Listening Through The Ears Of Another

A curious thought has presented itself to me today after reading a fabulous post by Jeremy Abel. I read Jabel's (for that's what I call him) Mood Music yesterday just a half-hour after completing my own post that chronicled my previous twenty-four hours' worth of listening. I scanned his list and had a number of reactions. There were some works in his selections I didn't recognize, and was able to pass over quite easily. A few of his choices left me with serious feelings of disagreeableness, while still others resulted in my experiencing a palpable excitement as they recalled certain memories and affection. Having a day to think about it all, though, has brought screaming back to my mind an issue I'd faced many times in the arena of personal struggle, but always squelched before allowing it to be presented to others. Today, though, I think I'll let it go and see if I'm alone in hosting this strange sensation.

What I'm about to unveil is a hideous, dangerous beast, so gentle readers beware. This creature has for me remained unnamed because I can't think of a way to describe it, really, let alone tag it with some title. Okay, enough of that, I'll unleash my odd phenomena and let you decide for yourself what should be done to me.

It's strange, really, but I think I shall begin by suggesting a few scenarios in which I've sighted (or at least sensed the presence) of the monster. I've on more than one occasion acquired a new album that rocked my world and made me feel like all other music was, at least for the moment, rendered obsolete, and determined someone else should hear it immediately. I then have played it for the friend, or family member, or whoever happened to stumble past, only to have them begin talking about something altogether unrelated to the work just a matter of seconds after it began. The beast roared, and I felt anger, aggravation and disgust. How could they? I mean, this same music stopped me in my tracks to where moving past it would have required a lot of effort...which I'm not certain I could do. But the ones I played it for treated it with the utmost disdain. On other occasions similar things have happened, such as the listener walks out of the room, takes a phone call, puts in a different piece of music, etc. Terrible, huh? Actually, that's only half the battle, and not the worst part by far. More hideous than the shock of others not being nearly as impressed with the music I brought to them is my own lame inattention when others play music for me! I've tried to conquer this by attempting to find in the tune, or album, just exactly what created the attraction for them in the first place. This has helped immensely, but at times the effort is mightily laborious.

As I expose these feeling to you who read these lines, I sense an absolute inadequacy to get my point across. I'm only barely getting presented the frustration on the one hand, and the shame on the other. I've tried to prepare myself for both maddening events prior to facing them by silently anticipating my reactions, and deciding to act out the way I see as best. A mask over my true feelings, at best, though, is all I can accomplish. You see, what I think I want others to do is recognize that if I've taken the time and put forth the effort to introduce them to a work, I've only done so because I care for them on some level, and want them to experience the same euphoria I have at listening to it. Use it as a launching pad for a conversation, and find out why it means something to me. But when I'm the one being forced to hear a tune that I don't immediately fall in love with I have trouble focusing on what I'm hearing. You'd think in the former instances I'd be more understanding of others disinterest, and in the latter I'd be more appreciative of what I'm being asked to listen to. But, I must sadly admit, my two-headed monster gets the best of me more than I care to admit.

Strange, right? Well, here's the bombshell: I notice this mostly with my kids, and it spills over into other matters besides music. Many times my boys have wanted to read me a line, a page, or an entire book, and because the work is all too familiar to me or my interest level is low, I've only paid them a minimal attention. Several stories have been told to me by them in which (to me) inconsequential details were given extremely to much space, and I've found myself wishing they'd hurry. It also happens with video games, especially the ones I have difficulty appreciating (read: anything but NBA Live, Madden, or NCAA Football).

In my defense, though weak, I've slowly learned to force myself to become engrossed in every story, book, song, game, and conversation I'm presented with. I'm finding that the more I allow this temporary immersion in others' fascinations, the more lenient and tolerant I become of others when they don't get involved emotionally with mine. I almost feel a sadness for them because I know they must be fighting some rather nasty beasts while acting so disinterested. Or are they? Perhaps I'm the only one, and there's a clinical explanation for my madness. Even so, I'm determined to get as much as I can from every interaction, from my kids on to everyone else, and I sense I may someday find a complete understanding of my bafflement.