Out of the Deep

To say that I've kept this blog at arm's length for the past month would be an understatement.  

I've been struggling with block since the new choir year started actually, not least because moving out was dreadful, but also the impact of actually being a "grown up" (in the loosest usage of the term to date) is quite... disquieting?  Is that what I mean?  It's new and unfamiliar, like learning to walk again.  The refreshing sensation of being able to leave the Scholary behind outside the east gate is still a novelty, this only being the second month of living away compared to the previous twenty four.  Even though I am yet to fulfill any societal concepts of adult life, I feel much more positive on the whole.  Things have improved, and continue to do so.  

Something that I recently identified that was having an negative effect on my writing is how deeply attached I am to the outcome.  This is not fiction (sadly?), and knowing that friends and acquaintances regularly read sometimes makes me dreadfully nervous.  I never used to be afraid.  Well, not so much.  Years spent trying to keep all the people happy all of the time have wasted what emotional strength I do have, and in fact when I am not able to do so I feel disappointed in my own self.  The monster may no longer stare back out from the mirror, but who is there now?  A sycophant?  Please.  How awful.  Even though I am no stranger to controversy or confrontation, it is almost as if I shy away deliberately these days.  It's like I am trying to project an image that I simply have no right to.  Oh spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I go hence and be no more seen!  Even after three years, no names and a slew of cultural references, I am still worried that people might find out not just what I think, but also what I feel - almost seeking out mediocrity as a mode of expression to keep all the secrets from everyone.  Including myself.

Of course, the outcome that I fear the most is rejection.  An almost paralysing fear that keeps me from taking any sort of chance you could imagine: financial, professional, dietary... The most mundane things.  The biggest fear of course, is being rejected in a romantic way (sorry this is stilted but I'm trying to search for a better expression).  It's one of the things I try to keep secret from myself, with questionable success rates.  I go through awful psychological loops where I can even feel ashamed sometimes to be attracted to somebody.  Why bother even looking?  What woman would ever look at me?  I am the lowest of the low, but still haven't hit Tyler's "rock bottom".  Of course, long time readers and fans of the Captain will point out that in the past things have worked out, but really they haven't worked out for very long and have shown increasing patterns of (ding ding you guessed it) borderline sycophancy on my part.  Maybe self destruction is the answer!  All the time running in the background is that critical fear of rejection.  Of upsetting the status quo.  It makes me weak, and dreadfully so.  It is as if I have nothing to be proud of.  Boo hoo how sad!  It remains far easier to hide in the shadow of platonic and familial relationships with men than actually admit to one's desires for a woman.  I'm sure I can't be the only human being who feels like that, let alone the only autist.  Sometimes, normal people don't have every thing easy after all, which I am slowly learning. 

Vomit.  How close to the truth we came but swerved away!  I'm sure we'll be back here soon, as once again, it's the biggest problem on my mind.  Even living in a climate of self-imposed austerity isn't actually that much of a problem, and as luck would have it have often found time and place to earn a quick buck to keep the booze rolling in.  Turns out that what could charitably be described as Truro's one and only Dive Bar found so far has just as much place in destroying my liver as does the classy cocktail joint where everyone knows my name.  My domestic arrangement continues to improve, and I'm pleased to say I get on very well with my Landlord!  As much as I would like to live in my own place rather than just a rented room, there have been a few episodes already where having another person to talk to has made all the difference.  Critically, I do not feel lonely even half as much as I have before.  It is like I've finally got chance to sure up the walls of the cracked edifice that I am, which is a true Godsend!  Even though the weather is dreadful, things are looking up, but don't worry!  I'm not going to finish on some sort of blitheringly hopeful note.  It's more the fact that...

...It isn't that bad.

Postscriptum

New schedule coming.  Alongside singing every day, I've taken to transcribing une grande messe d'orgue to fill up my time.  I'm trying to finish it in time for the Chief's birthday, so fingers crossed!  In the meantime, I think I'm finally going to try my hand at a little fiction, and might even publish that epic in Haiku form I've been working on...

Tabula Rasa

See, the thing about having a block when you're me, is that flashes of inspiration come and go, making their arrival unannounced and often unwelcome, perhaps in the middle of putting a knot in a necktie, or perhaps waiting for tea to brew to the optimum point, or even (most annoyingly), the fine mean-tempering of my Tenor Banjo.

This is not one of those times.

This is one of those times that I think that actually I just need to sit down and actually get something out and published because Jesus Christ I am supposed to be writing a regular blog and did you know I managed to set out at least a thousand words a day in May, and it's been all quiet for a month.  A month!  Terrible.
The short answer is that a hell of a lot has happened, and actually, I don't really know where to pick up.  Where could I even begin?  I've moved house, received promotion, welcomed a new cohort of scholars, installed a harsh yet justified financial regime... But what's really interesting about that?  Obviously a lack of interest in even reviewing my own situation, let alone anything else, is indicative of some kind of... primordial unhappiness, and to be honest, having only moved in a month ago to my new lodgings I'm actually hardly surprised.  Things are still deeply chaotic, and compared to previous moves, much more stressful.  I bloody hate moving, and I will not move from that platform.

However.  Why not try something... New age?  Dip into the pot of pop psychology and focus on the positive HA HA but no, actually things are pretty okay.  Although things are...less than ideal at my new lodging (household animal companion allergy and hit and miss with the hot water), I am very happy with my new domestic lodging.  I am looking to expand the ancient feast of the Thursday night curry, with the help of a small subscription fee and the dining room to bring new levels of culinary excellence and the fellowship of having a good meal together.  Hmm.  What else is good?  The new Scholars!  Yes. 

I am fond of telling people that things are different this year.  All sorts of things taken for granted in former years have fallen away: the frequency of curries, which bars we visit post-evo, even down to the fact that there's no television in The Scholary!  Everything changes, I suppose, even we who hate change.  I am now, as previously stated, a Lay Vicar of the Cathedral Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary in Truro... but to be perfectly honest spend almost every evening with the Scholars.  Things are different this year, with the Scholars being much younger on the whole, with only one member being incumbent of his post.  We have a new, slightly international flavour to this year, with scholars coming from as far afield as Sweden, Canada and most notably, Oxford. The house has seen some improvement, and while the current denizens are still working out the kitchen, the atmosphere is much clearer generally (which may or may not have something to do with the use of air freshener in the toilet...).  On the whole, voices are quieter than they have been the last two years, but the blend hasn't suffered for it; if anything, the back row's tuning has improved across the board, even if the front row is still raising blood pressures all round.  Of course, my behaviour as a probationer was dreadful as well, and there's no point from shying away from that... But I do remember being clipped round the ear, which is somewhat unfashionable these days.  Or illegal.  I don't know.

I'm looking forward to how this year pans out.  All six of the new scholars, including (or should that be especially?) the Organ Scholar, have their own strengths to bring to the table.  This is my third year in Truro after all, and who even knows where I'll end up (will it be here just like my forebears?), perhaps I'll manage to get back to England one day or just maybe I'll make it across the Atlantic.  If I'm ever going to get anywhere, I really need to address this utterly fatal lack of confidence that I have.  It's almost as if I never quite manage to catch a break and really get everything back together before the next wave comes along or I need to put my social face on and go and do the Lay Vicar thing or even go and work in the Office all day... I dunno.  Finding a balance is difficult.  More difficult than you think.  But... That's my life.

So!  This hasn't been too bad.  Perhaps a month hiatus is what I needed to pass the birth pangs of the new age.  One thing that I did think about as I was buttering toast last week was that I can't really write because I have no idea what I am, or what I'm doing.  Last year I was a Scholar who hung around with the Lay Vicars, and this year I'm a Lay Vicar who hangs around with the Scholars.  Living off a pittance, but this time so I can actually pay off my overdraft and not spend the rest of my life languishing in student debt.  Hopefully, I might find more chance to actually flex my writing muscles.  One of the biggest issues in my life is having to acknowledge my disability, which is something I am taking a huge amount of time to come to terms with.  Even elementary social cues still escape me, after all this time and all this effort I'm sure you could understand how frustrating that could be.  

Back to the grindstone though, as once again I must awake the first Cello Suite and get back to preparing the second for Lent.  I would much rather prepare Banjo recitals than sing, because anybody can go hear some Countertenor hoot through some hit parade of classics... But Bach suites on a Banjo?  You heard it here first, folks.

Gigue

The Gigue is up!  The pigeon has landed!

La Gigue in the G major is slightly rough around the edges compared to the manners of the galanteries and Sarabande, and better off for it.  Recalling some of the motifs in snatches from the dances gone before, let's look back at the tour...!

It's been... 31 hours since departure from Strängnäs.  I'm beginning the extremely lengthy process of uploading all the pictures I took onto Facebook, so let's try to consolidate the trip as best we can...

A stupefyingly early departure, a sleeping Organist, the TARDIS, free wine, Government off-license, The Chlamydia Cave, 10 quid for two pints, beautiful women on the streets of Örebro, roof raising concerts with standing ovations, the ghost of a choir gallery, pasta alfredo, the murder capital of Sweden, the Ur-Touristen, frozen gin, "Is it a sing-song language?", more luck with women in the last two days than in the last year, more hateful lactose than I could take, and 80 pictures OF A BOAT.

I'm really not sure where to start.  I didn't even take my phone with me when we went to Eskilstuna... The journey there and back though, absolutely ridiculous: the 4am departure from Cornwall over a week ago was nothing short of horrific.  Dreadful doesn't even cover it.  The 8:30 from Strängnäs was much more acceptable.  Short flights and marathon coach rides, in fact, marathon coaches from Strängnäs to everywhere else, Örebro and Eskilstuna for concerts, and Stockholm for the last full day in Sweden.  Thankfully, the choristers were a number of kilometers away in a B&B.  Myself, two of the Lay-Vicars, 1st and 2nd in command and the Choral Bollards in swish diocesan accommodation.  Well... I say swish.  There were beds and electronic locks on the exterior doors.  Swish enough.  The shower room in the house that I stayed in didn't have a curtain, and converted to indoor swimming pool after every time it was used. 

If you have money in northern Europe, you build your churches out of brick.  Strängnäs and Eskilstuna were prime examples of this tradition, with Eskilstuna's Klosters kyrka still 16 years away from its first century of standing.  They were incredibly compact, Klosters especially seeming grand inside (with its great west end gallery with one organ in from of another), but with quite a short nave.  It might even be about the same length as Derby Cathedral.  Klosters was built primarily as a new seat for the diocese, an ambition that matches the scale of the building.  In Örebro, the church was much smaller, and only the upper third of the tower was brick, but it was no less fine a building (with a very fine choir organ, oh yes!)

The atmosphere in Sweden is very different to here.  Even the texture of the air is completely different!  On the last day during our trip I intentionally got lost in Stockholm without a worry at all, London's polar opposite.  Örebro, being a major university city, was full of young people (including a Swedish version of Scotland the Brave), bicycles everywhere, and quite a wide range of racial minorities, in stark contrast to Truro's incredible WASP majority population.  The delicious (yet paralysingly creamy) sauce of the Pasta Alfredo after our concert (and the obligatory walk through the city) complemented by the excellent beer served all throughout Sweden was remarkably ordinary - I don't mean boring, more that it was business as usual.  We were aided by the weather (which one of the Ronettes on the boat trip told me was unseasonally good), however, and I'm sure that a winter tour might well have ended completely differently...

Eskilstuna, supposedly a more, er, industrial town, was fine really.  Being full of folly, I followed the Ur-Touristen in what amounted to an unrewarding circle, so didn't really saw anything of the town itself!  I'm sure it actually is a very fine place.  There's some sort of fashion for 'cool' cars, in the shape of old American cars, some rusted to high hell, poling around the streets of all foin ur towns and cities.  A vehicle that must have been no less than 20 feet including the fins crawled passed us in Örebro, while a pack of rdecaying Cadillacs raced around the roundabouts of Eskilstuna.  I hardly noticed any in Stockholm (maybe they're not that cool after all?), but perhaps that's because I was more focused on avoiding the city's silent killer, cycle traffic.

Saturday and Sunday nights brought us into contact with young persons of the Swedish Church.  To say "culture shock" would be a small understatement, and I was unprepared for people to tell me that they genuinely enjoyed church.  Does that make me a bad person?  Or more a reflection of the cynical lifestyle I lead?  Although congregations are indeed falling in Sweden as well, it seems that youth is far more engaged: the youth group who attended a dinner laid on for us all in the Bishop's Palace on Saturday (who also came to Eskilstuna) appeared to be a more powerful part of church than could be expected over here in the Church of England, perhaps more similar to an Evangelical or Methodist Youth Bible Studies group in operation.  They also had a more involved role in church matters, which is something I've never felt reflected in CofE groups.  One girl even said that they had a hand in financial matters, that they were involved and connected with where the substantial resources of the Swedish Church are going.  I'm sure that it's a reflection of being quite seriously invested in the Choir since a young age.  Instead of going off for Sunday School, I would be helping to lead congregational worship with the rest of the trebles and the Songmen.  Same road, different lane.  A few of the girls on Saturday night were tattooed and one must have had about 8 piercings in each ear, something else that's rare over here in the Church scene.

Sunday night's boat cruise on the beautiful Lake Mälaren with the Dean of Strängnäs (with his fashion defying orange jacket) was another exercise in hilarity, meeting a trio of girls who earned themselves the name "The Ronettes" after joining the on-board entertainer for a traditional Swedish song.  After perilously navigating a buffet supper (seriously who the hell makes potato salad with cream cheese?), the Choral Scholars (2012-13) sang together for one last time, fisting our way through Blue Moon and Goodnight Sweetheart for the amusement of everyone up on deck.  Although going on a boat cruise is certainly no everyday occurrence, there was that same feeling of calm that accompanied the evening in Örebro, a welcome sensation of no stress.  It was a really great start to the week. 

Hiatus

Predictably, it's now Thursday.  Trying to boil down a week's worth of experience into one post is almost impossible, especially when you don't take notes!  I'm really, really glad that I went.  For all the flipping back and forth, in retrospect I would have been upset beyond belief had I not gone.  It was something of a tonic, a real holiday - a week away from all the stress of housing and searching for a new job and opening the next chapter of my life with Truro Cathedral... Any worries about that last one boiled away to nothing over the last week.  Not only is this the most I have felt apart from the Scholars (although I subsequently discovered that it was a deliberate measure), but also spending more time with the "adults" and while indulging in alcohol but not what might be termed 'laddish' behaviour marked a real change in the tide.  I found myself less stressed and far more able to interact socially than... well, ever really!  Except for the almost impenetrable language.  Good Lord.  I even felt ashamed that I couldn't even find a foothold in spoken Swedish.  I was struck by a theory that perhaps the shape of the Scandinavian tongue is different, in order to achieve what can only be described as...unfamiliar vowel sounds, almost inimitable themselves (Örebro seemed to have different pronunciations depending on who you spoke to at different times in the day).

The Gigue is up.  I'm packing up every last thing and soon I will move out of this ruined kingdom.  I must abdicate from the Scholary.  The trauma of moving is mitigated by having a week before term starts up again, a chance to unpack more than anything else!  It's almost time to go, and shed my Scholar's skin and transform, as Le Gregoire so eloquently put.  

Spending a week away though must have been one of the finest points of an already stellar tenure with this establishment.  Even though there are many, many hurdles ahead of me, this tour has shown that for all my fragility I am capable, and really it's time to put away all of my self-doubt.  Maybe... Maybe I even grew up a little.

The Grande Tour part 2

So! This time I'm on the train home. It's gonna be a long trip, I can tell you that: not only is the original arrival time at TRU 20:10, but we're 4 minutes behind. Four minutes?! Maybe we'll make the time back, I dunno.

Friday and Saturday has been a lot packed into two days as well. More organ playing, wandering around Ealing, Cider, Cards Against Humanity, Oafs on tour, and finally, Worcester! Don't worry, I actually took lots of pictures this time, which will all go up in the fullness of time, which might even be after Sweden because of how long messing about with Facebook will take... Anyway, even though I've had an excellent time, it really is all right and good to go home now. I've got a week long tour to Truro's link Diocese to prepare for, and also actually moving out of the Scholary itself yet to come. I'm going to need all the suitcases to pack my clothes up, I just hope my future wardrobe (possibly still in flatpack form at the time of writing) is enough to hold my great variety of suits and shirts. When I actually step back into the house, I hope that Ireland's finest export will be there to greet me, before reporting to the bar for pints of soy sauce.  

Last night's drinking was completely different, finding myself enjoying the taste of a pint of Thatchers Cider in Ealing's fabulous local JD Wetherspoons establishment, the Sir Michael Balcon. There I reposed and finally took the weight of my feet after a long afternoon of traipsing round the Ealing Broadway Centre. Even though there was the sheer novelty of there being a Primark(!), I couldn't find anything that really suited my purpose. Something I've noticed recently is the arrival of the 26” waistline in men's departments (what women's size equates to a 26, I wonder...). It's been a good few years since I was a 26” on the waist, and it's now no use to me at all! Not only could I not find any vests, but all the shorts were far too small. I was distraught (no not really). I also found myself in TK Maxx, which is just about as exciting as you would expect, and almost bought a pair of shorts that had a waxed appearance, which I then rejected as they had no back pockets. Huh! Surprisingly picky.

That was yesterday evening, however. The morning was once again taken up by much Organ playing on the fine T.C Lewis and company instrument that St. Mary's on the Hill is so lucky to have. The devastation provided by the pedal Trombone was excellent: Thursday's Buxtehude and yesterday's Piece d'Orgue were well serviced by the foundational character and sheer power of the pedal, which, in finest Neo-Classical registering tradition, remained uncoupled throughout. Over the past few days having the Grand Piano to practice on and visiting the Church for hours at a time have made me feel much better about the state of my keyboard skills. I might even hazard that I feel confident! The choir Tierce, though distant in comparison to the Great chorus (aided by a hefty mixture), still made its presence felt, that characteristically reedy tang just there in the background. After a lunch composed primarily of the worst pre-packed Stressco's sandwich, with added donuts, the day progressed quietly until I ended up in Ealing Broadway, dealt with previously. Let us progress to the barely remembered night...

Yes, of course there was booze. Quite a lot. As I mentioned earlier, I opened my bidding with the relatively novel taste of apple Cider, Bulmers then Thatchers, before toddling off to meet my chum at the Wheatsheaf. The Wheatsheaf, Ealing, is a fine public house tended to by Fullers, itself none too far away. In the fridge, bottles of Pride, ESB, Honeydew and London Porter; on the taps, Pride, ESB and Chiswick Bitter. Wot, no Guinness? The hell am I paying for Guinness in London. Pints of Pride and ESB set me back £3.65 a piece, and that's more than bloody enough. It's becoming more and more expensive to drink almost everywhere now, sadly. I'm just looking for a chemical barrier between reality and my senses that might end up in irreversible liver damage... Is that too much to ask for? Honestly. Anyway, like I was saying, the Wheatsheaf was a pretty nice place, actually. Critically, it felt like a pub. It didn't have any sort of quirky theme or anything, but it was as rammed as hell. I met my chumrade at the bar, and there the journey to inebriation and beyond began.

We were joined by an ex-scholar of Worcester, and then, at some length by the Chief himself. After his abort on coming down to me last week, it was at long last that we met again, and in such fine surrounding. The party started, we moved on to the main event: Cards Against Humanity. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this game, allow me to describe:

• Each participant takes 10 'answer' cards.
• A 'question' card is drawn, and placed in the centre of proceedings
• From the 10 answers, the funniest and/or most inappropriate is chosen
• A vote is taken (nothing formal, like), and the winner is appointed!
• Continue until you reach a natural end. (Death not necessary)

It became clear that the Chief had the most wicked eye, and won the good majority of the rounds. The only answer card I can remember is “pooping back and forth endlessly”, which even out of context should give you an idea of how ridiculous it is. 10/10, will play again. After wrapping up, we drank even more, and I think we left at closing time, to walk through Ealing back to base. Here, Kebab was both sought and enjoyed, and I made some friends in the shape of two very lovely girls, one of whom was having her very first kebab! I was gifted the name “Mr. Kebab”, and they even took my picture. God knows what they'll do with that though. We three oafish characters, stumbling through the Broadway, made a huge racket singing the opening of the Vierne Messe Sollenelle Kyrie (because obviously it would have to be the Vierne), which appreciably utterly wrecked our voices.

Once morning had broken after a short slumber, we sprang into action and departed in peace from the Ealing Mansion. Making a short detour to pick up our other comrade, elect of the LSE, we began our road trip to Worcester! Hurrah! The Chief's car, an exceptionally comfortable vehicle, served us with speed and stability, as it ferried our loathsome corpses across the country. I became more and more aware of how hungry I was, which alongside the developing headache, proved to be quite a challenge to my patience. My hunger went unsatisfied until about half past two this afternoon, and we must have only left London at around 11am. In those frustrating hours, everything became a problem, and I became remarkably more grumpy than usual. A trip to Phat Nancy's, a top-class sandwich joint solved that thankfully, and I remain convinced that Horseradish Mayonnaise is proof that God exists and he loves us. Of course, no trip to Worcester is complete without visiting the Cathedral, and many pictures were taken: the new organ cases, what's left of the Hope-Jones with its magnificent painted pipes and full length 32's, the choir screen, various tombs and memorials... What a fine place it is! I am of course spoiled by the Neo-Gothic of Truro, and the understated Baroque of Derby, but the Norman fabric made quite an impact with the nave completely devoid of chairs. It is here that my friends will attend the wedding of a University friend of theirs tomorrow. Mazel Tov!

Now, I still have just under three hours left on the rails. In fact, just pulling into Tiverton Parkway right now. I'm aware of being rather worn out, actually, but home isn't that far away! Pulling away from the station at Taunton, Gothic church towers rise from the town, before passing into the mist. In a few short hours, the Three Spires will rise to greet me, as I remind myself that “I can see my house from here”. Only three whole days until the 4am departure for Strangnas once I'm back, and we get to go all over again... But by coach, this time. And then by plane (how exciting). Once that's all done and dusted, the final steps of moving out before I can start the new year in a new place, with a new title.

Not that it's in any way indicative of a “new me” or some other such rubbish. Thank God.

Week 52

I was trying to write a post over the weekend, I really was, but life got so busy and there was so much drink that I mostly forgot, but also found that I was boring myself, which is possibly the least favourable place to write from.  It was another post about a video game, specifically the contraversial masterpiece The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, and how much I like it because it is one of the weirdest things in the world.  Like the aborted effort about Killer7, it was too close to an absolute description, even to the point of picking up the controller.  I have an abiding love for these strange and odd games, even though they belong to out-dated systems (I have the Gold cartridge for MM, not the disc), and I think it's because they are about altered perceptions and are set in realities that challenge.  Of course, I must feel some sort of 'kindred spirit' kind of thing for the characters therein, as I constantly find reality a challenge, mentally and physically taxing beyond the pale.  And indeed, no more so than now!  What with the end of the year, everyone else moving on and whatnot, where I need to find a job and somewhere to live and Jesus Christ I can barely cope!

This summer's main event is the Choir tour to Sweden!  Oh yes.  As I do love telling people, it'll only be my fourth flight, and the first such journey that won't end in Germany.  There are plans afoot to go to a water park, a zoo, possible opportunities for lake swimming... with the odd concert thrown in here and there (but we wouldn't want anything to be too taxing now would we!).  It promises to be an interesting week, although the fact that booze is punishingly expensive (somehow worse than Truro?) may lead to any sort of poverty, madness and desperation, and so on.  What am I saying?  Of course it'll be great!  It will also be the last time that I see certain members of the current Truro Cathedral Choir team, being this year's Scholar's last hurrah.  End of an era, huh?  Another chapter done and dusted, but at least I'm staying here.  I vacillate wildly about my appointment actually: sometimes I do wonder whether it was made out of convenience, but mostly I fret about the fact that...well, it doesn't seem terribly exciting.  I get the feeling I've written this before, but with people off to the Royal Northern, the Royal Academy, Collegiate choirs... What am I doing?  Staying in Truro?  Putting myself into the firing line for a life of financial hardship?  Actually having a job and being like, a... Grown up?  We're back to the end of the first paragraph again though, where I reach the very end of my limited (but still effective) set of coping skills. 

At least the weather's picked up!  Although I haven't really made much foray to the coasts (unlike my housemates, strong swimmers and keen surfers that they are), I do find it a rather enjoyable climate and will often take to just walking through town of an afternoon, deciding what I will spend my money on this time.  I find myself quite bored a lot of the time, so most of the time I'm thinking about what I'd like to eat.  I am the worst comfort eater in the world, I used to bank roll the local Chinese take out place at the end of my road in Norwich coming home from... well, anything really: choir, uni, also my home... Anything that had disturbed my delicate temperament that day would be answered with Roast Chicken Chinese style and Egg Fried Rice.  I spent a lot of money there, I can tell you.  Anyway.  I wear short trousers now.  Even under my cassock!  The secret's out, good lord.  Neither delighteth he in any man's legs.  I'm still really warm at night, obviously now because of the environment, not the central heating.  Thank GOD.

I guess now it's almost all over (again), things are a bit sad.  I've had a couple of really bad episodes and have come to the conclusion that I have almost no power over my mood, but at least I'm on a bit of an upswing currently.  The difference between one day and another can often be nothing short of staggering, and indeed, even catastrophic some times.  I do try though.  I hate being a shut in, and try to make some sort of positive difference, usually rescuing my items left for dead in that biohazardous desert that is the Scholary Kitchen.  Nothing can live in its disgusting mire.  Or having a cup of tea.  I will force myself to leave the house sometimes because I will not allow myself to be trapped in my own home. Sometimes, especially when my mood is particularly poor, I even feel as if I'm trapped in my own head.  It's awful, and it's terrible and sometimes there just isn't anything I can do about it, like I have to sort out a mask so people don't ask me questions I'm to anxious to even begin to consider answering and get out the house... And we're back to Majora's Mask!  

Oh well.  Things have a habit of evening out, I suppose.  A major factor to my poor moods is exactly because we are at the end of the year: everything must change and if there's one thing I hate it's change.  I mean, I hate everything, right?  Change is the worst though you guys I mean seriously it is.  Because change is unexpected, I am often ill-prepared to deal with whatever happens, and of course that gets me worked up as well.  It certainly isn't easy being me sometimes.  But then again... If it was easy, it'd be boring.  And I really can't stand being bored.

First Job

Now now, at this rate I'll be getting into bad habits.  It's after midnight before I've even started this one, although seeing as it's about employment you can hardly blame me for putting it off...

Ah.  My first job.  What even was it?  I haven't exactly been blessed with a lot of employment... No, let me rephrase that, I haven't been blessed with a lot of long-term employment.  Much better.  Funnily enough of all the things in the world, I actually consider being part of a church choir a job!  I'm quite old-fashioned in that view, and perhaps rather out-dated, but out of all the Choral Scholar groups that I've been part of (two years at Mancroft and two years at Truro), I've certainly taken it the most seriously, and more an end of itself rather than a means.  More on that story later in a post I'm still working on in the times that I still feel like writing once the daily blog has been done.  As I'm sure to repeat myself in this future blog (ooh am I whetting your appetite, am I), I always saw this as a job as I get paid for a service - in this case, singing.  The Master/Director of Music is my boss, and the rest of the team (Songmen, Scholars, Lay-Vicars alongside the choristers) are my colleagues.  We work together (as a choir) in our services, rehearsals and concerts (assignments, call-outs, tasks...whatever) and then we get paid for doing so.  I was always paid as a chorister as well, not hugely by any mistake (be under no illusion), but it was my money that I earned by myself.  My time at Derby is formally over, and I got myself taken off the Dep list before I started at Truro.  SOB.

Other than that, paid employment sees fit to escape me.  I volunteered at the Oxfam shop in Belper off and on for a long time actually, about three years all told, where I scored an impressive collection of records including my 3 Vinyl set of Handel's Messiah (don't ask who it is because I don't have it here with me, but suffice to say it's pretty old).  I learned some core skills at Oxfam, such as (but not limited to):

! Damp hurts vinyl, like, real bad
£ If it's electric, they couldn't sell it
$ Alphabetising music scores is really something I'm good at
% Take pricing with a pinch of salt (BUT know that Oxfam run a pricing book now so the prices are the same the land over)

I eventually made the book shed my base of operations as far as Oxfam was concerned.  As I traipsed through my degree, I neither applied for nor found paid work except for, of course, my Choral Scholarship to the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft, Norwich.  While the pay for such a position is less that stratospheric, it allowed me to pay off my share of a winter heating bill I still quote to this day.  Seriously.  It's not an exciting story by any respect though.

During my third year, however, I volunteered (or was I volunteered for me?) to be the Choir Librarian for the University's main choir, made up of Music Students (although not for much longer eh eh eh), any other student who successfully auditioned, and members of the general public (formerly not auditioned but then auditioned in my...third year?  Anybody reading who can remember that?) and learned ever more interesting things:

& If there is no key holder on site IT IS ILLEGAL TO HAVE THIS MANY PEOPLE IN THIS ROOM
() There will always be hundreds of sopranos in the first rehearsal, which then falls by at least half over the course of the first half term
{} The same 20 Tenors and Basses will be all the Tenors and Basses you will ever have ever
[] There will always be first years who do not return scores.  There's always one.  No question.
@ People generally have no manners, and will attempt to grab a score and run regardless of almost anything else

This unpaid yet, uh, 'rewarding' position still sits there, merrily taking its place on the voluntary section of my Curriculum Vitae.  I have utilised the skills I learned during my time as Librarian in other, similar circumstances, such as the COME AND SING (everything but the Credo) MOZART'S CORONATION MASS in Truro Cathedral in April.  There's nothing like ticking names off, handing out scores...and then realising that unless you actually see every last person you gave a score to you have no way of guaranteeing that all the scores come back, incurring shame on your family for generations and ponderous library fines. 

As I ended my degree, my thoughts turned first to escape the insanity that led to the hand in of my dissertation, one of the best things I ever wrote (as long as we're not including this HAH), and thus a trip to Exeter was both hatched and executed!  Once I came back to Norwich, to my flat (my friends, my family), I sat about considering my lot, and where best to look for my next move: ah yes!  My old-yet-never-really-finished job as a Choral Scholar!  That, and that alone sent me on the path to Truro.  I almost went to St. David's, in Pembrokeshire (being familiar with the Cathedral and the surrounding...hamlet after going there on holiday with a previous girlfriend), but due to one or two things that I may or may not have mentioned before, I was appointed very swiftly.  And very happily!  But once again, this sort of thing doesn't pay excessively well, and since then I have been trying to find work to...complement this appointment (as I like to say in my covering letters).

I've worked in offices, schools, the Cathedral restaurant... and now I'm looking for work again.  I'm basically doing the same as always, handing out CV's...but this time I'm giving out a covering letter as well, handwritten to save time of typing, saving and printing. 

I think, and indeed, I feel that unless I ever give up on it, being a part of a Cathedral Choir will always be my first job: even now as I sink to the bottom of my overdraft it's still my priority, reflected in how I behave, think and talk about it.  Hopefully, I can find work that doesn't mean quite so much (emotionally, professionally, educationally) to me, but can pay a great deal more so I don't have to worry quite so much.

That's all.  For now.

Happy Birthday!

On the 11th of April, 2010, the first entry of this new blog was published.  Several hiatuses (hiati?) and breaks down the line, sure, but I've been writing and publishing basically at least once a month for three years.  Three years!  I've got friends who are leaving for degree courses that last as long.  I've already done mine!

When you think about it, like I'm doing now sat in one of the coldest parts of the Scholary (my room, duh), this is pretty amazing.  Usually each post is at least a thousand words, (last week's was two thousand), done in a whole continual draft and re-edit process.  I've only ever redrafted one piece from scratch, and I don't delete my abandoned posts...merely leave them as they are.  Maybe, one day when I'm rich and famous I'll get the whole thing printed in volumes, bound in real leather and lined with gold leaf, printed and bound in it's completeness...ahhh.  Yeah right.  Since that first post, I've moved house no less than three times,had three short term relationships, three part time jobs, almost £2000 worth of private instrumental and vocal teaching under four different teachers, two different laptops and an almost infinite number of other arbitrary statistics.  As I log in to my blogger homepage, I've had 7,700 pageviews, which is no small potatoes for a slice-of-life blog, which mainly focuses on how miserable I am and how difficult everything can be!  I know I have a core audience of supporters who fall upon each and every post that gets linked, several of whom let me know how much they enjoy reading my work.  To you, thanks and praise.  I know it can't be easy sometimes when it's not all sweetness and light...but my intention is to present a true account of how I feel and what's happening.  I know that what I've written sometimes has been... interpreted differently though, a dangerous journey into the limited power of authorial intent versus what people actually read into.  I try not to use people's real names as well, which sometimes works out well, but I'm sure it isn't too difficult to work out who I'm talking about all the time.  I remember coming up with all sorts of nicknames for people in Norwich, like The Chief, Sensei, The Philanderer, The Maestro, and of course The Loser... The Loser like no other. 

This will be my 109th published post by the time I get round to finishing it.  It doesn't take me especially long to write either, so in retrospect the fact that I managed to hash out a 12,021 word dissertation (with full colour pictures) in 8 days is actually less surprising the more I think about it.  I usually make this stuff up off the top of my head, no research material or drafting, rather than having stacks of prepared sources.  I still write my blog for the same reasons that I started it: I enjoy writing and it makes getting things off my chest a lot easier, like some sort of spleen vent valve.  Delving through the beginning of the archive, it's interesting to see how much my writing has changed.  It's quite like a number of other first-time writers without formal training.  Of course, all this practice later and well... I dunno.  At least I've learned to be less grandstanding.  It's still the same ponderous dross, from the same ponderous old git, but I'd like to think it's become more readable since I began.

At this point in my life, things are less than exciting.  I'm still unemployed, still with no immediate place to go once I leave the Scholary.  Arrangements in Truro aren't especially geared towards those without disposable income.  I've been living off the least amount possible, which has been a surprising journey into boring meal solutions, not even going into shops for fear of spending money, and drying my liver out.  My dear mother, the greatest Jewess on the soil, sent my Nintendo Gamecube down via courier, which has been installed next to the television in the living room, co-existing peacefully with the resident Xbox 360, jacked in to the scart on the side leaving the usual HDMI well alone.  This is shades of Bury street all over again, because everything really does just roll around and it's all exactly the same.  The only thing left is for a stray cat to enter the house and we're almost done.  It's business as usual as far as my gaming habits are concerned as well, as one of my most important pieces of software is here too: KILLER7.  Anybody who follows me on Twitter will know that I am ever so slightly obsessed with this insane thing, which I usually describe as a work of art before I say it's a videogame.  I've started all over again on not only that, but Metroid Prime (what the hell is with that control system anyway), Super Smash Brothers Melee and Soul Calibur II.  I've also got Metal Gear Solid, Fire Emblem and The Legend of Zelda; The Wind Waker too, but I haven't deleted my precious saves for them.  I'm unemployed, single and have little funds: I'm very interested in staying in at the moment, so I'm going to do it properly.  I might just get hold of a cheap telly with a scart port in the back after I get paid so I can take the 'Cube up to my room so there's definitely no chance of conflicting with my fellow Housemates' desires for on demand television services or FIFA/Burnout party &c &c.  This isn't about having arguments with people, this is just about making everything as easy as possible for all parties.  Sometimes it's possible to please most of the people most of the time. 

Staying in because I'm poor has actually been an enjoyable experience.  Brain-bending odysseys and arcade fighting games make a wonderful panacea when coupled with an almost constant intake of tea, a worthy distraction from NOT going out and NOT drinking.  The past couple of times I've been out have actually been hilariously enjoyable experiences - a week ago I managed to reach my physical limit for beer and survived and at the weekend saw Chippie, a really good and honest friend I met at that home from home from home, The City Inn, Truro.  The Playhouse Bar it certainly ain't, but a real pub that's far enough away from the Cathedral to matter makes all the difference.  The 'clientele', (or patrons as they're usually known) are pretty nice guys, and coming from hard-drinking stock, I find being in a pub a familiar and relaxing experience.  The fact that they serve alcohol in large and satisfying doses is... well, just an added bonus! (haha yeah right).  The weekend also brought its share of awkward social politics and answers to a lot of unspoken questions about the social state of play.  It's all good fun after all.

So, what next for the Songman's Rest?  I don't really know, to be quite honest!  I'm at an intermediary point in my life still, what with all this employment and accommodation still in the air.  I'm still really quite scared about basically not being able to afford to live in Cornwall: being brutally honest, I could be unemployed, unsure of the future and playing videogames and obsessing about washing up literally anywhere else in the country.  I do not need to be here, worrying about the ridiculous cost of housing, when I could be somewhere else.  I could be back in Norwich for God's sake.  But... I don't want to be anywhere else.  I want to be a Lay Vicar of Truro Cathedral Choir.  I am proud that I have been asked to join the full time team, and I will make a difference and I will succeed here...somehow.  I'm not going to let anybody down, especially not myself, or indeed the Big Man.  You'll be pleased to hear that I still haven't had a date since... Oh like, the summer now, or indeed that I even have the courage or confidence in order to ask.  Of course there is somebody I kind of like, have a crush on I guess, but we'll see how that goes.  Maybe I will ask.  But probably I won't.

The tagline still stands.  This is a tale of love, of life, and the end of the stall (being Decani Alto 1 puts you at the end anyway) which is poor only in a financial sense now.  Gone are the days where I am bullied by the senior, or at odds with the director.  I am joining a respectable team of good-humoured and skilled semi-professional singers.  It's only semi (careful) because the pay is... vocational more than a wage.  The attitude brought and the skill and musicality of these people is maybe not quite as high as say, Westminster Cathedral, but is without question the best musical environment I have been in so far.  I am fortunate and incredibly grateful to be a part of it not only last year, or this year, but for years to come.  


I think I'll be keeping to the almost-weekly schedule.  I wouldn't keep writing if I didn't enjoy it, and the weeks where I haven't written anything have been those weeks where I've either been too down to consider it, or very busy; times where writing just hasn't fit into the schedule of either my life or my mood.  I will continue to write exactly what I want to, and boo hoo if you don't like it.  I've made and lost friends over what's been published before, and I would hate for that to change either.  Maybe one day I'll be fortunate enough to take some writing classes, and really improve my form, but until then, I'll keep blithering on, and I'll see you on the other side.

Tidal Change

So, three months on the 'new' weekly schedule...almost.  A week dropped here and there due to being busy, or just down to good, old-fashioned depression - I am as tired of writing about feeling emotionally disappointed as you must be reading about it.

Now is of course a spring time of discontent.  Due to my own budgetary incompetence I am reduced to living on the sum total of twenty pounds sterling a week; if it isn't food, I can't have it.  I haven't even written to anybody this week!  Sure, I'm still waiting for the airmail to come through, but I owe a return to my local friend and right trusty cynical companion, Mr. Godolphin.  I traded in a copy of Soul Calibur V (an ultimately disappointing purchase in itself, actually) for the princely sum of a fiver at the start of this week, yet a further disappointment in itself.  The pricing of videogames is something that will always confuse and infuriate me.  Anyway!  This 'free' five pounds, independent of my bank account (a mere eighth of the original price) has been the only other money I have had, and predictably it has gone already (I cheated and spent part of it on milk and cereals).  Other than that I've only spent £7.38 out of my £20 this week though, and it's looking promising.  I have eight portions of £2.50 to spend, that's almost enough for a day's food, especially as most of my meals are based around large portions of rice or pasta.  Thankfully, both of these commodities are cheap to the point of being easily affordable, I just have to make sure meat stays in the menu...

It's really tough though.  I'm being so hard on myself making sure I don't go out.  For the price of a pint of Guinness, I can make two meals, basically.  When your financial constraint comes down to that simple dilemma... Well, I've made my decision.  I can live without a pint but I can't bear to go hungry.  I've got a couple of bottles knocking about should I really want a drink... But to be perfectly honest I've been fine without.  I can't actually go into a pub and not have a drink though.  The last time I managed it, I was at the City (a spiritual home from home in Truro if ever there was one) drinking pints of water approximately every 10 minutes.  The act of going to a pub or a bar is so inextricably linked with the act of drinking that I cannot do one without doing the other.  Funnily enough I hardly ever drink at home unless it's predrinking!
I'm doing okay though.  I haven't gone mental just yet, and to be perfectly honest my social life is no less for saying I'm not going out.  It's bizarre if you look at it that way, but in review a lot of my social life comes from me actually getting out there and running into people.  I can sit here all day and the only person who'll telephone me is my own mother.  Just her!  I don't think that's massively problematic really, because my mother is a witty old battleaxe who will do anything she can to make sure I'm alright, you know: happy, healthy, got enough to eat, getting enough sleep... She is the very image of a Jewish mother and let me tell you here and now that every stereotype is true, especially the stereotype about the stereotypes being true; it is a self-fulfilling stereotype.  I'm getting off the point though, because I was talking about my broken social scene. With the sudden total lack of cash, I'm even more reticent to call people and go out because, hey, I get a bit embarrassed when I can't afford to!

Things are possibly the quietest they have been on all fronts, and you know I'm really not surprised.  There are two words that come out of my mouth that don't seem to register with a lot of people, and usually (how long did you think you had to wait until I got to this point seriously) women I'm even remotely interested in just don't seem to get it, and these two words are "CALL ME".  There is an unspoken meaning behind these seemingly insignificant words and I am putting it on the internet so if you forget it is always here.  If I say this to you, doesn't matter who you are as long as you have my number, and I'm serious now so pay attention it means: I am interested in seeing you (socially or romantically OR MAYBE BOTH IF YOU'RE LUCKY) and I am unsure as to when you are free or best available to talk to but I am free a lot of the time so just drop me a line.  That's it guys.  I am an unemployed, unattached man.  I have a lot of spare time on my hands and I usually end up spending it on cleaning which is pretty miserable for saying I'm supposed to be young and enjoying my life (newsflash most of the time I'm not).  If we boil it down further, it basically translates as "I am interested in you, are you interested in me?"  Black and white sensibilities as standard.  When I was younger I was always surprised when people just rang up to talk to me, because it didn't happen often.  I was called upon if someone wanted something I had or could do for them... And we're almost back to that.

Maybe this is something that 'normal' people don't have a problem with.  People don't call you... and that's fine.  Maybe it doesn't mean anything at all to anybody, and I'm just taking this all way too seriously.  Maybe!  This is one of those social boundary things I have immense difficulty with, especially taking into account all the times I have been told off, reprimanded, bitch slapped and basically rejected for being "too intense", which is something I can barely tell (but definitely not because I'm not intense woah no)... I worry about it.  Am I bothering people too much?  I remember once calling someone twenty times in a row when I was younger, so that's probably the definition of being too intense so at least I don't do that sort of thing these days.  It all comes from a root problem I have with communicating with other people, namely "is what I have to say of any interest to anybody else?"  I will often stop talking for hours in end entirely due to this principle, usually erroneously.  It is the source of having a block on when I try to write my blog as well: I'm not exactly viral material, and I don't imagine for a second that I'll get picked up for a publishing contract because of my quirky, slice-of-life blog is so popular oh no (That'll be Berkeley Girl anyway).  My inability to successfully interpret a group conversation in order for the best time to join doesn't just go away because I'm sat at my keyboard.

Another part of my wasted spring is still waiting on any announcement from my full time job application.  As it stands it's now been three weeks since I put my application in... I guess that's no time at all but let's remember some facts here: 1) This is my first full time application.  2) I really, really want this job.  3) I have no money at the moment so a wage could really help out here.  4) I will need a full time job in order to fund my Lay-Vicarship.  5) I have no idea what else I'm going to apply for if I don't get it.

Fund my Lay-Vicarship?  Isn't that a self-funding enterprise?  Well, no.  Not really.  Part of why the honorarium is so modest at Truro as a Choral Scholar is the living allowance that goes unspecified - basically they pay for everything in the Scholary.  We aren't subject to rent, taxation or utility bills (within reason I should think on that last one but this has been an especially chilly and long lasting winter so I hope chapter has mercy on the fact that the heating has been left on for about 4 months solid now basically (although please note, that is neither my idea or preference having footed a share in a winter heating bill over £500 in the past)) Now I'm sure I'm about to get fired for giving away a huge trade secret (jokes on you though because EVERYBODY KNOWS), but the point is free house with pocket money on top is more than adequate pay for a couple of hours for services a day.  This does not continue once you are a Lay Vicar.  No no.  Unfortunately, the wage paid to Lay Vicars, even full time ones here (there are one or two who do not attend every single weekday service) will not even cover the cost of a single flat.  I'm not even talking about anything exciting, you know like the Boss' apartment that was built on the same blueprint as Britten House (which at £98 p/w I could almost afford (I mean the halls not the apartment)), I'm talking about any normal, run of the mill flat for one person in Truro.  I sometimes get angry about this before I remember that it really is not and cannot be the Cathedral's fault: unlike the choral scholarship they are not responsible for my living arrangements any longer (although I am 100% sure that quite a lot of them do care), and also it really definitely isn't their fault if accommodation is so bloody expensive down here.  If a single flat is at least £500, usually a two bedroom flat is only about £100 more expensive, which is almost completely ridiculous.  Obviously I need to find somebody to live with here, but who and how I will find them is another matter entirely, especially seeing as I really want to live on my own: after years of living at home and then in shared accommodation, it is time I struck out...well, I feel that I want to strike out! 

But the real problem I have is that of when I get a full time job and balance my living arrangements... will I even feel like a musician any more?  I want a job in a music shop, sure that's cool, but what if I don't get it?  What if... I end up working in an office full time?  Finish at 5pm, get to rehearsal maybe 10 minutes late at most, then go home and cook, clean up and go to bed ready for the next day... Make sure I pay my bills and my rent and my taxes and don't get drunk on a Saturday night so I can get up on a Sunday... Where will my time go?  I don't have the experience and reputation that some of the other scholars have as performing musicians, I'm not here as a gap year before joining a Oxford or Cambridge Collegiate Choir, and I don't have the sheer raw talent that some others do either.  I can't even play hymns on the Organ for God's sake.  I spent three years at University, being the lowest graduating mark in my class in Music that year.  I've spent two years here, which maybe I should have used as preparation for further study, but haven't basically due to being so conscious of how bad my degree is.  People tell me that I should just go for it anyway, what with that first class dissertation I have and such, but often if you don't have it on paper it isn't worth it - Bath Spa University had the good manners to write to me upon my application for their music degree, informing me that because I didn't have Grade VIII from the Associated Board of the Royal School of Music in ANYTHING that I was immediately ineligible for study.  But hey!  Years of Cathedral service, self taught Upright bassist and great all-round knowledge of music.  But not on paper.

As always, I stand at a crossroads.  I'm sure perhaps I make mountains out of molehills almost every other day, but I'm worried about my future.  I said before that I don't want to get stuck in Cornwall, I wouldn't mind staying but I want it to be on my terms, staying because I choose to and not because I can't afford to go anywhere else.  Travel in and out of Cornwall is prohibitively expensive to the point of being completely farcical.  I have a huge overdraft to work my way out of still, and at least because of having to live on fresh air until payday I seem to be becoming a tad more responsible about where my money's going and how quickly it goes.  I'm programming a recital to sing in the Cathedral before the summer's gone, instead of the usual Banjo playing... nice to have a change, huh! 

"Do I know you?"

Another week, another life. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hiatus

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

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

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

Postscriptum

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

"Semantic Blockage"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Reach into the Bag"

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

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

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

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

Hiatus

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

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

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

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

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

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