder as clear a death-portent as any death-portent could be, and you’ll wonder, how could that man have been a man? Ruin is the destination toward which all men rush, each pursuing his own best interest in society that believes in the freedom of the commons. We started going to doctors, many of whom had ideas, and many of whom suggested tests (all of which we performed, from spinal tap to videonystagmography to scan after scan) but none of whom were able to offer a definitive diagnosis or suggest effective treatment. As so much of the play takes the form of a series of confessions, a lot of our early conversation had to do with who the audience was intended to represent. This wasn’t typical for hydrops, but didn’t seem typical for anything else either.What was baffling to us all this while was that I seemed, at times, to feel just fine.
You’ll wonder, have I been different enough to avoid his fate?” — Adam Goalaski, Color Plates“Nor was this appropriation of any parcel of land, by improving it, any prejudice to any other man, since there was still enough and as good left; and more than the yet unprovided could use. The hearing loss would evaporate from both ears, my balance would return, the room wouldn’t spin. It’s genuinely funny, but the Greeks could be funny too (the Emperor Julian’s poem “On Beer” reads, in its entity, “You call that wine? So that in effect there was never the less left for others because of his enclosure for himself.


Then, increasingly, and without warning, all symptoms would return as aggressively as they ever had. Are you the generation who succeed Jack and Judy, smugly incurious about the time of the upheaval, when the dirt-eaters finally rose up and the new government set them and all of their sympathizers firmly to rest?Were the characters ghosts? I call it mush.”) And they didn’t mind getting personal  There are insults in these poems I cannot repeat without incurring misdirected wrath (they were not politically correct, those Greeks). For he that leaves as much as another can make use of, does as good as take nothing at all.
Stars melt on your tongue.“Work Planet Welt Space” by Matthew Pendleton is the most Sci-Fi of the stories in NG 7 but it persistently lapses into a kind of modernist poetry. I quit teaching anywhere I had to drive to, started exploring freelance work, but was and am still anxious about the future, unsure of exactly what I’m able to do.
Add to that the constantly changing nature of the condition–that when I go to sleep at night, I don’t know whether or not I’ll be able to hear or walk well in the morning–and you’ll begin to see how a rush to diagnose and treat this condition consumed the whole of our lives.
We visited the House Ear Clinic in LA, Yale New Haven, and most recently the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN.The folks at the Mayo Clinic cannot prove a diagnosis one way or the other either (no surprise there) but they strongly suspect that what I’m suffering is a form of endolymphatic hydrops after all, but of a highly rare bilateral and intractable variety.
A ghost is someone you can’t let go of, who follows you and badgers you, who you talk to when they aren’t there. I love Joshua Ware’s new poems (from his Impossible Motels, which are exactly what they sound like) but how would my experience of them fare if I didn’t know who and what had inspired them?That was the question Cephalas had to contend with when he assembled The Greek Anthology in 10th Century Byzantium out of a whole millennium of short poems in the language. Like with something by Pynchon, I remember not the story itself, but its primeval motions.“After the Storm” is by me. There is no other patient with my history but, as the doctors helpfully add, every case is different. If they end up being right (and although we’re taking a break, we’re not through soliciting new opinions) then there is a very good chance that someday soon – maybe a year from now, maybe ten years, maybe five days – I’ll lose my ability to understand human speech entirely–it will disappear and won’t come back.
At this point we will begin to explore implants, though neither implants or more powerful hearing aids are silver bullets – both take a long time to adjust to and will not approximate the hearing I have lost.
Carl Purcell’s “The Middle-Managers of Pachnout” reads like a complex dessert, the kind that steals the meal — how? I’m going to begin physical rehabilitation, on the Mayo Clinic’s orders, in hopes of repairing some of the vestibular damage that’s been done, and to strengthen the tools of balance I won’t lose – my eyes and my sense of touch – in hopes of at some point walking without the cane I now so often find I have to use.What’s most maddening about all this, of course, is the uncertainty. Yes, this is true for all of us, to some extent, but in my own case it has been preventing me from doing the things I used to enjoy—both the illness and the worry keep me from seeing plays (how could I hear them?) or going to readings, or eating or drinking in bars or restaurants, where the level of ambient noise would overwhelm my hearing aids.
Both the illness and worry make my heart rise up in my throat when I walk into a classroom (what if I have a vertigo episode and have to call-off class? And then how would I get home if I can’t use the phone, can’t see straight to text … ?)Having returned from Mayo with the sword of Damocles still tenuously poised above me, and with my hearing disappearing further every time it disappears (today, even with hearing aids on high volume, I’m having some trouble understanding what Elisa says, and this is heartbreaking of course because I’ve been away from her for weeks) I’ve made what I hope is a useful decision. I’m going to try to re-enter life as much as possible, to try to do everything I used to do, until I become convinced that I can’t. Instead of resting on a bad hearing day, hoping the rest will turn my hearing better, I’m going to work. Instead of staying home during events where I can’t hear well (any time there’s more than 4 people in a room, or the room is large, or the people are soft spoken, or music plays in the background, or the walls and floors aren’t sufficiently sound-absorbent) I’m going to try going anyway. Instead of quitting teaching, I’m going to persist with my Lighthouse classes, though not with The School of Mines, much as I’ll miss it. Even though it can exacerbate the symptoms, I’m going to return to exercise, with the aim of not being exhausted all the time (people with balance issues tire easily) and in hopes that being in better physical shape will help me stave off the catastrophe that’s been predicted for me.So one of the reasons I’m writing this note is to update all of you who’ve asked how things were going (I appreciate those notes, and I’ll remember them) and to thank everyone I see day-to-day, or correspond with spottily, for their patience and their understanding, both with me and with Elisa, who, like the rest of my family, has been a rock for me. I’m also writing to beg that your patience and your understanding be extended indefinitely. I want to be able to work and live and play in the world, but it might be a little trickier for me from now on and I’ll require occasional – hopefully very occasional – special consideration. I may not even be able to email about something urgent right away if I’m too dizzy to look at the screen.



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