March 13, 2014

March 13, 2014

Written by Maximus Peperkamp, M.S. Verbal Behaviorist

Dear Reader, 

What set the stage for me to carry on listening to myself while I speak? How did I get so involved, so convinced and so committed? Why did nobody else come up with this? What in my history made it become possible? Why did I have an epiphany when I found that gong while I was sitting in that lonely attic? What made me capable of recognizing that I must listen to my own sound? I have been listening to myself ever since I found that gong, but why? 

During my early adulthood I had felt rejected and misunderstood. One afternoon I was listening to some music with a friend. She played along with the melody on a recorder and showed me how to do it. It was not difficult. I put my  my fingers on the holes and a nice, warm sound came out. It was such a pleasant experience that I got myself a recorder and tried to play the tunes that I knew. I remember liking the sound and this translated into play and practice. It felt as if I was exploring new sound possibilities while playing. 

Years went by and I loved the sound of my flutes. My flutes gave me a reason to be alone. I was always looking for the right place to play my flutes and did not play for others very often. I mainly played for myself because I found it soothing. Although I was not very good at it, I was good enough to enjoy it. Playing the flute gave me a sense of flow and being in touch with my environment. I would play underneath a bridge where the sound would echo across the water. Also, I would play at night in the park. Although I didn’t go to church anymore, like I used to as a child, I still went there once in while to play my flutes. The priest had given me permission and sometimes he sat in the back and listened. During his final days he had pneumonia and I visited him in the hospital. His breathing made a wheezing sound and he was getting oxygen through pipes connected to a mask on his face. While listening to the whistling sound of his last breath, he joked that he was also playing the flute now. After this he died. He was the same priest, who had failed me as an altar boy. While kneeling at the altar, I had to ring the bells to announce that it was time for Holy Communion, but they fell out of my hands and they rolled down the stairs. 

Another memorable event was my love affair with a girl from high school, who would later became schizophrenic. She liked me, but she was not in love with me. She played a silver flute and was very good at it. While she had her first psychotic break her flute had disappeared. It may have gotten stolen. I visited her in the psychiatric hospital and she asked repeatedly for her flute. Her sister got her another one and when she began to recover, she began to play it again. Whenever she had to be hospitalized, she had stopped playing and when she was recovering, she would start playing her flute again. Eventually, she lost her flute and her mental health declined. I was feeling helpless to see her go through this. She always spoke kindly of me and we know each other for many years. She was my oldest friend, but she no longer responds to my letters and I lost contact with her. She loved music and my best memories are when we enjoyed listening to music together. When she was feeling well, she would dance gracefully. 

Many other experiences have made me aware of the importance of sound. One day I saw a movie about a war-ravaged village somewhere in Asia. One guy, who had survived, was given the task to restore the village bell. The Buddhist monks used to strike this bell when they had their sermons and the village had been peaceful and harmonious before the war. With the bell gone and only a few survivors left, this anxious man was trying to make sense of it all. One of the two surviving monks told him that he was the only one who could restore the bell and the peace. One monk, who was mortally wounded, showed him a piece of paper, which detailed the ingredients needed to build the bell and the procedure to make it. The other fat monk urged the nonviolent man to hit him with club until he would produce the sound of the bell. This seemed ridiculous and the terrified man told him he could not do it. The monk would not leave him alone and challenged him to the point that he took the club and beat him ferociously. The monk said the most horrible things to offend him and in rage he trashed him with his stick. Eventually, the bleeding monk opened his mouth and miraculously a sound of bell was heard. It sounded loud and impressive and then the monk died. After fear turned into rage the man became calm. He set out to collect the metal he needed to rebuild the bell. With only a few survivors in his village and everything of value stolen by the soldiers, who had destroyed the place, he was considered insane by the other survivors that he wanted to restore the bell. Some people, however, gave him the metals they still possessed, but it was not enough and he had to go to other villages, to see if he could get metal from there. Initially, people thought of him as a nuisance, but as he brought back more and more metal, they slowly became interested in helping him. In the meantime, there was a woman, who fell in love with his passion and she became his wife. Inspired by her he became practical and less emotional. He turned into a leader and many people had been mobilized to help gather the metals that were needed to rebuild the bell. Years went gone by and the moment had come to melt the metal and pour it into the shape. There was great activity and anticipation and everyone had done their part. The bell cooled down and was hoisted up by a few strong men, but when the bell was struck, he disapproved because it didn’t sound right. People confessed to have lied about the metal they had contributed. There was too little copper in the mix. The leader took a sledge hammer and struck the bell which broke into big pieces. An uproar happened, because many people thought that it sounded all right, but others wanted to redo the procedure in the correct way, with the right amount of metals. Fights broke out and people killed each other, but there were still a few people left who were committed to rebuilding the bell. Again they ventured out to other villages to collect copper and the big pieces were melted on the enormous fire. Although new fights broke out, the bell finally was ready to be poured once more. It cooled off and was hoisted up once again. The fighting had stopped and everyone was gathered to hear the new bell. When it was struck the leader approved of it's sound and the village was once more at peace. However, disgruntled opponents had set fire to the leader’s house and had killed his wife. He folded his hands and walked into his burning house. This movie gave this writer the courage to restore the sound of our spoken communication. It had to be the right ingredients and it had to be the right procedure. Also, his fear had to be overcome. Others had to be energized to make it happen and purposeful behavior had to be developed. Relationships had to be strengthened by trust, morals and truthfulness.