For the Fallen - Truro Cathedral Choir Summer Concert, Saturday 21st June 2014

PROGRAMME

'1914' – Alan Gray (1855 – 1935)

Soloist: Ben Reed (treble)

For The Fallen – Mark Blatchly (b 1960)

Lament – Francis Pott (b 1957)

My Soul, There is a Country – Hubert Parry (1848 – 1918)

INTERVAL

Missa Brevis – Zoltán Kodály (1882 – 1967)

Soloists: Ben Reed, Pedrek Venton and Isaac Heron (treble);

Edward Stebbing-Allen (alto); Nicholas Hawker (tenor); Marc Gregory (bass)

1 Introitus

2 Kyrie

3 Gloria

4 Credo

5 Sanctus

6 Benedictus

7 Agnus

8 Ite, Missa Est

WORDS AND PROGRAMME NOTES

Published in 1919, Alan Gray's 1914 is a setting of three of the sequence of five war sonnets composed by Rupert Brooke. Brooke wrote the sonnets in the autumn of 1914 as a reaction to the outbreak of war, and they show the idealism that characterises the general attitude towards the War in its opening months, and outline the life, accomplishments and final death of an English soldier.

Born in 1887, Brooke was educated at Rugby School, and travelled through Europe before taking up a scholarship place at King's College, Cambridge. Commissioned into the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve in August of 1914, he saw active service in Antwerp that year. He was part of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force that sailed out in February of 1915, where he died on the 23^rd of April, St. George's Day 1915, from sepsis contracted from an infected Mosquito bite.

Peace, the first of Alan Gray’s three musical settings from 1914, sees the soldier as a kind of heroic, happy warrior. Brooke’s poem comes from these earliest days, when the War was seen as a kind of adventure, with recruits and Army officials alike expecting hostilities would be over by Christmas. The overall feeling of this poem is that of thanks for a chance given to fulfil a noble destiny, and a sense that fighting is a way into heaven; there is no reason to find upset as all are fighting for a worthy cause, that even though you may be afflicted by pain, “that has ending”. The last three bars of the treble part echo the call of a Bugle, an instrument further alluded to in the next movement.

The Dead, the third of Brooke’s sonnets, has a much bleaker outlook. Musically, we know we are in different territory straight away, as the reed stops of the organ give way to trebles and tenors in unison, underpinned by pedal, while the choir calls out “Blow, out ye bugles”. The tone of this poem is that of remembrance, where Brooke pays homage to the sacrifice made by the men who have given their lives already: not only have they given their lives, but also those of the children they could not have, “their sons, they gave, their immortality”. As we move to the second part of the sonnet, Brooke uses religious imagery; the dead have “brought us, for our dearth, Holiness”. The last lines of the text invoke almost a mythical atmosphere, as “Nobleness walks in our ways... We have come into our heritage”, that through the effort of fighting and willingly sacrificing their lives, the soldiers have brought virtue to the Nation of England through a kind of Knightly crusade.

Finally, in The Soldier, the last of the sonnets, the idealisation of life ends with an idealisation of death. Continuing the themes of willing sacrifice and almost Knightly valour, the poem unfolds as a letter that any recruit might have sent back to his family. Unlike the other sonnets, there is no real shift in mood, and the tone is firmly that of remembrance, drawing on religious notes in illustrating an afterlife. Brooke treats the men who died as sons of England 'herself', that not only do their bodies belong to and come from England, but also that they have carried the soul of the Nation with them in battle, allowing the very dust that their dead bodies lie in to take on part of the nature of England. Musically, it is more intimate than the preceding settings, and is performed tonight unaccompanied. This more tender air may be a personal response by the composer, who lost his own son to the War. As we reach the end of the poem, Brooke tells us that at the end of this sacrifice, the hearts of these brave men lie “at peace, under an English heaven”, that they will find their way home, even after death. 

Set to music for “chorus and organ, or orchestra”, 1914 owes more to a 'Town Hall' musical tradition than it does to Cathedrals or Collegiate Chapels. Rather than a more forward-looking, twentieth century idiom, the music is rooted in a late Edwardian or Victorian style; the texture given over to the treble line with a clear melody supported harmonically, rather than contrapuntally, by the men's voices beneath. Instead of viewing it as sentimentality, we must remember that the war had only just finished by the time of publication, and that Brooke's poems were very popular; perhaps this nostalgic approach to the music is more to recapture the feeling of innocence before the war. The simplicity of the musical texture may well have been geared more towards a social setting, bringing people together again after the destruction of many small communities from so many men going out to fight and never coming back.

 

I – Peace

Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,

With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II – The Dead

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!

There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,

But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

These laid the world away; poured out the red

Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be

Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,

That men call age; and those who would have been,

Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,

Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,

And paid his subjects with a royal wage;

And Nobleness walks in our ways again;

And we have come into our heritage.

III – The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Words: Rupert Brooke

Laurence Binyon composed his famous poem, For the Fallen, on the coast of North Cornwall, and plaques can be found at Portreath and Pentire Point to commemorate this. It was published in September of 1914 around the same time as the first Battle of the Marne, which saw over half a million men killed or wounded in action. It honours the British soldiers who had already died at this early stage in the War, and in its full form runs to seven stanzas. Three of these stanzas have become known as the Ode of Remembrance, and feature heavily in memorial services all over the world; the second verse of this ode is read nightly at the Menin Gate following the Last Post. It was first set to music in 1915 by Cyril Rootham, swiftly followed by another setting in 1917, as part of Edward Elgar's collection The Winnowing Fan. This particular setting was composed in 1980 by Mark Blatchly for Barry Rose and the choristers of St Paul's Cathedral, London. It opens with the original first stanza as well as the Ode itself, set for treble voices in three parts with organ.

The text contains many of the themes presented to us by Brooke in 1914. Straight away, in the first three lines, the trebles join in unison as the text speaks of England as a mother, with the men carrying the spirit of the Nation with them as they fight “in the cause of the free”. At the beginning of the second verse, the voices split into their three parts, with a bright, almost jolly feel, “they went with songs to the battle”. The mood quickly becomes solemn once more as “they fell with their faces to the foe”, however. This third verse is the most familiar to us, “They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old”, that the dead and the lives they gave will live on in our memory. At the words “At the going down of the sun”, Blatchly quotes part of the Last Post in the vocal melody. As the final verse begins, the organ plays a simplified version of the introduction. The words are full of the realisation that these men will simply never return to the friends and families left behind; the trebles split into two parts, the lines mingling before joining together again to restate “They shall not grow old”. This time at the words “At the going down...”, a solo trumpet enters, played tonight on the organ, with the Last Post in full, while the trebles sing “we will remember them”.

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England's foam.

Words: Laurence Binyon

Although the text originates from the First World War, Francis Pott's Lament is a thoroughly modern composition, and is dedicated to the memory of Staff Sergeant Olaf Smid, GC, who was a former Head Chorister of this Cathedral Choir, killed in Afghanistan in 2009. The text, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson's A Lament, dating from 1918, is a poem of remembrance that primarily expresses regret that things can never really go back to how they were before the War. Gibson saw active service as an infantryman on the Western Front, and was not only a friend of Siegfried Sassoon, but also Rupert Brooke, whom he met in 1914 in the village of Dymock, Gloucestershire.

Set in six parts, the texture of this music is especially dense. Instead of the melody and accompaniment style we have heard already this evening, all six parts (one treble, two altos, two tenors and one bass) are continually moving independently, producing an elegant and restrained 'ebb and flow', where different parts peek out of the texture at different times, shifting the emphasis of the words. The piece opens with “We who are left”, which at first suggests the surviving soldiers, but as the verse goes on it seems more that it is the voice of the nation at home. The subject matter is primarily of simple “little things”, namely weather and birdsong, evoking the typical English countryside. The first verse calls to remembrance that the soldiers who went away were ordinary people who loved the same things as much as those who did not fight, including the “sun and rain” that we feel every day. Gibson writes that they went “Ungrudgingly”, that these men, like him, chose to sign up to fight of their own free will and “spent their all for us”. Rather than Brooke's invocation of crusading, Gibson succeeds here in planting us firmly in everyday reality. Overall, he asks how can these soldiers return to a life of normality after the shattering effect of fighting? Pott mirrors the restrained sense of the text with his use of dynamics and tempo, drawing the listener in. He does not shrink from the subject matter though, with particularly tortured chromaticism to illustrate the “heart-break in the heart of things”. The piece ends with a repeat of the first line, which gradually dies away to nothing, with a tenor and treble soloist holding onto the last notes long after the rest of the choir has finished.

We who are left, how shall we look again

Happily on the sun, or feel the rain,

Without remembering how they who went

Ungrudgingly, and spent

Their all for us, loved, too, the sun and rain?

A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings-

But we, how shall we turn to little things

And listen to the birds and winds and streams

Made holy by their dreams

Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?

Words: Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

The first of Charles Hubert H Parry's six Songs of Farewell, My Soul, There is a Country is the oldest poem represented in this programme. Written by Henry Vaughan in the seventeenth century, Peace belongs to the 'metaphysical' school of English poetry, which was most famously represented by John Donne and George Herbert. This cycle of songs was among the very last of Parry's output, as he died in October 1918, just before the end of the War. The War was a great upset for Parry, not least because of his love of continental (and especially German) music and culture, but also as many of his students went away to the Front.

Parry sets the poem in four parts, with a refreshing directness. With repeated chords on “My Soul”, the music moves swiftly on to describe heaven as the “Country far beyond the stars”, borrowing imagery from the books of Genesis and Revelation, where both the Garden of Eden and the Gates of Heaven are described as being guarded by their own “winged sentries”. The text goes on to describe this Heavenly land, ruled over in an Earthly fashion, with God, styled here as “Peace”, at its head, and Jesus Christ, “one born in a manger”. For each four line stanza, Parry composes a new section, with its own distinct character, repeating the final verse at the very end. The emphasis of this poem is that of peace itself, and how that can bring the soul closer to God. 'Peace' is crowned with “smiles” in the second verse, and in the fourth verse, the “flow'r of Peace” which can be found in this country is described as a “fortress and thy ease”, signifying the importance of the security in peace as a way to God as well. The last verse plainly sums up the rest of the poem, the message that the only way for the soul to find peace in Heaven is to come through faith in God on Earth.

My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,

Where stands a wingèd sentry

All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger,

Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles

And One, born in a manger

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,

And O my soul, awake!

Did in pure love descend

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither,

There grows the flower of Peace,

The Rose that cannot wither,

Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges,

For none can thee secure

But One who never changes,

Thy God, thy life, thy cure.

Words: Henry Vaughan

INTERVAL

In 1942, Zoltán Kodály composed his Organ-Mass, a purely instrumental setting of the Ordinary of the Mass, following a tradition that stretches back to fifteenth century England, and made famous in the Livres d'Orgue of many French baroque composers. However, it was not simply an 'alternatim' setting (where the organ plays alternatively with choir singing plainchant), this was set entirely for organ, with the Mass text written in the margins to show which part of the text was represented. Premiered in 1943, it was this work that formed the basis of the Missa Brevis we know today. Rather than leave Hungary during the Second World War like his contemporary Béla Bartók (1881-1945), Kodaly elected to stay in his native country.

It was in the winter of 1944, near the end of the War, during some of the most bitter fighting between Nazi and Soviet forces, that the city of Budapest, split by the river Danube, faced terrible destruction. Although the Soviet Army was able to push the Nazi forces out of the Pest side and over the river, Buda was not so fortunate, and that side of the city underwent vicious periods of 24-hour a day bombing from both sides. It was during this time that Kodály chose to take shelter in the basement of the Hungarian State Opera House with his wife, Emma, to whom this Mass is dedicated, on their 35^th wedding anniversary. While hiding from the war around him, Kodály expanded the Organ-Mass into the Missa Brevis for choir and orchestra with organ, and set the six movements of the Mass, Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, Benedictus, and Agnus Dei, with the Introitus and Ite, Missa est at the beginning and end remaining as instrumental movements. The work was first performed in the Opera House's cloakroom, in 1945, and the international premiere came not long after, in the 1948 Three Choirs Festival held in Worcester.

Kodály drew on many influences in composing this Mass, none more so than those of his own country. Steeped in the traditions of the Hungarian folk songs he had collected in the first decade of the twentieth century, the work has a strong modal flavour, with a focus on the Phrygian mode. Related to the ancient Greek mode of the same name, and the Fourth Tone of church modes, this mode is stereotypically associated with music of Jewish origin, and the folk music of regions that have had large Jewish populations, such as Spain and large parts of Eastern Europe. One of its chief characteristics is the 'half-step' down into cadences; the delaying of this in either bass or melody parts can produce crushing dissonances, but it also brings a feeling of enormous solidarity when the chord comes together at cadence points. The use of drones, again copied from folk music, creates a mysterious, almost reverent atmosphere.

The Introitus begins with one of these drone pedal notes, and introduces motifs that we will see used again in the Missa Brevis, most prominently in the Kyrie and Agnus Dei. In the middle of the Kyrie, a trio of treble soloists soar up to a top C, before we turn back to the darkness of the original Kyrie motif.

The Gloria begins with tenors sounding “et in terra pax” like trumpets, before the altos and basses join in imitation, leading to a joyous start to the movement. This gives way to a trio of men’s solo voices with the words “Qui tollis”, with the use of clashing notes separated by octaves to heighten the feeling of passion that Kodaly pours into this section. The full choir returns with “Quoniam tu solus Sanctus”, with an energetic dotted rhythm figure, that leads to a hugely climactic “Amen”.

The Credo introduces more new material, with an opening motif that seems to be inspired by Gregorian plainchant. The “Et incarnatus est” is the emotional centre of this movement, with grinding dissonances that show Kodály at his most devotional. This leads straight into the “Et resurrexit”, which reclaims the mood of the Gloria, and introduces a second motif based on leaps of large intervals. It ends in a triumphant mood, with an “Amen” no less impressive than that of the Gloria.

The opening of the Sanctus shows a strictly contrapuntal side, beginning with a short fugal section. At “Pleni sunt caeli” the first Credo motif makes a return, taking us to the sustained “Hosanna”. The Benedictus is more lyrical in its outset, with long phrases in all voice parts. Gradually, it builds in intensity until the “Hosanna” returns.

The Agnus Dei announces itself with the basses very low in their register. The “qui tollis” from the Gloria is used, again for solo voices, and is then expanded upon for the whole choir. The climax at “Dona nobis pacem” is overwhelming and surely the plea for God to “Grant us peace” would have been heartfelt in that State Opera House, amidst bombing from all directions.

Finally, the Ite, Missa Est uses almost all the themes we have heard already in the Mass, most notably from the Credo, but also quotes from the Introitus and Sanctus. In reusing this material, Kodaly brings his Mass full circle by unifying its musical spirit.

1 – Introitus

Organ solo

2 – Kyrie

Kyrie, eleison.

Christe, eleison.

Kyrie, eleison.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.

3 – Gloria

Gloria in excelsis Deo,

Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.

Laudamus te, benedicimus te, adoramus te, glorificamus te.

Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam,

Domine Deus, rex caelestis, Deus Pater omnipotens.

Domine Fili unigenite, Jesu Christe, Domine Deus, Agnus Dei, Filius Patris.

Qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.

Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe deprecationem nostram.

Qui sedes ad dexteram Patris, miserere nobis.

Quoniam tu solus Sanctus, tu solus Dominus, tu solus Altissimus,

Jesu Christe, cum Sancto Spiritu, in gloria Dei Patris.

Amen.

Glory be to God on high,

And in earth peace, good will to all men.

We praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee, we glorify thee,

We give thanks to thee for thy great glory,

O Lord God, heavenly King, God the Father Almighty.

O Lord, the only begotten son Jesus Christ,

O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of God, Son of the Father.

Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.

Thou that takest away the sins of the world, receive our prayer,

Thou that sittest at the right hand of the Father, have mercy upon us.

For thou only art holy; thou only art the Lord; thou only, O Christ, with the Holy Ghost,

Art most high in the glory of God the Father.

Amen

4 – Credo

Credo in unum Deum; Patrem omnipotentem, factorem coeli et terrae, visibilium omnium et invisibilium. Et in unum Dominum Jesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum, Et ex Patre natum ante omnia sæcula.
Deum de Deo, lumen de lumine, Deum verum de Deo vero. Genitum non factum, consubstantialem Patri: per quem omnia facta sunt. Qui propter nos homines, et propter nostram salutem descendit de coelis.

Et incarnatus est de Spiritu Sancto ex Maria Virgine: et homo factus est. Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est.

Et resurrexit tertia die secundum Scripturas. Et ascendit in coelum: sedet ad dexteram Patris. Et iterum venturus est cum gloria judicare vivos et mortuos: cujus regni non erit finis.

Et in Spiritum Sanctum, Dominum, et vivificantem: Qui ex Patre Filioque procedit. Qui cum Patre et Filio simul adoratur et conglorificatur: qui locutus est per Prophetas.

Et in unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam. Confiteor unum baptisma, in remissionem peccatorum. Et expecto resurrectionem mortuorum. Et vitam venturi sæculi.

Amen.

I believe in one God; the Father almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, begotten of the Father before all worlds;
God of God, light of light, true God of true God, begotten not made; being of one substance with the Father, by Whom all things were made. Who for us men and for our salvation descended from heaven;

And was incarnate by the Holy Ghost, of the Virgin Mary, and was made man. He was crucified also for us, suffered under Pontius Pilate, and was buried.

And on the third day He rose again according to the Scriptures: and ascended into heaven. He sitteth at the right hand of the Father; and He shall come again with glory to judge the living and the dead; and His kingdom shall have no end.

I believe in the Holy Ghost, the Lord and giver of life, Who prodeedeth from the Father and the Son, Who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified; as it was told by the Prophets.

And I believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church. I acknowledge one baptism for the remission of sins. And I await the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.

Amen.

5 – Sanctus

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
Pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua.
Hosanna in excelsis.

Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts.
Heaven and earth are full of Thy glory.
Hosanna in the highest.

6 – Benedictus

Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.
Hosanna in excelsis.

Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna in the highest.

7 – Agnus

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.
Agnus Dei. Dona nobis pacem.

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us.
Lamb of God. Grant us peace.

8 – Ite, Missa Est

Organ solo

Programme notes by Paul-Ethan Bright

If ye be risen again

Rather than work on anything exciting for myself, I've recently been working on exciting things for other people, mostly my Cathedral Church.  Always, pushing brinkmanship to what can only be considered a 'high art' level, I've always wondered how long this kind of tactic can last... only to find that it still serves.  The fact that my dissertation came together in much the same fashion just over three years ago probably explains everything...

Still, sat here in a kind of intellectual aftermath, at least the weather's picked up.  Over the last two days I completely burnt out my brain by completing this term's programme notes in a seven hour shift overnight after dining on what I can only describe as the world's hottest Thai cuisine that very evening.  There's something... Irresistible about having one's back up against the deadline though, some sick thrill that cannot be ignored.  Always always always my best work comes out of such a situation, and I haven't found an effective way of changing this... And it isn't as if I've tried very hard.  This isn't supposed to be some sort of long overdue apology to either my teachers, my professors, my choir master or perhaps even myself (unless it is?!?), seeing as it's more a way of life that I've gradually committed myself to without too much in the way of guilt.  The guilt only comes when these last-second dashes disrupt other people, a kind of sad inevitability I suppose...

Anyway.  The notes will be posted here on Saturday, in accordance to the pattern I'm establishing.  Unlike the printed notes, I've restored the one major paragraph that was cut by my editor out of the published notes.  Thankfully, it seems my editor and I have seen more-or-less eye to eye on everything else though, and I'm immensely proud to know that my name will be printed at the end.  It's strange in a way, that while here in Truro, both of my dreams have come true in a way: not only have I found a place as a full time Lay Clerk in a Cathedral Choir, I'm also being paid to write, which (if you turn your head sideways and squint a bit), makes me a professional writer as well.  Look, if people can claim to be professional singers from doing the occasional concert and being paid to deputise as and when, then I can claim professionalism from writing the occasional blog and being paid for programme notes.  As wonderful as this realisation is... It sort of means I need to find a new dream.  Perhaps leaving here and finding a new appointment is the next big thing?  I'm certainly not going anywhere right now; not only is this the worst time for any Altos to do a disappearing act, but also and more critically, I just don't want to leave.  A vacancy recently came up in England, and I jumped to begin with... But then made a decision based more on value than cost.  Well, it would also cost me a hell of a lot to move as well, but things are really nice down here at the moment.

Of course it isn't all perfect.  Especially right now, funnily enough... The thing is, end of term is coming up and it's the end of the world in a way as well.  One of my reasons for looking for another appointment is kind of down to the size of the Choral Scholar team down here.  Building relationships with people that basically have an expiration date is pretty rough, and not something I'm wired up for.   Yes, there's a team of Lay Vicars that make up the rest of the choir, but they're older, have jobs, families, all sorts of other commitments that simply don't exist in my life.  There is a generational gap to bridge in that respect.  Now, there will be two more 'young' Lay Vicars next year (including one who is still a Scholar at time of writing), but who knows what's going to happen in the next few years?  They may not stay.  I may not stay!  Of course, the only sensible answer to this is not to worry, but since when the hell would I not want to worry?  it's an integral part of my personality.  I am still a very anxious person, even though I've been told how warm and engaging I am as well.  My low opinion of myself continues, and I may never really know exactly what I am capable of instead of always chalking up what I can't do.  But back to the point (har har), I actually deeply enjoy being in Truro Cathedral Choir.  For once, I don't have much against the establishment (how unlike me), and the odd disagreement I do have with the management normally gets hashed out where it belongs: in the pub over a few jars, where it can burn out harmlessly.  This kind of flare-up means it can get out of the system quicker, although there is the odd lasting grievance... I still get angry with mistakes from all quarters though, especially seeing how much I punish myself for my own.  I often wonder what would happen to my career if I allowed myself to make as many mistakes... But it's not as if I'd ever relax enough for that.  It seems that the one thing I have been relaxed enough for is some amateur transvestitism, donning wig and dress to help out our Organ Scholar in what I can only describe as a truly Vaudevillian concert, where I performed alongside her and friend in their organ duo. 

This year races towards the end as well.  After the pretty intense run up to the broadcast earlier this year, and the recording sessions, that while successful really did run all the way to the wire, this last half of term is just being eaten up fast.  This Saturday is the Summer Concert of course, For the Fallen, composed mainly of settings of trench poetry (having to deal with which for the notes has left me feeling pretty delicate), then a week after that we perform a reconstruction of a Lutheran Vespers, complete with two Cantatas by J. S. Bach... and then after that it's only a fortnight til close.  Although I hate change almost as much as my Boss does, I also can't stand to be alone, and the day that the Scholary empties this year will be a sad day indeed for me.  I'm also pretty much going to have to find a job this year, because really being poor forever kinda sucks, and I'd much rather have some truly disposable income that I can spend on whatever I like without having to budget like an insane person.  I have places to go and people to be with, and there's nothing so embarrassing as being paralysed by a lack of funds.  I'm sure there's some travel deity that I ought to be sacrificing burnt offerings to in thanks for my railcard, as without that I would be truly stuck.  I really want to get my automatic license this year as well, so I can get a little runaround and actually go wherever whenever around here, you know, as well as maybe drive up to see my dear mother every now and again.

It's almost time for work though.  With the recent upswing in temperature, I have taken to a slightly more...relaxed state of dress (basically bare-legged) underneath my cassock, and to be perfectly honest if it gets any hotter I'm just going to take to wearing a kaftan, to hell with it... All donations to my Kaftan fund are graciously received, of course.

As my head works itself back together though, I might just find some tome to enjoy myself after all.  make sure I don't get too bored.  Remember, life is short; smile a lot because you don't know how long you'll have teeth for. 

Behold, thou hast made my days

"I need to write, I must write, it really is time I wrote"... At least it's only been three weeks.

After yet another long Bank Holiday weekend (what else are weekends in May for anyway?), I actually find myself with a lot of work ahead of me: not only do I have three busy working weekends singing ahead of me, but also have a not inconsiderable amount of writing to do.  It seems that somewhere along the line, I became a professional writer without realising it.  This will be the third time this year that I'll be responsible for the programme notes that accompany the termly concerts laid on by the Cathedral Choir, and I've also been engaged to collect the texts for this year's CD liner.  Not only that, but I'm also going to be typesetting chorale tunes for the orders of service for Trinity term's main event, a reconstruction of Lutheran Vespers, which will include two Bach Cantatas, accompanied by string band.  This is all on top of the weekly services, preparing for Saturday concerts (including a Messiah) running three weeks in a row, prepping solos for the Cantatas and looking for a new job... And I don't just mean a part time one here.  Of course, the final draft of the notes will be up here, but hopefully before the concert this time...

All in all, this has been a pretty weird three weeks since last I sat to write. Being told how beautiful my self-expression is never seems to sit right with me (although I accept this graciously), as it's always felt like hard work... But hard work that's obviously paying off.  It's often not about simplicity, more about being absolutely and critically accurate to how I feel, which is not a something that comes readily that often.  As much as I never believe the hype about anybody else, I certainly don't believe any hype about myself, so I don't get tripped into getting too confident and making mistakes that could have been otherwise easily avoided.  Getting used to new routines and rhythms (and not just my own) is never what I'd class as easy, especially as I really, imperatively, desperately need to eradicate some personal bad habits that have become so ingrained of late that the people (think choral scholars, &c) whom I have only recently met might even call characteristic, defining.   The more I think about it, the more obvious it seems to me that there are two matters at the heart of it, one being a matter of faith and the other being a matter of punishment.

Faith comes and goes at the best of times, but there's always been one thing I've never been able to commit to believing in, and that's me.  It's not really a massive surprise to me, and probably not to you, trying to keep the faith where I am concerned has always been a struggle - I don't really think it's worth it most of the time.  My faith in those around me, on the other hand, has always been relatively secure.  This might explain my relative intensity (which burns forever, of course) in even simple relational matters, as I seem to pour a lot of reliability into people simply because I am so loath to believe in myself.  Dreadful, I know.  I've only just began to get a hold on how intimidating this must seem as well; better late than never, I suppose.  

Punishment?  Is that with or without sin?  Usually without.  In what is most likely to be a byproduct of not having any faith, I am always the first to punish myself.  Quick to decry my abilities as a singer, player, writer, cook, or just as a human being in general, and it is this that has been at the heart of many problems over the years.  Decades (yes, really) spent telling myself that I do not deserve to succeed, that I don't even have the right to try have left parts of me bitter and empty.  It has kept me away from jobs, choirs, orchestras, relationships and ultimately, happiness.  I guess I started blaming myself for everything all those years ago in a move to avoid conflict; arguments are often easily solved once a culprit, a scapegoat can be identified.  It's an odd tactic really, but it's been surprisingly effective for quite a while.  Shutting down my ability to take chances as a way of avoiding failure has been how I have lived my life for too long.  

It is time to find another way.

This isn't going to default into some witless pep talk, don't worry.  For saying I have a weak hold on believing in myself, I have even less belief in those.  Like I said last time, I've had enough with self-destruction as a life choice.  It's not really rewarding, I'm sorry.  I've been telling people recently that I need to rewire my head: I don't need anything new, just to rearrange what's already here... If you can stretch to that metaphor.  Rather than find a new identity, to get any more pieces, it's more to fit everything back into place (and give away the last piece as well).  Being introduced to the concept that it's alright  to have faith in myself and take that plunge, that my self-belief is in fact a necessary part of having faith in somebody else is new and unfamiliar.  It's not unwelcome... It's just I'm not remotely used to it.  With any luck, I'll be able to rectify a lot of the damage that I did to myself over the last year to eighteen months, famously documented.  I've always considered my personality to be more gestalt than anything or anyone else, that I'm almost as many different things as there are different people; many reflections of the same face.  If I can do this final push to unify my often conflicting personas, then maybe I can actually acknowledge the strength that other people recognise and praise me for.  All sorts of things I would never even begin to imagine about myself have been uncovered this weekend gone as well.  Maybe I can actually grow up a little on the way.  Maybe I can dare to succeed.

I chose not to get too bogged down in how much of an idiot I am to myself.  The brief recollection above is enough, this is a different mission after all.  The past speaks for itself, and I have no cause to torture myself any longer.  I'm preparing a serious way out of Truro as well, in what is as big a shock to you as it is to me.  The truth is... I'm beginning to understand that while I may not have a definite five or ten year plan yet, I don't think that life in Truro can serve that.  Things are changing, and fast as well.  I'm very aware that I have to commit to this for myself though, as easy as it would be to do it for someone else.  To be perfectly honest, that's still the strangest bit really... But this has to be about me, or I really am doomed.

Tune in next time though, where I talk about something else entirely, and might even cut some pictures in.  How exciting.

See, see the Word

It's finally time to take my finger off the Self-destruct button.

This has been a long time coming, obviously. Work, the inability to sleep, heavy drinking patterns and good old fashioned apathy have been the main elements of the radio silence around here for the past few weeks. To be perfectly honest, I have been quite busy... Which I shall detail over the next few hundred words and however long of our lives I spend writing and you spend reading.

I sit, wrapped in a sleeping bag in an apartment on the Prince of Wales road, Norwich. Yes, I rise from furthest west to find furthest east once more... Until my return journey which must either commence at 9 in the morning or not get back on time for evensong. This is an immense gamble with delays and the chance of getting stuck through London (is it warmer down in the tubes because they're closer to hell? Discuss for 40 marks) but who knows! It'll probably all work out just fine, and I'll roll down the hill straight into rehearsal, ready to resume my rightful place as the first Decani Alto Songman... No sorry, Lay Vicar. What is in a name, after all? It's going to be a long trip back though, that's for sure. As much as this weekend has reminded me that as much as I hate the actual act of travel itself, the value of doing so is inestimable, and that Norwich truly is a Fine City. The fact that I couldn't get into what must be the scummiest nightclub in town in shorts and sandals reflects the fact that I have simply spent too much time in Cornwall, where no such dress code exists in the many pubs that surround not only Truro but also around the wider Cornish land as well. That and I tend not to go clubbing as I got tired of being surrounded by crowds of sweaty people gyrating to music that is just far too loud, being ripped off for a pint of foreign lager a long time ago... Christ, how old am I?

Let's step back a week or so though, and take a sea voyage to the Isles of Scilly. Truro Cathedral Choir's bi-yearly tour to the islands rumbled on in traditional fashion, with a well-attended concert and a non too strenuous evensong on the main island's church of St. Mary's, and a short hop over to the sparsely populated island of St. Agnes, famed for its miniscule chapel and a fine hostelry, The Turk's Head. Pink Gins, annoying the locals with Brahms' Requiem, and a good helping of Barnsley banter are my lasting memories of this year's trip, and as usual, lasting sunburn is my only real souvenir. It's not as hilariously bad as the battenburg legs from the UEA Haydn day, but the difference between my burnt and unburnt skin is almost as extreme as you can get. Think Lobster.

One episode saw myself and a companion stuck in the shop on St. Agnes for some twenty minutes, while the rest of the choir headed for pub lunch. It's as if we were somehow transported to the 50s (Pepsi Max notwithstanding), as this wondrous place served not only as a general store, the post office, but also where the good folk of St. Agnes come to talk about the weather. As experiences go, being on the Isles is rather surreal for me; the number one oddity has to be not locking your bicycle up on the street. Look, I know I know I know... Everybody knows each other so it's not as if you could ever get away with knicking anything, but still...

Thankfully though, the tour seems to have been a great success once again. A personal highlight was my introduction to the Barnsley Rap, which ought to be required listening for just about anybody really, but mostly for Midlanders, for whom it should be a telling and witty satire of a typical bloke. Another fun moment was being told to quieten down as an inpromptu Deutsches Requiem love-in moment interrupted the local folk night in the Bishop and Wolf on the second night. Also, the so Great White Sickbucket was surprisingly... Survivable. For all the talk of necessary sick bags, acupuncture bands, travel pills and staring at the horizon, it seemed that the Gods smiled upon us, as it was possibly the smoothest crossing of the whole week, even between the islands. But who wants to hear about boats?

Anyway, this long Bank holiday weekend has really been all about one thing, and one thing only: the celebration of The Chief's wedding. As usual, nothing is quite as it seems, as I gather the actually marriage happened months previous (not that I knew at the time), much like the birth of his first born son (also another surprise (although presumably not to him)). This weekend has been somewhat of an emotional rollercoaster. Even being back in Norwich is amazing, especially when you consider the ridiculous journey it took to get here. I hate travel at the best of times of course, and having to sacrifice the best part of an entire day to crossing the country. There's also something weird about sitting in one place transporting you to another place... Okay, enough navel gazing. I also know that it isn't really that ridiculous, but this is about me hating long journeys so I don't care. I've never been a fan, but eh, it's kind of alright. The biggest problem is money, not distance after all.

Arriving on Friday, I felt like a tourist in my old city. Dressed in a particularly Cornish flavour (shorts, sandals, heavy cable knit), I made a break for the Norwich branch of the Gourmet Burger Kitchen, which I actually felt paled in comparison to Truro's own HUB Box, before reporting to the Bell Hotel for a swift pint... Where I had to leave my luggage in the middle of the floor while I waited for service... Just who does that?! I used to drink there every week and now I feel like a tourist! Thank God I didn't have a camera around my neck. I actually walked through the Lamb Inn first, on a fruitless search for Blue Moon. I must have looked like a right pillock, dragging my huge red luggage around town until Sensei came to pick me up.

The Wedding of the Century certainly lived up to the hype. I've been saying it with a wink ever since I was invited, but you know... It really was. A choir of eleven, a brass quartet and an organist filled the delicate confines of St. Peter's, Merton with sublime music and some very loud hymn singing. Having donned Doctor Bond's Morning Suit especially for the occasion, I even chose to accessorise my outfit by matching my phone case to my tie. I'm in on the official photos and everything! Even the weather was with us, and glorious sunshine greeted us as we left the church at the end of the ceremony. It seemed that fortune was our friend rather than foe, as the reception continued on apace, with a sung grace of Our Boy Billy's Ave Verum Corpus, complete with the pre-requisite English cadences, and a fine sit-down commenced after, itself complete with plenty of fine wines; perhaps the finest wines available to humanity? As the evening drew the Best Man's speech really was the speech we deserved, and the speech we needed. After service, a Jazz band assembled, which led to the usual 'dance until you can hardly walk' routine, but by 'eck is it worth it!

Okay, enough with the recounting of every detail already. Some of the finest things this weekend have been focussed on being accepted by people I've never met. I seemed to fit in quite well with The Chief and Toon's Durham pals who served as ushers and the choir. I even managed to accept compliments (just say thank you first, even if you don't quite believe it) about my voice! Having recently turned away from my old 'lightening countertenor' image, maybe it's time to turn back and actually believe in myself. The Christening in Spamcroft the next day was a bit of an opportunity to let rip, even though my raw throat stopped me going full tilt. Good ol' Bill to the rescue with his Mass a 4, and the mighty Cwn Rhondda at the end to really storm some barns. 

Over this past weekend, I have been reminded what it feels to be a whole and good person again, and it's as welcome as it is surprising. I cannot stress it enough and I couldn't put too fine a point on it, but don't have adequate tools at my disposal to express it. And there's no point in rushing after all. Verily, I say unto you; a total revolution, like a huge whirlwind that has shattered and uprooted some deep seated issues and uncovered feelings long buried, I thought once for my own good, but have finally managed to change my mind which is nothing short of a miracle in itself. Even though I want to feel angry and annoyed for always punishing myself, it's time to stop that, and learn to move on. If I don't... well, I really will be consumed utterly by my bitterness. I've had long enough finding out if self destruction really is the answer (seems inconclusive), and at least try something else entirely. It'll be tough, because that's all I'm used to, but I might have more success if I try another way. Because if there's one thing I've learned, there's always another way.

It's time for something new, yet familiar. I will no longer lock myself away. One thing I slowly worked out that was a problem with my last blog especially, was that I would spend a couple of thousand words unpacking my issues, but then never doing anything constructive about it. In a way, this has been an incredible act of self-sabotage, and critically I must, I have to, it is my duty to turn away from this. Rather than defining myself by my limitations, I must define myself by my victories, by what I have earned and what I have accomplished. Heavens, I might even start traveling more often...!

Chapter I

Tap, tap.
'It was quiet in the coffee shop that afternoon.  There had been a short rush before 1, but it seemed most people were getting lunch delivered and working through their unpaid hour.'
Tap tap tap.
'Still, the day crept on and there had been a steady trickle of customers until about half an hour ago.  Now, the only thing that could be heard was the espresso machine ticking over, giving the silence a kind of vibratory hum.'
Tap. 
"No."
The tapping ceased as the typing came to an abrupt stop.  He shook his head in disappointment as he realised that this was all dross.  Sighing, he pushed the seat back from the desk in resignation.  Is it really this difficult?  Five years of study (not forgetting that Master's...), too many unpaid internships to mention and a regular gig as an opinion columnist all seem to count for nothing when it gets to writing about something that hasn't actually happened.  Still, he didn't get through all that by giving up at the first hurdle; that and the uncanny knack of getting on people's good side can't have hurt either.

Leaning back in the chair, he looked up at the shelves above his writing station, filled with precious artifacts from over the years.  His Graduation photo, arm in arm with smiling parents before dad died, the 'Good Luck!' card from his last job waiting tables til midnight, and a curious needlepoint that bore the words "a broken and contrite heart shalt thou not despise", a gift from an art college girlfriend, ex.  The only thing they had in common was a love of scripture rather than each other, but it was a strange comfort in moments like now, when inspiration deserted him.  Above these, shelves rose to the ceiling: packed with manuals of style, collected works of Shakespeare, Brecht, Kant, and all sorts of curios; their spines faded from years in the light.

Pushing himself up from the chair, he grumbled and retied the cord holding the robe closed around him.  Barefoot, he strode firmly over to the desk that managed to dominate the huge study.  Rooting through the third draw, he finally uncovered a large leather pouch from the litter of nicotine patches.  Slamming it on the desk, he fetched out filters, a bag of tobacco and liquorice papers.  Rolling with nimble fingers, he turned about face, the robe swishing behind as he opened the curtains to a bay window.  The shock of the light threw his furrowed brow into sharp relief, as the light of a full moon reflected off the calm surface of the river.  Something padding outside to room suddenly caught his attention, if only for a second; was wasn't alone, after all.  Turning back to the window, a sharp click punctuated the air as the lighter burst into life, and he drew heavily on the little brown cigarette. 
"Who the hell would write about some damn coffee house anyway."  The ashtray was full.  "Shit."
"Maybe I should write a poem about a boat, send that to the publishers.  I could tell them it was a children's story.  I could make a lot of easy money."
He heard the padding noise again, and this time leaned out of the bay to check the time: 2am.  "Oh Christ I didn't realise..."
Adding to the corpses of half smoked and long forgotten cigarette butts, he quickly shut the curtains and returned to the bureau that the laptop lived in to check over what he had written that night.  "At least I've got something down.  I couldn't bear to imagine that I'd just wasted the last six hours...", he chuckled grimly, while trying to lick the nicotine off the back of his teeth.  Shutting down and switching the lamps off, he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be in a meeting at the office by 10 in the morning.  He issued a small groan at this point, completely synchronised with the perfect eye roll of dismay.

As he reached for the door handle, he heard it again; padding across the outside landing floor, a dread footfall in what should have been a silent house.  He recoiled, and felt the air chill around him.  "This... isn't happening.  Nope!", he rallied and swung the door open with force, in some sort of show of territorial supremacy to find... nothing.  The sudden pang of fear followed immediately by the realisation there was nothing there made him feel like an idiot, and he snorted in his displeasure.  The entire place was deathly quiet, and the only note in the darkness was light creeping out from underneath the bedroom door.  Crossing swiftly and not without a hint of paranioa, he slipped into the bedroom pushed the door closed behind him, issuing a sharp thud, which made the her stir in the bed.
"Nnnnn... Have you been working again?  What time is it?", hoarse with sleep.
"Yes, but shhhh, it's late."
"How late?"
"Late enough.  Don't worry about it.  Come on", he whispered, doing his best to slide in without disturbing her too much.
"You shouldn't smoke so late"
"What?"
"Pfff you were supposed to be giving up."
"I know, I know.  I'm trying."
"You are."

It was only 2:15.  Still early, he thought.  He could definitely miss the meeting.  They wouldn't mind too much.  He already knew what would happen, it was just one of those office bureaucracy things, a formality.  As he lay down to sleep, he turned on his side and faced away, so the smell of the tobacco wouldn't be her problem too.  Drifting off, the image of a huge black dog flashed into his mind's eye for just a second and then gone; with that, he dreamt no more.

Master Plan, part 1

It's easy, really, to start something and leave it.  Not even approaching the unfinished stage, just kind of hanging indefinitely, forgotten and wasted.  It is this state that I must avoid not only here and now, but also in my personal endeavours, lest this blog become too telling a metaphor for my life at large.

As I keep banging on, the primary reason, I suppose, for this page (rather than carry on with the last) is different.  Even though I am still the same miserable pile of secrets, if I can at least trick myself into believing that I can make some progression then maybe I will without realising.  The real point behind this is the next step in trying to work out my issues of anxiety, self-destruction and lack of confidence.  Also, I will detail my desire for a trip far beyond the scope of anything before attempted or imagined: Portland, OR.  Hopefully though, I'll be able to avoid sounding too sorry for myself as this goes on.


Essentially, I don't believe in my own abilities.  This is the conclusion I have reached with some pretty critical self-observation.  I don't really go out of the way to sabotage myself on too regular a basis, even if it works out that way eventually.  No, simply a lack of belief is the root of my confidence - or should I say the lack thereof.  I never feel capable, and doubt immediately that I could "the right man" for anything at all, let alone in particular.  Last month's job interview was a case in point: applying for work at a well-known High Street Gentlemens' outfitters, I managed to secure an interview, receiving the phone call while I was halfway to St. Michael's Mount.  Donning finest suit and favourite tie, I went along to this rare opportunity, and was informed that while they still had enough candidates to see into the following week (although if you say you're hiring in February of course everyone will throw a CV at you), they'd inform me by letter if I wasn't being hired, or telephone me if I was.  Of course, friends and copains spring to my support: "They'd be stupid not to hire you!", "You're perfect for the job!", "When do you think you'll start?".  I found the 'thanks but no thanks' letter after returning from another amusing and gently lucrative day at the Cathedral Office, explaining that while I was not successful this time, they did wish me every success in my future career.  Brilliant.

Of course, this is a process that we all have to go through, that I'm sure many of us Music graduates find totally soul destroying.  Unlike those who took the BMus course at, oh say, the Royal Northern Conservatoire of Music, giving them four years of performing experience, even singing every day isn't strictly what I spent my time at University studying for.  I find it difficult to imagine balancing choir and an outside job as well; Church Music, much like Fond Youth, is a bubble, and precious few outside the system truly understand it.  Rehearsal starts at five in the evening during the week, not after.  Having recently leafed through my old recital folder and finding Thoreau reminded me that Charles Ives managed to balance twin careers as both an insurance agent and a composer but honestly, I am not Charles Ives.  I certainly haven't programmed any recitals for a long time (who would want to listen to solo Countertenor anyway), but at least I'm still singing every day.  The closest I really get to is in writing the programme notes for the Cathedral Choir concerts, and perhaps after the rave anecdotal reviews from the last set, I might even be lucky enough to start writing for a wider set of concerts.  Applying for work is a stressful and time consuming process as well, which takes more toll than I'm actually comfortable with letting on.  I can't just bounce back from every set back like a lot of other people can.  It's such a disappointment that I've simply quit for now; there's method in this particular madness though, as Cornwall is so seasonal that finding part time work relies on the time of year.  The fact I was called for interview in this post-Christmas but pre-Summer nadir is nothing short of a miracle.  Anyway, I called it that I wouldn't get the job, which made me predictably frustrated with everyone who took as read that I would get it, and certainly those who tried to swear me off doubt - what's the point?  If I'm not hopeful about it, then I won't get upset when (not if) I fail to secure employment.

In fact, that last sentence is another hook into the matter: I am the one who fails others, not that others fail me.  Out of all bad habits that I should seek to reverse then this has to be the worst; assuming fault where where none at all lies, usually in order to keep life quiet and as fuss-free as possible.  If anything, it has become more like a reflex than anything else.  There are of course, some things that are outside the sphere of my control, even though my sense of self blame is reaches as far as the east is from the west, but there'll be plenty of time for blaming other people for their own egregious errors later.  Trying to switch my thinking around that it is in fact the employer who is at fault for not giving me the job, is bordering on the impossible as it is; my ego doesn't have the sufficient gravity to pull off something like that.  Something I have come to terms with though is that not only are employers looking for somebody to fulfill their job spec, but they also look for a specific person.  I'm sure this is crossing a line that may well be strenuously denied or otherwise, but think about it... Why else would a person of equal or lesser qualifications generally qualify to be employed in a situation where I have also applied?  Perhaps they only employ students?  Maybe they're looking for someone with experiences gathered perhaps from time spent backpacking in the far east?  What about if they don't employ men at all - but obviously legally they must at least consider applications or suffer some sort of discriminatory backlash?  I have reached the stage where I accept that I simply am not the person that people are looking for in addition to the existing spec.  That said, I almost believe (not without an air of desperation) that there is an employer looking for me, and just me.  What a simple dream to clutch on to... But such tenacity stops me from going under most of the time, at least.

The other great hook into this is that I am more willing to face and accept my deficiencies than my strengths, to the point where I actually have to ask other people to point out the latter, the former being so obvious to me.  My entire attitude to my skills and talents is no one of triumph or pride, but really one of duty; that I'm supposed to be doing this as well as I can because I have the ability to, in a case of weak deontology if ever I saw it.  It's the reason I never have time off from choir, and make light of having a knack with the photocopier.  I know it isn't very exciting but somebody needs to know how to email straight from the copier, right?  Most of my transferable skills (other than score reading, ornamentation, registration, and rusty continuo playing) are office-based.  I'm good at filing, sorting copies, and forwarding messages.  The on again, off again employment I have at the Cathedral Office has been extraordinarily kind to me over the past 30 months, starting as just an hour a day lunchtime cover going to full two week stretches of full time days, learning the systems and phone extensions gradually, while keeping up a professional telephone manner.  It proves that I can in fact work in an office environment... But then again, this is part and parcel of my vocation, and they understand when I skip off five minutes early to get somewhere near the 5pm kick off in The Shed.  It's a small office, with less than 30 people in the building, even when everybody's here.  It's a manageable environment, and I'm bloody lucky to have been invited back again and again; not only is the money good but there are some fine souls working here who are often pleased to have me on board.  They speak in appreciative tones, and tell me how well I do.  How well I do?  I don't even think about it in that way.  It's not that I refuse praise, it's more that I don't see why I deserve it.

But perhaps this is the essence itself.  Having actually lost that delicate grasp on faith in myself, I have made things almost impossible.  Meeting this issue head on is possibly the best way forward, and certainly better than pussy footing around it all, and predictably I have no truck for this new-age 'positive thinking' nonsense either.  If I'm going to get anywhere, even with the help of others, I need to do it through effort and a couple of hours Organ practice a week.  It's amazing what even a lunchtime spent on what's left of the Cathedral Byfield will do, actually.  But I digress...

Of course, the final part is that I make it public discourse.  I don't often get much in the way of comment or discussion on here, but sometimes people do mention in public that they've at least read.  It's not so much some sort of handy guide or signpost, but more to perhaps to at least start thinking; I am grumpy, foul mouthed and infinitely critical, but it stems from the ridiculously exacting standards I hold myself to.  I'm only just beginning to understand that it might not be fair to expect other people to have even remotely similar standards.  Although why they don't is completely beyond me...  Perhaps it's an unconscious decision though, knowing that in order to make effective and valuable progress that I must at least admit and accept my vulnerabilities in order to move on.   That's also quite hard, and hardly surprising that certain people choose to cover themselves with an almost never-ending variety of lies in order to make up for it.  While I may have made great strides in telling untruths, I can hardly keep up a facade with any real consistency.  

Oh well.  I'm sure I've spent long enough unpacking my problems.  I can only hope that reading them is just as informative and illuminating as writing them has been, and critically, not totally boring.  I set a precedent for moaning last time sure but I'd like to think there's a smattering of hope and even a crumb, even a grain of understanding.  It may be my own timidity that stops me in my tracks day by day, but at least I do not witlessly believe any chance that I take will lead to glory and instant success.  Years of Science lessons have at least taught me that even the meanest of experiments need their very own risk assessment.