Long and Winding

You know, perhaps I should apologise for dealing out details of my utter health breakdown. I lost a hell of a lot of weight as well, which, when you're me, but still, nobody really wants to know about vomiting and diarrheoa strictly but God damn it I did so there we go. Well, I mean, I suppose I could get rid of them now, but you know I spent a long time writing and editing and posting so I think they can stay. I was very ill after all.

The Wendesday, just a mere two days ago, I went to the Hospital for a Chest x-ray, after having been woken on Tuesday by creasing chest pain. Of course my immediate reaction was that I was about to die of a heart attack...unlucky though guys, you can't quite get rid of me. I went to see the Doctor and he happily (and I do mean very happily informed me) that it could be potential lung collapse (WHAT THE FUCK) with a huge grin on his face. Suffice to say whatever the cause was, it has seemingly resolved itself, and I haven't felt any pain since. Looks like if you need a lung reinflating then I'm your man.

Anyway, I'm getting much better. I'm able to eat, drink, shit and breathe without causing myself any undue pain or discomfort. Super duper! Keeping my public updated. I've been too ill to cast a shadow lately. I've been too ill to see my best friends, my keepers. I've been too ill to leave the house! I miss my friends in Norwich though. Very much so now I'm well enough to as well. I've made some real solid links and genuine friendships this year, and I am pleased and thankful for this.

This is not a roll call. There will be no valediction. I must hurry back though; a week to wait. Then I get to bring my battered old suitcase to that Hotel someplace that is Nelson Court.

As we all know, earlier today, the marriage of Prince Willam and Kate Middleton took place. There's been enough internet commentary already, there'll be a ridiculous amount of post-nuptual editorials...I don't care. I really do not care. I got up to watch the service, and found it a distinctly enjoyable. As wedding services went, it was altogether flawless. Fitting, for such a well-planned event, no? Also, the Bride walking down the aisle to I Was Glad? Inspired. Also, ridiculously epic. I thought it was going to be on the fabulous Harrison&Harrison dream machine they have there, but oh ho no, orchestral it is. Crisis inducing trumpets for the introduction? Oh yes. DEEP JOY.

Cwm Rhondda and Love Divine on the hymns is also deeply pleasing to me. Absolutely beautiful. Anthem...by John Rutter. John Milford Rutter. Actually...it wasn't that bad. Palatable. This does not, oh you naysayers, that I am changing my mind. Not at all. Just that Rutter's 'This is the Day that the Lord hath Made' is actually, after the last few years worth of dross, a servicable composition. Now, I can't remember who dealt the motet, on the classic theme Ubi Caritas, but actually that was rather nice as well. A very well accomplished composition. Hopefully some smart arse will correct me as to who it was.

Now, you must excuse me. I am on the road to recovering my health, bit by bit. Keep thinking of me. I'm watching Ashes to Ashes. We've just started the third series, and its really hotting up. All getting a bit tasty really. Odds on for tears at the end of the series. Right, good, smashing.

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*

And as you close your eyes...

"What are you doing here, Peb?"

Actually it's a good question.  Taken out of context it looks strange, but to be fair in the context it was more than relevant.  The unfortunate nature of my badman cyclist tactics (and that means at high speed (speed limits don't apply to cyclists, right?)) means I need a short breather after such distance is traversed, and thus I was still around to be questioned, but to be honest we're straying into less-than-abstract commentary on reality and more into analysing the shadows on the cave walls, so enough enough.  

Not only was I asked that question earlier with good reason (my reaction was a little overblown and hardnosed though.  In my valiant attempt to not be bitter I have acquired a certain...insensitivity), but recalling the experience reminds me of an episode even earlier in the evening (look at that cave wall go), with the inimitable J of N.  During a usual conversation about the poor end of the stall, and I was pretty wound up, I recounted my continual pride of having left the house, and indeed leaving the house every single day.  "Pardon?"  Utter confusion reigned over my compatriot's reply.  Indeed, why should I be proud of such a mundane act?  Perhaps you should ask why shouldn't I be proud of it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are reading the handiwork an adult living with a disability.  SHOCK HORROR NERD HAS CRIPPLING FEELINGS OF SOCIAL INADEQUACY AND WRITES ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.  Get over it.  

I'm not a cripple (not just yet anyway, but I'm heading that way for sure), but rather I "suffer", if you are closed-minded enough to think of it in that way with Asperger's Syndrome, or Autistic Spectrum Disorder.  Or if you're really ignorant, I'm some freakish nutjob who can't tie his shoelaces properly.  (True fact though)  Not only that but I have a list of symptoms as long as your arm (even you, Mr. Fantastic) and also put up with Attention Defecit Hyperactivity Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Dyspraxia, Dysgraphia, and Synesthesia.  Also due to my Autism I have an inbuilt disregard for authority short of total disrespect, which can often reflect in my language.  No, not my fremdsprache but more the fact that my usual patter is peppered with more expletives than your body has room for, spun off the tongue with the same casual attitude as a simple "how do you do".  Well, that and I genuinely believe there is respectable mileage in Anarchism.  ANYWAY, ON WITH THE SHOW.

Last I heard, and indeed, as I tell anyone who will listen, when I started at University, in a the clement September of 2008, the drop out rate for students with Asperger's was 80% within the first month.  Ok, you can prove anything with statistics, but still, 80%?  An almost overwhelming majority feel that the strain is too much, and make a tactical retreat.  Now, I don't have a hold on these statistics by any means, so say maybe 20% 0f that 80% choose to reapply...and say within 3 years as well.  Maybe I'm right?  Seems like a nice figure anyway.  Now, stick with me here.  This pristine figure that I clasp to my bosom only refers to students in the first year.  What about the years after that?  How many Autistic students make it through their degrees?  How many of them never move off campus?  I can confirm that out of a definite 16 students with Asperger's Syndrome (at the beginning of this year), I was the only one who demanded (and I bloody demanded alright) to live off campus.  I am proud to push myself beyond all safe limits and try to live as ordinary a life as I possibly can.  The repercussions can take their toll though; every so often I need to switch off and get out of the game, but only as a temporary tactical withdrawal.  I'm often back in the game before I know it.  Yes, I have a crippling phobia of clowns, Yes I need my shopping to be on the conveyor belt in a certain way (I get stared at regularly) and YES I have a black and white view on ethics, morality &c &c.  What I'm doing here, is bucking the trend and proving to myself as much as everyone else that I will not be beaten by my labels and symptoms.  I will be out there making a difference until the very last second.

"What are you doing here, Peb?"  Just trying to do a favour for a friend.  There's always another way.  

And as  you close your eyes for the Big Sleep, I hope you think of me.

Fire up the Quattro!

You know, I've been searching my whole life for a real hero.  Someone I can look to for a lead, to respect and aspire to, whose qualities I can emulate and synthesise into my own modus operandi.  Only thing is, having found him, I now only have to come to terms with his fictional nature.

Gene Hunt.  Gene Hunt is my hero.

Think about it!  As characters, we're not too dissimilar.  Gruff, rude men who spend a fair amount of time in the pub with a close knit team of friends and colleagues especially after a job.  The Coach & Horses is my version of The Railway Arms.  We both love our vehicles, although the Dawes doesn't quite have the same impact as the Quattro(!)

A no-nonsense approach to the job brings us together as well, with our love of duty, and also being an "old school maverick", where not a week goes by at Spamcroft without Madam Director reminding me that the "affected school" of church music is no longer the status quo and being likened to a "fifty year old man" when I sing the lower octave springs swiftly to mind.  I'm beginning to wonder whether Ashley Pharoah and Matthew Graham been watching my life?  Ok, granted that Gene's not autistic, but still...

You can imagine that first fateful day, when Gene was created...

"Right, we need to think about this.  We need this guy to be set in his ways, not so much reluctant but pretty much ignorant to change...He's the boss, but he still throws his weight around to prove it..."

'Well, this kid in Derby seems to be our man!  Uncaringly offensive, no respect for any authority but his own, likes to push his mates around a bit.  Sounds a bit more northern than the rest do as well'

"Perfect!  We'll take what we like and, and errr, yeah, make him a copper...drinker and smoker...make him a bit racist, sexist, anything else ending in ist we can shoehorn in, and take it from there.  Oh yeah, let's make him Mancunian.  Get Phil Glenister in on it as well.  Genius."

Ok, it probably didn't go quite like that, but you get the gist.

Just think about it though.  Who am I?  I am the Captain.  I didn't just pull my twitter name out of my arse you know.  The Captain, The Doctor, the Drum and The Bishop all together are our very own A-Division, CID, whatever.  I refer to my house as Castle Pebblez, my room, the front parlour, is my Kingdom, a little place for me to call home.  Nobody ever waltzes in playing King of the Jungle, I can tell you.  In the light of the finale of Ashes to Ashes, we discover that the 'Genieverse' is indeed his creation.  A whole world constructed around the indestructibility of Gene's Soul/personality/spirit, his sheer strength of will.  A bubble set against the maelstrom of the cosmos, which basically is pretty much how I see my world!  My lack of perception of 'the outside' is always surprising, even to me still!  Where people go once they leave my line of sight is a mystery, even if I know where they live, or if they're off to a different pub or bar, or I leave them.  As far as I'm concerned right now, sitting in the living room, is that outside of the house isn't real, the street's a figment of my imagination, and Norwich is a figment of my imagination.  The rest of the world?  A fever dream.  It helps me cope with my life, just like his world helps himself (and also others) cope with death.  The Gene Genie looks after his own, like I try to.   

And through all that bullshit, through all that swagger, I'm just a skinny kid who just needs fattening up.

Now the series has come crashing to a spectacular end, where does Gene go from here?  Well, as we saw, he gets another dying DI from the 21st century to look after, and probably another round with that Hell-Hound Keats.  You watch it again, Keats doesn't quite break him.  Shattered, maybe but not broken.  The way gene gets taken apart is nothing short of heartbreaking, but watching him build it all back again is inspiring.  "Still a bit of boyish defiance?  Magic."  A sterling performance by all involved.  I've never cared so much about fictional characters before, people that I know aren't really real.  Or maybe their character isn't fictional?  The crux of the matter is that these 'characters' themselves are real, but the situations and so on are the fictional element, even though both Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes are set against historical backgrounds ('83 election in Ashes series 3, for example), and this is what has made it so gripping.  

What about this side of the tube though?  People will look for another Gene Hunt, another cult figure to hold on to who's out of this world.  Me?  Won't have to.  As long as I hold on to myself, the Gene Genie's always with me.  I'm everywhere, Bolly.  I was needed, and I was there.

My tribute?  This post.  The attitude.  The dated wardrobe.  The lingo.  I won't have to try hard for it to sink in, because half of it's already here.  As long as when I die, Gene Hunt's my Choirmaster in chorister Limbo, I can pass on a happy man.  Or maybe I could be that Choirmaster.  Is it just me, or am I talking in another dimension?