Off the back of the post I published almost 24 hours ago, I ran across this 'Blog Every Day in May' (or BEDM hereafter) idea. Seeing as I had just fought through a fortnight of just having no luck when faced with the blank page (ah yes, the blank page... the only natural predator the writer has), regardless of what sort of ideas I may have happened upon, so I'm willing to give this a whirl. I will push through!
The point of this venture for myself, is to get as much practice as possible. I still enjoy writing (which is why I get so disappointed when I can't), and while the weekly update format has been working out, I'm willing to give this a place in my schedule. Maybe it'll open newer creative paths in my mind, and it wouldn't hurt to start new habits in making personal content. I always write of myself, and not to an audience per se; I'm certainly unfamiliar with having to tailor content specifically, unlike every student of English Literature EVER. You can find out more about the project here, and discover other people who are taking the plunge. I might even get to sort my typing out, the spelling for which has become a little lacklustre in the intervening fortnight.
Anyway, here follows myself, in five lines. I won't include a photo in the post, because two photographs that I am proud of are on my blog page anyway: The Organ front of Derby Cathedral, where I served for 10 years with a choral education I am proud of to this day, even surrounded by budding opera students, elects of collegiate choirs and Choir School choristers. The other photo is of myself playing the beautifully voiced organ in the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul, in Salle, Norfolk. Built in 1912, it is a midget gem in an Arts and Crafts style case from the once great Norfolk Organ Builders: Norman and Beard.
My name is Paul-Ethan Bright, but I tell people to call me 'Peb'. I don't like being called 'Paul'. I'm a Choral Scholar who hardly ever listens to choirs, and I play Bach's 'Cello suites on the Tenor Banjo. I used to be an Organ Scholar before I came to Truro. I'm going to get my first tattoo this year, once I've finally decided what to get and where it'll go. I often describe myself as a failing writer, but that's only because I don't get paid for it! Some of my closest friends are miles away from me, but I will always make them feel welcome.
Okay. I think I'm happy with that. It's very difficult for me to describe myself, as I never really think about me, and am still fascinated that the reflection in the mirror is in fact, my own self. I hope you'll join me as I stick to the schedule. I'll be writing and posting my own original material as well, so do keep tuning in. I'll be using the #BEDM tag for each one of these, even though it'll be just as easy to go to the 'May' part of the archive thru the sidebar. I'll sign off with one of my favourite Jewish writer's catchphrases.
That's all. For now.
Thursday, 2 May 2013
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 15 April 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, 7 April 2013
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!
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!
Thursday, 28 March 2013
"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!
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...
Saturday, 16 March 2013
"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.
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.
Thursday, 7 March 2013
"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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)