Life Undeaf - Hēran Soun's stories, poetry and music

A crushed hat, an old coat which reached my knees and a crumpled pack of cigarettes, it wasn’t a stretch to pull off this character. An idiot friend told me of the party. It wasn’t fancy dress, but I wouldn’t be welcomed as myself in there. But Tom, he’d always be welcome by her. In the back of the bar, next to the corner stage, her group cheered and took turns to perform songs for her. Hiding at the bar under the brim of the sunken hat, bent over a whiskey I got into character. When the stage cleared, coughing in my most broken voice, I start telling stories of Frank and that little Chihuahua named Carlos, songs of shoreleave and neighbourhoods. This meant nothing to everyone, expect her. Tom Waits was her guy.  The finished whiskey meant it was over.  Straight out the door and still in character, the next bar found me and Tom and Frank drinking till close. Doused everything in the place, torched it,

parked across the street, laughing, watching it burn.

Still in Bolivia, 3 weeks later and living in a hotel room next door to the hospital, getting periodic visits from a doctor.

For a brief moment, I had more love from more places than ever before. A team. The World worked.

"A lack of motivation, with this unknown amount f time. I'm going to hire a hit on myself"

"I had little to go on and no time to waste. An address on the other side of Paris. A 650cc motorcycle. And a voicemail with screams and panic. I’d been to the address one night before. I had slept in the single bed in a closet-like room. The old Parisian woman rented this room to foreign students. We later discovered the courts had set one constraint on the woman, due to the son’s previous convictions, that if she were to continue renting her room, she mustn’t ever let her son live in the house or possess a key. Luckily, the drivers here are used to this kind of erratic weaving. My mind reconstructs the scene on the other end of the phone, trying to work out what the terror and instant need for me is. Only her voice. There are no traffic lights, I’d be able to explain why if I get stopped. Onto the sidewalk, and up to the door to the building. My helmet left on the floor. Announcing my arrival with the giant echo of the emergency door slamming open in the concrete stairwell. Up 4 flights and into the corridor. Her room is directly next to the door. My thumping is quickly answered by her. She retreats immediately into her room and I follow. With tears and hardly any words she tells me her attacker is still in the apartment. The son. Months later the court heard how we left. Her, holding an overfilled bag in her two arms, and me holding a neck pinned against a wall. We left the bike and hailed a taxi to now our home."

"These clothes aren't a part of you. The lipstick is obvious. Do you really want to be a part of this scene? I don’t want you to want to.  These people hate everything about you. You are real, you are naturally beautiful, at ease on your own, content with a book, modest, meaningful. You don’t need to look like them, don’t follow me down here. The doorman shouldn’t know you. I need you to be you. I’ll be back later. Drunk and fed up with the fake. I’ll need you to be the cure."

"How can you be an addict to just one thing? I stood there, with my nose resting on the wall, every day trying to sing. Everyday. Try it, you can such subtleties in the voice. Sometimes with a silent electric guitar strapped on, but every day I’d wake and stand in the same spot. I didn’t differ on place, or part, or color of the wall, and just sung. Why was that any better than my other addictions and how the fuck did the people in the next room ever put up with me for a year?"

"Listening to your recordings I can hear the room. The shape of your mouth, the thickness of your body.  Your moment in front of the microphone turns into the moment the lyrics recount. Sharing your body we stand in that moment together. There’s more to hear when you stop listening."

"Last night I fell asleep recording vocals in this sound isolation booth. I woke in pure panic, just clicking my fingers next to each ear to check. Black. Noiseless. Dead or Deaf."