...For a Good Year

The alternate title of this post is "Last Orders"

There's no end to the melodrama, as this is THE LAST BLOG OF THE YEAR ARGH ASDFASDFASDF

I can't believe it's the 29th of December.  Perhaps I don't want to believe it's the 29th.  Where the hell has the year gone?  Tomorrow I'll be writing my New Year's awards tomorrow on Facebook, where dirt won't be dished, and prizes have already been handed out.  At this moment in time I'm savouring a particularly sarcastic response from Eric Pollard.  

I shan't miss 2010.  How do you say it?  Twenty ten?  Two thousand and ten?  Or do you articulate raw numerals, without transliterating them?  MMX?  Em Em Ex?  Whatever; this year that's just finishing can do one.  One disaster after another effectively reduced me to the simpering pile of depression that you've been reading about, and my intractability and foolhardyness (bravery?) means I won't take any anti-depressants and I certainly won't run the gauntlet of Adult Mental Health Services, as if the Dean of Students' office is anything to go by, it'll be a fucking waste of my time!  HO HO HO.

So anyway.  Let's look forward instead.  Like John DeVore, I also believe that New Year's Resolutions are for suckers.  I'm sure there's a lot of you out there, either dedicated readers, onetime passers by, or even those who do not or will not read this, that in fact do make resolutions.  More accurately, I suppose resolutions are for losers, not us freaks.  I think that reflects me "us and them" philosophy, right?  I do not wish to insult you at all, dear reader or hypothetical reader or non-reader.  I haven't made a resolution at New Year since 2006, where I resolved to never make a resolution again.  A resolution I've kept ever since.  

The deal with New Year's Resolutions are pretty tricky.  Usually, the process of giving up smoking, losing weight, drinking less (all of which are perfectly possible) get swept up into the ridiculous stress of the turn of the year, and therefore most people give up by the 15th of February.  I think that's the average date for losing out anyway.  So, in a typical turn of mind, I promised I would never ever put myself under that undue stress again, and therefore got myself out of the game.  Of course I have a list of things for this year that will, if carried out, make it different from last year.  I have many things to focus on.

I have a barbershop quartet to run, and Organ Scholarship to progress through, a Choral Scholarship to survive, and a solo career to begin.  Not forgetting my dissertation and project.  I mean, seriously.  I haven't got time to moan about not getting a girlfriend...until after April, anyway, when all my academic projects have to be handed in.  At which point it will be this blog's anniversary, and I can start moaning again!  AHAHAHA.  As if I'll wait that long!  I give it two weeks personally.  Cough.  

But anyway.  I'm slightly worse for wear.  A dedicated cynic trying to be cheerful in the face of the New Year.  I want to have a good year, and I want you to have a good year.  We're about to enter the third decade of Pebblez, and I'm tired of the sub-par existence I've had of late, and I'm going to do my best to turn it around.  Not by resolving to, but just by doing so.  

Whatever you resolve to do, I hope you stick to it.  It's tough, and that's why I chose to do something more realistic.  If you succeed, I salute you.  If you don't, just keep at it.  Until next year, and next decade, I shan't be writing any more bullshit.  

And I only wish that all of you  may be sealed and inscribed for a good year.  

Season's Greetings

So!  Here it is!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

What can I say?  Christmas is the only time of year that I am legally obliged to be happy.  Seriously.  You might have noticed that I'm not terribly happy over the course of the year...I suppose this year especially has been somewhat unique...(ha ha fucking ha), but overall, pretty much of the same.  So at Christmastide, I am usually a little more cheerful.

2010 has not been a good year.  Not in the slightest.  If there was a year that I would choose to obliterate from reality, it would be this one, funnily enough.  Never have I been more depressed or sorry to see the outside world.  The first eight months anyway.

From the back end of September onwards, my time has improved.  I've had a great first term at Uni, my living arrangements have been wonderful, my marks have been pretty good and I'm having a great Christmas holiday.  On the other hand, I haven't been able to get a date and my regular choir appointment has been less than happy.  Look at that!  I'm more bothered about the things that have gone wrong than the things that have gone right!  Typical.

I tell you what though, I was very sincerely and genuinely happy on Christmas Day itself.  I got a small haul of great presents, and spent all day with my mother, and the only brother related to me by blood, Nathan.  Sadly, Nathan is in the throes of 'Oh I got dumped so I'm going to be a miserable shit and I've got a bit of a sniffle so I've got the flu' at the moment, so that isn't the greatest Christmas message ever.  He's got a bit of a cold, so we're looking after him as much as he actually needs, not to what he wants.  

In fact, that last clause brings me on to my Christmas message, as it were.  The Lord sends us what we need, not what we want.  It's one of my core beliefs in the Lord, that he looks after us as is necessary, not as we desire.  *cough* Anyway, the hell I'm getting religious.  Let's speed on to the next part of my Chrimbo message.

I've sent my Christmas with my family.  I saw Alter Pappy on Christmas Eve, we picked Nathan up on the same night, Christmas with Nathan and Momme, and I went to HQ with Hannah tonight.  Over the next twelve days, I will spend as much time as I can with my extended family, the Captain's nearest and dearest.  Soon, I'll be back in Norwich, that "fine city", with the pleasures of St. Peter Mancroft Choral Scholarship to keep me.  I'm going to see Alter Pappy before I go back as well, and I've promised Uncle Philip that I'll see him before I go back.  I am a busy man!  

So what is my Christmas message?  Good question.  I advocate having a good time, remembering your family, and...well, I guess that's it.  That's all I had.  That's all you need.  Christmas is the only time of year I'm legally obliged to be happy, so I bloody will be!  Soon, I'll go back to flat 15/16, and begin the new term, but until then...best wishes of this most festive season, from me, to you.  Have a great Christmas.

May you be sealed and inscribed...

You know, I'm conscious of writing a lot of tawdry bullshit over the past year. I mean, seriously I am Mr. Boohoo. Life isn't exactly easy for someone with my somewhat unique combination of talents and disabilities, I sincerely doubt there is anyone quite like me in all the world. Ok, how glib was that? No, I seriously think it. I'm surrounded by indentikit stereotypes, from the 'naive idealist' to 'ignorant bourgeoisie', (Can you guess who? Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address...) with all shades between as well, and who knows, maybe even I represent some sort of hackneyed cliche...the copper bottom bastard?

I've spent far too long being all weepy weepy and depressed, really it's time I reacquainted with the side of me that is nothing but a nasty piece of work. It's always worked in the past! Right? I wonder why I gave in? SILLY BOY. Anyway. I have spent a year trying to survive, and succeeding (but not very well), and a term trying to do well in my work and get a date...column A can receive a healthy tick. Column B can fuck right off. Even at this late stage there are considerations, but you know I can't tell anyway SO THROW IT ALL IN. I've now left Norwich for Derby, and certainly not a moment too soon. In fact, far later than I should have truly desired. As much as Norwich is a fine city, and Derby is the arse hole of the Midlands, I am still far happier away from these Norfolk environs. I have certainly met some wonderful people this term, coincedentally connected to the fact I'm in Halls again (NC15 and NC16, I love you), and HEAVENS ABOVE as many as TWO of the music freshers have worked out how to treat me like an actual human being. I will not desert them, as long as they do not reject me in my old age.

So. Enough about my inability to get laid. Let's complain about something else. I wonder what that could be? Well. Here's a clue. I didn't put 'poor end of the stall' at the head of my page for nothing you know...

The moment your Director looks you in the eye and calls you a lier is not a Hallmark Moment (tm). It is not a moment I wish to repeat, nor a moment I wish on anyone else. Especially when you're not lying. It was some petty squabble about my voice "ringing out" (that's verbatim, folks) after everyone else at the end of a phrase. As ever, a man of my specific abilities will never sit terribly well with such a small set-up of five girls and two tenors; indeed, perhaps I am no longer suited to life at Spamcroft. It's a big step, but perhaps I am at fault. Working on my powers of projection, breath control and forthright pronunciation in such a specific way may very well mean that I am to exit, stage left.

I'm not going to get involved in some sort of tit for tat arguement of whether I'm better than anyone, or that they're better than me, but things have become difficult again. Some people on the line feel similarly about how life at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft continues, but none are so foolish to be so vocal, bad-mannered and ill-tempered as I am. Old dogs &c as far as I'm concerned, but there's still hope for the others. I never quite could keep my head down and my mouth shut...

But anyway. Home sweet home. The Tour continues. Now into our festive flavoured ADESTE FIDELES leg, I've been to the pub twice in a row, arranged an intense curry feast, and tomorrow will go and see the new motion picture sensation, TRON LEGACY. The only reason I'm going is for the Daft Punk soundtrack, being an Electrowhore, but upon further investigation, I think that watching Olivia Wilde in an electro-jumpsuit wouldn't go amiss in the slightest, no sir. Christmas is coming, and the Goose is getting fat! I look forward to a raucous and inebriated celebration of the birth of a Nazarene Carpenter and Lord alone knows what's happening on New Year's, but we all know I'll go without any miseltoe joy, and then I shall presently leave for Norwich, at which point IT'S SPAMMING TIME. Oy vey. I've been told that the recent lunar eclipse on the winter solstice was a sign of great change for everyone. I can only hope so. Time to draw the Death card in the Tarot. I'm 21 soon. And I'm nearing the end of my Undergraduate study. Isn't that frightening?

Speaking of frightening, I love that old adage, that goes "Do something that frightens you every day." Well, I leave the house...

Vignette X

God moves in a mysterious way

     His wonders to perform;

He plants his footsteps in the sea,

     And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

     Of never-failing skill

He treasures up his bright designs,

     And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,

     The clouds ye so much dread

Are big with mercy, and shall break

     In blessings on your head.

Amen.

                                    Fin

Losing it, or 'Lamentio in divers parts'

De* lamentationem de Ethan Ben Saul**, Cantorae...

Well, the dust has settled if only somewhat from the hurly-burly of last week's emotional endeavours, and now we look forward to the field of battle to be entered, that of the profession I like to think of as my vocation, yes kids that calling again, being a musician.  Only then can we truly say that it's over, because the worst is yet to come.  

So, what am I losing?  Surely I'm always on the losing side?  Victory doesn't favour me very often, that's true.  But let's look in that sideways fashion (if you're having difficulty imaging that just turn your head sideways as you read) like I always do, and see if we can learn anything through that most important of rabbinical teaching tools...sarcasm.  I'm going to take a two-pronged attitude to this; one prong will be my never ending campaign against the vicissitudes of emotion, and the other...well, the other will be everything else; finance, work, and the reality of being disabled.  I realise that in putting a like in my sidebar of my FaceyB removes much of the anonimity that I once enjoyed, but if you don't know me by now, you never will.  Or maybe you won't ever?  Hmm.  But I will be very careful with names &c...I don't want people working out that I've referred to them quite so quickly, for reasons that will become clear as we plough on.

Well shoot.  As I'm sure you can work out for yourself, things have proceeded in their usual fashion: I like a girl, decide to take the plunge and do something about it and end up being, well, you know...rejected.  Ugh, nasty, eh?  I decided to throw all caution to the winds and just go with my gut and that didn't really end in the fashion I was hoping.  The hell it did.  I ended up walking home through snow in the park to get back.  I say that and make it sound terrible, but I had always planned the long walk home regardless of the outcome.  I guess I can say that I held me head up high, and did and died!  While my courage might have been slightly dutch, at least I went.  But like always, it's a sharp reminder of the sad truth that I cannot, and never will be able to tell when is the right time or who is the right person.  I thought I had made made the right decision.  There's no way under the heavens I would have even considered it had I not thought it was certain.  Look, this isn't meant to be some sort of internet-based guilt trip either.  It is the way of all things, and of course as I like to say, the shape of things to come.  It's just how it went.

But what happens then?  I can only doubt my judgement.  Perhaps Descartes was right, and sensory information id indeed a total falsehood.  I can only perceive these things to be through my senses, and not through a priori reasoning.  In fact, using my powers of reason only leads me to one question: who would look at a freak like me?

Although it's not like this is an unique occurrence this term.  Long time readers and neighbours may remember that time at the end of September, when I lost it completely and ended up bawling my eyes out.  And then what about all the people whose names I've never dropped as well?  Apart from the loser I've had more than enough heart ache in between; passing fancies not accounted for (or indeed those already in relationships because I sure can't tell who is or isn't these days).  I was moved to pass a fresher until the eternal words "I hope you don't fancy me" happened and I also decided that I wasn't going to have another Stockholm Syndrome relationship.  Then there was her from the Other Place; it was always tenuous but after Saturday night's Crime of the Century, I fear it may not be just I who reassess my position.  More on that story later.  And of course, the lady I followed through sheer intuition.  The question truly remains unanswered (in my mind at least), but two good and close friends have told me to shut up shop and move on, to avoid the chance of future upset.  I have to admit, it's probably for the best.  I can't help but see the pattern formed.  What can I do though?  Being told to give up and leave off never sits well with me, due to the fact that my daily existence keeps me away from the majority of people being, y'know, autistic and feeling uncomfortably awkward in any social situation.  Perhaps it's my efforts of seeming normal that have made people forget that any gathering of any sort pushes me to the edge of my coping, and God alone help me with interpersonal contact and indeed any sort of intimacy.  Oy gevalt.

Which leads me to the next part.  Crime of the Century.  Ho ho.  I'm using this as my example, as it reminded me of well, everything, I suppose.  I won't name names.  Mainly because I suppose I won't have to.  The particulars are irrelevant, it's more that I observed and recalled.  Or maybe the disbelief.  

Watching two people, arguably with the aid of alcohol (but how much aid was really needed is a subject of much speculation), who became continually closer as time went on (but only a short space) and shared...how do we say...a succession of moments.  Suffice to say, it wasn't that this was happening that distressed me so much, more that I found myself thinking that I have almost completely forgotten how I would do similar.  There is no situation in my life now that demands a knowledge of one-to-one (or indeed, one-on-one) intimacy, even less that require the action.  It was just at that point that I realised it had gone completely and that I had lost it, that I decided to get completely smashed.  It made me remember what I had and what I lost, and I'm frightened I will never have it back.  

So where does that leave me?  A bucketload of self-doubt, a lack of self-worth, and certainly no belief in one's self.  And of course, the question.  Who would even look at a poor, mentally disabled depressed cripple?  Yes, I'm back on the stick.  Snow, freezing fog and a night temperature of minus FUCKING five means I am down to using my cane again.  I tread a fine line of having enough ankle support and keeping the blood flowing.  Oh, that and the fine dusting of grey hair I have now.  Feh.

So, anyway.  Sexual frustration aside, I am tired and I have had enough.  But I can't stop, because I never do.  You'd have thought I'd have learnt something by now, but OH NO.  Not me!  No sir.  I'm going to keep on until I go snow white.  And what about the girl who calls me Bubby?  Even in my iciest of dispositions I can't help but kindle warmth for her; she improves my day more than I should want to admit, but sure as hell I ain't gonna breathe a word.  Other than this, I'm keeping that one close to my chest.  Well, I should like to keep her close to my chest, but you know, I'm not even sure I'd know what to do anymore.  I'm repeating myself now, so I shall stop.  If you've read this far, then congratulations!  Hopefully there won't be another pathetic moan like this for another month or so.

I can't go on, I must go on.  I have no choice.  The less people can tell, the better.  Tomorrow is my recital day, and I must sleep to prepare.  

* 'Of' or 'from', 'out of' &c

** My name as originally intended, in its Hebrew form