The Inner Ear
Sometimes I live my life holding on to the thread of the silver lining, the dark clouds rolling above and beneath me. I don't think I'm a depressed person by nature, but certain experiences have tested my disposition again and again. And if I seem particularly existential at times, it's because I've chosen to live in a world not fully my own-- a deaf man in a hearing world.
My father is having brain surgery today. The procedure is supposed to be relatively simple, at least compared to the 12-hour surgery he had four years ago to remove the malignant ependynoma that was swallowing up the language center of his brain. I often wonder about this bloom of words struggling to get in and out of both of us. And I wonder too how much longer he'll be with us. But this is something I can't write about right now, when he may well be in the operating room at this moment.
About two years ago I began to storyboard a novel called The Inner Ear. That title didn't actually come to me until after I'd finished a rough draft of the book. At that time it was still untitled, and while hosting a writing circle at my house in Portland, heady on wine and critiquing someone's short story, I suddenly saw the words illuminated in my mind, so absurdly simple and right that I could not believe I hadn't thought of it before. It felt like grace, that silver thread.
I try to compose my life of moments of grace and profound meaning. And this is where the existentialism comes in again-- the philosophy is simply about our attempt to find meaning in our own lives, which often seem inchoate, chaotic, beyond our control. And if you are one of those few who feel you have everything under control, give it time. Everything we know and love in this life will disappear, for some of us sooner, and for others, later.
The Inner Ear has in many ways been a process of self-discovery, of putting into words what I've always known about my own experience but haven't admitted, even to myself. And just as the novel was and is about a deaf man coming to terms with himself even as the aural world blurs and dims around him, it has also been the story of me coming to terms with myself and my father's illness.
When I went to SE Asia this past summer, knowing that my life would change completely when I returned-- leaving a city I loved, ending a 2-year relationship, and leaving my community behind, this novel was in a shambles. I returned from SE Asia with little clarity on who I was, with a sense that I once again had to pick up the pieces of myself. I still wear a red bracelet with five beads which a Burmese monk tied around my wrist in Kyaingtong. The world is suffering and impermanence, he told us. One strives for egolessness. And if I had been born in Burma, I too would have strived for the silver lining of the great beyond, an immoveable force on which the Tatdamaw (the Burmese army) has no control.
But I was lucky enough to be born an American, one of the few countries where a deaf person stands a chance. I came back to America, and within a month of moving to Baltimore and starting at Hopkins I lost more of my hearing. For all my despair, the silver lining was a renewed sense of purpose about my novel and my own spiritual self. My spirituality has always been tied to my deafness and my inner songs, the ethereal ringing that has accompanied me every day and every moment of my entire life. To me, tinnitus is my way of looking at the Buddhist concept of the unstruck sound, without beginning or ending, cause or effect. There are moments when I am almost breathless with a strange and beautiful melody I have never heard before.
Last week I workshopped the latest draft of my first chapter. I received a lot of good feedback, and I also had the amazing privilege of talking with Alice McDermott one on one for an hour afterwards. The first thing she said to me is "this is very good, I want you to move forward." We discussed the structure of the novel and she was incredibly helpful. After an hour, I left with my head swimming and a whole new range of structural and plotting issues to sort out, but I also felt a renewed sense of purpose. The hours, days, months I've struggled with this novel, at times wondering if I should give it up or whether it was any good.... the perseverance pays off at moments like this.
John Barth told us to invent new genres, and simply through my experience I hope to have that opportunity. The Deaf genre has yet to be explored, and I feel a strong sense of purpose in this, not just because it is my own experience, but because it is a perspective that has been silenced for so long in the hearing world. Will this work eventually get published? From a statistical standpoint, the odds are against me. I certainly hope it will. But for now, my own belief and sense of purpose is more than enough. There is nothing else that quite gives me that unique sense of ecstasy as being lost in my writing. A few hours of good writing becomes a high that lasts all day.
Good luck, Dad. This is nothing compared to what you've been through.
My father is having brain surgery today. The procedure is supposed to be relatively simple, at least compared to the 12-hour surgery he had four years ago to remove the malignant ependynoma that was swallowing up the language center of his brain. I often wonder about this bloom of words struggling to get in and out of both of us. And I wonder too how much longer he'll be with us. But this is something I can't write about right now, when he may well be in the operating room at this moment.
About two years ago I began to storyboard a novel called The Inner Ear. That title didn't actually come to me until after I'd finished a rough draft of the book. At that time it was still untitled, and while hosting a writing circle at my house in Portland, heady on wine and critiquing someone's short story, I suddenly saw the words illuminated in my mind, so absurdly simple and right that I could not believe I hadn't thought of it before. It felt like grace, that silver thread.
I try to compose my life of moments of grace and profound meaning. And this is where the existentialism comes in again-- the philosophy is simply about our attempt to find meaning in our own lives, which often seem inchoate, chaotic, beyond our control. And if you are one of those few who feel you have everything under control, give it time. Everything we know and love in this life will disappear, for some of us sooner, and for others, later.
The Inner Ear has in many ways been a process of self-discovery, of putting into words what I've always known about my own experience but haven't admitted, even to myself. And just as the novel was and is about a deaf man coming to terms with himself even as the aural world blurs and dims around him, it has also been the story of me coming to terms with myself and my father's illness.
When I went to SE Asia this past summer, knowing that my life would change completely when I returned-- leaving a city I loved, ending a 2-year relationship, and leaving my community behind, this novel was in a shambles. I returned from SE Asia with little clarity on who I was, with a sense that I once again had to pick up the pieces of myself. I still wear a red bracelet with five beads which a Burmese monk tied around my wrist in Kyaingtong. The world is suffering and impermanence, he told us. One strives for egolessness. And if I had been born in Burma, I too would have strived for the silver lining of the great beyond, an immoveable force on which the Tatdamaw (the Burmese army) has no control.
But I was lucky enough to be born an American, one of the few countries where a deaf person stands a chance. I came back to America, and within a month of moving to Baltimore and starting at Hopkins I lost more of my hearing. For all my despair, the silver lining was a renewed sense of purpose about my novel and my own spiritual self. My spirituality has always been tied to my deafness and my inner songs, the ethereal ringing that has accompanied me every day and every moment of my entire life. To me, tinnitus is my way of looking at the Buddhist concept of the unstruck sound, without beginning or ending, cause or effect. There are moments when I am almost breathless with a strange and beautiful melody I have never heard before.
Last week I workshopped the latest draft of my first chapter. I received a lot of good feedback, and I also had the amazing privilege of talking with Alice McDermott one on one for an hour afterwards. The first thing she said to me is "this is very good, I want you to move forward." We discussed the structure of the novel and she was incredibly helpful. After an hour, I left with my head swimming and a whole new range of structural and plotting issues to sort out, but I also felt a renewed sense of purpose. The hours, days, months I've struggled with this novel, at times wondering if I should give it up or whether it was any good.... the perseverance pays off at moments like this.
John Barth told us to invent new genres, and simply through my experience I hope to have that opportunity. The Deaf genre has yet to be explored, and I feel a strong sense of purpose in this, not just because it is my own experience, but because it is a perspective that has been silenced for so long in the hearing world. Will this work eventually get published? From a statistical standpoint, the odds are against me. I certainly hope it will. But for now, my own belief and sense of purpose is more than enough. There is nothing else that quite gives me that unique sense of ecstasy as being lost in my writing. A few hours of good writing becomes a high that lasts all day.
Good luck, Dad. This is nothing compared to what you've been through.
posted by Franz K at 10:25 AM
2 Comments:
Chog di. My bracelet still adorns my wrist and guides my actions (though one of the five has been set aside). Hope this finds you well. -Z
Yeah about the high. Two nights ago I had a great five hours of writing that felt like a few minutes because the work was flowing so smoothly. Whew. Delicious. I am still feeling high.
I hope you feel in good spirits.
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