Sonic reducer

My eyesight is poor, historically awful sans glasses. Some would say, given my musical choices, my hearing is equally poor. To those of you who harbor such offense, silently or no, I humbly retort with the immortal words of a legendary monster of screenland

"A low-carb diet of third world children keeps me fit & trim."

& now that we're all friends again, a particular, too familiar, passage from a tome I'm currently reading on the wheelie bus to & from work caught my ever-vanishing vision:

In the end, wearing spectacles is really not so difficult. Without them, life is a blur. My field of vision is restricted in all directions by the frames of my glasses; in low light levels I find it increasingly hard to read; swimming in the sea is a form of sensory deprivation. A rock might be a shark for all I know. This inability to see objects in focus unaided, or really understand subtle fluctuations of light, must accentuate the other senses and reconfigure an imbalance in the socially constructed hierarchy of the senses. In certain circumstances it can heighten feelings of interpersonal distance. Over time, I believe this has sharpened my sonic focus.

-- David Toop, Sinister Resonance 

I suppose that one could classify it as mere variation on a (cliché) theme -- other senses compensating for the weakening or loss of another -- but given the book's argument of hearing being of more relational & experiential importance than the place given it by society, I feel it's more a deepening of an already inherent predisposition towards this sense in contrast to the dominant visualcentric norm, the way one, after discovering an affinity for working with his or her hands, becomes a potter or a carpenter, or those who get a kick out of number crunching become math teachers, technocracy cubicle jockeys or professional fantasy baseball players, all low-paying gigs.

Tune in to next week's episode of Obvious Theatre where Randal discovers his enjoyment of a musical poetry, flush with assonance & scattered rhyme in contrast to those composed in heavily discordant tones. The point of all this is, looking back on stuff I've written, stuff I'm writing & stuff still on the drawing board that's tucked away in some dusty corner of my skull, vast gobs (i.e. 98.6% of it, +/- 3% error rate) are made of this. I've tried varying styles simply to see if anything sticks, but finding I've less facility there than I do here, dropped it like a hot baked potato with butter, sour cream, bacon bits & chives.

Thus, the actual actual point: is message (too global kumbayah, I hate people) sentiment (too sappy, but probably what I'm guiltiest of) content (now there's a nice, normal, vaguely critical term) being sacrificed, consciously or subconsciously, for a journey into sound?

A word in or out of context; the way it's voiced; that way to which person; in each case, a tiny variation in the aural quality of the recited letters can convey a subtly different meaning, especially if the out-loud reader isn't the original alchemist. Think sarcasm on a micro scale, minus the sarcasm.

Is there a 'danger' -- define that -- in taking it too far, a mirror image of an obscure, Mallarmé-styled hermeneutics -- which is only one way of reading him, especially since he's often sonically alluring -- that's nothing but presumably attractive sound structures poorly mimicking song?

If so, so what, as long as it's good. Now I just gotta get good.
Payday's Friday, hope good's not too expensive.