-Midnight Jolt: Ear Poison-
High levels of concentration are temporary. Take advantage of them.
[Bad music has a way of remembering for us.]
Remember how Claudius poisoned Hamlet’s father? Poison applied to the ear canal. Poor bastard woke up and figured he had the ear wig from hell, Had his doctor shine a light into his ear and wait with tweezers. But nothing came out, and the effluvium seeped into his brain and killed him. I wonder if he or the doctor checked their timepieces near the end and said, ‘you know, I saw this play about Gonzago the other day – not that it’s relevant or anything.’
Not that it’s relevant or anything, but in his big book of bad songs, Dave Barry described musical selections that compelled him to punch the radio buttons hard enough to gouge holes in his car, so visceral was his hatred for certain songs.
Certain songs are ear poison for me. They don’t have to be bad songs. They only have to be connected to bad memories. If I’m standing in an elevator and hear the instrumental refrain to “You don’t have to say you love me [just because you can]” I go to pieces inside.
I go to pieces inside when I hear just about anything by Fiona Apple. Meredith Brooks, and Catfight (not that the latter comes up very often). “Hoping, Waiting, Longing,” by Agents of Good Roots. Billy Joel’s “That’s not her style.” And many, many more.
More important than the song itself is the degree to which this ear poison affects me. Tripping stomach acid in an elevator is only partly due to ear poison. We could also attribute the trouble to paint fumes from the twenty-first floor or to the commissary on the Mezzanine.
The Mezzanine – that reminds me, I’ve got to return a Nicholson Baker novella. Not that it’s relevant or anything.
Not that it’s relevant or anything.. Who am I trying to hustle here? Ear poison is my Achilles heel no matter where I am. Why? Because it’s the primary way I learn. Maybe a visual person’s sphincter up and throttles them every time they see the same shade of blue as a scarf his lover wore as she boarded a train in Dresden’s central Bahnoff in the spring of 2000, because he’d resolved to chase after her if she came to the window with anything approaching sentimentality, regret, or love. But I’m the auditory type, so there is a piece of unidentified German techno for me instead.
[Bad music has a way of remembering for us.]
Remember how Claudius poisoned Hamlet’s father? Poison applied to the ear canal. Poor bastard woke up and figured he had the ear wig from hell, Had his doctor shine a light into his ear and wait with tweezers. But nothing came out, and the effluvium seeped into his brain and killed him. I wonder if he or the doctor checked their timepieces near the end and said, ‘you know, I saw this play about Gonzago the other day – not that it’s relevant or anything.’
Not that it’s relevant or anything, but in his big book of bad songs, Dave Barry described musical selections that compelled him to punch the radio buttons hard enough to gouge holes in his car, so visceral was his hatred for certain songs.
Certain songs are ear poison for me. They don’t have to be bad songs. They only have to be connected to bad memories. If I’m standing in an elevator and hear the instrumental refrain to “You don’t have to say you love me [just because you can]” I go to pieces inside.
I go to pieces inside when I hear just about anything by Fiona Apple. Meredith Brooks, and Catfight (not that the latter comes up very often). “Hoping, Waiting, Longing,” by Agents of Good Roots. Billy Joel’s “That’s not her style.” And many, many more.
More important than the song itself is the degree to which this ear poison affects me. Tripping stomach acid in an elevator is only partly due to ear poison. We could also attribute the trouble to paint fumes from the twenty-first floor or to the commissary on the Mezzanine.
The Mezzanine – that reminds me, I’ve got to return a Nicholson Baker novella. Not that it’s relevant or anything.
Not that it’s relevant or anything.. Who am I trying to hustle here? Ear poison is my Achilles heel no matter where I am. Why? Because it’s the primary way I learn. Maybe a visual person’s sphincter up and throttles them every time they see the same shade of blue as a scarf his lover wore as she boarded a train in Dresden’s central Bahnoff in the spring of 2000, because he’d resolved to chase after her if she came to the window with anything approaching sentimentality, regret, or love. But I’m the auditory type, so there is a piece of unidentified German techno for me instead.
posted by Benedict | 4:56 PM
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