Why break the habits of a lifetime?
I hope you're all enjoying my attempts to look outward, to drag myself out of a mire, usually of my own making, in the form of my new schedule (he says, barely hanging on to it by his fingernails alone). I'm one down in a way already, so I'll have to finish and publish my take on three short stories by Kafka on a transposed date, but in falling behind I'm already falling into the bad habit I am so desperate to avoid. That said, you try and read The Judgement, Metamorphosis and In the Penal Colony and... No, I'll leave it at that. Just trying to read them ought to be more than enough for now.
Then again, don't forget that at the heart of this venture is still the same man, misguided at best and bitter at worst, trying to make sense of not only everything around him but also inside his own head. The title of this blog has become a cornerstone really, and it all started as a throwaway joke (as all the best things do), combining the salutation an old friend would use on the telephone with a kind of forced reaction to the BBC's latest interpretation of Sherlock Holmes, fronted by Benedict Cumberbatch, who is NOT KHAN*. That's not a spoiler, I'm not even going to apologise. I mean, could you imagine if Star Wars: The Force Awakens was set in an alternate timeline that split off just after the Battle of Yavin in A New Hope and replaced Lando Calrissian with... BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH?! I suppose it might be a bit different, I mean, Billy Dee Williams didn't die in 2009... Anyway, the point I'll be getting back to right now is the whole "Mind Palace" concept that Sherlock didn't necessarily invent but brought to a kind of public level. While I'm hardly an expert (feel free to emphasise any or all of those five words as you see fit in my stead for maximum ironic impact), Cumberbatch's Holmes is certainly symptomatic of Asperger's, or at least high-functioning autistic. I can't remember the 'official' byline on it, wasn't it something about being sociopathic as well? Who knows.
It's this 'Mind Palace' where all of his knowledge is stored, all highly organised deep within his brain. There's a neat visualisation of this at the end of the third series, after suffering a life threatening gunshot wound, where we see him retreat to his memories both comforting and well... Not. Also, there's that Doctor bird (technical term) who fancies him, popping up as the voice of reason to walk him through surviving being shot. I think it's her anyway. Pretty sure. It's from this palace that the floating text appears when he looks at things (Egg? Sitty thing?!?!?), like the scanning from the Metroid Prime trilogy but without having a Chozo Battle Suit Ver. SA1-446B-VM6-P (or should that be Ver. SH1?). 3D map constructions (press Z to bring up the map) and things like phone numbers float about as well. What happens after he gets shot is arguably more like a dream sequence than anything else, but it's clearly set in the same place. We're also shown that the baddie of the overall outfit has his own kind of palace, the "Appledore Vaults". Throughout the series we're treated to scenes of him trotting in and out of archives, picking out files and pictures &c, only to discover that in the end it was all in his head! Thanks, Dallas.
Being the friendly local neighbourhood autist (or, at least the one who admits anyway), the comparisons with Sherlock were impossible to avoid. In the eyes of many, I have all of his social niceties (almost none), yet none of the beguiling intelligence. Oh, how I am good for nothing! But thinking about it, there's some traction. I retain almost everything I learn, and notice more environmental and intellectual stimuli compared to my emotional ability. True, things are better than they ever have been, but I still lag sometimes significantly. And often, my memory of places and events is aided by the recollection of bizarre things such as exact weather conditions, seeing someone's collar turned up or what time my watch said compared to somebody else's, you know, something quite odd that ties it all in to a causal timeline. Sometimes this has been taken advantage of by others, who know that I'll recall events as they happened with no bias. Everything is up here, somewhere, it's just getting at it that's the problem.
So, finally. Why an asylum? An old mad house, a "hospital" for the mentally degenerate. Many real asylums were truly awful places, the genuinely disadvantaged rubbing shoulders (and perhaps more - yeesh) with the syphilitic, most likely being beaten by staff who would strike out in anger and fear more than anything else (is this helping?); not terribly jolly places at all. The next step? Don't roll your eyes too hard: Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth, yet another seminal and character defining work from Grant Morrison, illustrated by Dave McKean. Yes, it's Batman. Yes, it's an illustrated work... But serious stories can also be told with in a visual manner, and just remember that the next time you go and see some cinematographical masterpiece. The wikipedia page linked there has some interesting comments, about how Morrison believing the further abstraction provided by McKean's art reduces its power, by making it 'unreal', and the success it had with an untypical readership - perhaps I'll write up for the next 'Top Shelf' (although I'll need to finish Kafka first). I'm going right to the end with this one though. Batman's journey through Arkham is harrowing enough, interspersed with the story of Amadeus Arkham, the man who turned the family home into a madhouse (and also tried to invoke some crazy dark magic), but by the end (and cutting a long story very very short), our favourite nemesis to all things Bat gives our hero a simple offer as he leaves: "Enjoy yourself out there. In the Asylum. Just don't forget -- If it ever gets too tough... There's always a place for you here."
In this case, the Asylum is the outside world: Gotham, crime, daily life, whatever. Arkham Asylum itself is a little haven, an island where the madness inside is only ever less than or equal to the madness going on outside. Like... The inside of my head? Ha ha ha... We all have to think of something, right?
In the Asylum, there are many doors, and not all of them are open. Things like traumas are locked away - abuse, family death, injury. You know what it's like, you know, when "the mind protects itself" from the memory of great pain. This is my version, that those things, places, people, those sensations are behind closed doors, some of which do not open. Some things, like the time I basically became a functional alcoholic are behind doors that open - I can make myself remember if I try, and it brings back a lot that I don't necessarily want - Grant the King a Long Life was an exercise in opening many similar doors, so that I could accept those things and start to move on more positively, that the things inside those rooms could no longer burst their prisons and overwhelm me but be put away in their proper place. Of course, I consider myself quite mad, in fact, you could say I was "fucking insane" most of the time, and had I lived even a hundred years ago, I probably would have been condemned to one of these "hospitals" myself, no need to kid myself. I can retreat here though, when it all gets a bit too much outside, and I also need to stop making myself feel guilty about that. I already push myself to appear as, uh, "typical" as I can, (because being normal is some boring ass shit and I ain't getting involved with that), and sometimes I just need a rest! Feet up, tea, lock the doors. Nothing in or out. Everything will be okay.
Anyway. I promise to get back to the new timetable of distractions after this. It's good to get out of the Asylum sometimes too.
* Yes, I'm STILL angry about that. This must be what "Trukk not Munky" felt like in the mid 90s...
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Tuesday, 25 November 2014
Tuesday, 18 March 2014
TW3
So... This week? Jesus...
I'm not really sure where or even how to start: Tuesday to Tuesday's been pretty fraught, although most of the madness has been centred round the weekend.
Perhaps the start of my troubles was an over-estimation of my abilities, yes! Hoisted by my own petard, and a first time for everything. After the rave reviews of my programme notes for the Cathedral Choir's Christmas Concert (brought to you by the letter C), I was once again commissioned to produce the notes for the upcoming Lent concert. Instead of being tied in to the season like the last one, this one is more the first round of performances concerned with the Great War of 1914 - 1918, the First World War. The war that changed the face of modern warfare, during which we saw the invention of the Tank and Chemical warfare amongst other things, and was also responsible for a political reshuffle of mainland Europe and effectively ended an age of empires; while the sun may never set on the British Empire, the German, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman and Russian Empires basically ceased to be, the effects of which contributed to the rise of communism and the invasion of Poland in 1939. Now, I'm not here to go into this in detail (as you can probably tell), but it's all cause and effect, and should you wish to investigate further I advise taking a trip to your local library or perhaps completing a degree in War Studies at King's College London.
As I said, this is the first of many performances this year of the choir's commemorative repertoire. Trinity's concert will see us present an expanded programme, using material from our recording project in May, and as I understand, most of November will be given over to events, services and concerts of remembrance. To round out this coming concert, we're singing Gabriel Faure's well known and loved Requiem, alongside students from the local schools and colleges; it wouldn't surprise me at all if this was the first sowing of seeds for community events in November as well. Anyway, I'm getting away from the point again! For saying the concert is THIS Saturday (tickets available now), I only began work on the notes a week previous today... Whoops. Even without the overarching subject of the War, the texts are far more involved than I could have expected, coming from heavyweight scripture or war poetry. As could be well expected, I threw myself into a seemingly bottomless mine of information about the prophet Habakkuk, who exactly wrote psalm 90, BCP translations, what the connection between Brahms' and Faure's Requiems is, why St. Anne sounds just like Was mein Gott will, why Ps. 39 isn't about dying, and why everybody was in love with Rupert Brooke. Suffice to say, it took more work than expected to turn this huge pile into anything worth presenting as a first draft, especially without getting bogged down in too much straight musical analysis.
My favourite venue for writing was not the kitchen table, where I sit now, but Truro's most excellent coffee house, 108. The only problem with sitting and drinking Latte after Latte for me is my Lactose intolerance, which almost gained sentience after being goaded with cup after cup of coffee. People always tell me I should drink soy, but the thing is, life's too short for that bean curd as far as I'm concerned. Obviously it doesn't taste like real milk, but the texture of hot soy milk isn't one I especially enjoy. I'd rather run the risk of having to deal with some discomfort. That said, I almost completely burned my digestion out last week, so maybe I ought to rethink at some point.
However, a coherent draft was sent and returned, and at that point I finally (at 1am, Monday(...) morning) worked out what I was trying to say about Psalm 39 all along, in the guise of Parry's monumental final Song of Farewell, Lord, let me know mine end. In fact, Sunday was the next real point in the madness so let's turn our focus. Really, it began on Saturday night with an impromptu couple of drinks that turned into a proper night out. That said, I returned at an acceptable hour and drank a lot of water before retiring, making sure the front door was secured and then toddled off to bed. At some point on this very night however, an unfortunate gained entry through the rear of the property (which has been left unlocked more often than not...), and proceeded to act in a very strange manner: ditching their boots at the stairwell, they then crashed into the dining room, dropping their purse and a handrolled cigarette. After a little vomit, they pinched my black jacket and then exited through the front door, not pulling it locked behind them.
The sudden realisation that somebody has been in your house that shouldn't have, hitting you not long after waking up, is something I'd advise you avoid. 2/10, would not repeat. The Professor having left not long after half 7 or so, I was alone (OR WAS I), and finding a strange pair of boots on the floor lead to a sickening lurch into consciousness. Casing the joint, I decided that the mystery visitor had already left, and locked the house down. Now, as dreadful as it was had I found somebody, at least they would have been available to answer. There was nobody in the bath, nothing disturbed in the spare bedrooms, not even any sign in the living room. What? At one point I even thought they might be asleep in the shed. Although I picked up the purse and the cigarette, the rest lay undisturbed like some domestic crime scene, until my Landlord returned. Of course, the next problem was that he doesn't carry a back door key, so once he got back (and I wasn't in), thus began a great backwards and forwards between here and the Cathedral looking for each other (by which point my stress had boiled over into anger), not withstanding that I couldn't get hold of the person I was supposed to be going with for sweet, sweet burgers (lunch at The HUB oh yes). Christ. At least the service went well! Oh yes, that was the other thing: evensong's anthem was the aforementioned Parry, grand in 8 parts with, yes, you guessed it, just me singing the first choir alto line! I can't really think of any sort of equivalent situation to compare it to, but basically, there's nowhere to hide. Often there are exposed leads or tunes that are vital - there's no second chances either. Add to the mix that I had woken up about three times between 5 and 7am with anxiety dreams about oversleeping, you can see why Sunday really could have just done on as far as I'm concerned.
Thankfully, for me and possibly for you, yesterday was far calmer. Well, except for the fact I didn't s get to sleep until 4am; I'm sure you can see how that might have an adverse effect. Gradually it improved though! Even the weather was on my side, allowing me to get the famous (or is that infamous?) chalk white legs out again. I managed to print out a copy of Cards Against Humanity, a game where depravity is your friend... Even if it is organised fun.
As this insane few days has ended, I'm thankful that nothing really went badly wrong. Don't worry, this isn't some heartwarming conclusion, but nothing was broken or damaged in any irreparable manner, I didn't have a huge fallout with anybody, and I spent most of the last 6 days writing. And of course, it hasn't been boring, because there's nothing worse than being bored. And the mystery invader? Totally hammered after a night out, lost all their friends on the way... And just wandered in, completely by chance. Drunk people will never cease to amaze me.
I'm not really sure where or even how to start: Tuesday to Tuesday's been pretty fraught, although most of the madness has been centred round the weekend.
Perhaps the start of my troubles was an over-estimation of my abilities, yes! Hoisted by my own petard, and a first time for everything. After the rave reviews of my programme notes for the Cathedral Choir's Christmas Concert (brought to you by the letter C), I was once again commissioned to produce the notes for the upcoming Lent concert. Instead of being tied in to the season like the last one, this one is more the first round of performances concerned with the Great War of 1914 - 1918, the First World War. The war that changed the face of modern warfare, during which we saw the invention of the Tank and Chemical warfare amongst other things, and was also responsible for a political reshuffle of mainland Europe and effectively ended an age of empires; while the sun may never set on the British Empire, the German, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman and Russian Empires basically ceased to be, the effects of which contributed to the rise of communism and the invasion of Poland in 1939. Now, I'm not here to go into this in detail (as you can probably tell), but it's all cause and effect, and should you wish to investigate further I advise taking a trip to your local library or perhaps completing a degree in War Studies at King's College London.
As I said, this is the first of many performances this year of the choir's commemorative repertoire. Trinity's concert will see us present an expanded programme, using material from our recording project in May, and as I understand, most of November will be given over to events, services and concerts of remembrance. To round out this coming concert, we're singing Gabriel Faure's well known and loved Requiem, alongside students from the local schools and colleges; it wouldn't surprise me at all if this was the first sowing of seeds for community events in November as well. Anyway, I'm getting away from the point again! For saying the concert is THIS Saturday (tickets available now), I only began work on the notes a week previous today... Whoops. Even without the overarching subject of the War, the texts are far more involved than I could have expected, coming from heavyweight scripture or war poetry. As could be well expected, I threw myself into a seemingly bottomless mine of information about the prophet Habakkuk, who exactly wrote psalm 90, BCP translations, what the connection between Brahms' and Faure's Requiems is, why St. Anne sounds just like Was mein Gott will, why Ps. 39 isn't about dying, and why everybody was in love with Rupert Brooke. Suffice to say, it took more work than expected to turn this huge pile into anything worth presenting as a first draft, especially without getting bogged down in too much straight musical analysis.
My favourite venue for writing was not the kitchen table, where I sit now, but Truro's most excellent coffee house, 108. The only problem with sitting and drinking Latte after Latte for me is my Lactose intolerance, which almost gained sentience after being goaded with cup after cup of coffee. People always tell me I should drink soy, but the thing is, life's too short for that bean curd as far as I'm concerned. Obviously it doesn't taste like real milk, but the texture of hot soy milk isn't one I especially enjoy. I'd rather run the risk of having to deal with some discomfort. That said, I almost completely burned my digestion out last week, so maybe I ought to rethink at some point.
However, a coherent draft was sent and returned, and at that point I finally (at 1am, Monday(...) morning) worked out what I was trying to say about Psalm 39 all along, in the guise of Parry's monumental final Song of Farewell, Lord, let me know mine end. In fact, Sunday was the next real point in the madness so let's turn our focus. Really, it began on Saturday night with an impromptu couple of drinks that turned into a proper night out. That said, I returned at an acceptable hour and drank a lot of water before retiring, making sure the front door was secured and then toddled off to bed. At some point on this very night however, an unfortunate gained entry through the rear of the property (which has been left unlocked more often than not...), and proceeded to act in a very strange manner: ditching their boots at the stairwell, they then crashed into the dining room, dropping their purse and a handrolled cigarette. After a little vomit, they pinched my black jacket and then exited through the front door, not pulling it locked behind them.
The sudden realisation that somebody has been in your house that shouldn't have, hitting you not long after waking up, is something I'd advise you avoid. 2/10, would not repeat. The Professor having left not long after half 7 or so, I was alone (OR WAS I), and finding a strange pair of boots on the floor lead to a sickening lurch into consciousness. Casing the joint, I decided that the mystery visitor had already left, and locked the house down. Now, as dreadful as it was had I found somebody, at least they would have been available to answer. There was nobody in the bath, nothing disturbed in the spare bedrooms, not even any sign in the living room. What? At one point I even thought they might be asleep in the shed. Although I picked up the purse and the cigarette, the rest lay undisturbed like some domestic crime scene, until my Landlord returned. Of course, the next problem was that he doesn't carry a back door key, so once he got back (and I wasn't in), thus began a great backwards and forwards between here and the Cathedral looking for each other (by which point my stress had boiled over into anger), not withstanding that I couldn't get hold of the person I was supposed to be going with for sweet, sweet burgers (lunch at The HUB oh yes). Christ. At least the service went well! Oh yes, that was the other thing: evensong's anthem was the aforementioned Parry, grand in 8 parts with, yes, you guessed it, just me singing the first choir alto line! I can't really think of any sort of equivalent situation to compare it to, but basically, there's nowhere to hide. Often there are exposed leads or tunes that are vital - there's no second chances either. Add to the mix that I had woken up about three times between 5 and 7am with anxiety dreams about oversleeping, you can see why Sunday really could have just done on as far as I'm concerned.
Thankfully, for me and possibly for you, yesterday was far calmer. Well, except for the fact I didn't s get to sleep until 4am; I'm sure you can see how that might have an adverse effect. Gradually it improved though! Even the weather was on my side, allowing me to get the famous (or is that infamous?) chalk white legs out again. I managed to print out a copy of Cards Against Humanity, a game where depravity is your friend... Even if it is organised fun.
As this insane few days has ended, I'm thankful that nothing really went badly wrong. Don't worry, this isn't some heartwarming conclusion, but nothing was broken or damaged in any irreparable manner, I didn't have a huge fallout with anybody, and I spent most of the last 6 days writing. And of course, it hasn't been boring, because there's nothing worse than being bored. And the mystery invader? Totally hammered after a night out, lost all their friends on the way... And just wandered in, completely by chance. Drunk people will never cease to amaze me.
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