"Do I know you?"

Another week, another life. 

Part of me says that I shouldn't grumble so much, but I don't know, there's so much catharsis... Hah!  Things are pretty good actually.  My personal arc of esteem/value/enjoyment is swinging to the better side finally, my days have been moderately high functioning, nothing too exciting yet.

Part of this has been due to my attendence of NLP sessions, that I'd describe as a kind of counceling that isn't counceling.  It stands for Neuro-Linguistic Processing, and basically consists of... sort of a challenge to thought patterns.  I have a naturally low state of self-esteem and confidence, as we all know and have started my online public discussion of last week.  Part of this is down to not only my perception of my environment and other people, but also the language that I employ in interacting with the world, especially as I have returned to quite a base state of anger.  Some days I am just totally angry, and I legitimately enjoy that state quite a lot: I find that I usually function quite highly, so the rage and dissatisfaction is worth the trade off.  I feel that things get done, and that I usually compromise less; after almost a year of sacrifice and compromise I look at how that has made me feel and how miserable things have been.  In order to make these compromises I have often stopped standing up for my own beliefs, which is an utterly hopeless position.  In turning my back on this, I think that perhaps I have gone too far at the moment, but if I can regain the ground that I lost, then perhaps it will all be worth it once I calm down again.

In a way, it's also about my hero, the Big Man.  My Uncle Philip, the world's most intelligent alcoholic, is quite the idol.  No, I do not look forward to a future of liver destruction myself, but I do not villify him for it either.  While he has been a violent person, even towards his family, and squandered his life, health and money away on booze... He knows it and regrets it.  There have been occassions where he has apologised...and that's what makes him my hero.  But the point is he can be a punishingly outspoken man: if he doesn't like it, he'll damn well say so.  Even his front door has a warning sign, "Here lives a lovely lady and a grumpy man".  Engage him on his level though, and he is one of the wittiest people on the soil.  In his day, probably one of the best butchers in Derby, and rightfully still proud of it.  Of course, his alcoholism means that he has not worked for years, and I think that this is one of his chiefest regrets, and a stark warning to me.  If I want to continue in my profession as a musician at all, I cannot allow myself to become addicted to the same dangerous poison.  It's all well and good having a nice time, but it can't become my life.

The constant battle against the kitchen continues.  This last week has seen the advent of a new tactic: if it's mine I wash it and rescue it; if it isn't and I haven't used it, I'll leave it.  That's right, I'm beginning to leave things.  If you're finding that difficult to believe, then think how difficult it is for me to do it!  Cookware has sat for weeks on end in the kitchen due to this new rule, which is disgusting: a huge pan of soup was left for a total of three weeks and acquired a lid of black mould, responsible for  foul odour and a definite health risk.  One of my housemates has come down with a suspected case of Norovirus... Delightful.  The appropriate Wikipedia article on the matter describes most outbreaks taking place in "closed or semiclosed communites" (like Scholaries), and that outbreaks can be traced to "food handled by one infected person".  Perhaps my practice of cooking for myself is paying off already?  In any case, having a kitchen packed with dirty pans is one of the least helpful things.  Interestingly enough, the same article recommends chlorine-based cleaning agents (so bleach), and a raise in temperature to successfully recover from the virus...which might explain why the heating keeps being booted up.  Somehow, it doesn't seem to make any difference whatsoever as to how many times I ask for the heating to be slightly down (and I mean slightly, maybe 2 or 3 degrees lower at the most) at night, because well...I just get ignored.  Having a hot room at night makes me feel dreadfully ill, stuffed up and sweaty - my radiator is permanently off and my window always open, but that doesn't stop the hot water going through the radiators in the rest of the house or even through the pipes that are part of the system going under the floor of my room either.  This morning I felt like I'd been left out to dry.  I do wonder how the others don't feel so dehydrated after a night, but I guess that's definitely not a bad thing for them!

The search for work continues.  When this is finished and posted, I might go to that shop I applied to and ask where my application has got to in their employment process.  Has it been thrown out?  If so, what feedback can they give me?  Or will they ring me for an interview by the end of the week?  In two days time it'll be two weeks since I took my CV and covering letter in, so I would like to know if I'm still in the running... That's okay, right?  I mean, I want this job.  It would suit me.  It would fit in with my appointment as Choral Scholar and Lay Vicar.  The effect of getting full time employment without having to train as a teacher would be amazing.  This isn't to say that FT teaching is worth any less, because I know quite a few people who are applying for or part-way through their Teacher training and it is worth as much as absolutely anything and everything else, are we clear?  It's just that, well... I'm not suited.  And that's it.  I'm still too...what's the word...aggressive to teach?  Yeah, aggressive, I think that's a good word.

Outside of all this, I am working my way through the works of Brahms Opus by Opus, mostly while I've been working in the Cathedral office again.  There is still no WiFi in the house consistent enough unless I sit directly underneath the router... which is infuriating.  If I want to sit in my room and listen to something I don't own, such as almost any classical music you could care to name, then I simply can't do that.  Instead, while preparing my transcription of the Corrette mass, I have been reacquainting myself with the hardcore thrash punk stylings of Cancer Bats, a type of noise not really favoured by the other Scholars.  It takes all sorts really though, what with the others having a hugely developed appreciation for Opera, alongside 19th and 20th century music in the classical tradition.  Variety is of course, the spice of life after all!

Hiatus

As ever, these things often spill into two sessions.  Yet another of my co-habitors has come down with this vile and unwelcome illness, and I can't help but feel paranoid about coming down with it myself.  Soon, the Easter break will be upon us, and I will be left in the Scholary on my own - of course there will no longer be any sick people around me, but it'd be par for the course if I went down with it while I was alone in there... Although saying that, there are plenty of friends down here who would help me out should I fall ill.  Hopefully it won't come to that.  Keep your fingers crossed, dear readers.

My previous call for letters has finally gone answered though, having established a healthy and rewarding correspondence with my excellent friend Mr. Godolphin, and of course, receiving letters from the State of Maryland, USA.

Also, I have managed to repair the Wireless Firewire connection in the house...by screwing the antenna in properly on the back so it broadcasts correctly again.  I should get a set of buisness cards with a list of spurious titles printed: Gentleman, Scholar, Cook, Cleaner, Deceased Rodent Removal, IT Consultant...

Postscriptum

I'm rather glad I didn't get all this done in one sitting and posting, the original end, in situ, upon reflection is quite weak.  It has also allowed me to comment on more recent occurences, although now I think about it, there was that time on Sunday evening gone when I got pranked called...

"Semantic Blockage"

So, just about a fortnight ago, I woke up angry for the first time in over a year.  It feels like weeks ago, even a month perhaps... really the weekend is the focus life in the Scholary, as I mean... what happens in the week in my unemployed existence?  Washing up?  Evensong?  Not even I want to think about that too much.

Things have been different.  Things have been better!  It's not as if I'm losing my temper and just flying off the handle all the time, as much as I'd dearly love to (it's too antisocial really), just keep it ticking over and have put a real concerted effort into not keeping other people happy at my expense, as easy as it is to pander to the wishes of others in the name of a quiet life (which is really what I'm after, of course).  It's kind of like learning to say "no" again.  Things like not keeping my hyperactivity in check and of all things, eating what I want to when I want to.  It's the simple things, eh?  My tea intake is slightly higher, so obviously the increase in tanin and caffeine has had a positive effect (nothing like giving in to your addictions, is there?), as has tricking my body into staying more or less the same regardless of what time I get to sleep due to keeping my window open (so I don't overheat during the night) and the curtains somewhat less than closed.  Bizarre perhaps, but as the weather is improving (and especially in the mornings), having sunlight stream through into the room is a rather fine way to wake up, don't you think?  I'm getting into the habit of opening the curtains as well, to welcome some light into this abode, and often stand with the back door open to get a fresh breeze through here as well.  I don't particularly enjoy living in a dingy shit hole regardless of the opinion of anybody else, so what I can do to change that for the best while I'm still here, I will.  

Also I have returned to what must be my dearest favourite composition that ever is in the world, Johannes Brahms' Ein Deutsches Requiem.  The sheer scale of it, the depth of texture, tonality and how the text, still from scripture yet not the usual Mass for the Dead, is so totally integral to its effect and affekt and just basically everything about it.  The supermassive D major fugue that closes the already gigantic third movement sat over a perpetual tonic pedal that almost derailed the first performance (surely the greatest three minutes of counterpoint ever?) to the huge C major fugue that is the meat and bread of the sixth movement that arrives after the gigantic phrygian passage, "Tod, wo ist dein stachel", the huge dread sarabande that is the second movement... When it comes down to it, Brahms actually is my favourite composer, yes Brahms!  He is my man!  The great Piano Quintet (because really there can only be one), Opus 34, was the soundtrack to my VIth form.  Obviously I need, in the most imperative sense imaginable, to find a Brahms Req to get involved in, and that soon.  I never have any time away from the stall, and really I can think of no better reason than this to do a runner from Truro (although to come back, naturally).

But like I said, things have been getting better.  Hurdles feel like they can be cleared: not so confidently that they seem to be as staples, but getting smaller every day.  I think that rising (or at least waking) early is a big part of this; I may still be getting up and filling the bowl up, but at least that part is finished by around 10am rather than 2pm.  The day still lies ahead of me.  Today, I handed in my first application for a full time job, as a "sales advisor" at a Music Shop, so hopes, prayers, hexes, blessings and crossed fingers for my favour if you will!  This is really something I want a lot, and if it comes off will go a long way towards sorting me out down here permanently.  As much as a tonal shift in my attitude as it is, being a lay vicar down here is really quite vocational when you look the financial state of the position.  Priorities must shift, inasmuch as they shift all the time, but not much is dearer to my heart than my post as Choral-Scholar-elect-of-Lay-Vicarship.  Well, except Brahms.  OBVIOUSLY.  

It feels like the stage is being cleared, ready to set up for the next big act.  Machinery behind the curtains is creaking away and well... something is happening!  Next thing you know, there'll be a woman!  HAHA GOT YOU THERE DIDN'T I.  IT WAS ALL GOING SO WELL AND THEN I HAD TO DO THAT.  Yeah, the thing about that... Always the master of self-diagnosis, I know that my number one problem is one that plagues me in all walks of life well two problems really: confidence and communication.  Some things are just so difficult all the time that you know I just need a bit of help.  I think my problems with communication are the real root: the last real symptom of being autistic that I still carry with me is my straight up flat out inability to really appreciate social boundary and what sort of language is appropriate in the right time and place.  Examples are just too numerous to mention, but sometimes I live my life in that horrid middle-of-nowhere-isn't-this-awkward place that usually develops when you try to say something clever but it's totally misjudged.  That is my life.  You know how awkward you feel when you're talking to an attractive person where you're kind of walking on eggshells so you can get them to entertain the idea of considering to have sex with you?  I'm rapidly running out of delicate language here, so you'll have to meet me halfway.  But straight up, you know what I mean.  I can sometimes arrive at that place way before I should and then what little confidence I have left is dried up like a potsherd.  I guess it'll come back though.  I mean, it kind of sort of worked twice in the recent past, (sort of a little bit not that long term commitment has been a success), so with any luck it'll work out again.  I mean hell!  Maybe I won't have to make the first move next time!  HAHA.

So after a healthy dose of self-deprecation, I turn once again to my place at the sink, to return the kitchen to a state approaching acceptable.  Oh.  And a cup of tea.  Don't forget to switch the lights off when you're done.

"Reach into the Bag"

In which I spend the past weekend drinking and waiting on tables, and rediscover the joy of rage.

The newest conversation replacement in the house has arrived; no longer one of the near-identical iterations of the best-selling brain-disabling world-takeover that is the Electronic Art's FIFA series, it is in the online multiplayer for Halo 3, a game that I have some modicum of ability with.  I may not be terribly good, as I have quite a low affinity for dual-analogue controls (yes, the leading method of FPS controls, whatever), but it's good fun at least, if a million miles away from both the pixel-perfect sniping of the N64's Goldeneye or the Gamecube's genre defying masterpiece Metroid Prime.  This advent of online gaming in the Scholary will ensure that the race for both sofa and controller has become more desperate than ever.

But the weekend!  Yes, this glorious weekend past that seems to mark a turning in the tides, not around the coast of damp old Cornwall but in my life.  I am also slightly terrified, but on to that in a moment.  Friday night was composed of a booze-infused house party hosted by friends from dyvers other lands.  There seem to be several different stories as to how exactly the night ended and who went home at what time, but what we all agree on is that we were deeply inebriated and even though there were some stupid arguments, we all had a rollicking good time, and nobody got alcohol poisoning.  Hooray!

However.  I awoke on Saturday of my own accord and my own volition.  At half past eight in the morning.  I'll give you a minute to think about that clearly, and I can wait because it's not the easiest thing to process. 
As I said last week, I had managed to shift my body clock back a whole five hours, which is no mean feat in itself, which was still pretty problematic by the time I got to last Friday... and then it just flipped.  My metabolism can look after itself, regardless of what my conscious mind wants to do, which is ever so slightly terrifying.  Although like I always say, my subconscious is far more intelligent than I can ever hope to be.

Hiatus

Sorry about the delay.  I woke up at about half past five in the morning today feeling like one of those roast in the bag chickens.  Feh.

But as I was saying.  Saturday night was composed not of becoming excruciatingly wasted as these things often are, but instead consisted of running around the Cathedral Restaurant waiting on tables with the Cathedral Restaurant staff in an event known only as Dine Opera, where patrons are assaulted by various Operatic numbers sung by local artistes in between the three courses served to them and lashings of expensive alcohol, all in the name of raising money for the choir tour.  One of the major ground rules of this evening is no Countertenors.  Anyway.  Having worked in the Restaurant as a table waiter in the summer which I still refer to as utterly dreadful, I know the staff and they know me.  As usual, a lack of clear and detailed instruction before the evening drove me to meet with the Restaurant manager and ask her what was going off... which ended up with me basically doing same work with the rest of the staff, which was absolutely shattering.  Hands down.  I did, for my troubles however, receive a plate of lamb chops and vegetables (one of the courses on offer to the patrons) for free as payment, and also a chocolate mousse dessert, which was just totally excellent.  I look back on that time when I worked there, and regret not being able to control my depression to the extent that it became something that stopped me from working there.  There was no ill feeling all night from either me or them about me working, I volunteered to wait on because I enjoy working with them, and I thought the help would be both needed and appreciated, which it was.  It was also quite damaging towards my mobility, and it's taken me a good four or five days to recover.

Sunday was extremely painful, but on balance a good day.  The Vierne Messe Solennelle was graced by my high-pressure top octave, giving the Kyrie's treble high A's the punch they needed.  The evening, graced by local legend Russell Pascoe's Magnificat & Nunc Dimittis, then became a slaughter of my liver once again, by reporting to the Rising Sun Inn after Evensong to celebrate the birthday of one of it's proprietors.  I returned home to the dreaded Scholary at about... well, I don;t really remember what time in the morning per se, but let's say after 1am.  I discovered that the others had eaten all the dinner (under the assumption that I had gone to St. Ives with the Boss), and that also they had the intelligence to pick my carving knife from the grab and use it...and the courtesy to leave it covered in Pork fat lying on the side.  This of course, immediately made me wrathful, and I set about to the washing up.  Inebriated.  At half past one in the morning.  That's all true.

I have once again become the angriest yid on the soil.  Something obviously tripped in my head for that brief period that I was asleep in the early hours of Saturday morning and I now remember how much I actually enjoy being angry.  I feel that I have wasted my life trying as hard as I can to keep an even temper and be as forgiving as possible... Yes, all admirable character traits but somehow... Fruitless.  Although this is still some sort of progress, I mean, it's better to be angry all the time than be depressed, right?

I need to make more effective and positive progress than this though.  I'm even considering a return to Physiotherapy because really when you get down to it, being crippled is painful and disappointing and terrible.  Getting a job is becoming more and more of a priority, as not only do I have the tour to Sweden in August to consider, but funding myself and accommodation are arguably even more important.  

There is no rest for the wicked, after all.  But the lazy seem to get by just fine.