Knock knock, it's the Abyss

You know, I can't remember if I've said anything about this before, I suppose it doesn't really matter as it's a relevant issue every fucking day.  Although I suppose you might get bored if every time I publish it's always about this.  But really, that's what my life is like.  If you've never been depressed, and (arguably) more importantly don't care about something that doesn't affect you, then get lost.  I'm serious.  You should leave, and that soon.

You're not going to like this.

I heard actually, that depression affects a ratio of one to every one person.  Everybody, at some time, will suffer in their life, but to what degree and in what respect will differ.  Sometimes, it goes too far, and some people choose to justify the mental anguish with physical pain, such as self-harm, killing other people, or even killing themselves.  But funnily enough, I'm not one of them.  Surprising, I know. perhaps we could finally get some eschatological verification if I was.

No, I don't talk about my depression very often, because, guess what you guys!  It depresses me.  I guess the trouble all started when...uh...well, actually it's been so long I can't even remember now.  Of course I always hoot on about my second year at univerity as the worst time.  Funnily enough, this was not just down to my precarious living arrangement but also my choral employment at the time.  Yes that's right.  The Parish Church or St. Peter Mancroft.  Arguably it would have been worse if I had never been.  I mean, my official position is never to wish that things had been different, or I would never have wound up wherever I did for the next thing &c &c, but maybe this one could have done with t a little more thought.  My time at Mancroft is the reason why I never claim to be a singer by trade, why I am prouder of my Organ playing than anything else, and why I have absolutely zero confidence.  It'd be like... the killer that got killed on the job.  Obvioulsy I love making ridiculous statements though.  However, enough with the jokes.  The only thing that Mancroft did for my singing was tell me that I was wrong.  If there was a mistake, it was always my fault.  My tone was always too strong and my consonants too big and it was always my fault.  Obviously I wish to paint myself as the sympathetic hero, but actually, I don't.  I'm not quite that stupid.  Why was I loud, and forthright &c &c?  Because I wanted to do my best.  I was taught to lead, so that's what I tried to do.  Take the initiative and use my greater experience of repertoire.  Not the best idea though.  Perhaps it's all in the execution.  Anyway, I was never good enough to do any solos until the last service, basically, and that was my fault as well.  How?  Well, I was told that I "should be subserviant" to the director, and that's an actual quote fact fans.  No merit based rewards there then.  I can take that though, being a stubborn little shite at even the best of times. 

Singing was all I was ever really good at (other than philosophy), and to have this unending stream of criticism, especially at that time, was somewhat harmful to one's own personal development.  Why the fuck should I bother carrying on, if everything I do is wrong?  Bit of a foregone conclusion there, eh?

Well, anyway, I decided to go back to University for a third year, and back to Mancroft for a second round.  I never quit, because I'm a) an idiot and b) the type to see something out to the bitter end, which is also why I went back to Uni.  I never for a second really thought I could rescue the clusterfuck of that second year, but gave it a shot anyway.  More on that and the result later.  The next and again most pressing item is of course the lack of employment.  Now, see here.  Turns out that this gig at Truro is exactly what it says on the tin.  We're Scholars to the Cathedral, and not employees.  As such, it's not technically a job, even though you have to put a hell of a lot of hard work into it.  At the moment we're doing a lot of things that I happen to know, but the only advantage this gives me is that I can watch more.  No technical advantage, nor musical advantage (remember my technique is terrible and I spent the last two years getting everything wrong), but just watching.  It's a speciality.

But anyway, just like the summer, I've been trying to find work.  And just like the summer, I've been having absolutely no luck at all.  Yesterday alone I made five separate job applications, for kitchen porter work and bar positions around the city, with no reply as yet.  Obviously I have no bar experience in a commercial sense, so it doesn't look good really, does it?  If you don't have experience you can't get the job, but if you can't get the job how will you get experience?  Ho hum.  Anyway, I suppose all I can do now is wait.  I can't even get JSA again like I did because my mother is my official representative or whatever the term is, so she has to be legally present for everything.  Even if I wanted to sign on again (which, financially is an excellent idea at the moment), I couldn't.  I must, therefore, survive on the stipend handed out by the Cathedral, a not impossible task, but far from desirable.  Also, I would have something else to do in the day than sit around drinking tea and waiting for the world to end.

And now I turn to what to do next year?  Obviously I can't be a choral scholar forever.  I am looking at continuing my education. However.  I have two major problems.  The first is my degree.  At a second class, second division, it's not exactly cutting any mustard anywhere.  Firsts or 2:1s are the accepted order of the day.  The other option is of course a performance Diploma, a little research into those however reveals the high cost of such an operation - somewhat out of reach for the poor and unemployed.  I haven't even done anything about singing lessons down here in case they cost actual money, an unnatural resource I seem to be fairly free of.  There's about 40p in my wallet, I suppose that'll have to do.

I'm almost out of my depth.  Almost.  I can cope with a daily service (just about, my warbling is holding out - in fact, I was told by my Lay-Vicar counterpart that I was "good" and "louder than both the past two scholars put together" so there's some mileage there I suppose), I can deal with the amount of music being put in front of me, and the fact that usually there's only an hour's rehearsal before it's done and then put away.  Singing is what I do, and doing it I am.  However.  It is the rest of it that I am struggling with, struggling being the operative term, and struggling being the right word indeed.  Without a Student Loan to top my overdraft up like the last two years, I feel pretty much financially helpless.  I want a job, but obviously I'm terrified.  I guess I'd be ok once I started, but it's just getting that start.  Going out and getting a job will always be nigh-on impossible I suppose, but I just want a fucking chance.  Obviously I am asking for too much. 

My favourite metaphor for how I feel is being punched in the face, every day.  I'd say try it but I know you don't want to; well boo hoo because I don't get any choice.  You can get punched in the face for a week, say, and still come up smiling.  Maybe it's funny, like a game: get up again and again and maybe you can earn another smack in the chops!  Brilyunt.  Remember, points mean prizes, right?  Well, extend the metaphor for ever, basically.  I can only keep getting knocked back by prospective employers, or my bank balance, or perhaps the unhealthy assumption that I come from a well-off background and have a rosy-looking childhood.  No, no, no and no.  Being so far from my frinds and family is beginning to hurt.  It feels like I am out here alone.  Of course, I am surrounded by people and services and whatnot and what have you, but I essentially chose to throw myself deep into unknown territory without a wingman, basically.

Of course, I am harking on to an absurdity, because this is exactly how I felt this time last year.  Actually NO IT WASN'T.  I was scared then, but hopeful and optimistic and above all, determined.  I am sorely lacking this fine character attributes today though.  Upset, uncertainty of the future, financial worries, absolutely everything.

POSTSCRIPTUM

Well that was hard.  That also took all week to write, in one everlasting draft.  But I had to.  I have been very bad at keeping this updated, I mean, I still have my little loveletter to SUDA 51 to write and I have noticed a predeliction for existentialist cinema that might merit discussion as well.  Services are moderately tough, but  I'm keeping my wits about me, and can't really say farer than that.  I have never been happier not to have perfect pitch though.  I sing every night of the week, but still have nothing to do in the day.  I haven't sung proper Barbershop since the end of term in June.  I'm just a little lost.  I have no idea where I'm going next, I have very little idea what I'll be doing tomorrow in fact.  It's all quite bad.  If I were a real person, I'd have this all figured out by now.  Or, more likely, know enough of the right people to get me there without having to think myself.  Oh well.  Such is my lot.

Knock knock.

TRU

Well.  two weeks in and I'm still alive.

Lapsed Songman and Organ Scholar Emeritus, now Choral Scholar of Truro Cathedral.  Looks good, doesn't it?  Feels pretty good too.  It's nice to be working hard again.  I say working hard, it's still just under 16 hours a week, and I haven't managed to become employed.  Harsh. It's not that I'm not applying, it's just that I'm not being employed!  This is the real world though, so it is folly to expect anything else...

I haven't written for a long time.  Once again, I've been getting used to this new and distinct reality, where rehearsal is brief and drink is expensive.  My bank account reads like it's almost a quarter past three in the afternoon, but minus.  I'm not stopping this, no way, but I have been somewhat distracted by the business of living, which as we all know is very annoying.

My abode is known colloquially as "The Squalory".  Looking at the Kitchen in its current state it's not hard to guess why.  Once again my masterful pot washing and cleaning skills are being exercised daily, also in as much as thanks to my dear mother, the spirit of a clean kitchen has been instilled into me from a young age.  My room however, is the usual incarnation of chaos.  I have a floor and hoover once a week, so it's better than last year!  See that it is messy but not dirty, cant stand it if it's dirty.  I'm sat here dying inside thinking about the kitchen.  GOD DAMN IT THE KITCHEN NEEDS MY HELP.

However, the singing is good.  I haven't had any lessons (no monies), but it feels good.  I need to find my edge again, but there's no use ruining things.  Below me lives a graduate of the Royal Northern, behond me lives an old boy from St. Paul's, and next door lives an ex-private boarder, with whom I seem to have formed some sort of subversive double act.  It appears I am become quite the stooge in my cynicism.

So.  Same Peb, different county.  Or country, if you are so inclined.  It's early days, but it's all looking up!  Watch this space.