Morning Ritual

To cut through a huge swathe of narrative already, my morning ritual revolves around the first tea of the day; if I miss it, I become some horrid abortion of humanity.  It isn't pretty.  Eucharist is ruined and I'm in danger of swearing at well, everybody, regardless of age or station.

I used to have a ritual pretty much set in stone when I was younger, and any deviation from it would result in TERROR and SCREAMING on my part and SIGHING and ROLLING OF EYES from whichever parental unit was in charge.  Always always breakfast first, then drink, then get washed and dressed.  Simple.  Should any part of that change, I would have a hissy fit of varying degrees, and generally be mardy for most of the day (no change there then).  Over the years, the routine has really basically never changed, only the things that make up each part.  Breakfast is still cereal (but never toast), followed by Tea (once Orange Juice but never coffee), followed by a shower (or sometimes just a shave), and then putting my suit on (or perhaps some shorts?).  In leaving the house, ready to take on whatever calamities that will be thrown at me, only steps 2 and 4 in that sequence have become completely imperative - without these I am without hope (and sometimes if I get up too late on a Sunday I have to miss out step 2, which makes me as grumpy as hell, as I'm sure my fellow Alto Lay Vicar can testify to).  Missing out on breakfast, while in strict opposition to my weight regime, is a survivable act.

Hiatus

Having neglected to complete this at any point yesterday has actually given me a chance to recognise when these rituals fall apart as well, i.e. this morning...

As I've gotten older (and had less help getting up, although my dear mother will ring me on occasion when requested), I have realised that actually, the world will not endand I will not die should any part of the above mentioned routine be broken at any point.  I used to get straight up nasty when I had to change it, especially if I hadn't chosen to do so at all.  Even now, having a shower before breakfast doesn't make me happy but I can survive!  Things at University sort of allowed me to get back to basics; either clawing back what little strength of mood that I could in second year, or sailing though those critical months of writer's block in third year (where I had little else to do but research and attempt to put some readable material on the page).  Either by having few responsibilities or sometimes choosing to avoid them when nobody else was dependent on me (shocking), I could return to my old habits, and not have to rush through them at that.  There's not much worse than not doing something properly because you don't have the time, right?  On the other hand, there's nothing quite like leaving things until the last minute to give you motivation, something I've clung to for years now (with equal amounts of success/failure along the way).

Anyway.  Nothing like oversleeping to test what really matters when you're supposed to be somewhere looking presentable, is there?  Oh dear.  Haaaa...
To my shame, I merely overslept.  No wild partying, no drinking, no seducing, no staying up chatting with people through the internet until 5am, just... Overslept.  How boring.  How pointlessly boring.  Even now I'm trying to think of more interesting things I could have done that would have justified waking up almost an hour later than I should have.  As you may have gathered, I have been working in the Cathedral Office 9-5 this week, in my on again off again role as Relief Secretary on the front desk.  Seeing as it's midterm, it's remarkably quiet, which is how I'm getting all this stuff typed up.  The PA to the Dean and Chief Executive knows I'm doing this as well, because, well, she asked!  In the meantime I'm still answering phones and sending emails and sorting post and photocopying as per the terms of what I should actually be doing.  Point being though that I still woke up 11 minutes after I was due to start.  Whoops. 

I spring into action much before conscious thought can establish itself and cause a short yet highly effective episode of panic.  What do I need to do in order to quick-start my humanity for the day?  Priorities: Make tea, but while the kettle's boiling, brush teeth, freshen the visage and wash glasses.  Once that's done, the kettle had boiled so I poured, and then hurried upstairs to brush my hair and sort myself out with my suit for the day, including this snazzy red bow tie I'm wearing.  I wear bow ties now.  Bow ties are cool.  Okay.  Once that's done and I've adjusted my tie, it's time to get... Wait.  Where are my keys?  Shit.  Small keys are on the keyboard so that's fine (I pick them up but put them in a different pocket)... Where are my big keys?  I don't need them today, but where the hell have they got to?  Drat.  I shake my raincoat on the way down the stairs for the familir chink of massed keys: good.  By this time, the tea is steeped to perfection (but maybe the tiniest bit too much milk), but before I reach the kitchen I pat my pocket to discover that clavis minor are not there OH GOD NO PLEASE NO I run halway up the stairs again to discover they have found home in at alternate pocket (what a simpleton).  Back on track, Tea stirred and de-bagged, I take the mug with me out the door and round the corner, ready to faces the good-natured ribbing of my colleagues and my eternal embarrasment... It wasn't even an epic error, like missing the day out, I'm not hungover or even sat here still drunk... How boring.

I will, of course, survive.  I know that turning up late is terribly unprofessional but we all make mistakes every now and again, and this was a genuine unforced error.  Would there have been any benefit of trying to formulate some lie as to why I was late?  It's far easier to accept the responsibilty of actually telling the truth.  Had I have woken up and arisen on time, I would have been able to have got some cereal to quench the fires of hunger that rage within me, not rushed through Tea prep and not put too much milk in.  I'm getting bogged down in details here but you get the point.  It's not so much that a shower was imperative today, more that I feel uncomfortable having been late.  My morning ritual is something I have worked on over the years to keep my feeling safe - just one of the almost innumerable strategies I use every day to make sure I can cope, and make sure nobody asks me any questions if I seem disquieted.  I know there are plenty of people that can postpone their rituals without feeling stressed about it, and to you I say "how do you do that that's amazing if only I could do the same".  Of course, seeing as I still get annoyed if I miss out, I obviously need to work on a back-up strategy for...well!  Times like this!

That's all.  For now.

Meta thoughts

I've just been talking about my blog, you know, in real life.  It still feels odd doing so, actually!  I've also been reading the wikipedia article on blogging too, specifically the 'Legal and Social consequences' part, which as I'm sure you can imagine, is very interesting...

I do not use a nom de plume, I self-promote all the time, of course, and I do talk freely about the things that happen in the places that I go, the people that I meet and work for and with.  In Norwich, it was easier to...project an air of anonimity to the people I was writing about.  On a University campus with any number of thousands of staff and students on-site at any one time, it was simple, coming up with names that reflected a person's character, or who they were to me rather than name names (although I'm sure the post about best friends in particular was almost completely transparent to those of you who have known me for a long, long time), that could have been interpreted in many ways.  The titles become symbolic.

However, that was Norwich, and this is Truro.  It's almost the case that everybody knows everybody round here, and a certain...bravery, perhaps straight up foolhardiness comes of commenting directly on the actions of other people (especially if it happens to be a derogatory light), because well... I'm sure it'll get back to them not just somehow, but probably quite soon.  But having a personal blog like this, almost a diary (except for the #BEDM rush), an identity published into the anonymity of the internet (I'm sure that I know most of my readership, especially you who text, tweet or engage me in public...but who could I know in Hungary who's reading?  Is it you?  Say hello!), I mean, there has to be a percentage of my audience that I may never meet, so none of the names or titles here will mean anything except for the association the reader themselves build thereon.   

Even though I've moved on from my formative diaries, there's still some cringeworthy stuff hidden deep away in the distant past; not just content but also in style.  I guess having to write daily instead of the weekly schedule I was clinging on to (barely at that) has forced me to practice.  It's still the same sort of stuff, but I find that hitting my stride in the post has become a little easier - it's not just what I write but the vocabulary and syntax of how I do it that matters, not just in media res, as well as the finished product.  If it isn't remotely enjooyable to read, even for me, it's scrapped.  31% of all my posts I've ever written are still in the draft stage.  There are a few that are complete: finished but not published, usually due to some nagging doubt in the back of my head, then left overnight, re-read and abandoned.  Sometimes I have stuck with my original title and completely changed the content, other times a retitle halfway through the process has served far better than a whole reset. 

Blogging every day in May has been quite hard.  Sometimes, coming home from perhaps Evensong and having to get the dinner ready, or considering going out (or even coming back half cut), thinking about having to write has sometimes been... a responsibility I have sometimes chosen to neglect.  Woah!  The 'r' word?  Sure, it's totally my choice to write to whatever schedule the hell I want it to be, but if I'm supposed to be writing every day then I should be writing.  I chose to take this challenge on.  Just like I chose to move out and go to University, and yeah sure there was the odd day where I was just paralysed by depression, but I didn't give up on that.  I had people who wouldn't give up on me as well, and more triumph has come out of those friendships than I could ever have guessed.  What about if it was my job to write though?  I definitely enjoy writing (or I wouldn't be doing so three years on) but I'm sure there are many journalists and copywriters out there who would love to swap out and be a Cathedral musician instead, I mean, the grass is greener on the other side after all. 

I don't really do pictures, either in my posts as a post in and of themselves, because writing in an extended fashion is how I engage with the blog.  I guess this is an opinion column, as much as a personal lifestyle web log, and while I do attempt to portray events that happen in quite a factual manner, I am aware that authorial intent is different to audience interpretation.  Thankfully, one's professional engagements so far have not brought any real consequences.  Like my personal Twitter account, these are my views and my views alone; sometimes incendiary, often controversial, but without the aid of another...unless explicitly stated.  Perhaps I should have a disclaimer page. 

As we race towards the end of the schema so kindly written by Elizabeth, I wonder how I will progress?  It has been exciting watching my pageviews ramp up to almost 10,000, I mean, even almost 8,000 at three years is quite good.  I don't do much other than write, but then again I hope that the daily schedule has attracted a further audience to those of you already established, who might like to stick around once it all calms down again.  This is the second post of the day though, and writing what's going to end up as over 2000 words on different subjects can be a bit draining.  I'll finish work soon though, get home, hang m ysuit up and slap an LP on, and not have to think about dinner until way later this evening.  The weather has picked up, and the chance to just go home and not have to worry about Evensong or the Men's rehearsal that follows on a typical Wednesday evening is the blessing of half term.  Still, I could only ever have one week off.




Author's Note: I think that's enough for today.  The #BEDM title passed down was "Bad Advice", for which I have even less answer than the contents of my fridge.  I can't really remember serious bad advice, that is, bad advice couched seriously rather than sarcastically.  I only seem to recall good advice that I haven't taken notice to, like..."never mix your drinks", receiving almost weekly ignorance.  Maybe I've never really had bad advice: I can't remember a single episode off the top of my head,so I suppose that makes me very lucky.  But obviously, very foolish for not taking the good advice.  Anyway.  Tune in tomorrow for wha should have been today's post about... the morning ritual.  Good good

That's all.  For now.

Secret Talent

See, the thing about writing about secrets is that they don't stay secret for long.  Especially when you publish it on the Internet.


This is a stumper, actually.  What talent do I have that people don't know about that I could discuss here?  Half decent musician, half decent writer, half decent cook, shirt ironer and kitchen cleaner (all round domestic Godhood, obviously).  I guess the extent of my musicianship is quite a surprise to people in Truro, we might as well start there.  Those who remember me from School and University will be well familiar with what I can do, not only being able to at least get a tune out of most any instrument but also my main 'disciplines' of Countertenoring, Tenor Banjo, Bass, assorted Recorders and the Organ.  The Assistant Organist of this very Cathderal in fact seemed terribly surprised when I reminded him that I too was once an Organ Scholar, at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich, seeing as I exhibit a critical lack of abilities usually expected of an Organ Scholar, i.e. actually being able to play things like hymns and accompany: still arts that are hidden from me.  The more... Practical aspects, like registering, page turning, preparing music and the like are more my forte.  Two years of lessons at the Collins, that altar of Neo-Classicism were very well received, if often quite stressful, as I never had any formal training or even Piano lessons when I was younger.  The Chief pushed me because he knew he could though, and the efforts he made at introducing me to the finer points of both the music and literature associated with the North German Baroque and French Classical and Romantic schools of composition are still part of my personal study and reading.  Anyway. 

I guess the Banjo thing really came out of the bag when I played my amazing recital in St. Mary's Aisle in Truro Cathedral, of the entire first Cello Suite.  In fact, only on Saturday it was brought up in conversation to me as "your Cello suite" by a young man preparing it on his Viola.  MY Cello suite indeed!  BWV 1007 still sounds pretty good on the old Banjo after all.  I should definitely think that it's not what was intended by, well, anybody... But who am I to care about that?  I may not be the world's greatest Banjo player by any respect, but I'm still learning my chords and scales and trying to improve my technique whenever I do actually practice - the thinner neck on my newest Banjo means that the wrist has to be held high - much more correct playing posture.  I've been playing Tenor Banjo since the age of 14 (well, Christmas 2004, I think...), so I know most of the positions for chords (which can then be just slid up and down the neck)

I had the great priviledge of playing a Tenor Banjo made in 1938 the other week as well, quite cheekily asking without any sort of prior introduction, just an identification of which exact type of Banjo it was.  It belonged to a man who had been playing as part of a little Jazz band on Lemon Quay while there was a market on.  I quickly reeled off a couple of characteristic things, The Minsky being one, and then played the chords for the verses of that classic George Formby number, The Window Cleaner.  A little bit of respect was earned from the instrument's owner, although grudgingly, as one of his band mates noticed how much louder it was when I played it in comparison. 

While I feel that I don't exactly keep my talents a secret, I certainly don't play them up either.  If you'd have told me 9 years ago that I would be preparing a recital in a Cathedral Church I'd probably have laughed you away.  Perhaps my secret talent is so secrect that actually it's a secret even from myself?  A great cop out, sure, but poor fare for writing.  Then again, perhaps none of my talents are secret to me myself, but the fact that I know what I can and can't do coupled with the fact that I don't usually share that information (except in episodic format here) means I can't think of anything I don't know already, and aren't really sure how much you'd want to know.  Anybody confused yet?

I suppose that my musicianship is my greatest innate talent - nobody taught me to play the instruments I still do (I had Clarinet lessons for years and even though I probably know my way round most of the scales still I wouldn't claim to be able to play it any more).  I even blundered my way through the start of my countertenoring without proper instruction.  Sadly I can't lay any claim to ability in fine art, like drawing, painting or sculpture, but if there's any painting and decorating to be had I'll gladly join in.  I know, so mundane...

Either that or my ability to create strategies to cope with the world, the business of day to day living.  True, I receive a lot of help sometimes, but every talent needs nuturing to flourish, right?  I'm an adult living with a disability after all, the classic symptoms of Asperger's syndrome still in effect: limited social empathy, precise interests (and language), and difficulties with non-verbal communication.  Every single day throws up challenges, be they repeated or entirely novel situations.  I am often at loss describing how being autistic really is for me, as I have deliberately shielded myself from the recognised symptoms in order to not obsess about them; even reading up on the usual social difficulties as information for this very paragraph is proving quite upsetting, recognising problems I still have not overcome.  Martian Time Slip by the science fiction author Philip K. Dick, and even The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon (even reading the precis is making me feel uncomfortable with the familiarity of the main character's behaviour) are books I started but never finished due to how much of myself I recognised in them.  As much as I am different (I am not a fictional character, although I guess we all have doubts sometime) to the protagonists of these stories, there are many aspects of them that are identical to how I was when I was younger, and some behaviours I still continue to exhibit. 

If there's one thing I hate though, and really utterly detest, it's being questioned.  Being questioned calls me into doubt, and why should I doubt myself any more than I usually do?  I use my strategies to ensure that I am questioned as little as possible throughout my life, even though I'm sure that the successful execution of these strategies shows a fundamental bipolarity to my life: I am autistic, and suffer from different degrees of anxiety when presented with the unfamiliar, be it people, places, practices or anything I do not know already... But I'm working a desk job right now in the Cathedral Office, answering telephones and dealing with people I've never met before, most of whom I never meet again.  Even reading that back, it's obvious that they do not match up.  There's a lot that goes off behind the curtain though, much like the Wizard of Oz, that explains how I can do it - my morning routine (however truncated) must always  involve certain repeated aspects in a certain order (which actually is the topic of an upcoming blog anyway) in order to make sure I feel safe.  I've said it before, I live my life deliberately in a particular fashion (the way I dress, how I eat and how I communicate) in order to feel as safe as possible.  I have learnt that different strategies work at different times, and while I do receive a lot of help, it's something that I have found within myself to live my life how I choose.

I'm sure many others on the #BEDM trail have had more luck that I have with this topic, especially those who write shorter posts than I do.  I rather think that modesty is a large part of this as well, not willing to seem in any way egotistical at all.  Of course, I probably have a talent that none of us are aware of at all... I mean, maybe I will one day leave behind the trappings and politics of Cathedral Music, emigrate, and find a masterful ability as an artisan baker...

That's all.  For now.

Compliments/What's in your Fridge?

Double the trouble!  Hah...

I'm rolling two posts into one (CHEAT) because both of them have proved to be quite tricky to roll the usual heavyweight 1000+ for; the contents of my fridge are so thinly stretched and straight up boring that I found myself considering eating my own leg out of sheer ennui, and abandoning drafts left right and centre.  I will however, distill a description of the contents of the Scholary refrigerator... which may prove both enlightening and uninspiring in equal measure.  Also in this post I will attempt to broach the tricky issue of compliments.  I have an odd relationship with compliments, both giving and receiving, and the issue of what I feel is one of the best compliments I get paid these days.  without further ado, let us away away.

The Fridge in any shared dwelling is a minefield, usually forgotten food gone past its date.  Often, anything based on milk will normally have grown its own civilization to rival that which exists outside the fridge before it's removed.  Don't forget the shaft milk of Britten House.  Currently, the fridge is pretty empty; I am living on my own since the other Scholars have gone home.  There's little of interest in their left behind things - beef mince and refrigerated pasta, butter...and a bag of peppers, I think.  Maybe a Chorizo?  I'm not checking.  I'm not even at home.  I do, however, maintain an intimate familiarity with what I purchase.  All that's mine in there right now is butter and lactose-free milk.  I often don't keep things in the fridge, due to the typical lack of room in there: usually there's enough for the four other Scholars and well, not much room for anything else.  It's obviously a problem but there's not really much to be done.  The others buy for a week at a time, and I buy for myself.  It's been like this for a little while now, a few weeks after I got into that whole lactose intolerance scene.  I guess it's slightly more expensive in the long run, but I have my own stockpile of stuff in the dry cupboard after all.  I usually raid the reduced sections of both the Co-Operative and Tesco, I know I'm gambling all the time with what there is, but one the basics are down I can make anything that I know that I'll eat.  The one thing that I always need to keep in the fridge is the Lactose free milk.  I tried Soya but... Eurgh.  Life's too short to drink that bean curd, after all.  As long as I can drink tea and eat cereal in the morning (well, when I get up in sufficient time), then things will be okay.  I promise.

As part of the deal though, my contents of the fridge are as follows:

• Amoy Aromatic Black Bean stir fry sauce
• Helman's Mayonnaise (full fat)
• Lactofree blue milk
• Utterly Butterly 
• A bag of pre-sliced peppers (which need to be thrown out actually)

Phew.  That was boring.  Sorry!  There really is nothing exciting in my fridge. 

So I need to talk about compliments now, and specifically the best compliment I've ever received.   Let's go for the latter option first as a warm up though, because straight up the best compliment I feel that I receive is people complimenting me on this very blog.  It's really gratifying when people come up to me in bars, on the street, on twitter, at church, and say that they're enjoying reading my work or about that comment they left (you know who you are), or being chided for not keeping to the daily schedule (aha).  Of course as a writer I basically have no idea what I'm doing, which is probably why I'm having so much difficulty with unfamiliar titles and the territory that comes with them, not having any actual training or education, just throwing words onto the internet and finding that thankfully they seem to be sticking pretty well.  I'm sure there's more than enough people who don't like it, and aside from the frankly hilarious trolling I got last year I do pretty okay for comments.

But what about other compliments?  Ones that maybe I don't feel so...confident about?  Like, about my singing?  Ha ha... I'm still quite insecure about my singing.  I mean, I don't even listen to any countertenors for pleasure, so why should anybody want to listen to me?  When I started singing again after my voice had changed, my technique was so woefully inadequate and you know, everything was terrible not to mention the constant derision I was subject to by one of the older Songmen made me lose a lot of faith.  Things changed for the better though, and I got a lot of confidence back, even though I didn't think I made any impact in the choir sound.  Fast forward to Mancroft, where I was once again on the back foot, and always felt like I was doing something wrong, that I was too loud, my vowels...well, just wrong.  Things like that hurt.  I mean, really hurt.  There isn't much worse that you can do to an aspiring musician than leave them feeling like they can't do anything to improve.  I put almost as much energy into not expiring, as horrid a subject that might be.  Let's not talk about it any more.  The real upshot, the point I'm really trying to make is that I felt so unconfident that I stopped believing in the compliments I was paid about my voice.  It's a thorny issue, actually, because I genuinely didn't think that people were lying outright to me or anything, just that...I wasn't worth it.  For years I have been passed up on solos and concerts and I rationalised that it must be because I have a terrible voice, a sound neither worth making or listening to.  It's this approach that may contribute to my habit of seeking out unfamiliar repertoire (as far as Countertenors are concerned), so I don't have to stray into more familiar territory where I may suffer from comparisons to other singers, where I will inevitably come off worse.

Sadly, I suppose, I still have that attitude.  It's difficult to get rid of.  But I dunno... I'm working on it, I guess.  There have been two episodes that have gone some way to convincing me that I might be, uh, mistaken in thinking that I am not worth believing in...

NUMBER ONE I received a first class mark in my final vocal recital at University.  Accepted wisdom was that no singer ever gets a first at UEA and then I went and got an extremely pleasing 73,  If only the rest of my degree classifications could have gone like that!  I mean, my dissertation was first class too, but that's writing and academic writing at that, something I have a simple yet highly effective formula for, coupled with researching my topic the entire time I had writing block.  Obviously I wouldn't have performed so well if I wasn't actually good, but... I did work hard for it, after all.  I also had an excellent accompanist, without whose support I would have found it difficult to have done even half as well.

NUMBER TWO I was asked to join the team of permanent Lay Vicars at Truro Cathedral Choir.  I know, I know I know... You'v all probably heard quite enough about this but there was no way I even thought myself remotely good enough to be anything but a Choral Scholar until at least this time next year or so, maybe even another two years but actually turns out I'm good to go right now, not something I thought would happen until at least the age of 25.  I suppose I should just accept the fact that I'm capable (rather than just culpable) and get on with the job at hand now, but you know, it means a lot!  As much as I've suffered with issues of confidence and feeling that have difficulties in belonging, trying to remember that I'm actually wanted by the Boss to stay here; I'm sure he could rustle up any number of Choral Scholar types (perhaps mostly from the Oxbridge trail) on a rolling yearly basis to replace me had I not accepted - but no, it seems to be a much better idea if I stay on for the time being.  Musically of course this is my ideal world, but life itself has brought up an unexpectedly large amount of challenges, even at this stage!  There are miles to go yet.

Curiously, it does feel like there is little worth celebrating about this appointment though.  I'm not going anywhere, I'm not using next year to prepare to move on to higher education, which actually is basically what all the other Scholars are doing, in one form or another.  Whether to a Cambridge Collegiate Choral Scholarship, The Royal Academy of Music or PGCE study, the others have... destinations.  At this point, it seems I only have a journey in front of me.  As the "good news" was announced at the beginning of the Michaelmas half term holiday, before my exodus to Norwich and back, it sort of...got lost in the post?  Perhaps it was always part of the plan, I don't know, but it certainly feels a bit more...ordinary.  Oh well.  Time will tell what the lay of the land will be next year, with my own place and a job to go alongside too.  It seems that personal rather than professional goals will be my focus.

As for giving compliments, it's also something I'm not terribly used to.  This is more down to a lack of confidence - who the hell wants to hear me say...well, anything to them?  Why should what I say matter?  But this is the root of a deeper problem, one we don't have time for now.  I am gradually geeting more used to paying compliments as I get older and get more used to being able to engage other people in conversation, something that I still actually work harder on than you might imagine.  I have about two whole decades worth of strategies that are in operation all the time, and if you can't tell...that means they're working perfectly. 

That's all.  For now.

Music Love

Out of all the titles spread out before us at the start of the month, this is the one I have been looking forward to the most, unsurprisingly.  To form a top five of albums will prove just as difficult, if not more so than trying to fathom my favourite social media platform, my favourite blogs and what's always on my bookshelf.  

I like to think I have... Eclectic tastes.  Out of the house of four (or usually five...) Choral Scholars, I'm possibly the least interested in Opera, and truthfully don't listen to much in the way of choral music from any tradition - the furthest I usually stretch is to my great hero Thomas Weelkes, having long left behind the playlist of Choral Greats that I set up a long time ago on Spotify.  I've only just started to catch up on "names" in classical music, and I'm still proud to say I can't stand Beethoven.  Brahms all the way.  Instead, I feel that I belong to a wholly different tradition: while I certainly enjoy classical music while I'm performing (I do love my job, after all), I just don't really listen to it very often for pleasure.  True, Brahms' Piano Quintet in F minor (opus 34) is the closest thing I have to a spirit animal - passion and power, coloured by the serenity of the second movement, the pathos of the opening phrases of the finale, with the beating phrygian heart of the scherzo add up to all I want in a Piano Quintet.  But even then, I don't listen to it that often.  I never listen to Countertenors on the whole, and if anything often actively avoid doing so.  Msr. Jaroussky being particularly least favoured.  As for Andreas Scholl, I can take him or leave him.  As I do not have a particularly strong Baroque repertoire, I often don't even come into contact with the material they perform.  It's not really an active dislike, just...they do something I don't.

What I do listen to, on the other hand, is something completely different.  I've noticed that over the last half a decade, the type of music I listen to almost constantly has stayed more or less the same.  Aren't I boring?  Ha ha ha.  There have been some notable artists straight out of the left field though, and one of those albums will be featuring in this very post!  How exciting.  Let's cut straight to the chase though, and get down to business.  In no particular order, here are my five favourite albums... So far!

Daft Punk - Random Access Memories (2013).  Yep.  Even more so than Discovery, how controversial!  Daft Punk's first studio album in three years is a real winner, as far as I'm concerned.  There was a lot of backlash over the leak that happened a few days before the official release, from what I fathom basically because it wasn't another Discovery.  I flexed my Muso Journalist muscles and described the album as "an eloquent love letter to the golden age of Disco music", which even though it's terribly poncy, I still stand by.  I rather wish I had my record deck so I could get it on Vinyl, even though the track banding is less effective than say, Justice's Justice, it hangs together musically as a whole much better than Discovery does.  The production values are just insane, with the duo having complete control over everything, and some of the best session musicians available to play the tracks just makes it even better to listen to: the bass work on Giorgio is absolutely off the hook, and the 8 minute epic that is Touch covers so much ground without feeling like it's hanging around for even a second (not to mention the yearning written into the last chords).  This has been welded into my CD player since Tuesday when it was released, and I listen to it in whole shifts, rather than odd tracks.  This is the Daft Punk sound, all right.  The sound that Daft Punk are making, and not one they've already done.  They can do whatever the hell they want, remember?  This is Daft Punk taking the magic back to what they do, and it's a really enjoyable listen.  After all, as Monseigneur Bangalter says in the Pitchfork cover feature, 

“Technology has made music accessible in a philosophically interesting way, which is great,” says Bangalter, talking about the proliferation of home recording and the laptop studio. “But on the other hand, when everybody has the ability to make magic, it's like there's no more magic—if the audience can just do it themselves, why are they going to bother?”

Fang Island - Fang Island (2010).  This is the shocker really, where I discovered I loved guitar driven Indie Rock music.  I discovered Fang Island last year, through the power of Last.fm, still my over all preferred streaming music service.  Sure, you might not always get what you want, but that's life, right? (META) I can't even remember how I found these guys, but am I glad I ever did.  Fang Island is just great, there's nothing I can really say against it!  Even though I tracked the entirety of the album down through YouTube, I still got it for Christmas from a previous Girlfriend, and it lives on my phone permanently and I do sometimes still play the disc on my CD player.  The opening crackles of fireworks sound like the popping of an old vinyl itself, the serenely anthemic vocals leading seamlessly into the second track.  I've got to say, Daisy and Sideswiper are probably my favourite tracks, really exuberant and just totally joyful music, with riffs that get in your head and stay there.  The calm of Davy Crockett eventually shattered after taking over two minutes to build up, and that carries on with its own momentum.  It's all good stuff, music with no agenda but to make you smile and dance and remember the good things.  Of course, I bought the follow-up, Major, which I love just as much as well.  I almost bought it without listening to anything on it, but couldn't quite resist the temptation presented by Spotify... 

Rancid - Indestructible (2003).  Ahhhhh... Rancid.  I've got the whole album ...And Out Come the Wolves too, but I've had Indestructible for longer, and I prefer it.  This is pure Punk rock, almost destructive by comparison to Fang Island, and shamelessly so.  I was introduced to Rancid years ago with the tracks Cocktails and Hooligans which belong to Life Won't Wait.  Of all the times that I listen to this, it's usually when I'm upset or feeling pretty low... I think it's completely great.  Sometimes heavy with dread power (Indestructible, Travis Bickle), sometimes harkening back to the Ska-Punk of previous albums (Red Hot Moon, Ghost Band), sometimes just straight up excellent (Fall Back Down)... Well, I think the whole thing's just excellent or I wouldn't be writing about it, obviously.  Rancid aren't the only Punk outfit I pump through the speakers either, and NOFX's EP Never Trust a Hippy is another favourite of mine.  It's not often that I go on a Punk binge, but I love it all the same.  Indestructible always reminds me of University, specifically First Year.  It's another album that will always be on my phone, no matter what sort of reshuffle I go through.  It's unforgiving and direct, the brutality of the title track sets up for success.  It's nasty, it's pretty heavy, but it's got some great tracks that are just completely enjoyable, not to mention the super cool Arrested in Shanghai.

Streetlight Manifesto - Oh, uh... I can't decide.  Shit.  Basically, there are two choices here out of the four currently on general release, and it's between Keasby Nights (2006) and Somewhere In The Between (2007).  Shit.  Are you gonna make me decide?  Hell, can you make me do anything?  Ha ha.  They're so close in the running I can't choose.  Keasby is great.  Did I say great?  It's fucking amazing.  Keasby was introduced to me via the title track, probably not long after it was released.  I characterise this sound as 'fourth wave' Ska, after the 2-Tone generation that began with The Toasters and blossomed in the late 70's to 80's in England that was 'second wave', the appearance of American bands in the 90's like Less Than Jake, Reel Big Fish, Catch 22 was the 'third wave', which Streetlight came from too.  Keasby Nights sounds pretty fresh, from the smooth as can be Bass intro to Walking Away to the brilliant appearance of Pachelbel's Canon in On & On &On, and how Supernothing restates its opening but at three times the pace.  The Horn lines are just top stuff, standing in equal space with the vocals.  Somewhere In The Between is a slightly different animal however.  it's much grander in execution than Keasby and their first album, Everything Goes Numb.  Tracks like One Foot On The Gas, One Foot In The Grave and The Blonde Lead The Blind are 5 minute epics, with amazingly tight horn playing that belies the fact that these guys are a full time touring Ska band.  Remember, I saw these guys live and I can account for how much more intense and just so God damn THRILLING this stuff is when applied directly to your person.  Down, Down, Down To Mephisto's Cafe follows the same incipit style that Supernothing has, but is so much more... kinetic.  The whole thing is pure dancing fodder, and I'm heartbroken to know that I've missed them live, again, in Bristol. 

What's the final stop?  Any guesses?  Anybody want to hazard it?  

 
Stemage - Strati (2006).  This one took a bit of thought, actually, but actually it became obvious.  I discovered the work of Grant Henry in...maybe...2004, I think?  He was (and still is) making metal arrangements of the Metroid game series soundtrack, which celebrates its tenth anniversary.  Working under the name of Stemage, he records mainly by himself, with his magical Carvin Guitar (that just sounds crazy good), recording software (like I even know what I'm talking about) as a one-man operation.  His first solo album of original material, Strati, is very entertaining.  It's kind of like... post rock instrumental, in a mid-90's feel.  The first track to involve the non-sequitur vocals is Calling the Kettle, is another soundtrack to my University life, and I remember using it as a working soundtrack.  The faux death metal of Fabulous Fabulist balances the wandering instrumental tones of Strati Pt. 1 and Strati Pt. 2, while Duo and All of Australia remain my favourite tracks to this very day.  It's a low-fi feeling from a hi-fi album really, which works well with his subsequent material, Zero over Zero (a concept album inspired by 1978's Dawn of the Dead) and Where Good Marbles Go to Die (an EP of covers of Marble Madness background music with guest artists that is available on Cassette).


That's my favourite albums... for the time being.  As much as I'm a huge fan of Historically Informed Performance in classical music (you know, old instruments, hooky temperaments and different pitch standards), I'm not enough of a fan to get albums more often than not.  I bought the recordings of the Couperin organ masses played at Poitiers, and it is a fabulous purchase!  Even though I'm glad I have it... It just isn't a favourite.  I don't know what it is about classical music that I do really like of course, but it just doesn't rate as highly.  It's about the beat, I guess.  Unrelenting.  Enjoyable.  And essentially, at the very heart of things, is what I really love about my favourite albums.

That's all.  For now.

13 Year Old You!

Not you!  Me!  13 year old me!  Can I even remember that far back though?  I mean, it's only ten years, but ten years is a long time, after all, and I have been to sleep and had a drink since then (possibly more of the latter than the former as well...).  But what would I say to my 13 year old self?

Turning back the years to (Jesus H. Christ you guys) 2003, where was I?  Year...8 or something at School, deputy head chorister at Choir, doing pretty well for myself!  Hah... In the course of things, I don't know if I'd tell myself to change things, I don't really believe if I would want to change anything because it would change...well, everything!  I probably wouldn't be in Truro is things were different.  I might have gone to York instead of UEA for three years, and maybe I would have ended up in Tyddewi for my Scholarship after University... But when I was 13 I was still...'unformed'.  Things that are now core aspects of my personality hadn't yet dropped into place.  I would have to wait another year until I got my first Banjo, until my Dad was invited to leave the house, and for my voice to change.  I hadn't even started playing the Bass by then!

But I digress.  This is a tough idea to focus on, and an unfocused post is not a post I enjoy reading back after the edit.  So let's focus.

The one thing that I'd really, really like to tell my 13 year old self is that you are worth believing in.  The one problem that's dogged me every second of every single day of my life is not believing in myself enough.  It's not like I've had a sudden epiphany or anything, don't worry, but it remains to be said.  I'm not suddenly going to change my ways and realise years of untapped confidence though, don't worry!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Paul-Ethan,

The year is 2013, AND THE WORLD IS ENDING.  No, just kidding.  Well, no more than usual.
You are going to face a lot of choices, and even more challenges than you could possibly imagine.  It's really not going to be easy, so buckle up kiddo.

I won't bother telling you to study hard or do your work, because if you really are me, I know that you won't.  But don't forget to look like you're paying attention, because you still can't lie very effectively, you will get asked.  Learn some creative excuses.  You will get to University though, like you've always wanted to, like you've always said you've wanted to.  And it's miles away from home...but Mother will always find a way to surprise you, usually by turning up when you least expect it.  Not much changes really in these ten years as far as she's concerned, but don't forget to look after her.  She'll be your only parent while you're growing up, and she will sacrifice almost everything to make sure you succeed in any and every way imaginable.  She will teach you how to cook though, and that's probably the most valuable lesson you'll learn for a long time.  

Speaking of food, don't ever give up hope because you will gain enough weight to wear trousers without belts that make you look like a sack tied around the middle...but it will take time.  The Charity shops that have served you so well for finding Transformers will continue to serve: don't bother with Topman, you can find better in Oxfam.  Dress how you like and try not to let other people bother you.  You will earn a reputation for growing startlingly characteristic facial hair, but roll with it.  

I know making friends is difficult, and unsurprisingly the core cast of aiders and abetters doesn't actually change, I'm sure you won't be surprised.  You'll gain a sister, and I can guarantee that it'll be the least likely person that you think it is.  No clues though.  You'll go through hell and high water, and these guys will always be there, no matter what sort of disaster you get stuck into.  There'll be times when you're all so far apart, but even years later, you can still bring them together.  

Sadly, not a lot of people will respect you for who you are and what you do, and the ones who do will keep remarkably quiet about it.  The thing is that you are different to almost every expectation: musically, fashionably, and of course, your terrible attitude (that only gets worse as you get older I'm not gonna lie).  Your favourite word will change over the years, but "no" is one that will keep coming back.

What should I say about women though?  I remember what things were like for you at school actually, and it does pretty much suck, straight up.  Things... Things get a bit disappointing sometimes, even now (where you grow into the most handsome young Jewish man in Cornwall ha ha haaaaaaaa) but in between, things work out just great.  Other times, you will just straight up get your heart broken, there isn't much in the way of middle ground.

You will be sent mad by everything, and your temper will become the thing you lose the most.  Don't ever lose your keys, you will hate it.  I swear to God, it's legitimately the most annoying thing you will suffer from.  You will have to live through many situations that make you unhappy, and you won't have any choice, sorry!  Keep your chin up though son.  I'm not going to waste either of our time with cryptic hints, so don't try to read into anything too much.  I can't think on anything too specific to advise you on, but don't ever give up, and don't ever quit, ever.  There are far more people on your side than you think, than you could possibly imagine.  

For now though, enjoy what you have.  Seriously boy!  Remember that your best work is yet to come though, and take that sentiment to heart: it will save you more times than you could expect.

For now though, that's enough from me.  You still don't drive, but you've moved out!  Unemployed, sure, but you're still singing in a Cathedral.  Never forget the time you have at Derby though, that training isn't to be taken for granted.  See you when you get here.

Yours sincerely,

Peb

P.S Oh yeah, your name.  You'll find time to absolutely hate it and be proud of it at the same time.  The name I sign off with is the name you establish for yourself at University.  I know, being called Paul is so horrifically annoying, and that will never change

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's all.  For now.

Vignette XXXVII

I want to be alone.

Just my own place.

To be able to return to complete silence.

To shut off every other noise, any other concern.

But?

Alas.

No Such Luck.

No matter what.

Always though... it doesn't matter.

NOT ONE BIT





Not one bit at all.

Dream Job

Today's (sic) topic is actually quite close to my heart, a very relevant issue.  With accepting the Lay-Vicarship here I will have to find some work, almost any work at the moment, in order to claw my way out of my overdraft and have any hope of affording rent.  I think it's a marvelous joke that society has orchestrated in making an education system that costs so much money that leads people to believe that they must subscribe to it in order to find a job so they can pay off the costs.  Just brilliant. 

But this is a theatre of dreams, after all.  I should not allow my writing to be tempered by the dull tinge of reality, with it's ponderous trappings and quashing of fantasies.  If I could have any job I wanted.  Absolutely anything.  A real sandbox.  You may not be surprised to know that what will follow won't be that fantastical, if somewhat impractical in this economic day and age.  Of course, I would love to get paid to write...but I currently have no idea how to go about that.  I need to get up on writing, perhaps even consider the local college for classes in creative writing, maybe a focus on journalistic technique?  I don't know.  Obviously I'd prefer to write an op-ed style column, championed by heroes of mine such as Giles Coren and the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson.  Mr. Coren in particular gains my particular respect, the eternally out-spoken restaurant critic, whose writing has often found me in gales of laughter.

Obviously I need to think about upscaling my writing if I'm ever going to get paid for it.  It's far from impossible as well, but it's an unfamiliar world to me really - writing a blog isn't exactly a rare sport these days by any means at all.  There are many very successful blogs, and just like webcomic-ing, there are those who make and sell merchandise for fans and subscribers the world over... I doubt that The Songman's Rest will be doing so anytime soon, except for perhaps a silk-screen printed tote bag (actually I might be on to something here...).  I am a skilled academic writer, if somewhat out of practice, so I could alos think about getting into the world of musical research - perhaps I will review my options this coming Christmas for the year after, or after that.  Who knows!  I might even reapply for higher education, and try to improve my own terrible view of my current degree, and hopefully acquire a more attractive hood while I'm at it.  

But what else?  Well, one of the very oldest dream jobs is being a professional singer.  A very long time ago, I had ambitions for the stage, to be an operatic Counter-Tenor, but alas, I have said goodbye to that dream.  I am far too aware of my failings in that quarter, and feel too inadequate to overcome them.  Not having years and years of vocal training, no experience in stage performance (or much way of getting it) or perhaps even the attitude or ego to push myself forward, I am ill-fated for such a calling.  However, I still aim for a high-paid position in a Cathedral Choir - York or Winchester maybe, definitely somewhere that provides accommodation in addition to the Stipend, something that sadly Truro does not do.  Putting a foot on the ladder down here though is no shame at all - Truro Cathedral has one of the highest regarded Cathedral Choirs in the country (and rightfully so), in fact, my lecturers' reactions at Graduation were incredible; one went as far to say that Truro was the best choir to sing in outside of London (having no experience of London choirs I couldn't possibly comment).

Even though I have become considerably... disenfranchised towards Cathedral music over the past year, I still cling to that dream.  I find myself in a quandry at the moment, knowing that there's no way I can fund myself on the Lay-Vicar salary alone, I'll have to branch out, and maybe through branching out I'll find something that (heaven forbid) I might enjoy more than singing!  I have been talking about a move outside of Cathedral circles for a while now, but mostly as a reaction to feeling rather inadequate and undervalued.  This isn't the first time I've felt this way either - I remember that lows that assaulted me while I was a Choral Scholar at Mancroft: I'm not saying that there is any agent within these institutions that are at fault, more that these times where I have felt particularly low and lonely have coincided with appointments as a Choral Scholar.  I haven't given up with either though, I'd rather die than quit (what would the Big Man say after all?).

For a final spin on the wheel of dreams, I call to remembrance a conversation I had with a taximeter cabriolet driver in the jewel of Norfolk... Or in English, a cab driver in Norwich.  He was a talkative chap, pleasantly loquacious as he ferried me from the Station to the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft in Norwich to meet The Chief for drinking and curry (as usual).  It was in the October midterm, when I had been offered the Lay-Vicarship (although I had been asked to keep quiet about it to anybody in Truro - I thought it would be rather difficult to trace a cabbie in Norwich so I felt no obligation to the secrecy I had been sworn to while in Cornish lands).  He wondered what I was going to do with myself to make up the rent and such, just like I was doing.  What he said was very interesting.  

"What doesn't Truro have?", he said.
'Pardon?'
"You've just said that compared to Norwich, Truro isn't very big..."
'No, that's true.'
"So what doesn't it have that might be missing?"
'...'
"What about record shops?"

 Something to that effect, anyway.  He was quite interested.  His advice was to open an Independent Record store in Truro. And you know what?  It's something I'd love to do.  I don't often buy records because well... Money!  I don't go into record shops to avoid the temptation of spending money that I don't really have, but to be a proprietor?  An entrepreneur?  Amazing.  Once again, I have no real idea how in the hell I'd go about it, which is well, usually the product of a lot of my basic uncertainties in life.  There'd have to be a lot of money in starting up a business, far more capital than I have or have any way of conceivably raising at this point... Also, where the hell is the market for independent records in Truro?  Or even in Cornwall itself/  Perhaps there's some great hipster market that I'm missing out on?  Something worth a look into if I have any intention of staying here for any length of time...

But like I said earlier, I'm kind of just looking for... any job.  If it can keep my bank balance up and the rent paid, it'll be worth it for now, I suppose.  Sorry to wake up with such a jolt.  It's always going to be a balance between what I choose and I want and what's possible, after all.

That's all.  For now.

Newsflash

I don't tend to keep up with the news.  In fact, ever since moving into Halls way back in 2008, my relationship with the News has grown increasingly sketchy - usually due to not having a television.  So lazy!  Useless boy.

Whenever I do get a whiff of the news, it's usually dreadful - the continuing state of the economy, the perilous state of examination in this country... I dunno.  I don't get excited thinking about the news at all, as much as that makes me the root cause of moral decrepitude.  Mother used to (and still does) have the television on permanently at home, often more so there's a noise in the background so she doesn't feel quite so lonely now she lives on her own, but ultimately always watches the news, which is how I ended up watching it all the time when I was there, and indeed, every time I come back.  I guess that's yet another tradition I forgot about yesterday, but there it is: Mother always watches the news.  Having no live television in Halls, and also in The Scholary, it's completely different: instead of being an always-available resource, I have to seek it out deliberately.  Far too much like hard work.

Whenever I go to Janet's though, her television is on as well.  Mid-morning BBC repeats and trashy American TV, yes, but also the local and national news (and weather).  Seeing as I'm definitely not in the East Midlands anymore, I have a dim view towards BBC South West (or whatever it's called), and don't really think of it as 'real news'.  I have no idea where half of these places are, probably more so!  I often feel completely unaffected, geographically and emotionally (unless it's about something happening in Truro that day), whereas even if I go home for a day, a quick update from East Midlands Today can tell me things about places that I know, from a news team that I remember and actually quite like (lol following them on the twitters lol), and it all comes flooding back.  Even know, miles away and separated from the next bulletin by about 6 hours, I can take an open guess at things that may be happening...Let's see.

• DERBY: Heavy Industry OR something about the Philpotts (still)
• LEICESTER: Local Business OR something about racism in Schools
• NOTTINGHAM: Gun Crime
• LINCOLN: Something about Farmers

Heavy stereotyping I know, but answers on a postcard to the Asylum South West if it turns out to be true.  I spent three years in Norwich as well, remember, and BBC Look East felt anything but relevant whenever I saw it.  I might come under criticism for saying things like this, but suppose you become completely disconnected from reality like I have and still do sometimes?  True, I'm still bothered about Derby, but I was born there and have still spent the majority of my life there.  It still matters.  I'm sure that there are natives of, let's say Cornwall, who upon moving away and watching 'foreign' news feel exactly the same, whose ears perk up as soon as any local town name is mentioned.  

However, I stay up-to-date on other sorts of things.  I have resigned myself to the fact that the economy isn't going to really pick up, and watching endless ponderous visual effects laden reports on the matter isn't going to change anything.  I don't read the Newspapers these days either.  When I was younger, when my dad still lived with us, we used to get the Daily Express in for him (bless his primary reading level), and from time to time we got the Derby Evening Telegraph delivered to the house.  But nowadays, a newspaper is another expense that I don't get to eat or drink.  Hell, at least Newspapers are lactose free...

I use my twitter feed to follow news that I want, usually.  If I'm working at the Cathedral Office, I'll keep a tab open on BBC news for as long as I'm there.  Normally I'll write a post while I'm there as well, which is pretty annoying as all this BEDM will have finished by the time I'm working there next.  Perhaps I will find new and exciting things to write about daily by then?  Or perhaps just the usual possibly offensive, deeply embittered work that I usually write?  KEEP TUNING IN IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO FIND OUT.  While we're still here though, let's check out what's been happening in my world over the past day...

THE NEW DAFT PUNK ALBUM IS HERE ASDFGHJKL ARGH After months of speculation, the single "Get Lucky (Feat. Pharrell Williams)", and of course the day it streamed on the internet for free, Random Access Memories is finally here.  As quite a lot of people who know me in real life know, I am a massive Daft Punk fan to the point of frothing gently at the mouth for the past few weeks, steaming away with anticipation for the retro-futurist duo's latest long player.  I think it's absolutely straight up incredible.  Daft Punk have seemingly spared no expense imaginable in hiring studio musicians of the highest calibre.  Musically, it harks back to the 'Golden Age' of Disco, the 70's and perhaps early 80's.  Stylistically, it follows a path that begins with their third studio album, Human After All, which itself was a sharp contrast to the amazing exuberance of 2001's Discovery, which is what people think of Daft Punk's 'characteristic' sound.  The change in style can also be felt from the TRON: Legacy Soundtrack they composed.  I've had their entire discography on heavy rotation (except for Alive! 2007, because you can't shuffle those tracks really), so I've noticed these things way more than somebody who hasn't.  The development of the material is quite complex and well-developed, feeling a little more like high-concept than a Electro-House-Opera-Disco style LP like Discovery.  Don't get me wrong!  Discovery is brilliant, and I play it a hell of a lot of the time.  RAM is different though, which has disappointed some people, but that very difference is where its strength lies.  To have made another Discovery, or even another Homework would have been a regression, and this is part of an ongoing movement that they're making; whether or not we agree with it is another question.  They are doing what they want to do, because they choose to do it their way.

Phew.  Anything else?  Well, of course today was also the day that Microsoft announced the successor to their extremely successful home videogame console Xbox 360... The XBox One.  Yes, if marketing were ar Snakes and Ladders board they found the one snake that takes you back to the start of the field and decided to cut their losses there.  Of course, the console war rages on for it's... 8th Generation (Jesus Christ guys seriously even the cold war ended eventually what the hell) now, with the Nintendo Wii U already released, the Sony PlayStation 4 on the way, and now the Xbox One from the 'big three'.  This time, Microsoft are taking a slightly different tack though, and I think it's no accident that the unit is both functionally and aesthetically similar to Sony's ill-fated PSX that was released in Japan in 2003, as a media centre... which is the direction that Microsoft seem to be pulling into.  The 'Zune' software brand was renamed 'Xbox Music' not long ago, and the 'Xbox Smart Glass' functionality that allows you to control your Xbox wirelessly using touchscreen devices such as Windows Phones and Surface portable computers show that Microsoft is putting it's entertainment eggs into one big Xbox basket.  The userbase for 360s is very high, but the new One won't be backwards compatible (annoying but not terribly vital), but there's concerns about the 'always online' functionality and the fact that Microsoft seem pretty keen about blocking the use of second-hand games - of course a lifeline to retrogamers and those without enough disposable income to buy brand new titles (both of which categories I champion, my Gamecube and its library downstairs being more of a collector's item these days).  Today was only the reveal, but the facts so far illustrate a device for which games are a core but not the feature - an improved 'Kinect 2.0' will come with every box that will allow for voice control and Skype calls as standard, and the stats reveal an 8 core processor, 500 GB HDD, Blu-Ray disc drive... The works.  Microsoft have called in the big guns to make a serious home entertainment centre choice under the Xbox brand name. 

See?  I tend to keep away from "real" news, in case reality gets near me... reality is much like nuclear waste: you can see it's terrible effects even from a distance and if you touch it that's game over.  Twitter itself is actually a pretty decent tool for what's happening - rightfully so it has been capsized by the news of the Oklahoma tornado that struck, bearing down destruction on...well, everything.  If there's something big happening that I get wind of, I'll deliberately seek it out, usually through the BBC News website as a starting point.  Perhaps I will change my ways and return to watching news should I ever get a television and pay the license fee, hell I might even buy a newspaper from time to time, but for now, the false limits of my own that I apply to news is what I'm satisfied with.

That's all.  For now.

Vignette XXXVI

The best training is to read and write, no matter what. Don't live with a lover or roommate who doesn't respect your work. Don't lie, buy time, borrow to buy time. Write what will  stop  your breath if you don't write - Grace Paley

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I am a writer who came of a sheltered life. A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within - Euroda Welty

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One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now - Annie Dillard

 #_^_#

Writing enters into us when it gives us information about ourselves we are in need of *at the time that we are reading.* How obvious the thought seems once it has been articulated! As with love, politics, or friendship: readiness is all - Vivian Gornick

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You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across -- not to just depict life -- or criticize it -- but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it. things aren't that way - Ernest Hemingway

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How I became a better writer was that I kept writing - Sallie Tisdale

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The writer must be in it; he can't be to one side of it, ever. He has to be endangered by it. His own attitudes have to be tested in it. The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing himself, always - Arthur Miller

My favourite is the last one.  You mustn't ever be scared by what you write because somebody might disagree with it.  It's your party, and they can always leave if they don't like it.  I will keep writing.  I promise.

Tradition

I chose to knock the first word off the prescribed title because oy vey enough with the favourites already.  I have a number of traditions, some lasting, some passing.  Mostly mad and possibly inane, but that's why they're my traditions too.

A tradition that I have held for years (and only retired in October of the years past) was one that I invented when I was in second year house, and came to the fore in my third year halls: The Captain's Curry Night.  Having cooked for myself ever since I moved away from home and set my own kitchen up, rather than borrowing space in my mother's, and seeing as Curry, usually in either Indian, Thai or Nepalese form (yeah Cantonese and Katsu curries are nice, but I prefer the others) is one of my favourite foods ever, it makes sense that I put a lot of time and effort into making curry that not only do I enjoy eating myself, but think other people would want as well.  Every week, on a Thursday in third year (for whatever arbitrary reason), I would cook enough curry to feed the 5000, or more accurately about 5 people.  Curry night was Thursday, and at the start of the week was Daft Punk Monday!  To be fair, every day is Daft Punk day, especially seeing as the NEW ALBUM is so close I can almost taste it.  That was the way I lived my week though: nothing but Daft Punk on Mondays, Curry feast (by home-made or by takeout) on Thursdays.  To facilitate curry night, The Admiral bought me a huge granite pestle and mortar for my 21st birthday - a wonderful gift that is part of my permanent kitchen.  Another tradition that was invented in third year and with The Admiral's help was Bacon Day.  That's right, a whole day, dedicated to Bacon, where every meal had to be composed of Bacon in some way, or entirely.  It came about by accident, actually.

A fridge in a Halls of Residence kitchen can be an intensely dangerous thing, almost always strewn with partially rotting food and milk (also probably partially rotten - remind me about the shaft milk from Britten House some time...) and all sorts of random anything...and lots of bacon.  Unless the majority of your flat are Chinese, or Vegetarian, or even Chinese Vegetarians, there will always be a varying amount of Bacon in the fridge.  On this particular day, the last monday of the month in... maybe November(?), we found that all the bacon that was in the fridge was going to go past it's date...that very day.  There's only one serious answer to that, and that is EAT ALL THE BACON.  No other choice.  It's crazy, sure, but if it was a one off, it would just be a  humourous  anecdote about the time I almost got bacon poisoning.  But no, this happened again.  The next time I clearly remember it was in February.  Last Monday of the month.  It wasn't even planned that time either.  

Bacon day has rather fallen by the wayside, because I am no longer living with The Admiral who invented this insanity, and also because, well, I don't eat Bacon these days really.  I'm sure the next time one of us visits the other, some kind of crisis will occur where the only purchasable meat is bacon...

Another tradition that I keep that's lifted from Nelson Court is Thanksgiving.  Now, if you're American, I'm sure you'll know all about Thanksgiving.  Even I'm not entirely sure what it's about (give me a minute and I'll go dial up Wikipedia for you).  I usually celebrate Thanksgiving in the American style on the fourth Thursday of November (an historic occurrence where curry is always postponed), and use it as an excuse to lay on a big roast Dinner and have people round and have, well, community.  Next year will be interesting though, as not only will we have two Canadians (who celebrate at the start of October)... oh what the hell?  We'll have two thanksgivings!  Oh yeah, the other thing.  I'll be living in what will ostensibly be my own place.  With any luck, I'll be able to play host to my fellow Lay Vicars and the new Choral Scholars.  Where were we though AH YES Thanksgiving.  I enjoy cooking for lots of people, hosting, you know, a nice community atmosphere.  That's what spoke to me so much about my first Thanksgiving, in Nelson - everybody pulling together and helping out by cooking, bringing drinks, rearranging the room and setting the tables... having a great meal with good friends.  Of course, my worshipful blog heroine Emily has a great account of her Thanksgiving while actually in America (a critical advantage, I feel).  

I'm scrabbling here though, because I just can't remember what other traditions I have.  I always wear a suit for Sunday services, does that count?  I'm not sure, because it was how I grew up and I think about it in a completely different way.  Of course at the moment I wear shorts underneath my cassock in the week (because it's summer God damn it), but a Sunday is a Sunday, no matter how miserable or how hungover (or still drunk) I may be, or may NOT be (because I'm sober sometimes, right?).  While I was working at School I wore specific ties on specific days, and the 'anti-paisley' is still my "Monday" tie.  

Of course, the oldest tradition I keep and belong to is the choirs of the Church of England, steeped in all sorts of history, both musically and visually - the Red cassocks of Truro Cathedral Choir, like Mancroft, Nicholas North Walsham and Derby before them, rooted in centuries of Church tradition, that allow the layman to see that we are not just a part of the congregation, but helping to lead them in worship.  I have been in this game for a long time, and it's the closest thing I have to a profession.  What happens next, is anyone's guess.

I think that it is important to at least pay some respect to tradition.  Apart from those mentioned above, I'm sure I have many more bizarre customs that I'll remember about half an hour after posting (that I won't be able to work in effectively either - I traditionally never used to wear a watch, but no I do so I guess I have a new tradition?).  My traditions, like a lot of things in my life, are there to keep me feeling safe and comfortable: two sensations that are fast running out as we hurtle towards the end of term, the year, and this strange chapter of my life.  What lies before me is a new road, one that will lead to me forging new traditions and (hopefully) not forgetting all of the old ones.  A tradition I keep to with writing this is making sure at least a thousand words are down before even thinking about a final edit - thankfully not to difficult to keep.

That's all.  For now.

Best Friends

I have the best friends in the world.  I mean that.  

In one's life, "best" friends come and go.  Right?  Well, maybe not.  If you search about on the internet, I'm sure that numerous sites and google hits will tell you that there's only a certain number of friend that a person may have.  I'm not interested in those supposed facts.  In the end, I might come up against that upper threshold, sure.  But for now?  

Rather than just 'make friends', I'm much more interested in building a community.  I guess it's a combination of not just my Autism, but also the covertly (or perhaps overtly) Jewish upbringing I've had.  On a good day, it's quite easy for me to make new acquaintances - high-functioning days can best well, almost anything; it doesn't matter where I am or who I'm with, there's a feeling... no, I know that I'm Indestructible.  But this isn't about just that, is it?  This is all about my friends, and what they mean to me.

Even from School, from my VIth form days, my best friends still stand.  The Doctor, The Drum, The Royalty and The Bishop are all people I feel that are all at not just my beck and call, but also I am at theirs.  They are definitive.  After over half a decade, we can still come back together.  Indeed, we are all well overdue a true reunion, and what I would do for us all to be together is... well, unthought of.  My time in VIth form was a light prelude to what I am now, even after three years of university education and a small number of romantic relationships.  I owe apologies to my friends who have already been named above as well; as much time as I have wanted to spend with them I have just been unable to do so, needing to spend my weekends in Truro means I can often not travel too far if at all, which can feel unfair.  Also my lack of personal funds makes things ever so slightly difficult, and that nasty habit I have of blaming myself.  

Leaving home for University can be a truly gut-wrenching experience, as I'm sure my readers might already know...and if you don't, that's what's in store - everything will change, one way or another.  The implications may not be immediately apparent from this poor narrative, but eventually it will become obvious.  Like the conversation I had with the Big Man about this time last year - before I applied I had never even heard of Truro as a city, let alone a Cathedral choir; all sorts of things have happened in the last two years, not considering the previous three at University,  that I would not even have thought to have predicted, and that is what will happen to you, regardless of anything.  If you do not keep your promises, you are done for.

I am still in contact overall with my best friends from school.  I'm sure that in years, and perhaps decades to come, their friendship will prove to mean just as much.  However, the cut and thrust of this post will be about the friends I made at University, and perhaps most about those I met in my third year, and just why they mean so much to me, and I hope to them as well.  My third year was much more telling than perhaps my first year, possibly because so I felt that so much more was at stake: the repercussions of a terrible second year (in academic results alone, before anything else) and the social expectations I felt of being an old man in halls.  It turned out to be a bumper year for both actually, and I will stand up for my flatmates beyond the pale in fact, seeing as almost all twenty of us between the two flats (linked by a common porch) actually had something to do with my success, even down to the very lovely girl who lived in the room directly opposite who very graciously allowed my use of her colour printer (a degree saving printing as far as deadline meeting was concerned, and some thing I am still grateful for).

But let's turn to that third year, to the people I am still in touch with, that I think about on a daily basis.  The Admiral, Grasshopper, The Waltzer, The Chief, The Entertainer, and my Sensei.  These persons, nameless though they may be, make up the core of what happened all in the end, when it really mattered.  Sensei particularly was there for my dissertation, and his role at that time cannot be underestimated.  Cider be damned.  There is little need to detail their exploits in an episodic fashion either, quite a lot of what I have written before on here has been down to them... Why else is the 2012 archive so thin?  There will be more posts this month when I'm done with the #BEDM challenge then were for the whole of that year.  The inspiration of living with these amazing people can only really be felt when it is not there any more, like now.  I cannot truly express how much I enjoyed living in halls with my flatmates in the academic year of 2010-2011.  Everything about that year, the lows but also the highs that made up for them, were a real and lasting milestone in my life so far.  What makes them special is..well, the fact that they are people who made a choice, not only to remain important to me, but to make me important to them as well.

I like to say that once somebody has become accepted to me and has become an important friend in my life, that they are always welcome at my table.  This has echoes of Judaism, and the Passover meal, but really it means they will always be welcome, no matter what.  I guess at best estimate there a re still less than 50 of these persons today, but I feel that this list grows every year.  This is pleasing, in a way, showing that I can build lasting relationships with new people.  It's not like I've bandied this sentiment about though; there are plenty of people who would not take me up on that sort of offer even if I dared breathe it near them.  I wonder whether I should really name the names behind the nicknames, having always prized anonymity of other as a characteristic of this blog... I only broke that habit for my five favourite blogs, and I shan't be doing so again anytime soon.  As I stated near the very beginning of this blog, names are changed not just to protect the identity of others, but also myself.  What's in a name?  One's identity balances so thinly on just names anyway.

But really now, just what do my friends mean to me?  On the spot and at point black range, what do I say?  Well, simply...everything.  A lot of my friends mean as much to me as family does to you.  Having grown up with a mother who suffers with a range of disabilities, a father who gives in to alcoholism, a brother who moved out way back in my youth, one can understand my minimal family when I was younger (coupled with my difficulties in making friends who meant, well, anything), and why I should want to cast deeper relationships than might usually be sought.  And indeed, the older I have got, the more of a two-way street I appreciate relationships to be - either by the long haul or otherwise.  My best friends are those I can rely on, often no matter what.  Indeed, I often said that The Admiral was my handler, somebody who knew when to pull my metaphorical leash when I was getting a bit out of hand.  My best friends are those I can trust; all of my best friends from VIth form, and even Mickey from Truro and The Loser from Norwich, have faith placed in them that I have difficulty expressing so is had to understand - they have earned it through means not measured in any rational way.  Some of my best friends have been through one horror after another, and I like to think I have been their anchor, sometimes more actively than others (and this is done without hope of future reward, because, well, they're my friend and just because they need help sometimes doesn't make them any less of a person or worthy of any good treatment regardless).  Spread about both the country and in some cases, the world, my very best pals are all over the place, as I'm sure many people's are too.

Sometimes we write to each other, sometimes we use short message servicing, or a telephone call, or maybe Skype, and sometimes we don't speak for months on end... But it doesn't often change how I feel about this community of mad men and women I have built over the years, whom not only allow me the honour of calling them friends, but also return it.  I will back them all they way, just because my life is made so much better by having them there.

That's all.  For now.