I actually started to write that page as a joke.
It was actually surprisingly difficult, recalling facts, figures, dates and places in order to list them. I don't keep records of that sort of thing. The only thing I really keep a record of is my score library, spread as it is across several parts of this country. Anyway, as I was saying... This list of times and dates and places, what did it really say about me? What does it tell you of the character, of the capabilities and indeed the culpabilities of the author? It's just like on my CV, having put down my degree (alongside several other qualifications), what does it really say? That I went to University. It says nothing about my struggles, my triumphs, what I enjoy or what I can bring to the table. This is the thing though, in presenting this ideal face, that time for discussion isn't a priority. It's all about facts and figures, things that can be objectively measured. Sometimes with this approach in mind, it is difficult for me to remember that you are not your job, you're not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You are not your fucking khakis.
But this is about me. Not about you. I'm still not my job, by the way. I'm going to have a stab at what I think are the more important, character defining things here now. I'm sure a more discrete list of data will pop up eventually...
The Author is Autistic. This is probably the number one thing that informs my character, decision making, actions and all judgements. What being autistic does for me is uniquely different from the next autistic person, don't forget. For years I have pushed myself to appear "ordinary" to avoid awkward questions that make me anxious, or be shunned, simply for being different, which is an enormous, almost incomprehensible strain. Of course, success has varied wildly over time, usually around people not being able to match up any discrepancies in my behaviour when things start to fall apart and perhaps I have a little panic attack, or perhaps somebody decides to wind me up for fun. I usually keep away from knowing the major symptomatic behaivours, in case I start obsessing over every little thing that I do, analysing it IN CASE PEOPLE MIGHT THINK I'M AUTISTIC.
The Author is a Depressive. Sad but true, I suppose. It is rather self-destructive for me to talk about my depression, lest I get stuck in an ever decreasing circle and especially on a day like this where I need to be sociable and presentable... Not especially wise. But... It still needs to be said. It's not something I'm proud of, because I always think that I should be able to manage more and manage better than I can. I've been... warned off anti-depressants by the anecdotal evidence: out of the five cases of those who have taken the pills, only one has had any success, but I wonder whether the added nicotine in their particular system has had something to do with that? Just a thought. Horror stories of panic attacks, violent outbursts and accidentally overdosing on other medication have proved to me that at this moment, dealing with my own problems under my own steam is the most constructive way forward. Yes, I may have lived through 3 day panic attacks, but at least there was no chemical assistance in arriving there, that I may not have been able to fight through, and I came out of it on my own. The Author is also an insomniac, which only exacerbates the matter.
The Author has never learned forgive himself. Oooh. Looks ominous, eh? What possible occasion could have arisen that I will never ever forgive myself? Just every day really. As I said above, I always think I should be able to do better: to get out more, to apply for jobs every day regardless of setbacks, to ask people out... Actually just to be able to understand people's intentions without having to make a best guess would be a start. Still, after years of trying, surviving university, and bungling through jobs in Truro, I don't exactly feel I'm really that far from where I started, that I should be doing better but aren't and since I'm the only person truly responsible for my actions and decisions then ultimately (drum roll please) it's all my fault! At least the sheer anger of not succeeding keeps me going sometimes. Other times it makes me take blame for things that aren't my fault, kind of looking for a quieter life - if you know whose fault it is, at least you don't have to argue about it.
But surely, in all these character faults there must be the odd gem, some factor to rescue the author from limitless self-destruction?
The Author has an impressively professional telephone manner. This is brilliant actually, and amusingly one of my favourite things about working in the Cathedral office: nobody knows who I am! Landlords, choir masters, fellow lay vicars and many more find I become completely unrecognisable (and also somehow more authoritative) when disguised by the telephone. What's even funnier to me personally is whenever somebody rings me on my mobile and I greet them with the cheery salutation "Asylum South West", and they suddenly lose all confidence in what number they might have called. Although thinking about it I might use my 'official' telephone voice, so at least they'll have reason to be confused.
The Author is the world's greatest unemployed glass collector. Being the son of a former Publican, and also having worked as a waiter, the author is extremely aware of the egregious sins leveled against all members of the so-called"service industry", or "hospitality", as may be more familiar. A solid reputation for being a heavy drinker but not a trouble maker, and also collecting spare glasses as and when they appear, which is far more useful than, well, not. It's not perfect, but it's a start. Also, the point of "don't be a dick to waiters" can't be said enough. Even though things are usually peaceful at the Cathedral restaurant, there's been the odd problem customer, you know, people who come and order three cream teas in the middle of lunch, or kick up a fuss because perhaps the sofas sink a little too low... Be sensible. We are not a furniture warehouse and we cannot magic up scones and teapots when everyone is busy taking food from the pass! Shut up.
The Author is an impeccable dresser. I actually for suggestions for positive things, and this was the one that came up the most. Self-confessed dream of the 1890s, wearer of bow ties, cravats and master of the double four-in-hand, my reputation for three piece suits has lasted for years. I started wearing a waistcoat to help hide my impossibly thin waist in VIth form - without one, wearing a suit became ridiculous, as I looked like a bag tied around the middle. Not being financially blessed, finding these clothes can sometimes be difficult, but actually, having found most of my wardrobe and accessories in thrift shops and the like; I wear a Hardies Amies three piece suit, cut for Hepworths the Tailors: a beautiful English suit totally unlike the slim cuts and Italian off-the-rack suits common today.
The Author strives to do well. Even though I may never truly learn how to forgive myself (and hey, if I'm taking my frustrations out on myself at least I'm not taking them out on anybody else), I do always try. How hard I try is always split between how much effort I am actually putting in, and what people perceive, and quite often those two don't match up (see above). As hard as it is to believe, I actually do wish to improve my life and feel like I'm making a positive contribution to the lives of others. It's just that at the moment I seem especially aware that I'm not, and it really grinds on me. You know, maybe sometimes I do do enough, but the hell if I can tell a lot of the time.
The Author is old-fashioned. Self-explanatory, really. Wescoats, bows, and pocket watch aside, the author is a secret Tenor Banjoist. I say secret, because I haven't played for quite a while now, almost four months. Usually, I actually play the Bach 'Cello suites as I don't have any 'traditional' solo material to play knocking about: it's almost impossible to track down these days anyway, and not for free. feel a bit bad saying that, as I did shell out for a professional standard instrument, so I really ought to invest in some genuine literature for it, but really I should find a Jazz band to prop up. Also, the habits I grew up with as a chorister are now coming to fruition, and constant bad puns and watch-based jokes aside, bring me more in line with the disciplinarian attitudes of the Senior Lay Vicar, a veteran of some 35 years in this Cathedral Choir. As we all know, I love mucking about at choir. It'd be silly to deny it. But in order to be able to misbehave, you have to put the work in. I never think I'm any better than I am, and never try to play my skills up in front of ...anyone really. Instead, dedication, application and just getting on with business as usual are the order of the day. And after that? Bad puns, "that's what she said", and the nefarious 'cock block'. But not until you know what you're doing.
The Author is completely insane for publishing this sort of stuff in public view. Goes without saying, really.
Perhaps the most important thing in getting to know any author is actually just to read them, of course. I have decided that half of my problem with writing is that I don't read enough these days: it's all tech websites and cookbooks, no real weight of prose or poetry. I did make the mistake of reviewing some of my very old posts from 2010 and yeesh were they bad already. Consider the doors wide open now though, and I'll start work on my long form pieces that I've sketched out as well. In exciting news I'm due to be published for the second time, having the responsibility of the Cathedral Choir's concert programme notes again. It's only a short run, and most of the copies will probably get recycled buuuuuuuuuuut... It's my name at the bottom of the page after all! Oh well. Here's to a good weekend eh...
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