Ear-rational behaviour

by RAF KATIGBAK

When I heard author and neurologist Oliver Sacks speak in Montreal over a year ago, one particular anecdote stuck with me. He was discussing his recently released book Musicophilia, and recounted a story about a woman who came to him with what he called “auditory hallucinations.”

Yes, it’s exactly as it sounds. An auditory hallucination is like a visual hallucination, except instead of seeing a non-existent little mottle-skinned man with a telescoping torso trying to talk to you as you stand confused and half-naked at a gas station in the middle of winter (this actually happened to a friend of mine on a datura trip), you hear weird shit that isn’t really there. This woman in particular heard what started as a loud din of sirens, yells and clangs, and then morphed into a never-ending stream of familiar hymns like “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,” one after the other…

The source of the mystery music, Sacks surmised, came from the hearing section of the woman’s brain. You see, the woman was slowly going deaf, and Sacks believed that the auditory region of her brain had been so starved for input that it was actually making up its own shit. It needed to hear. In some ways, it’s a beautiful idea that music is so essential to our being that our own brains will make it up if it isn’t there. On the other hand, why our minds chose reeeeeeally annoying shit to repeat ad infinitum is beyond me.

I think I may be going deaf. Actually, ever since the auditory hallucination hit I’ve been convinced. I was washing dishes the other day and then poof—a high-pitched whistle suddenly enveloped my head. At first it was distant, like a kettle softly coming to a boil. Then I realized that it was the kettle boiling.

But when I shut it off, the sound continued. Then it grew louder. Then it was a squealing shriek. And what was that behind it? Was it piano? Yes, it wasn’t just noise, there was a melody there—distantly plucking in the background—but definitely there. I realized the high-pitched whistling wasn’t just a single shrill note. There was a form to it. Was it… words? Then it grew louder. Then I realized the shrillness was not some random din, it was a human voice. And this was a song. And not just any human voice, and not just any song, but one in particular: “Wuthering Heights” by Kate-frickin-Bush.

Why my brain decided to play that goddamn tune all day that day is a mystery. It’s not like Kate Bush was recently in my life—you know, just like how you dreamed your friend had wings and you were riding him through green clouds while belting out show tunes because earlier that night he farted while you were watching Canadian Idol but you didn’t want to say something because that girl you wanted to impress was there and you can’t talk about farts with girls until you are at least seven months in a relationship and until then farts don’t even exist to the point where if you ever really need to let one rip, you have to go find a quiet corner at the other end of whatever building you guys are in and then spread your cheeks apart with your hands and softly let it out? Anyways, it’s not like that.

It’s like my brain was trying to tell me something. Either that I was deaf or that I need more squeaky short British singers in my life. Either way, it was stuck. On repeat. Over and over. It got to the point where I couldn’t fight it anymore. Playing Dead Kennedys on full blast didn’t drown it out and yelling into the pillow shaped like my dad only helps with other things. No, at one point, I just embraced it. I loaded it up on iTunes and had it play over and over. On a whim, I YouTubed the original video (coincidentally directed by the father of my friend’s ex-girlfriend) and I realized what my brain was trying to tell me this whole time: “Pssst—you want to see one of the most amazing, cringiest, beautifully naïve videos EVER?” (juxtaposed by her video for “Cloudbusting,” aka the best video ending ever).

After I saw it, I knew what I had to do: a move-for-move recreation of the pseudo-modern dance routine Bush performs over the entire three minutes and 45 seconds, complete with speed-skating arm swinging, lasso-round-the-head move when she repeats “Wuthering” and zombie sleepwalking during “bad dreams in the night.”

At the end, I lay there collapsed in a sweaty silence knowing that I had exorcised my demonic din. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to embrace your darkest fears and do exactly what you’re scared of, in this case being a complete idiot. Also waiting for the mushrooms to wear off is a good idea too.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA