God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Amen.
Fin
De* lamentationem de Ethan Ben Saul**, Cantorae...
Well, the dust has settled if only somewhat from the hurly-burly of last week's emotional endeavours, and now we look forward to the field of battle to be entered, that of the profession I like to think of as my vocation, yes kids that calling again, being a musician. Only then can we truly say that it's over, because the worst is yet to come.
So, what am I losing? Surely I'm always on the losing side? Victory doesn't favour me very often, that's true. But let's look in that sideways fashion (if you're having difficulty imaging that just turn your head sideways as you read) like I always do, and see if we can learn anything through that most important of rabbinical teaching tools...sarcasm. I'm going to take a two-pronged attitude to this; one prong will be my never ending campaign against the vicissitudes of emotion, and the other...well, the other will be everything else; finance, work, and the reality of being disabled. I realise that in putting a like in my sidebar of my FaceyB removes much of the anonimity that I once enjoyed, but if you don't know me by now, you never will. Or maybe you won't ever? Hmm. But I will be very careful with names &c...I don't want people working out that I've referred to them quite so quickly, for reasons that will become clear as we plough on.
Well shoot. As I'm sure you can work out for yourself, things have proceeded in their usual fashion: I like a girl, decide to take the plunge and do something about it and end up being, well, you know...rejected. Ugh, nasty, eh? I decided to throw all caution to the winds and just go with my gut and that didn't really end in the fashion I was hoping. The hell it did. I ended up walking home through snow in the park to get back. I say that and make it sound terrible, but I had always planned the long walk home regardless of the outcome. I guess I can say that I held me head up high, and did and died! While my courage might have been slightly dutch, at least I went. But like always, it's a sharp reminder of the sad truth that I cannot, and never will be able to tell when is the right time or who is the right person. I thought I had made made the right decision. There's no way under the heavens I would have even considered it had I not thought it was certain. Look, this isn't meant to be some sort of internet-based guilt trip either. It is the way of all things, and of course as I like to say, the shape of things to come. It's just how it went.
But what happens then? I can only doubt my judgement. Perhaps Descartes was right, and sensory information id indeed a total falsehood. I can only perceive these things to be through my senses, and not through a priori reasoning. In fact, using my powers of reason only leads me to one question: who would look at a freak like me?
Although it's not like this is an unique occurrence this term. Long time readers and neighbours may remember that time at the end of September, when I lost it completely and ended up bawling my eyes out. And then what about all the people whose names I've never dropped as well? Apart from the loser I've had more than enough heart ache in between; passing fancies not accounted for (or indeed those already in relationships because I sure can't tell who is or isn't these days). I was moved to pass a fresher until the eternal words "I hope you don't fancy me" happened and I also decided that I wasn't going to have another Stockholm Syndrome relationship. Then there was her from the Other Place; it was always tenuous but after Saturday night's Crime of the Century, I fear it may not be just I who reassess my position. More on that story later. And of course, the lady I followed through sheer intuition. The question truly remains unanswered (in my mind at least), but two good and close friends have told me to shut up shop and move on, to avoid the chance of future upset. I have to admit, it's probably for the best. I can't help but see the pattern formed. What can I do though? Being told to give up and leave off never sits well with me, due to the fact that my daily existence keeps me away from the majority of people being, y'know, autistic and feeling uncomfortably awkward in any social situation. Perhaps it's my efforts of seeming normal that have made people forget that any gathering of any sort pushes me to the edge of my coping, and God alone help me with interpersonal contact and indeed any sort of intimacy. Oy gevalt.
Which leads me to the next part. Crime of the Century. Ho ho. I'm using this as my example, as it reminded me of well, everything, I suppose. I won't name names. Mainly because I suppose I won't have to. The particulars are irrelevant, it's more that I observed and recalled. Or maybe the disbelief.
Watching two people, arguably with the aid of alcohol (but how much aid was really needed is a subject of much speculation), who became continually closer as time went on (but only a short space) and shared...how do we say...a succession of moments. Suffice to say, it wasn't that this was happening that distressed me so much, more that I found myself thinking that I have almost completely forgotten how I would do similar. There is no situation in my life now that demands a knowledge of one-to-one (or indeed, one-on-one) intimacy, even less that require the action. It was just at that point that I realised it had gone completely and that I had lost it, that I decided to get completely smashed. It made me remember what I had and what I lost, and I'm frightened I will never have it back.
So where does that leave me? A bucketload of self-doubt, a lack of self-worth, and certainly no belief in one's self. And of course, the question. Who would even look at a poor, mentally disabled depressed cripple? Yes, I'm back on the stick. Snow, freezing fog and a night temperature of minus FUCKING five means I am down to using my cane again. I tread a fine line of having enough ankle support and keeping the blood flowing. Oh, that and the fine dusting of grey hair I have now. Feh.
So, anyway. Sexual frustration aside, I am tired and I have had enough. But I can't stop, because I never do. You'd have thought I'd have learnt something by now, but OH NO. Not me! No sir. I'm going to keep on until I go snow white. And what about the girl who calls me Bubby? Even in my iciest of dispositions I can't help but kindle warmth for her; she improves my day more than I should want to admit, but sure as hell I ain't gonna breathe a word. Other than this, I'm keeping that one close to my chest. Well, I should like to keep her close to my chest, but you know, I'm not even sure I'd know what to do anymore. I'm repeating myself now, so I shall stop. If you've read this far, then congratulations! Hopefully there won't be another pathetic moan like this for another month or so.
I can't go on, I must go on. I have no choice. The less people can tell, the better. Tomorrow is my recital day, and I must sleep to prepare.
* 'Of' or 'from', 'out of' &c
** My name as originally intended, in its Hebrew form
You know,I just want to say this. Although seeing my considerable record of failure in the past it's no surprise I'm leaning towards keeping this one under my hat.
I'm sure the educated can make a guess; all entires on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address.
Ok, deep breath. Here goes.
You know what, I think I'm in love. But just a little bit. There's no education behind it. Purely an intuitive conclusion. Which may, of course turn out to be completely wrong. But that's what it's all about, isn't it? The beats skip and I feel that long-forgotten flutter. I then immediately check my specs for rose tinting on the lenses, but I wouldn't be much of a cynic if I didn't as a reflex.
Time to break the rules. Shift expectations, and change the world.
Time for another episode of my life! It's like I Hate It Here, with a little I'm so poor and depressed, topped of with pop culture references and then just a smidgen of wow hey there's this girl. META.
I managed to go for the entirety of October without writing and publishing an entry here, and we're over halfway through November with almost the same statistic. Basically, 3rd year has turned out to be what we in the trade call a shitter, much like the step from GCSE to A level really. Last year, quite basically, fucked me up, and to be perfectly honest I'm very lucky to have stepped back onto campus let alone stay. I'm going to make the best of a bad job, and clear as much of this mess up as I possibly can. I have no idea how many weeks are left to term...about 4? Makes sense; Spamcroft doesn't finish til the 19th of December, and term only just behind on the 17th. I've got a horror story of things to do in that time, and most of this includes getting up early and eating regularly, the latter of which is usally one of my skills, the former famously a non-entity.
Due to my complete inability to budget, I am down to YOU ARE FUCKED into my overdraft. Man, debt never got so self-perpetuating! Zomg. Actually it's really bad, this stuff is just slipping through my fingers, certainly not dripping any more! Drat. I don't know, it could be worse, but at the moment it's flat out bad. Importantly survivable though, and a damn good character building experience! At least, I'm sure that suffering builds character, right?
Over the past term I have been asked to continue for an entire cantata, learn a new piece for a recital in 3 weeks, learn my sung recital in 2 weeks, play hymns, organise and direct a choir, direct evensong, be the librarian for the UEA choir, not kill anyone...&c &c. You get the point. Yes, I'm sure some of you losers out there will see all this off with the tipping of your voluminous hat, but for some of us this is difficult. Very difficult. I recieve no sympathy, because I don't ask for any. Academic and musically based tasks can be shifted under my own steam with effort and that's it. Making sure everything else is in ship shape is another matter though. Work just about comes in on the radar, but I'm the tiniest bit behind (but constantly trying to not be), that 9am start on a Monday never gets any easier, does it? YES I KNOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE 9AM STARTS EVERY DAY OF EVERY WEEK. Jesus Christ...
Dissertation-wise, I actually feel pretty happy though! I'm writing an incredible beard-scratcher about the English Pipe Organ in the Eighteenth and early Nineteenth centuries. I'm going out on a massive limb and say that in comparison to Continental building fashions, the English Organ was basically anomalous, but the developments that took place are a worthy addition to the international tradition of Organ Building. Basically, due to the short length (10k-12k, bibliography and footnotes included), I will only have room to write about two things, which are the main focus of the anomalous trend anyway, the Swell Department and the so-called 'Iron Pedal, the Shifting Movement. Registration aids never really caught on in the big continental schools like they did in Blightly, and enclosed departments even later...except for the Iberian school? Much research is needed. But it'll be good! Honest. If you're into that sort of thing though.
And what about the most predictably ponderous part of my life? What of that capricious and alluring female form? Well, what of it indeed. Current results are...hmm...Confounding. I'm still having that same old problem of mixing messages and misreading signs. Just like always. At least some things never change, eh? Tcham, to hell if I know! There is one in particular (isn't there always?) who has really got my attention. Without even trying, obviously. There are points if you can guess, but I doubt anyone will, especially if I keep this cryptic enough...heh heh. But it's strange, I have began to treat this girl slightly differently to others without even realising I'm doing so, in fact I found myself reacting mentally to my physical actions in a rather surprised way. The long and the short of it is I have no genuine idea whether it'll go anywhere or if I'll get the "That's so sweet but..." line (oh how I tire), but you know, I feel a little closer to an actual human being than usual, and that makes me happy. Who knows where anything else could go. If I do indeed try, it means stepping up onto a supernatural stage, where truly I am an alien in foreign lands. But as we all know, all the world's a stage and the rest...the rest is vaudeville.
More time, and a little patience will tell. Maybe some self belief won't go amiss either. You know what he says...CREDO!
So. Nelson Court, eh? A ground floor, en suite flat in a (mostly...) quiet corner of campus, with 8 freshers. This is where the real work begins. Or has to begin anyway, if I'm ever going to salvage anything out of these three years...
I write this in the midst of one of my famous bad weeks. As a sufferer of depression, I usually put up a pretty good front, but like always, when one little thing goes wrong, it all goes down hill after that. Let's take this morning, for example. This very morning. I managed to wake up at half past four, on the dot. No joke. The next three hours were spent trying to get comfortable, and importantly keeping my eyes shut...but to no avail. I've now been up for oooo...far too fucking long. This has taken its toll on my already tenuous sense of humour and world-famous short fuse, and I'm now channeling my brother on the Tea-intake front. Not that that's actually a terribly bad thing...as long as my teeth stay this side of yellow anyway.
Today's stint in SocMart (Society Market? That'll do) in the LCR basically finished my poor sanity off, having repeated the same thing over and over again about UEA Choir to everyone that came up to me...ARGH. I was there for five hours straight, had one pint of Abbot Ale (When the student is ready, the Master will appear), one pint of Coca Cola (savour the flavour of capitalism), and one toilet break, after which I went for a wander round the LCR, having actually not seen what else was going off. Add to this the lecture I missed yesterday, and the half seven start I've got tomorrow morning, I really should have made more of the lack of activity I was so bored by Wednesday-Saturday of last week. Well, I say lack of activity. I mean, of course, other than having Mother dear run me about sorting stuff out and moving me in. I ended up going out four nights in a row, but managing to find a friend behind the UEA bar on two of those made it a little better, to say the least.
So now what? I'm still sorting out books and arranging the space allocated to me. I usually manage to over-steam the shower pod and run out of breath (hilair, I know) if I'm not careful, and shaving has become much easier with the liberal application of both new blades and a large mirror in the en-suite. Thankfully the new glasses have been a hit! I don't think anybody has seen the metal frames (outside of Spamcroft anyway), and to be honest I rather like the plastic ones more, even if they do rub against the back of my ear in that annoying way.
And tonight? Early to bed. I AM SUCH A BORING MAN. I have an Organ lesson at Spamcroft with the enigmatic J of N at 9AfuckingM, which means I have to be up, awake and dressed by 8 in order to make the bus into town. Bloody hell. This is NOT a regular occurrence, or more that I won't bloody let it become so. On the other hand I have Chamber Choir in the middle of the day, so Byrd a5 and Anthems by the original Funky Gibbons Orlando will go down a treat. For now though, it's just me, a lot of tea and the music of Tom Waits, veering wildly between visceral blues, spoken word and Piano based tear-jerkers. There's so much in his music that just...reaches out and strikes me unaware. From the Early Years' fresh voiced songs to the gravelled beauty of Picture in a Frame from Mule Variations, nothing disappoints.
So anyway. I'm still alive, even if I am in Norfolk now. I've lost a bit of momentum, but give me a few good days and I'll pick it up again. I want to try and get a weekly writing schedule for this ponderous blog, probably on a Friday-Saturday sort of thing, so I can wrap a week up with an acerbic critique of the preceding, and so I can bitch about how awful having to do things over and over at choir practice was while it's still fresh.
Everything will be ok though. I often find the most depressing thing about depression is talking about it, so I try to avoid it. Even typing makes it seem a little more real, so god help me each and every time I talk about it. No seriously. God, help me. Although a little mortal aid wouldn't go amiss either.
It begins again. It is time! The rivers will run red, the crops will fail, and fire and brimstone will fall as rain.
You know what? I'm going to take this year, and beat it. I'm going to succeed. Progress and success will go hand in hand this time.
Tonight, one man went above and beyond the call of his profession and salary, and saved my career. What happens if I let him down? My life isn't worth living. I won't let anybody down. Forget myself. So many others are relying on me to perform to the best of my abilities, here and there.
Here is my message to those who oppose me: Forget it. Get lost. Don't even bother.
You failed to stop me because I'm coming back. I have a course to complete, scholarships to earn, and a reputation to uphold. I am the great contradiction, and nobody will slow me down.
Speech Day. The great event for the Old boys and the New Derbians. And the Old Derbians! An Old Blacktonian as myself can hardly keep away, and indeed, I would not wish to stay back.
Tonight reminded me of what a home I have here. But in conversation with everyone, I found that they were going away, to all corners of the land. While they will not be here while I am away, come Christmas, Easter, Summer Vac and next Speech Day, they will return. And they will welcome me as I welcome them, and I will be home. Who am I to fail my friends, my supporters, my fans and my family? Forget it. Far beyond pushing the envelope, I will burn it and set a new benchmark to inspire others.
To those who are behind me: Thank you! You haven't seen anything yet. I will surpass your expectations and prove that I can cope.
A great friend was in conversation about my youngest brother, who has gone on to the very pinnacle of employment for an undergraduate scholar (he's at St. George's, Windsor. Look him up. He is the Master of us all), about how he is so talented (and rightfully so!). His companion was talking about how they could not believe how good my brother is! My great friend replied, saying that my brother is supremely talented, and deserving of every accolade, but went on. He said with a straight face and in the height of sincerity that he knew someone who could do anything. Anything at all! And he was talking about me.
And he is not wrong.
That's right. It actually happened in this lifetime. I went to see Streetlight Manifesto LIVE and certainly very kicking in the back room of The Old Bell Hotel, in DERBADOS! OH MY GOD.
Ok, so, calling in for a cheeky one at the Sleaper* for a quick Pedi**, I went with Il Dottore himself to The Old Bell, now a well known 'rocker' establishment and Gig venue. Doors at 8:30, £15 advance tickets. Ouch? Maybe a little but certainly worth it. I should think that at £15 it was a snip! Once in the back room, we observed many things:
1) Tattoos are awesome
2) Drinks are expensive
3) They really are a white man's band
Ten minutes later the first supporting act came on, the James Warner Prophecies. having never heard of them before, I was naturally a little skeptical, but that was swiftly blown away in waves of awesomeness, Derby banter, Drop D tuning and basically great tunes. The set was tight and to be perfectly honest could have gone on for a few songs more, but surely this is the sign of a perfect support act? They were headlining on the 3rd, but I couldn't get to it! Gutted. But I did buy their latest EP at the show, and engaged in lively conversation with their front man (handshake secured!) about all sorts of music and whatnot! They are pretty much awesome guys!
Next up after a short quarter of an hour were RANDOM HAND. That's right, RANDOM HAND. What a bunch of nutcases. Drums, Guitar, Bass, Vox and...Trombone? You look at it and go "Eh?" and then remember that they're a Ska Punk/Punk/Hardcore Band, and then go "eh?" again and then what the even hell just go see them, they're INSANE. They got a Wall of Death*** started with only 100 people. It was crazy. Standout banter moment was when their lead Vox/Trmb. suddenly noticed that the taping on the mic wire just happened to be an accurate portrayal of the Polish flag! Who knew? I first saw them when they were supporting Reel Big Fish in 2009 at UEA. They are also pretty much awesome...if you like it like that.
It was during RH's set that my companion noticed that there was an orange on the floor. That's right. An actual orange. Those who received the text were confused to say the least, but true story bro. It was really there.
On to the main event. What we were all there for. Like all of us. Literally everyone. At this point my memory tells me only a few things: I had to sit on a wooden bar and dance from the waist up because I had hurt myself that much already; Water is good; My Brother is a folk tale. That last one makes sense, trust me. Oh my Christ they are SO much better live...I mean, most bands are, especially Ska bands. Ska is a live sport, evidenced fortuitously by Dance Craze, a film all about the 2-Tone scene that included loads of footage of the big names of the time live, and also had a companion LP, which I picked up in an Oxfam for like, a quid fifty? Genius.
There was one moment where the entire room held its breath. One tiny island of silence in the maelstrom and miniature mosh pit that had reformed after Random Hand's concussive performance. What could this be? Seconds later, this happened...
I got a gun in my hand but the gun won't cock, my finger's on the trigger but the trigger seems locked. I can't stop staring at the tick tock clock, and even if I could I would never give up.
With a vest on my chest, a bullet in my lung, I can't believe I'm dying with my song unsung; and if and when I die won't you bury me alone, 'cos I'll never get to heaven if I'm singing this song...
And at that point the entire place explodes. And I mean seriously. Everybody knows the words, everybody knows the timing, everybody knows when the horns stop and start and everybody moves as one. You ever felt that feeling, for one brief second of belonging? Check. I can't remember all the songs in the set list now, but I can remember how much pain I was in the next day. I spent an entire 36 hours laid up basically. Told you I was crippled! You know what? It was worth it. I don't care that I fell down every time I got up. I bruised my feet, pulled my calves and rendered the ligaments in my ankles completely useless for the chance to see and sing and dance to my favourite band. Worth it.
Nathan came to meet us just at the end. He just came in and looked for the whirlwind. Ask him! Anyway, he stuck around and got pint after pint of water for us and got us to the taxi rank. What happened next propels my brother into legend as far as I'm concerned. Knowing a lot of people that run pubs and clubs in Derby is no bad thing. Basically, with a few well placed questions and a holy mission, he got to meet the band. WHAT. Yep, while I was being whisked home by a bright yellow taxi (Pikachu yellow?), he met the band. And then he got their autographs for me. AAAAAAHHH!!! The menu they all scribbled on is safe and sound in a pocket, and then possibly to be framed. WOOP WOOP.
So. Conclusion? Best thing ever. Bar none. All the concerts and operas and recitals in the world that I have done and will do will never ever come close. Sorry, but that's the way it goes. Even though I will ever be a Songman, I know where my heart lies, and that's not a lie. I'm certainly getting branded (inked), but probably not pierced. The Bishop almost threw a fit when I said to him straight faced that I was getting branded, and saying it out loud the other night at HQ certainly garnered some welcome attention, so I just have to decide what I want and how it'll go. I've got a lot of blank canvas on my back, so we might as well get a lot of coverage. We'll just have to see.
So. Streetlight Manifesto. Live. In Derby. Almost too good to be true. I did miss Big D and the Kids Table though, and I sure love those guys too. Given the choice I would always go Streetlight though. OH MY GOD IT WAS LITERALLY THE BEST THING EVER!
* The Thomas Leaper, a Wetherspoons on Irongate (A6)
**Pedigree, a fine English Ale brewed by Marston's of Burton
***A circular mosh pit in which persons involved are flung around the edge by other members of the outlying crowd
