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Today these “cultural” distinctions of sound perception are much more difficult to determine than they were 50 years ago because the sound of the dog-sled team for the Inuit, and the murmur of the Mabaan village have been replaced with sounds known across many cultures. For the Inuit families, the barking of a husky team bringing the hunters home—the warm herald of arrival and abundance, has been replaced by the whine of the snowmobile. The Mabaan, now caught up in a revolution, are carrying rocket launchers and AK-47’s. And while 50 years ago the heli- copter was not a recognizable soundmark in the Mabaan lexicon, it is likely that they now have the same adrenalin saturated response to the sounds of helicopters that Cambodian and Guatemalan villagers have (who have also learned these sounds through war and political strife). To the Mabaan, Cambodians, and Guatemalans, the sound of attack helicopters invokes the arrival of hopeless death and destruction. There are some predictable responses to archetypal sounds across all cultures, such as the sound of water, fire, and heartbeats. (These sounds are archetypal due largely to how they play into our sense of survival.) The “fingernails on the black- board” experience tends to affect most sentient beings in a similar manner, and other alarming noises—such as explosions and the sounds of falling things—typically stimulate adrenalin production and fear response in all who hear it. This may indicate a deeper predisposition to sounds of certain dimensions or qualities rather than sounds of particular things. Human babies, for example, are born with only two innate fears; the fear of falling, and the fear of loud noises.3 Both of these fearful perceptions stimulate the auditory centers of the brain—the fear of falling through the sense of motion and balance residing in the inner ear, and loud noises by way of the mechanisms of hearing through the ears and body. Both of these fearful perceptions summon the distinct possibility of rapid change, and the possibility of time slipping out of our control—or perhaps more germane to this discussion, the possibility of losing our grasp on where we are. Many of the sounds that predictably trigger fear contain deep, low frequencies. Thunder, earthquakes, explosions, roaring, and bellowing—all imply that the source of the sound is both larger than we are, and not in our personal control. Conversely, the sounds that predictably enliven and please us seem somehow in the range of our containment, thus the gurgling and cooing of infants, the song of birds, the gentle trickle of water and the whisper of a breeze are all somehow comforting. We are assured by these sounds as they open up our perceptual world containing us in what suggests a sense of peace, and a feeling of inclusion. Our sonic relationship with our surroundings begins at a very early age. Nerve endings appear in the inner ear of a human fetus in its 12th week of development. While actual hearing responses do not become apparent until the 24th week, the inner ear becomes vital and functioning in the 7th week of development,4 enabling the embryo to establish equilibrium and balance itself within the womb. Before the ear facilitates perception of the “outer” world, it is the organ which anchors place- ment within the prenatal human’s dark, amniotic domain.