Vignette XVI

Well, you really fucked that one up, didn't you? Well done Lad! Give the boy a biscuit.

Freak.

Anyway.

I have spent much time not leaving my regrets behind, in fact, I always carry them with me. I'm never without them.


As uspet as I am, at least I can pick myself out of the smoking crater caused by the almightly falling for that took place. I've been dragging myself up by my fingertips just in case, but now I can go haul out. Good. Fine.

I now don't have time for this; it's less than two weeks until the deadline. If I don't finish, I am finished. I've got to let this one go.


So. You know the drill. Tomorrow? Yes, that's right.

Tomorrow it could be you.

Drunk again

Tonight was the last time I go out before my dissertation and project are finished.

I didn't even really mean to drink much! I'd gone to a J.D. Wetherspoons establishment for lunch after the Chamber choir concert (which thankfully went a lot better than the night previous), which included a pint of the black (I asked for that at the union on Paddy's and they didn't understand me). I've eaten quite a bit, so I thought it's be ok. Turns out it hit me a little harder than usual, but it was probably the stress.

So anyway, fast forward. I stuck with my excellent friend Kamei-san (Kamei-senpai, Sensei &c) after choir tonight and rode to the Schoolhouse on Earlham. We stayed for a small tincture, and then travelled to town, complete with the manager (or indeed the owner [perhaps both]) of Knowhere. I went to the Playhouse Bar for my usual pint of Kostritzer, because that's how I roll. It's great stuff. Anyway.

Before this had happened, I had rang my Lead for my Barbershop to find out his location, seeing as it was his birthday! Although like a damn fool I missed it. He was going home as I rang him. Tush and Tcham!

My next move after the Playhouse was to go home. I thought that one was more than enough, and it was time to go home. What happens? I pole up to the bus stop and before I get there it sails past me. Right. I decide to plunge back to a drink, as this is the only logical course of action...right? Yeah, right.

Somehow, I manage to get into the NUCA SU bar. For the unfamiliar, that means the Norwich University College of Arts Student Union bar. It's a really nice place! Very affordable, much more so than the UEA SU, a great building and a pretty good atmosphere. I stayed for two bottles of Asahi, the premium Japanese black beer. Delicious. I got a taxi home because guess what? I left my buss pass on my desk! What an idiot! I was cursing under my breath the whole taxi journey home. Thankfully, I found it straight away. Oy! What a fool.

Spamming wasn't too bad tonight. A fair bit of banter, and the Demon reared his head to deal with the Director. I may not be in the best of voice at the moment, but the unholy half of my person is fighting back. You have the right to kill me, but you do not have the right to judge me. And I ain't going down without a fight. I wear my toothed bracelet every day now, and it reminds me to bite back.

In lady news, that girl at choir is just as nice as ever, with her felicitous dress and delightful perfume...but I can't get her out of my mind. I'm coming up against all sorts of difficulties (there's someone else interested and my continual lack of spine) but even the firey spirit of chaos within will not move on. Obviously she is not a regret. Tomorrow, it could be her. The ultimate problem is that I do not know how to be successful anymore, having gone through somewhat of a dry spell and a regression as far as my social skills are concerned. Oh well. It'll work out. I have asked for some preternatural help with her, I don't think that's outside of my remit. It's time I had a chance, in all honesty.

And the kicker ending? I'm going home. 11th-15th April. After the dissertation. Fuck it all, I will need to go back and let the tension break. I deserve it, and I owe it to myself. Hence the £7 ticket. OH YEAH. The Captain's coming home.

Vignette XV

This is really a postscriptum to Waltzing Mathilda. I know, it was kinda cute, wasn't it?

I never try to be cute though. Or sweet for that matter. I hope we're all at an understanding here. I'm going to get angry later, but I need to remember to keep it calm. She's coming to see me sing, anyway!

When I said there was this girl, there is this girl. She's...gorgeous. And she's so nice. She's wonderful. I want to get my hopes up. There's always another way.

She's just...

*whew*

...She's just.

I might just be a little bit in...erm, well, you know. But only a little but. But enough.

Fatigue

Quite a while ago now, I wrote an entry called Catharsis. It was quite popular, if the statistics ran by the web service I'm using are correct, twenty-something views solid. Obviously it wasn't as popular as the last one, but then again we all like having a laugh at some sap who goes ga-ga of a girl, huh? Especially when that sap is old Capitain Pebblez, eh? You know what happened there, of course. A few days after it hit the net madamoiselle in question went and listed herself in a relationship...with someone else. Right. Fine. Same as it ever was. I should hate for it to have turned out any other way.

I went out on saturday night for Brill Bri's birthday booze up, complete with her friends from way back when and a good few Spammers. I bank roll for one, I buy a lot of booze. I generally enjoy being attached to her side. &c &c, you know, I think she's just lovely. So anyway, I discus the matter of this particular with one of the sops; I did her a favour, so I asked her to do mine. Quote? "Don't even go there. Really don't. You'll find someone eventually." Jesus H. Christ. Turns out, yes that's right fact fans, she's already seeing someone else already. Whod've thunk it, EH? As per usual, I can't tell anyway, but what the hell man, better to have found out this way? RIGHT. Fine. Same as it ever was. I should hate for it to have turned out any other way.

This leaves me firlmy where I always begin: Square Zero. Null. Nowhere. RIGHT. FINE. Same as it ever was.
As ever, I can do nothing about it. So, I must leave off for now. For good! No, not quite, but certainly for the next fortnight. I needs must complete my degree first! Women will always be outside of my sphere of comprehension, grasp, jurisdiction &c, but a degree is almost there. I've done most of the technical work as far as my project is concerned. The write up awaits, as does the tuning of the instrument, which I'll do on 3" wind in the UEA Christmas Cracker. A simple releathering of keys and sureing up of the case has worked wonders. It's nowhere near as good as it could or even should be, but it's ok. It should turn out ok.
As for the Dissertation, I'm stuck. I haven't done any hardcore work for over a week now, as I've hit somewhat of a wall. However, all is not lost, as it actually stands at about four thousand words. I'm going to pull through! I know it. There's no substitute for hard work, right?

Actually, maybe there is. I just haven't discovered it yet.

I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of excercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, - why it seems no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

That's right you fuckers, how dare you call me inhumane, I quoted Hamlet. Let's get down to brass tacks though, and cut through all this crap, shall we?

I'm tired. I'm not just fed up, I'm genuinely wearing out. My patience is a nothing but a nasty rumour at the best of times, but now it's just a folk tale. My insomnia is peaking. My usually cast-iron eating habit is beginning to suffer as I start to forget to eat. Before long I shall stop concentrating on my sentences and start firing expletives at high velocity in every direction, including those you don't know about. A lot of things make me angry, and right now one of those things is Chamber Choir. Quite frankly we've bitten off slightly more than we can chew. Actually, it wouldn't be if various people knuckled down and just paid attention and just got on with it instead of fucking not. I couldn't give a shit that nobody else for your part has turned up tonight, you get the fuck on and do your best. Maybe you think it's not good enough? Maybe you think you can ruck up when you like and it'll all go fine? No. Actually it doesn't work like that. Sorry for spoiling your presupposed misconceptions about the world! My Bad! I didn't know you were so sensitive.

"Oh yeah", you say, "Here it comes, the bit where he says he's better than everyone". Well, frankly that's not true. I'm not better than everyone else. I still have to work for it. I work damn hard. Remember how much of a welcome I get for being a countertenor. I'll tell you what though, if you push yourself as hard as I do, I bet you'll even surprise yourself. I can take in a breath that last up to three times longer than an other beknighted member of the choir, because I know how to deal with my breathing and don't expect any less from myself. I pitch a descending flat 7th right every time because guess what! I fucking make it happen. I do the best that I can to keep in tune all the time. Sometimes it doesn't work, at least I admit to it. I haven't heard any of these pieces that we're singing unless I've done them before. I will find it inside myself to make them right without copying anything else. Maybe I'm not being fair though. Maybe I take it too far because I'm obsessed with singing. Funny, eh? An obsessive compulsive completely obsessed with the science and art of singing, which just happens to be his principal study at University? POW! WHERE DID THAT FASTBALL JUST COME FROM? JESUS H. CHRIST.

I've been snowed under from day one. You try being depressed 24/7 (actually, I wouldn't really advise it, but roll with it). You try feeling so empty and lost that you need an hour to look your door handle in the face and leave your own fucking room. I'm not saying that's every day, but I've been there more than once, and definitely more than I wish to be ever again. Looked in the mirror lately? Do you see a human being looking back at you? Good. I don't. What? Go ahead, read it again. Of course I don't think of myself as a human being like the rest of you. Newsflash! I will never be one of you. There's one person who seems to actually understand and critically, accept how I feel and think and work. I worry about him as much as some of you must worry about me. I've got his back and he's got mine; that's how we work.

I'm tired. I'm tired of all the things I said last time, you know. I'm tired of being alone and depressed and being single forever and importantly, being autistic and obsessive compulsive, and now I'm also really very tired of working myself to the bone for what seems to be no reason. I'm all but worn out, but I still have a way to go. I won't stop, because that's not part of the plan, and I know that I'm Indestructible. My last post isn't all that it seems; it's a second draft. I don't usually ever check these for vitriol, but I did last time. I had to start again because I was hating on myself so much for getting depressed and defeatist. I'll check for vitriol in this one, I won't be a minute...HA HA.
We're good. I'm an angry man at the moment. And I'm very angry about one specific thing more than anything else for once. I think that this should reflect a little clearer than I usually let it. I've been so bothered about trying to get a date/laid/whatever that I've taken my eye off the ball somewhat and not realised my temper's still on the boil. Whoops. SAME. AS. IT. EVER. WAS.


*collapse*

Vignette XIV

Now, you see, the number one problem is expecting a positive outcome.

I'm playing by different rules, I'm looking for the wrong cues, I'm waiting for something that will never come along.

Even I must make do. Freak.

I have made friends with disaster; misfortune is my cousin.

I must leave my regrets behind. If only it were so easy.

Tomorrow, it could be you.

Waltzing Mathilda*

Last night I got very upset. I sat up til a rather small hour in the morning, feeling like a total idiot and mostly ashamed that I could let my spine go slithering out of me at so great a speed. Yes, that's right...

At the heart of this, there is a woman. Actually, more correctly that my heart is after a woman, a lady, a most beautiful girl. You know the drill. I'm going stupid over a girl. I'd seen her before and thought about how pretty she is but I was after other people at the time, and I can't even begin to describe the time I wasted doing so. That said, maybe I'll be saying the same thing is a few week's time? In a few week's time it'll be the Easter Holiday though, and the aforementioned young lady will presumably be going home for the month**. She was around the flat the other night with my favourite niece before they went out. I looked again, and saw, as the eye of the beholder always does, beauty. I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since the end of last week. She's absolutely beautiful. In form and moving how express and admirable! How like an Angel!

*a-hem*

Aw, how sweet! No. I don't do sweet. It's intrinsically in my nature to be an old-fashioned dating kind of person because you know what, I had it once and I enjoyed it. Deep joy! I say things like the above because I do, there's no effort behind it. I'm not out to be sweet. It's like sugar in the wounds. I have heard the phrase "Oh, that's really sweet...but let's just be friends" one way or another more times that I can care to recall (ok, maybe like 12 tops actually), or should I say, more times than is satisfactory. I won't move to ask someone unless I think there's a huge chance they'll say yes. I won't actually do anything if I have any doubt, which, honestly, I'm suffering from at the moment. There's only one of me, but I wish I had a one and only to go with me.

I operate on very basic principles. I'm not sure what they are exactly, but they have to be simple as I'm a man, and therefore have a low brain activity threshold. I'm hyperactive, yes, and that means I can be empty-headed several times faster than the average bear, nothing more. Sweet makes it sound like I'm going out of my way, which I don't think it is. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I greatly miss being with someone, going out and staying in, cooking dinner, watching a film...you know, all the usual things. It makes me feel comfortable thinking about it. I am excited, yes folks, excited about the chance of being able to live what can only be termed as a normal life...with someone by my side! I can hear laughter in the aisles! Why aren't you taking me seriously? You there, with the smirk, why can't you believe me? Good God.

I am tired of being 'just friends'. I am tired of being unable, through a lack of opportunity, understanding or otherwise to form a relationship that's both romantic and sexual. I am tired of being in second place. I am tired of being afraid because I don't know. I'm tired of being autistic, but there's the kicker ending folks! I don't get chance to not be!

I'm out of practice when it comes to courtship. In fact, I'm so old hat, I still call it courtship. My considerable courage that gets me out of the flat every day begins to waver with the involvement of an attractive lady, so much so in fact that I got sucker-punched like a little bitch by the double team of depression and anxiety last night.

When I get depressed at times like these, my famous and infamous "time of the month", I revert to almost what might have been had I not been brought up a fighter. That's right, I get affected by the emergence of the full moon; a true lunatic***. Wasted and wounded, the battle gets taken out of my hands though, and instead of railing against the heavens the heavens start to rail against me. I become depressed beyond control, anxious beyond measure and terrified by the new; in short, the crippling lack of social ability befitting an Obsessive Compulsive sufferer of Asperger's Syndrome.

Then, I get angry. Angry with myself. It's almost as if I'm trapped within a shell (glass cage of emotion?), locked in, able to see out but not able to change anything I see. This happens a lot, and stands as an explanation of much of my bitterness. It's directed wholly at myself, for my own shame of inadequacy, and not directed at the outside world half as often as may be assumed.



So anyway. There's this girl (please do not adjust your set, please do not cut/paste liberally from any number of my previous scribings, as similar as they may well be). And...well...she's just...yes, she's just that. I really like her, for no discernable reason except for the fact that I really like her.


So, what am I going to do? Well, what do you think I'm going to do, fair reader? Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address. Someone out there will know who I'm talking about. Most of you might not, and there's even a chance that it's you, actually you. It's much easier for me to talk about things like this when I'm running the show, when I get to play King of the Jungle. You waltzed into my kingdom because I wanted you to. Don't forget to pick the wooden fruit.






* CLUE LOL
**Another CLUE LOL
***More accurately, the effect of the waxing gibbous

...Bring me a Dream...

Funny things, dreams. And I don't mean funny like the preceding post where I talk about having technicolour dreams with force feedback. I mean hopes and dreams, fears and ambitions. I'm really quite the dreamer. I regularly dream when I sleep, and I have a lot of hopes. Many of these come to nothing; the longstanding dream of being able to ask a girl out on a date still escapes me.

One day, a long time ago, it was my foremost hope to move out from house and home and go to university, and get a degree. Now, I'm in the final and most fatal furlong of that journey. One slip now...and I'm done for! Best not slip then, eh? When I was 16, I told myself that I could teach myself to play the Organ. Well, I'm having lessons now on a deeply important and excellent instrument, which truly tests me to the very limits of my admittedly poor technique. A year younger than that, I wanted to play the Upright Bass in my school Swing Band. That came and, because I left school, went, but I still play, and I want to get back to a band. Also, I want to play my Tenor Banjo in a Dixie Band. I'm a rythym section kinda guy. I love it.

But why did I really work up the effort to come to University? It would have been a whole lot easier to have just...not bothered! It's kind of the same thinking behind Lent this year though; I was going to give something up but then I realised I'm not a quitter. ZING.
Unlike what you may think, I didn't come here to get depressed, feel alone or even write a dissertation about Organs, even though I'm doing all of those right now. I came here to sing.

When I was about...I dunno, maybe 9 years old, I decided that I was going to be an Alto. I was a probationer chorister of Derby Cathedral Choir, and I thought that being an Alto was the Bee's knees, not to mention that incredible solo that came around every year, Orlando Gibbons' This is the Record of John. SWEET. I had my heart set on that bad boy. So, when I reach that age in a boy's life (behave, no sniggering at the back) when one's voice changes, I had the summer holiday off and then got straight on to the back row! Pow! Guess what?! BAD IDEA.

I wouldn't say the damage was irrepreble. In fact, nobody has said that. Sometimes it feels that way, but it isn't. I just have a voice which works in a very peculiar way, still quite strong in the upper half of the compass, levelling off the lower it gets and then a huge gear change into chest voice. We have a reputation, my voice and I.
So.

What's the problem? Well, truth be told, I find it hard to find anybody who really wants me to sing around these parts. Harsh. Maybe it's all in my head. Or maybe that's what some people would like me to think!
I was involved in a Madrigal group in my first year. We didn't do terribly much, but we did at least one recital so that was good. Yeah, Madrigals! I wanted to sing early music when I got to University. I was told that Countertenors were wanted and were the in thing and I'd be well in.
When I arrived, I had a head full of idealism and knowledge of Early Music. I can still tune up a Viol Consort almost off the top of my head, and used to be able to rattle composer's names and dates off like a crazy man. Can you see where this is going?
Anyway, Second Year dawns (ugh) and there forms an ensemble, dedicated to Early Music...Invitation Only, bro. You know, like the top of the pops Early Music, the big favourites, including big Tom T's Lamentations. Oh well. Funnily enough, that's not the only ensemble formed with no small interest in Early Music. Once again, Invitation only and once again lost in the post. Funny, I can't really start being an arse about these things because a) It was their choice b) It's been and gone but 3) I'm always going to be annoyed about it. Thankfully I was still in situe in the Chamber Choir, much like I am now, much like first year.

Mistake number one has to be voluntarily choosing to get Spammed. The strange bi-polarity of being invited to have a scholarship and attracting the look of death and several pointed comments every rehearsal about "someone's pushing the balance" meant that quite basically I went home in tears every other week. Ok, that's not nearly descriptive enough. I believed that singing was all I was good at, but thankfully I was still good at it. Turns out I almost got convinced otherwise, and almost gave up entirely. If I can't sing, then what else am I good for? Stage Management? (Too soon?) Things aren't quite as bad this year, as my improved living and study arrangement has allowed me to regain some thickness. And you grumblers over there, if I can't write what I like in my tell-all blog, then where can I write it?

I basically gave up on early music. Seriously. I am reliably and repeatedly informed that we of the old Countertenoring type are too loud, out of tune, unable to blend effectively blah blah blah...The only thing I may be fit for is solo work, a little questionable since I only have ensemble experience these days, no connections and...seriously, how often do you think I get asked to sing solo? (Oh Woe is me? Get real. This is my true perception). That and in all honesty, I don't often listen to early music for the pleasure of doing so. It has to have the driving motor of North German Stylus Phantasticus, or the Organic counterpoint of Weelkes and the avant-garde members of the English Madrigal School, or John Bennett's lusty fugal style...you get the picture. I often find Renaissance polyphony boring, because I'm not involved in it.

So. I didn't bother about early music for a long while, mainly during the summer. I did very little singing, perhaps the rest let my voice relax a little as well. It's certainly much smoother and I have more dynamic control than ever. A freshman, in his infinite idealism, posted on the facebook forum for the new intake this year that he wanted to start a Barbershop Quartet. The rest is history! Or, It'll have to wait til next time.

Vignette XIII

It seems every year I choose someone to waste my time and affection on. Time and affection is surely not wasted really, but only when the other wants to both recieve and reciprocate.

Last term I tried to pursue quite a few ladies, none of whom returned my emotion. Yes, that's right, I said emotion. I eschew your sympathy, so don't bother.

last term I had multiple subjects of affection, but it seems now they have been boiled down; there is one who knows, but does not return, and one who has hardly any idea. If I allow myself to be talked into purchasing anything for anyone, do you not think that I percieve some potential? Or is that just me? Whatever.

I will give my gifts, and I will crash on. As I always do. I feel that it will make no difference, as ever, but I must carry on, so you can all learn from my mistake.


I have shed the leash of my chain. I invite damnation, as that is all I am fit for. Instead of blood, the Phlegethon runs through me; the fire which burns but does not consume.