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Delusions from low-level tinnitus
May. 11th, 2004 03:50 amI was taking out the trash just now (after 3 in the morning) when I noticed what I thought was the sound of the wind in the distance. I listened more closely and realized that was actually the sound of trucks and cars.
I live a couple blocks from Stoneham. Half of the Middlesex Fells separates me from Interstate 93 -- I'd say a good mile of trees. I suppose Spot Pond must bounce a lot of the sound back to us. Not enough absorbs the sound.
This is a quiet neighborhood. It's so quiet that nothing gets in the way of the bigger noises outside of it. I had never realized how busy those eight lanes can get even at night. We live about two miles from Roosevelt Circle, the place where 93 steps down to 55 MPH on its way into the Big Dig. This is where traffic jams start on the sweep into Boston.
It also dawned on me that I couldn't tolerate anything quieter. My hereditary tinnitus means I need some level of background noise at all times or I go crazy from the tone in my head. It's not a loud tone at all, but it becomes all you can think about. Thus I don't mind Maggie's computer being on for weeks on end. Thus I suspect I may eventually worsen my hearing from the same repetitive tones.
Hey wait; is tinnitus inherited? Frangie has it and I have a minor version of it. I've been to plenty of concerts but I've worn ear plugs 90% of the time. I look dorky with green or orange foam sticking out of my ear canals. Then again, I still get to go to concerts.
When people ask me why I have been afraid to admit I am an adult, it often comes down to that tinnital sound. Imagine getting earwormed by pitch tuners and never being able to name the notes in the blur. Now imagine it doesn't end. This is the sound of adulthood to me -- a constant whine that gets louder and louder as I run out of things to say. So I keep talking.
I think I can understand why some musicians don't mind going deaf. Bob Mould, Pete Townsend, my buddy Tony Butero... all musicians, all still capable of a normal conversation, all squinting to tell what the fuck you just said.
I've been cleaning the office room tonight. I'm not done the way I was with the kitchen (which is still clean, by the way). It is visitable, however. Things are in some order, filed into shoe boxes as "PCI & ISA cards", "floppy drives" or "way too many sticks of RAM".
This scared both of us tonight: I found at least one dozen sticks of 32 MB SDRAM. That's 384 MB of RAM spread out too thinly to be useful. How did I get all of them? I've never bought a 32 MB stick willingly, although I've been stuck with a few from some bad Flea purchases. Anybody need some?
-open during renovation, Dante
I live a couple blocks from Stoneham. Half of the Middlesex Fells separates me from Interstate 93 -- I'd say a good mile of trees. I suppose Spot Pond must bounce a lot of the sound back to us. Not enough absorbs the sound.
This is a quiet neighborhood. It's so quiet that nothing gets in the way of the bigger noises outside of it. I had never realized how busy those eight lanes can get even at night. We live about two miles from Roosevelt Circle, the place where 93 steps down to 55 MPH on its way into the Big Dig. This is where traffic jams start on the sweep into Boston.
It also dawned on me that I couldn't tolerate anything quieter. My hereditary tinnitus means I need some level of background noise at all times or I go crazy from the tone in my head. It's not a loud tone at all, but it becomes all you can think about. Thus I don't mind Maggie's computer being on for weeks on end. Thus I suspect I may eventually worsen my hearing from the same repetitive tones.
Hey wait; is tinnitus inherited? Frangie has it and I have a minor version of it. I've been to plenty of concerts but I've worn ear plugs 90% of the time. I look dorky with green or orange foam sticking out of my ear canals. Then again, I still get to go to concerts.
When people ask me why I have been afraid to admit I am an adult, it often comes down to that tinnital sound. Imagine getting earwormed by pitch tuners and never being able to name the notes in the blur. Now imagine it doesn't end. This is the sound of adulthood to me -- a constant whine that gets louder and louder as I run out of things to say. So I keep talking.
I think I can understand why some musicians don't mind going deaf. Bob Mould, Pete Townsend, my buddy Tony Butero... all musicians, all still capable of a normal conversation, all squinting to tell what the fuck you just said.
I've been cleaning the office room tonight. I'm not done the way I was with the kitchen (which is still clean, by the way). It is visitable, however. Things are in some order, filed into shoe boxes as "PCI & ISA cards", "floppy drives" or "way too many sticks of RAM".
This scared both of us tonight: I found at least one dozen sticks of 32 MB SDRAM. That's 384 MB of RAM spread out too thinly to be useful. How did I get all of them? I've never bought a 32 MB stick willingly, although I've been stuck with a few from some bad Flea purchases. Anybody need some?
-open during renovation, Dante
