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...

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.

Writer's Block

Right.  

I have got awful writer's block, like, I had a good five hundred words going on and then just deleted all of it because it's just all dross and I can't actually say what I mean at all.  Let's look at this fortnight in review for now though, and see all the things that I could have written about instead:

MY MOTHER CAME TO VISIT which was brilliant and hilarious.  I totally wasn't expecting her to visit at all, never mind appearing in evensong last Wednesday.  We have gone hither and yon to the beach and back with the world's stupidest (but arguably nicest) dog, argued, made up, but mostly just had a great laugh.  I miss my mother more than I will admit to because NOW I AM AN ADULT (I pay my own phonebill yah) and this is about the fifth year I've lived away from home (although I have never lived on my own properly, not that I will be able to afford such a luxury in Cornwall...).

I SPENT £100 IN A WEEK that wasn't solely on alcohol or curry.  Suit cleaning, singing lessons, mobile telephone bill and jewellery repair.  I finally got my Hardie Amies suit sorted out, splashing out an a ridiculous "Executive Service" from Johnsons the cleaners complete with the utterly decadent option of having the creases put back in my trousers.  What a pervert.  I also got my little gold ring soldered back together which now once more adorns my right 4th finger where it belongs, after its mysterious disappearance waaaaaay back in... October?  I dunno.  That whole Michaelmas term was pretty dark.  But anyway!  It's back, back I say.  I have three rings and now three wooden bracelets, alongside my two silver chains, so I can safely say I regularly wear the most in decorative items in probably the whole choir.

I HELPED PAINT A WALL for my friends who are trying to establish a new Bar on the end of Old Bridge Street.  After a less than satisfactory Friday night, I resigned myself to wandering around Truro in some sort of lost and aimless fashion, thinking that perhaps some retail therapy could aid my ailing spirits...but no, not this week so I instead reported to the site of the Nightjar in my appointed paint gear, and got stuck in getting paint on walls, myself.  It was a distinctly enjoyable way to spend a Saturday, actually, a lot of laughs and a lot got done.  I enjoy helping people.

I'M PREPARING FOR A CONCERT in front of the general public not  in the Cathedral, although I can't exactly remember who for... It's some sort of fundraiser for one of the opera troupes that operates round here, I'm not terribly bothered about the whys and wherefores (unsurprisingly), more the fact that I'm going to get to sing Charles Ives' setting of feldeinsamkeit in public again.  It's all good experience, and I'm sure once I get through this period of lacking my usual creative spirit, I'll be able to write about just why this is so important in the face of my current choice of becoming a more permanent part of Truro Cathedral Choir. 

This has gone through about three working drafts, and two total deletions (META WRITING), and I'm still not happy with it.  I feel... that I should write, that it is my duty to keep publishing - of course there will be those of you who will argue that it stifles creativity, but I'm disappointed that the first thing I'm going to publish in a fortnight is this weak effort!  I suppose I will be judging it far more harshly than you might, but all the same, the last time I went through that many redrafts, it was my dissertation and we all remember how much fun I had trying to write THAT at 3am on the 8th of April, 2011.  Of course my plans for ink move at about the same pace, being rather reliant on being able to afford the stuff at the moment.  And seriously guys, don't you worry out there.  I'm okay, it's still me: I can't get a date.  I'm sure I'll be able to look back on these years with some amusement... but now is not that time.  I'm perfectly prepared to be bitter and angry about the last five years of romantic near-misses for the duration.  Thanks.

But that's enough for now.  If I write any more, I shall only delete it, try to start over and then just give up for another week.  My spelling has been awful for the duration as well, to an infuriating level.  I'm still writing that piece about Killer7, so that'll go up at some point in the future, if I ever edit it to a satisfactory level. 

For now though... Oy.

"Have a cat"

So!  Back to the grind.  Excellente.

Indeed, the grind.  What sort of life is it where the second thing you do after sorting the first tea of the day is the washing up?  I don't know...

Things are no longer drastic, at least.  I no longer have any desire to pen and hand in a letter of resignation, but my sleeping pattern has become one I'd describe as 'transatlantic', being a perfect 11pm-8am... 5 hours behind GMT.  Yes, I know how irresponsible that it, how unhelpful it is to have completely shifted my sleeping pattern like that, I really can't wait until we get to Sunday and I'll have basically napped for four hours before getting up for Eucharist... When it gets to about 3am it can get a little boring but I'm surprisingly upbeat when I do wake up properly in the afternoon, my usual routine notwithstanding.  

But let's talk about something interesting!  My lack of sleep will stand for ever and eternity unless I bite the bullet and finally ask the doctor for a scrip of knockout pills, which especially after the chat I had recently about anti-depressants... no no, I'm not going on them either, as I still have on my old methamphetamine attitude... which is a brilliant story, allow me to tell it.  And no, I haven't been taking anything illegal.  Not even remotely.

For years and years and years and years I used to take medically prescribed amphetamines to treat my hyperactivity.  I know, looks ridiculous doesn't it: uppers for hyper children.  Somehow it makes a difference.  What most people don't know is that amphetamine is also a powerful appetite suppressant, the effect of which was nothing short of a disaster: I have been underweight for years and am only now, some 5 years after stopping taking them that I'm beginning to eat again.  Anyway, one particular permutation of this dreadful chemical left me dazed and confused, and hearing voices in my head (THAT DIDN'T BELONG TO ME) all day at school... It was absolutely fucking awful.  It wasn't even a heavy dose particularly, but it wasn't right, and oy gevalt was it terrible already.  Long story short I got put on a different set of pills entirely and turns out those were okay!  Big capsules, but still...okay.  I ended up taking myself off them purely upon the advice of an ex-girlfriend and her mother.  I know, what sort of idiot does that make me?  Ignoring the advice of medical professionals in favour of rebelling against my mother?  Completely witless.

I had to take at least one pill twice a day, almost every day for... 11 years?  Seriously.  Yeah, about 11 years.  I hate taking pills, beyond belief.  I'm pretty thankful that Paracetamol is a fast working emetic as far as I'm concerned (well, for me personally of course), because it means I get to fight my way through headaches and hangovers chemically unassisted, a process I rather enjoy.

The weekend was moderately thrilling as well, with a gala performance of Thomas Tallis's greatest work, Spem in Alium, known by a number of rude names to Choral Scholars the country over.  The forty part motet was sung alongside a concert programmed with music for the Men's choir, the Gentlemen of Truro Cathedral, whom I shall still be joining in September.  Russell Pascoe's Missa Brevis was of course the centrepiece that the rest was hung on until Spem, as we're really focusing on commissions this year because the Cathedral and Choir are 125 years old!  The Senior Lay Vicar is only 124, after all (LOL).  Due to my new body clock, getting up in the morning was bad enough, but I was ready to throw the towel in by the time Evensong started, let alone finished, and then there was all the rehearsal to get through... But it was really good!  I really enjoyed having an evening of just Men's voices music with the full team, which is something we lack every day.  The Scholars also performed as a group, with some crowd pleasing classics, The Bare Necessities, a six-part Steal Away, a solid SATB arrangement of Let's Do It that we've flipped so it's Barbershop style with the tune in the centre, and finishing with Blue Moon, and arrangement reminiscent of the 'Gents of Johns', the A Cappella group formed of the Choral Scholars of The Choir of the Chapel of the College of St. John, Cambridge University.  While the skill and technique of such a group, much like 'The King's Men', The King's College equivalent and of course the ubiquitous 'King's Singers'... You know I just don't like it that much.  I'm a Barbershop kinda guy, that super tight four part harmony, and those ridiculous hanger tags... That's the good stuff!

Then of course the second part of the concert was made up entirely of Spem in Alium.  Now this is no small undertaking, with eight choirs of equal voices, no consecutive octaves or fifths in the whole damn thing... Actually a work of genius when you get down to it.  I worked from a 40 part score in A4 because I'm that arse.  Yes, somebody had to do it, but to be perfectly honest I think it worked much better than having a partbook for saying I spent so little looking at it.  I only listened to it once before the first rehearsal and I was pretty much sight-singing at that.  


As ever, my weekend-centric, unemployed existence continues unabated.  I have a new haircut, a new coat, but the same worries.  It's almost time to get back in season down here though, so jobs are being advertised left right and centre, so I'm going to update my CV (SEE MOTHER) and get my best "I'm a great candidate for this job!" face on and sound out the current opportunities available.  I'm even going to see if I can actually make a job appear with my own two hands, quite literally as well.  

The title of this week's post, is of course a shout out to almost every conversation I have with G, where we remedy any problems we have primarily with pictures of Cats from the internet.  I'm definitely going to own a cat, allergies be damned, I shall name it Absolom so at least I'll be happy one day!

"Constitutionally incapable."

Another week rolls on round, start and finish all in one.  I tell you what, watching my statistics has been very interesting; my American readership seems to have skyrocketed, as has the audience in Taiwan?  I can't exactly do anything about it, even if I'd want to... It's just very curious!

I've received a few personal responses from my last post, all of them complimentary!  What a winner I'm onto here, eh?  Thinking back, I'm not even sure what made it such a success, but I guess the new pattern will tell.  This week's been...slightly different.  I managed to survive an extremely extended panic attack which peaked on Tuesday, I guess it lasted for about three days.  The only time I do episodes really are upon meeting my number one phobia head on and having my blood taken (these are two totally different things, I hate both but I'm not scared of blood weird huh).

So I'm writing this totally in the grip of possible insomnia and definite body clock shifting, vaguely considering what I have to do when the sun shines upon Monday in old Truro town.  Squinting dimly around the room offers no clues, except for the Banjo hanging on the wall: I'll be playing in the Rotary club's Victorian Evening, fusing historical facial hair with an anachronistic instrument (the Tenor wasn't standardised until the early 1920's) and the repertoire of the solo baroque Violoncello.  WHATEVER.  It gives me an excuse to roll out the barrel once more dear friends, and god damn it do I really love that Banjo sound.  The strings are a bit worn, but we're coming up to the annual clean down and restring date anyway, even if it is after tomorrow...

In between panicking and avoiding dairy products... Oh yeah.  I'm suddenly lactose intolerant.  Like, violently.  I'll leave it at that, but identifying potential sources of illness in my diet has composed a surprisingly large percentage of this week's mental activity (the physical partner was of course, avoiding such produce).  I went to the Doctor to just check it with him that I was allowed to be sick after cheese, to which I was told I'd need to get a new set of bloods done juuuuuust to be sure.  You can forget that chummy!  I can quite happily spend the rest of my life avoiding cooked dairy produce (although I'm even beginning to suspect that my milk is plotting against me...) without having to go for another set of panic-inducing blood tests!  But where was I?  Oh yes!  In between panicking and avoiding dairy products, I have started to feel the squeeze of a lack of financial resources.

Of course I'm moaning about not having any money, but it is really my fault and nobody else's.  I went out and spent it all, so it's my fault!  Finally, a mature attitude to money!  HA HA.  I did my week's shopping spend and then paid my phone bill within days, which basically took a hundred pounds from me straightaway.  The rest, as usual, has gone on going out.  Almost every weekend since coming back from the magical island kingdom of Derbados I've been out til all hours (even on a Saturday, foolishly enough), pushing myself socially and alcoholically to almost breaking point, and somehow coming out of it alive.  Alone, perhaps, but alive.  Don't worry folks, I've gone back to the good old days of being unable to pull in clubs (after the brief flowering in the LCR, late 2011), or indeed unable to get anything approaching a date at all.  Funnily enough, I have been trying as well.

Obviously I don't understand this whole romance game - I proved that over the past twelve months really, going through two relationships that struggled over the 12 week mark.  If this were still at university, a semester's worth of dating would be a legit turning point, I suppose.  Three months is actually a long time, especially when the days tend to stretch on forever and ever and ev... Sorry.
Last term, I was in a funk and didn't know what I wanted; it wasn't until Christmas that my head really leveled out and I felt that I was in a position that I could be sincere with not only others but myself.  I like to know what's going off.

Finally, I led a workshop with an after school group as part of the Cathedral Choir's outreach programme this term.  This really did fill me with dread, especially after finding myself frightened to leave my room in case I saw anybody else at one point on Tuesday.  Turns out that I made the right choice leading this hour, as it was actually quite life-affirming: a necessary boost for my dreadfully low self-esteem.  Having no formal training in planning a rehearsal, warm-ups for young voices, leading choirs or other handy tools, I was justifiably nervous to begin with.  I also refuse to demonstrate anything not in falsetto, because God Damn it that's who I am and there's no way I ever want that to be muted. 

Haitus

Things seem to be leveling out into one permanently cental-heated, washing-up centric way of being.  After last night's Victorinian evening and the short sojourn to the Rising Sun, I'm not sure if anything exciting lies ahead of me.  Life can't be all go all of the time, I suppose, but a week is a long time after all and a lot can change!

Tenth Draft

It's been a tough old life recently.  Basically, this is the journal of a man who has immense diffuculty managing his shoelaces, let alone his depression, published onto the internet, where I invite you to read it.  Feast on my misery and solitude, and share in my passion and victory.  

After the desolation of last week I have been trying to find myself again, to reinstate what matters, my processes and practices.  One of my biggest problems when I get depressed is recognition, or in fact, the lack of it.  One of my go to phrases this fortnight, especially in a follow up to some obvious mistake or lask of answer is "I don't even know who I am, let alone anything else!", and comically exagerrated bewilderment aside, I actually haven't been hugely sure.  Looking in the mirror, I have met with an unfamiliar face, ravaged by massive weight loss, too much drink  and lack of regular sleep.  I don't even see any trace of the monster who used to look back at me, so I suppose that's a good thing at least... Members of my family have been greeted on the phone by one Travis Bell, and those of you who know who he is will appreciate my fugue to the ghost of a Japanese assassin who gives exactly no shits at all for the precious bullshit that gets thrown around.

I said that I was at loss, and I sure am still now.  Where and to who do I turn?  Really that's what it comes down to, loss.  The loss of someone precious and cherished.  The sudden loss of an accepted routine; not only one that I was simply used to but had become pleased with, which is of course a concession my life must make to my autism.

I am also very guilty of losing the recognition of my supporting players - the people who are there for me all the time even and especially when I don't remember.  To you all, thank you.  It's more than enough having the Big Man who would come down at a moments' notice, but friends old and new, family close and extended have reminded me that it isn't always going to be this hard, even though it feels like that right now. 

It was extremely refreshing this last week, however, to hear somebody else tell me how difficult things must be because of the effort I expend in managing my autism every day.  No, really!  Completely unprovoked and unprompted, and really very kindly meant.  It has been a struggle recently.  I haven't wanted to move for days on end, and the prospect of leaving my room to face everything literally everything else in the world so draining and, well, even frightening.  How shameful!  Not really.  There are plenty of other people out there who are just as frightened, just as anxious and just as depressed as I am, have been and probably will be again who give in.  Some days that door handle can be a powerful deterent just on it's own, regardless of what may be (or probably isn't) on the other side.

A few things have been coming back though.  And little things at that.  I've managed to put a little bit of weight back on, which means my waistline is back up to a healthy 29 inches, but my waistcoats are still a little loose, so I still have far to go.  I've upped my Bach on Banjo schedule too, adding the Sarabandes from the D minor, C major and C Minor suites to my programme of the G major suite.  The Sarabandes are the emotional centres of the suites; C major's triumphal majesty is balanced by D minor's lyricism in sorrow... but the C minor suite's essay in solitude and emptiness is a cold mirror for my self right now.  The delicate placing of the second beat almost matches my slowly worsening gait...

I'm cooking again though, and even treated myself to some new cookery books, courtesy of Nigel Slater and Jamie Oliver, the latter of whose latest opi, 15 Minute Meals, will be of some use in the Scholary where time is limited and appetites large.

What else can I say though?  There's still a lot trapped in my head that I just don't know how to express, should it even be expressed at all...but I have to get it all out somehow or the noise will just become too much and I shall go mad.  I often describe myself as mad; Insanity truly is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, and there's noone guiltier of that than me.

Postscriptum

This post in particular caused me some problem, maybe more so than last week's.  Here I am, in the early hours of the morning performing last minute changes and edits to make sure I have used as unequivocal language as possible.  This isn't about guilt, or blame, or fault.  I only ever blame myself for things anyway, which really is a pattern I must get out of, but I have other things weighting heavily on my mind right now.  This is about me feeling so cut up that I don't really know how to cope, and nothing more.  

I told my brother that trying to put myself back together to the confident, outgoing, witty and well dressed man I know I have been was like building an Empire on a Grain of Sand.  His immediate response?

"I'll fetch the scaffolding."

Untitled

So I've been writing this blog since April what, two years ago now?  Sure, sounds about right.  I take things that have happened, are in the process of happening, or are about to happen to me and turn them into a little story and throw in a load of song lyrics, pop culture references, puns... and then review and then publish.  I put links out and wonder who really reads this crap.

Today I am trying really very hard to condense the last two weeks into a workable, readable and indeed writable form, and unsurprisingly I'm finding that extremely difficult.  Let's start with the biggest fact here so we all know what we're dealing with: I got dumped.

Again.

I'm an absolute wreck.  I can't sleep, I don't want to eat, don't want to even move half the time.  I spent the weekend getting roaring drunk every day, and I've even lost a lot of voice.  The only thing I've lost more of is weight, which is just falling off me.  I'm going to be very ill, that's if I'm not already.

Obviously now I want to go on a massive emotional tirade, but... It just won't help.  It won't make me feel any better, you won't want to read it, it'll be divisive (and I've had enough division this week), so I won't bother.  What I will say though is I am just at loss.  I don't know what to do at the moment, and wearing one's heart on one's sleeve (or what's left of it now) as one does...

And look, I know I have the best friends a man could ask for who are all worried sick.  I've got dedications from across the pond, promises of unrelenting physical violence, offers of beds and beer from Norwich almost instantaneously as I let my friends back home know.  This is it, everyone goes through it time and again, and I have all sorts of people to fall back on.  But when that one person goes, that one you made your priority goes and you all know what I mean (and if you don't, just wait until you do), it's absolutely shattering, and that's all I feel at the moment.

It's tough.  I feel...blank in many ways.  I haven't worn my rings and chains for the past week now either.  There was a brief moment during the weekend where the sensation of not wearing any jewelry was stranger than wearing it...but ultimately I'm still not wearing any.  My personality has crashed a little bit (haha a lot) and I'm just not strong enough within myself to uphold it.  Can't eat, can't sleep, can't even wear my bloody suits because I'm so thin at the moment God it's an awful life really, isn't it?

I need to post this and go to bed, before I sit up all night trying to make a point that I'm not really sure about, or change my mind.  As we already know, I don't really change that much, so expect another one of these after the next time, where I give everything and it doesn't work out for whatever reason.  I think that's enough for now though.  I'll be back once I'm done hurting, but don't expect that for a long time because I hurt very badly now. 

Every cloud...

Let's get this straight.  I am in a poor state.

 

Long time readers and fans of the Captain everywhere will know that as an unmedicated depressive, I often have the odd episode of... a less than satisfactory mood.  This has been happening for years and years, possibly longer than I care to remember.  I know VIth form was bad at times, and we all know that my second year was dreadful... I am coming clean about my overall experience slowly but surely for that year; I cannot use my account as the emotional battering ram that you might expect, usually because it backfires straightaway.  I doubt I'll write about it so directly for a while, it's still a bad time.  I still feel the echoes even now, but what can you expect from someone who eschews both councelling and medication?

 

I knew something was the matter yesterday morning, when I started to write about my new environment.  No, I haven't moved house thank God, more that I have purchased built and made a double bed in my room in The Scholary.  A Double Bed!  Turns out 4' 6" is a lot wider than you imagine.  I got it for £50, delivery included from a gentleman in Redruth.  Purchased Sunday previous, and awoken in for the first time yesterday, I don't think I've done too badly.  It is... strange.  Having lived with a single bed for some 22 years, the readjustment is staggering!  I know many of you may have had doubles for a long time now, but this is very new to me; comfort is an odd concept.  But, it is the bed that Peb built.  I earned it, I payed for it with my own money, and I deserve it. 

 

One day, I will believe that last thought.

 

However.  Just what is the matter with me?  Assessing my position logically leads us only to confusiuon: Accomodation, employment, amazing relationship.  The three things that I've been after for so long now.  Really, under all this, I'm the happiest I've ever been.  While I may not have a megabucks job, waiting tables isn't really all that bad, and after all, it's a living.  My house, is of course The Scholar's Palatial Apartments, in the shadow of the East End.  It will always need a hell of a lot of work doing, but it's home now, especially after my furniture shuffle in my room.  And the girl?  Well, I'm not going to say anything more than she's really the best thing ever.  She has the kindest heart I know, and the only woman I respect more than her is my mother (I am a good Jewish boy, after all).  I can rely on her to clip my ear when I get silly, if only I myself could drop things as easily as I should.  I'm still working on it.  Promise.  Of course, my best work is always ahead of me.

 

 

I've all but lost my appetite, and I don't understand.  Perhaps the solution lies somewhere in my disability?  As an autist, I rely on routines and knowing where my boundaries are.  I've completely lost all my usual routines, and even changed my environment.  This change is massive put together, far bigger than I'm used to.  I also don't really have a 'holiday mode' as such, never having really gone on the things.  Had I have swapped my room in term, with services every day (my default mode of being), I would have taken it easily.  Something as simple as no evensong has upset me, obviously.  My new financial regime that I have had to impose to curtail my monetary ruin is a complete turn around as well.  This isn't as easy as saying that I have over-estimated my own strength, like that time I started working at Truro School; this is a change with more necessity behind it.  I can no longer afford to bum about in the nether regions of my overdraft, and at least working my way out is better than simply being on the Dole. 

 

Working what is technically 6 days a week is hardly exciting though.  I'm going to have to seriously reconsider this job once Choir term starts again, as working seven days a week will be a serious drain.  But...maybe that's what has to happen in order to improve my finances.  I'm not looking forward to it one bit, especially as I'll be working indoors all the time as well. 

 

 

As I've written this, I've actually started to feel better.  Just a little bit maybe, but still.  I've been on the phone to both my mother and my lady, both of whom in their unique and effective ways have chided me and got me to keep this pitiful chin of mine up.  I've come so far even in this past month alone, let alone the past year.  To err is only human; to admit divine.  To fail now though would be the end.  To pick the fight up again is more a personal hallmark, but sometimes tradition is what you need.  I feel pretty ashamed for allowing my depression to get the better of me at any time, and especially right now.  I think getting it all down has helped: being able to review in such a manner is helping me to think that I am just being ridiculous, and with a some corrective effort I can pull this up with a minimum of discomfort. 

 

Not everything can be easy every day, and I can't be happy all the time.  I need to stop taking it out on myself when I'm not though; not every little thing can be my fault.

Tonight's plan involves some kind of food - I may treat myself to a takeout of some description to help pick me up.  Other than that, quality time with my Banjo in the garden calls out to me.  I put a good two hours into practicing my Bach suite yesterday, and my callouses are holding up just fine now. 

 

Hiatus

 

Now at the final review before publishing, I do feel much better.  I've eaten, I've made the bed, I've made peace.  I'll need some serious chutzpah back soon, if only there was some sort of fast track?  Aha, nothing's ever that easy though, is it?  I've got far better things to do than mope.  This may well be a burst of a good mood, but I must make sure that it is not brief.  As ashamed as I am of not being with it today, I have to move on.  There really is no point dwelling on it, I know, but it is difficult for me to drop things.  But I must, and I will.  

 

How else will I see that paisley lining?

Reconstruction of a Madman

You know, so much has been going on recently that I managed to forget that I've kept this blog active, albiet with several breaks, for two years now!  Happy birthday.  Or whatever.

Things have been really tough recently though, which is why there hasn't been much publicised activity.  I lost my job, my relationship broke down... actually that's kind of it. but in all seriousness when those two things happen within weeks of themselves, you can't help but get battered down.  

Like before, I'm not here to talk about the hows and wherefores of what happened with my relationship.  It isn't right to air it over the net like this, I won't be bothering.  Thing is that things changed, and that's how things have to be.  I'm still in an emotionally unstable state, I'm not going to lie, but I'm doing all that I can to remain balanced, especially in public.  In all honesty though, I loved her with my whole heart, and did everything I could.  I'm so pleased and proud of what we had, so many good things came of it.  While I might be desperately upset, I'll never forget that, ever.  I know that past the pain lies time for cherishing, and so many memories.  

Okay, enough already.



And what about this job then?  I've been in all but full time employment as the Music Administrator (read as Departmental Undersecretary) at Truro School, a private day and boarding school some 800 pupils strong.  It's been far from easy.  Upon starting, I fell to a particularly nasty depressive episode, because unsurprisingly, the incredible gear change from being unemployed for basically your entire life to a full time (8:30am til 4pm, 5 days a week) job is a killer.  There's no middle ground, and BAM you're on all day every day.  Having to learn how to fit in with the system, meeting new and unfamiliar people every single day.  At least I get to wear a suit just like the good old days, right?  Right.  My core tasks involved sitting behind a desk all day, making photocopies, answering the telephone and generally doing as the Head of Department told me to...except on the odd occasion that I said "No".  Let's recount my favourite episode...


Head of Department - "I want you to get all the kids' choir folders, and make sure that every single one of them has each piece of music."


Me - 'No.'


HoD - "What?"


Me - 'Half of them don't turn up anyway, why not leave it to the kids to be responsible for their own music, because then all the people who actually attend will have the right music, and then those who don't come won't have a folder, so there won't be any wasted copies.'




That little exchange went down like a lead balloon.  Anyway.  I started working there in January, on the 5th, literally the day after I got back to Cornwall.  I basically treated myself like I was invincible, not immortal (as of course I am), and fell foul of it.  The strain was immense.  Things leveled out though, and I carried on.  I was an agent of varying success; while things would have gone much worse without me (as a quick fix stand in), everything that could go wrong on my watch did.  Basically!  I was asked by the HoD to seriously consider my job, and if I wanted to continue in employment there over the half term.  I did, and thought (at the time) that I would merrily wish to continue into the summer term, or Trinity as I still know it. Things were moved in powers above my head, however, that confirmed my empolyment would end once my temporary contract had come to a close, on the 30th of March.  The decision had been made by the 9th, and official correspondance signed, which was not posted until the 14th, let alone received until the 16th of the very same month.  An annoyance, but nothing more; the contract stated that I could be given a week's notice, so a fortnight was no problem really...Okay, I was less than pleased to have discovered it especially after the long schlep down the hill from School to the Scholary, but that's how it goes.


Another milestone from my time at Truro School was my playing of the Chapel Organ in a concert, called Organ and the Word.  I opened with the could-have-been-smoother Croft D major Voluntary, and absolutely oafed it out the park with selections from the Couperin Messe pour les Couvents, witch went down like a storm.  YES THE INEGALITE!  The Chapel organ is the ex-Jesus College Cambridge Instrument, originally built by Mander, and therefore christened in the same way as my excellent friend Mr. Harry Macey would, as the Mandermonium (a name that went down like a storm again...har har), and was built in 1971, an early Neo-Classical instrument.  

Now, I would obviously have much preferred an instrument from 1791...but my experience with the Neo-Classical aesthetic drew me, yea like a moth to a flame.  While it may be scaled down immensely from the mighty Collins (which I do miss very much), having a chorus up to a IV Fourniture on the Great was pleasing once again.  There was even a tierce for my characteristic Dutch warmth... Although I never took the Pachelbel G minor Fantasia to play sadly!  The Collins registrations inside my Pachelbel book reveal an eclectic reed building, with a HW of Trompette 8', Oktave 4', Quint 2 2/3', Superoktave 2' and Tierce 1 3/5', with a RP of Dulzian 16', Gedact 8' and Principal 4' coupled up.  Gritty, reedy, earthy and downright nasty, especially in that E flat minor moment, flavoured by the Valotti temperament.  Delicious!  


However.  Now is a time for looking forward.  This may prove more difficult in some circumstances than others, but there's time.  Time is what we all need every now and again.  I need some time to reassess.  I need a job, yes, but a 9-5 desk job is somewhat outside of my power.  I felt stretched to my absolute limits.  The number of days where I didn't want to get out of bed aren't worth talking about, so I shan't bother.  I do need money coming in, to fuel the lifestyle I have become acquianted with, to fund travel hither and yon, and to keep getting past this overdraft.  Originally, the first letter of the title of this post was a 'D', but I figured that it was better to look forward instead.  While I might be cut up right now, I know deep down that I am in a position of many opportunities: emotionally, professionally and financially.


I will never give up, and that maxim reflects on everything - I will certainly never stop trying to improve myself in every way shape and form available.


Watch this space, because with the increased amount of free time I have now I shall certainly be finding time and place to write some more.  I have several drafts to finish (or actually start afresh...), and Lord knows I've got a lot to say.  I'm just so outspoken.

Emergency Measures.

Here's a thing.  The University of East Anglia are looking to close the School of Music.  That's right.  No, I understand.  You need a bit of time to look this one up yourself.

I only graduated from UEA this year.  In another 3 years time, the last generation of Graduates will have already hung their gowns up and taken their tentative steps into their futures, without another year to fill their shoes.  I think that as many Alumni as possible should make the final graduation.  No placards, no protesting, just stoic solidarity.  

The School of Music is a somewhat unique place even in the relative oddity that surrounds the University of East Anglia.  This is not to say there is anything wrong with UEA; far from it.  The unique, brutalist architecture of the campus is recognisable all over the world, mostly thanks to the iconic Ziggurats of Norfolk and Suffolk Terraces.  The Houses of Britten, Paston, Colman, Browne and Kett are no less recognisable to those who have lived there, and the great flats of Constable Terrace and of course, Nelson Court are a welcome sight to many.  The pecularity of the student body produces some outstanding relationships.  There's a real cross section of society enrolled at this University, from the droves of Essex men and women, to the Internationals of every imaginable race, to the ends of our own Islands; this is not a place where droves of Private boarders are told to go.  This is a place where you choose to go, and I for one think it's a great place.  

Well, I won't think that so much soon.  Maybe.  There has been a Review carried out by a panel of senior members of the University staff.  Heads of Faculty, you know.  This review has been carried out, and its findings are in.  The Panel have found it in their hearts to advise that Music should no longer be offered as an academic discipline at the University.  I'll give you a minute to read that again.  Music should be dropped from the University, the department closed, the staff to find new jobs.  What will happen to the buildings?  Good question, most likely to be repurposed, but who knows?  The Chronology of this is very important.  The review Panel met in September, they have taken around a month to come to their conclusions.  The news was broken to staff 10 minutes before the students in the School itself.  The oficial release was posted on the UEA website on the morning of the 26th, at around the same time that Facebook and Twitter suddenly went downhill - no, they certainly didn;t crash, but the amount of extremely angry and simply distraught Muso's was both staggering and unsurprising.

The cut and thrust of the public face of this closure plan in funding.  Now, funding has always been and will be an issue, but the current plans of cutting funding to the Arts across the board and the massive hike in tuition fees means pennies are even tighter, perhaps even tighter than tight across the board.  According to the official release the University could no tafford to support the School of Music without "imperiling other, better positioned disciplines".  I'm sorry?  Do they not know the meaning of imperiling?

It appears from the report as well that the Music Department has been, in short, neglected.  The death of the Head of Department in 2006 created an interregnum in School leadership that has only been filled recently by the head of another department.  Not another faculty member, but from outside, but still in the HUM umbrella.  Of course this raises the question of why there hasn't been a new Head of Music proper.  It's a good point, and a good question.  There are indeed some hard hitting questions, but also quite a lot of ignorance.  We don't have "cutting edge" studios by any means, that's true, but the work produced by staff and students with the facilities we have is renowned for its innovation and high concept.  The work of the Sonic Arts series of concerts that are hosted in the Concert Room has also been been either dismissed entirely, or the reivew panel were not aware of it.  Sonic Arts host a range of Avant Garde Electronic performances, and some premieres.  Sorry it's a bit vague, but Sonic Arts was never really my thing.  This said, there are a lot of ardent supporters who deeply enjoy these events, and I would gladly hand the reins of this part over to them.

Throughout the report there is a general shrugging of shoulders.  I've said it before and I'll publish it now that I think part of the problem is that MUS has been operating in quite a different way to the rest of the University.  We don't have a Head, we don't have a strict curriculum, and there's something about our admissions policy that just isn't the same.  For saying that 9 years ago in 2002, the School was operating at the "margin of viability", we have done extremely well to maintain a solid and lasting reputation, and an enjoyable course taught by passionate academics.  We can't offer everything, because we don't have the expertise, which is far better than saying we can do everything and then not being able to deliver the greatest experience.  Swings and roundabouts.  As for our admissions?  Well, the grades thing is a little over my head.  As a rule though, we audition prospective students.  You can't measure talent or potential.  Sadly.  That's why we have the audition process.  Academic expectations are somewhat lower in MUS than the rest of the University however.


However, I fear that this is a done deal.  I've said this many times already, but it's all at the last second, perhaps even deliberately so, to avoid a successful rebuttal.  They are just going through the final, public motions of closing the coffin and nailing it shut.  There's going to be one hell of a fight about this, and sadly I am TOO FAR AWAY to really get involved, and that's a thorn in my side. 

For now though, as Ro-Jaws, the robot with the bigger bite says, SPREAD THE WORD JOHN.  There is an online petition here, the Facebook Group is here, and a very interesting article about wages, funding and fees from the Telegraph here.  Also, the outcome of the Review Panel can be found here as well..  There's also a Tumblr blog as well as the Twitter updates to take into account. If you want to, get involved.  I urge you to consider the facts on offer.  If you don't want to, and then we actually respect that, but just don't antagonise us please.  The School of Music at UEA cannot afford to become a martyr to funding cuts.  The slashing of Arts budgets is not on.  There's no similar cuts to Science or Sports.  That's it.


This should be the only subject of conversation for every member of MUS Staff, every UG and PG Student, and every Alumnus until the very last second.  It's going to bore everyone but we must make sure this is an issue that gets out.  There's been a token notice on the BBC news website, but that's only a token.  I hope you follow the link to the report on the University choosing to charge the full whack of £9000 from 2012, with quotes from Edward Acton throughout.  We need national coverage.  People need to be made aware of this.  If the Music School gets shut here, then where next?  The University of Exeter closed their music department down to build a new Hall of Residence, so for financial gain once more, but that was in 2007, well before the recent times of economic crisis.  What other departments are in danger of having secret reports filed on them, before being told at the last second? 



Perhaps though, like any good tyranny, the University will choose to close the Music Department down anyway.  Regardless of how successful our campaign, how great our support through the petition, both online and on paper, this may well be over.  To think this and give up is folly though.  We will fight for our department, we will support the academic staff who have done such a fine job before and will continue to do so.  this is far from over.

Knock knock, it's the Abyss

You know, I can't remember if I've said anything about this before, I suppose it doesn't really matter as it's a relevant issue every fucking day.  Although I suppose you might get bored if every time I publish it's always about this.  But really, that's what my life is like.  If you've never been depressed, and (arguably) more importantly don't care about something that doesn't affect you, then get lost.  I'm serious.  You should leave, and that soon.

You're not going to like this.

I heard actually, that depression affects a ratio of one to every one person.  Everybody, at some time, will suffer in their life, but to what degree and in what respect will differ.  Sometimes, it goes too far, and some people choose to justify the mental anguish with physical pain, such as self-harm, killing other people, or even killing themselves.  But funnily enough, I'm not one of them.  Surprising, I know. perhaps we could finally get some eschatological verification if I was.

No, I don't talk about my depression very often, because, guess what you guys!  It depresses me.  I guess the trouble all started when...uh...well, actually it's been so long I can't even remember now.  Of course I always hoot on about my second year at univerity as the worst time.  Funnily enough, this was not just down to my precarious living arrangement but also my choral employment at the time.  Yes that's right.  The Parish Church or St. Peter Mancroft.  Arguably it would have been worse if I had never been.  I mean, my official position is never to wish that things had been different, or I would never have wound up wherever I did for the next thing &c &c, but maybe this one could have done with t a little more thought.  My time at Mancroft is the reason why I never claim to be a singer by trade, why I am prouder of my Organ playing than anything else, and why I have absolutely zero confidence.  It'd be like... the killer that got killed on the job.  Obvioulsy I love making ridiculous statements though.  However, enough with the jokes.  The only thing that Mancroft did for my singing was tell me that I was wrong.  If there was a mistake, it was always my fault.  My tone was always too strong and my consonants too big and it was always my fault.  Obviously I wish to paint myself as the sympathetic hero, but actually, I don't.  I'm not quite that stupid.  Why was I loud, and forthright &c &c?  Because I wanted to do my best.  I was taught to lead, so that's what I tried to do.  Take the initiative and use my greater experience of repertoire.  Not the best idea though.  Perhaps it's all in the execution.  Anyway, I was never good enough to do any solos until the last service, basically, and that was my fault as well.  How?  Well, I was told that I "should be subserviant" to the director, and that's an actual quote fact fans.  No merit based rewards there then.  I can take that though, being a stubborn little shite at even the best of times. 

Singing was all I was ever really good at (other than philosophy), and to have this unending stream of criticism, especially at that time, was somewhat harmful to one's own personal development.  Why the fuck should I bother carrying on, if everything I do is wrong?  Bit of a foregone conclusion there, eh?

Well, anyway, I decided to go back to University for a third year, and back to Mancroft for a second round.  I never quit, because I'm a) an idiot and b) the type to see something out to the bitter end, which is also why I went back to Uni.  I never for a second really thought I could rescue the clusterfuck of that second year, but gave it a shot anyway.  More on that and the result later.  The next and again most pressing item is of course the lack of employment.  Now, see here.  Turns out that this gig at Truro is exactly what it says on the tin.  We're Scholars to the Cathedral, and not employees.  As such, it's not technically a job, even though you have to put a hell of a lot of hard work into it.  At the moment we're doing a lot of things that I happen to know, but the only advantage this gives me is that I can watch more.  No technical advantage, nor musical advantage (remember my technique is terrible and I spent the last two years getting everything wrong), but just watching.  It's a speciality.

But anyway, just like the summer, I've been trying to find work.  And just like the summer, I've been having absolutely no luck at all.  Yesterday alone I made five separate job applications, for kitchen porter work and bar positions around the city, with no reply as yet.  Obviously I have no bar experience in a commercial sense, so it doesn't look good really, does it?  If you don't have experience you can't get the job, but if you can't get the job how will you get experience?  Ho hum.  Anyway, I suppose all I can do now is wait.  I can't even get JSA again like I did because my mother is my official representative or whatever the term is, so she has to be legally present for everything.  Even if I wanted to sign on again (which, financially is an excellent idea at the moment), I couldn't.  I must, therefore, survive on the stipend handed out by the Cathedral, a not impossible task, but far from desirable.  Also, I would have something else to do in the day than sit around drinking tea and waiting for the world to end.

And now I turn to what to do next year?  Obviously I can't be a choral scholar forever.  I am looking at continuing my education. However.  I have two major problems.  The first is my degree.  At a second class, second division, it's not exactly cutting any mustard anywhere.  Firsts or 2:1s are the accepted order of the day.  The other option is of course a performance Diploma, a little research into those however reveals the high cost of such an operation - somewhat out of reach for the poor and unemployed.  I haven't even done anything about singing lessons down here in case they cost actual money, an unnatural resource I seem to be fairly free of.  There's about 40p in my wallet, I suppose that'll have to do.

I'm almost out of my depth.  Almost.  I can cope with a daily service (just about, my warbling is holding out - in fact, I was told by my Lay-Vicar counterpart that I was "good" and "louder than both the past two scholars put together" so there's some mileage there I suppose), I can deal with the amount of music being put in front of me, and the fact that usually there's only an hour's rehearsal before it's done and then put away.  Singing is what I do, and doing it I am.  However.  It is the rest of it that I am struggling with, struggling being the operative term, and struggling being the right word indeed.  Without a Student Loan to top my overdraft up like the last two years, I feel pretty much financially helpless.  I want a job, but obviously I'm terrified.  I guess I'd be ok once I started, but it's just getting that start.  Going out and getting a job will always be nigh-on impossible I suppose, but I just want a fucking chance.  Obviously I am asking for too much. 

My favourite metaphor for how I feel is being punched in the face, every day.  I'd say try it but I know you don't want to; well boo hoo because I don't get any choice.  You can get punched in the face for a week, say, and still come up smiling.  Maybe it's funny, like a game: get up again and again and maybe you can earn another smack in the chops!  Brilyunt.  Remember, points mean prizes, right?  Well, extend the metaphor for ever, basically.  I can only keep getting knocked back by prospective employers, or my bank balance, or perhaps the unhealthy assumption that I come from a well-off background and have a rosy-looking childhood.  No, no, no and no.  Being so far from my frinds and family is beginning to hurt.  It feels like I am out here alone.  Of course, I am surrounded by people and services and whatnot and what have you, but I essentially chose to throw myself deep into unknown territory without a wingman, basically.

Of course, I am harking on to an absurdity, because this is exactly how I felt this time last year.  Actually NO IT WASN'T.  I was scared then, but hopeful and optimistic and above all, determined.  I am sorely lacking this fine character attributes today though.  Upset, uncertainty of the future, financial worries, absolutely everything.

POSTSCRIPTUM

Well that was hard.  That also took all week to write, in one everlasting draft.  But I had to.  I have been very bad at keeping this updated, I mean, I still have my little loveletter to SUDA 51 to write and I have noticed a predeliction for existentialist cinema that might merit discussion as well.  Services are moderately tough, but  I'm keeping my wits about me, and can't really say farer than that.  I have never been happier not to have perfect pitch though.  I sing every night of the week, but still have nothing to do in the day.  I haven't sung proper Barbershop since the end of term in June.  I'm just a little lost.  I have no idea where I'm going next, I have very little idea what I'll be doing tomorrow in fact.  It's all quite bad.  If I were a real person, I'd have this all figured out by now.  Or, more likely, know enough of the right people to get me there without having to think myself.  Oh well.  Such is my lot.

Knock knock.

It's not your time

Once again, I'm concious of falling behind. It's been tough finding the time and the inspiration to write, and as my excellent friend, Mr. William Fergusson once said, "If you're trying too hard it isn't working." I had a half finished post...but it seems to have since disappeard off the face of the internet. Ponderous.

The biggest bug bear of late, just like this time last year, is trying to find a job. Now, I have a job for September. Yes, that's fine. That'll be my Choral Scholarship in Truro. But that is September. This is the middle of July. You will notice that there are at least six weeks between then and now. That's quite a while. In fact, that's a very long time when you're as deep into your overdraft as I am. I'm not in a position to disclose the numbers, but if you'd like to ask me in person I can certainly tell you that way.

Now. I'm one of the last people to say that money is the key to happiness. Far from it in fact. However, money is the key to...kind of everything else. Transport, food, drink...you know the drill. There's no such thing as a free lunch. Walking's free, but so's pain. See, this is getting pretty tenuous, because I'm pretty fucking fed up of being completely skint. Yesterday I did a CV run through Derby, just like last time, with my new and improved Curriculum Vitae, to much the same result. I don't want you to put my CV on file if you're not going to employ me! Why can't things be this simple? Either employ or not. Right? No. Sorry. Far too simple. And possibly fair?

Did I also mention that I went and signed on last week? Possibly the worst moment of my entire life. You know I've been rejected, insulted, dumped, drugged up bummed out ain't no one coming back for me, depressed, drunk, lost...ok, enough. But seriously, if you're a graduate, don't go to the job centre and sign on. Please, I implore you, this must be a last ditch option. There is no part of this...system...that inspires you to seek out decent work. In fact, it's pretty grim for staying on the dole. If I am to be met with the same patronising attitude that I was in applying for this 'benefit', I shall be throwing in the towel and hiding in a hole in the ground for the duration of the summer! Might be cheaper anyway.

I still haven't got in touch with the Organist at my local Parish. I'm not trying to, but effortlessly succeeding at putting this off. I know the guy, he's an old friend, I know the church, I know the instrument. No problem? In fact, the particularly acidic tone of the Gt. Trompette would be very helpful in this new French music J of N has st me. Not quite the Collins, but with plenty of body. In fact, speaking of J of N...

That man. That man and his politics. I don't know. I mean, I'm no 'treat-'em-mean-keep-'em-keen-Haggett' so I shall never truly understand, and I believe that his Modus Operandi is hidden even from himself, and certainly from that Contralto. Unfortunately, if I get asked a straight question I tend to give a straight answer. Whatever. He's still a good friend, even after his difficult if not impossible to consture blip at the end of term. He's putting us up at Grad weekend, and he's my co-architect of currying. I doubt there'll be another like him, especially down in the deep south. Also, curry in Truro is rather expensive. I'll be...oooo forced to flex my curry muscles and hone my skills. WHAT A SHAME.

I might yet still lose my temper. I haven't decided. I might try and stir up as much trouble as I can at Grad, I mean, it'll be my last chance for a while. Or maybe that wouldn't be cricket. Ho ho.

Anyway. Family Reunion is in the works. That'll be my tour for the summer, and a hard earned return it will be as well.

So. We'll see how this Vac goes. Just take it as it comes, eh?

So much more Drama

I've been trying to write a proper post for about a fortnight now. It's been surprisingly difficult, what with glorious victory on one side and abject failure on the other; pretty much like every day, right? Hah. It's getting tough now, as people are leaving the flat and I, of course, make my preparations to leave Norwich for pastures new. I can't even begin to articulate just how upset I am! Syllables cannot express my deep and powerful sorrow. I'm welling up even thinking about it.

This has been spurred on by my brother's latest effort. You too can find him, writing semiregularly by following the Fit To Practice link on the left hand side of my page. To be completely fair, this is going to be a lot more melodramatic than his, but whatever. That's the way it is.

This is going to be a rant about life, love, and the poor end of the stall.

My life continues! I have not died. Good show, old chap. I'm slowly but surely beginning to tell people about last year's suicidal tendencies, and not just as a shock tactic either. People don't know for a reason, but you know especially if some wag decides to mention killing themselves for the attention, it's nice to get a little context in. Not to mention the fact that a friend decided to take his own life not long ago. Committing Suicide is a very brave decision, actually, just like committing to anything else life changing. But it's just a brave to turn it down. Perhaps it was my mistake with the way everything went last year to have kept so quiet, but I did what I did because that is what I do. I don't bother you with my problems, instead I took to writing them up and posting them on the Internet which is what I'm doing right now. Writing about writing HOW META.

The last two weeks haven't been great though. One of my admittedly self-proclaimed best friends has taken to treating me like a poor acquaintance. Seriously, it's like I hardly know the man! There's been nothing particularly drastic, but put it this way, I haven't been out for curry since I got back from Exeter, he doesn't look me in the eye, and the handshake is now wetter than a piss sandwich. Allegedly, he is very upset because I'm going. Funny, but don't I get to be upset as well? Yes, I'm going for auditions and moving up in the world, but seriously come on! As if my departure to another city is going to effectively end a close friendship? Ridiculous. Friends come and go though, as I know as much as anyone, so perhaps things would have broken down, but there's no need to pre-empt, right? When a man goes from being your best friend, having been a tower of support in days past, with a solid track record of priceless banter to someone who doesn't even recognise you in the street? Fuck off.

Sigh. My end of the stall continues to be poor though, so don't worry! Everything is as consistent as ever. Basically, it's not a sunday service unless I get 'the hand' at least once. This hand is attached to and operated by the Music Director of the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, Norwich, where I have been for the past two very long years. There's nothing less gratifying than being told to pipe down week in week out, which is where half o the trouble last year came from anyway. But, I'm not overly bothered anymore. I haven't been for a while, because it's bordering on hilarious, having passed funny several weeks ago. We on the line, especially if I'm in a mood to cause some damage, can absolutely bank on me getting the hand. Not only are my top notes as strong as ever, they're getting stronger and I'm learning to carry this down into my full range. Even now when I decide to let rip, there's nothing anyone can really do about it. If I carry on to the stage, where I really want to be, there'll be no stopping me. Ho ho.

So. We've had my life. We've had the poor end of the stall. What's coming up next? You can have a prize if you guess. The prize is you get more to read, and even if you don't guess or guess wrong, I'll keep on writing anyway so you're not left out.

Things have been...how do I say...odd. I went all out and asked some ladies out that I had wanted to all year, when it boiled down to it...and they both cancelled on me. Haha no jokes, actual true story bro. So I asked one girl out a week ahead of time, and then she cancelled two days before we were supposed to go out, gave a tentative reschedule, and then cancelled that too. That was the start of the week. At the end of the week I was meant to be taking a girl down to the Playhouse Bar...eh, cancellation on the night. The actual situation is hella complicated, but involves me not being the right guy. As someone who finds it difficult to socialise and go out, even I was shocked. However, this is the way that you normal people get by, isn't it? Sometimes you just ask the wrong people and it ends this way. However. I am leaving my regrets well behind me now. I am no longer upset about it, because damn it I tipped the scales and asked, and I made my intentions clear enough, at least I would have hoped so? Here is a tip though, if I ask you to come to the Playhouse with me, ladies, it's because I really fancy you, and possibly even wouldn't mind taking you home with me. Basically. If I wasn't attracted to you, I wouldn't bother asking you out in the first place, let alone taking you to basically my favourite bar in the City. Right? Anyway.

Last night I went to the AMS Summer Swing Ball. Let's get this straight guys, I had the best time. I made some new friends, drank a hell of a lot, and danced with some of the most beautiful girls I have ever laid my eyes on. It may please you to know that I behaved myself, and was involved in no fights at all. I did dance with some people I would have loved to have been involved with though. The moment worth holding on to, for me, came at about one o'clock in the morning, as I took to the floor with the actual dictionary definition of beauty. Being the end of the night, and the end of the band's session, it was a swanky slow number. We danced hand in hand, leg in leg and cheek to cheek. I don't really know how to proceed with this bit, because it was all a bit ineffable really. For me, it was one of 'those' moments. She squared the circle: my whole world stopped and didn't start again until we let go, by which point I had discovered that my braces had come loose (you know you've had a good time) and I was shaking when I went to reassume my place at the table. She touched me in a way I can't begin to comprehend.
I lost her at the end of the night, basically. Not even a goodnight kiss for our eponymous hero, unfortunately. Tcham! Tush and tcham. I'm not actually that bothered though? I didn't get her number, or end up going home with her, and I'm not bothered. I have accepted that I'm pretty much a romantic failure. Basically! See, I had a wonderful time dancing with all the girls I did so with last night, and what need do I have to ruin it by clumsily propositioning them? That's right friend, I have no need.

Look at that. I managed to avoid getting too upset. Not for long though, as now it's only a matter of days until the end of this year. Joanna will leave on Thursday, and Georgia on Sunday. To put it bluntly, I have no idea how I'm going to deal with not having my flat living with me next year. I'll cope, because that is my business, but how I will go about it is another matter entirely. Adam's already gone! People are leaving for their summer, and then it'll just be my fellow spam scholars left. And then I'll go. And that'll be it for a long time. And that makes me so painfully sad.

Decisions, Decisions

You may notice that after March and April's fiesta of writing, things have calmed down a little round here. A lot's been going off, actually! Unlike the end of March, when I was stuck in writing my dissertation, the natural reflex was just to keep writing, funnily enough. I'm so much better at dealing with things in this written fashion, as you will well know by now. But this is a tough time. You know. I've two weeks before my final recital, and I haven't sorted my program out at all. TCHAM! Ok. Shit. No, it'll be fine. I mean, since when have I done it any other way? See? It'll be just like the good old days.

However. In the last few days I have made my mind up. About a lot of things, actually. The biggest of these is that I won't be staying in Norwich next year. OUCH. I know. I need a rest from higher education, but I need to stay away from home, basically. If I go back to Derby, what will I do? They won't have me at the Cathedral, and there sure isn't anything more singing in Derby, especially for money. I can't go home for any great length of time. There's no time these days to plan in relative relaxation for the next step, and to be fair, I should have come to this conclusion before the end of last year. But we all know how that year went.

I am casting the net, and looking at the Chuch Times. Oh yes. Time to find a place on the stall and trade my Songman status for a Choral Scholarship. If I want to continue my musical studies in any serious way, I'll need experience. And to me, there is no greater experience for a singer except for singing every day, which pretty much leaves one place only.
I've been very unfortunate at UEA, mostly having the wrong sort of face, or certainly the wrong sort of voice. My characteristic pungency and projection are definitely unwelcome.

With settling on an exit from Norwich, we have to consider the next most pressing matter. What about a girl? Well. What about a girl. It's funny really. I've made so many consecutive bad decisions that I don't know whether it's worth bothering any more. However. Last night, I basically ran into what I consider to be an unofficial Fan Club, made up of a small cadre of girls who live just across the courtyard! I promise to always look to your window when I pass. Hilarious! I still feel too flattered to do much about it, but you know. There's a glimmer of potential. I might just heave myself from my self loathing and do something about it. There's no time like the present, but I'm genuinely worried! You understand all the usual things. Mine is to do and die, regardless of how much of a scaredy I am.
But...I no longer Dream of Spires, nor any other vapid specimen. I've spent a long time wasting my time on people who will not and never will return my affection. I've been very very angry over the past few days about that specifically. People who turn out to be, at the punch, completely useless and not interested, but don't have the wherewithal to say so for definite. Because I so do love wasting my time. I reached this new level of ground a little while ago, but was looking back somewhat. Now, I won't turn around. Not even like Orpheus, out of curiosity. Ho ho!

On a day to day basis though, I'm doing a little more. I'm piling on the pounds after the disaster that was the Easter holiday health crash, and have been eating very serious amounts of very good food. Only two days ago did I make a Pasta sauce from nothing but bacon, garlic, chilis and chopped tomatoes. Absolutely godly! It won't be long before the Captain's Curry House can add a Trattoria next door. I'm getting up earlier on a more consistent basis as well, probably due to the sunlight streaming in through the gap between my shelf and the curtain...and the incredible amounts of booze I have ingested lately. Drinking always helps me get up early, as many a sunday morning can testify...
Ok, not many. But a few. I mean, I'm only saving up my Alcohol unit allowance to one point in the week, right? That's ok? Isn't it?
No, on the whole I'm much more active. It is the sunlight, what with me being solar powered, and the fact that I've now got my bicycle back on the road always does me good.

Now. You will excuse me. I have a lot of washing up to do, and then I must sojourn to the first floor of this flat. I'm far too worried to go to anybody else's for starters, but I have a place here. And will for a long time.