Welcome to the first in what is a staggering departure for me and my house in writing an actual review about... About a thing that... That somebody else made and or did. I hope you are patient while I settle in to this new routine. I've chosen what I can only describe as a real old favourite to get started with, so at least I don't feel too strange doing something new. Aha...
Fang Island, formerly of Providence and now of Brooklyn, released this eponymous album following Day of the Great Leap and Sky Gardens in '08 and '09 respectively. In 2010, Fang Island came out and made all my Indie-Post-Instrumental-Progressive dreams come true, without me even knowing it.
I discovered this album, like all great things, completely by accident on a scrobbling session through Last.fm. I can't even remember what I was searching for at the time, I think I might even have happened upon it in the "Math Rock" tag (because Math Rock is delicious), but I definitely recall the strains of 'Sideswiper' coming through my (then new) satellite speakers. It was just excellent, that sweeping 3/4 opening giving way to 4/4 with a soft but definite distortion, before shifting back again (oh that's why it was in the Math tag huh huh huh), a big joyous sound like sunshine pressed into a CD and back again. The next track, 'The Illinois' even starts with a big crown cheer before breaking into tremolo picking that enhances the sheer brilliance of the sound before gradually winding down. The album is defined by this flow of energy, back and forth; a whole ebb and flow that really works when you just let the disc play. Doing so preserves the banding between tracks (I still haven't found a digital player that keeps that continuous effect. Any tips?) that allows these tidal forces to be even more effective. The end of 'Treeton' into 'Davy Crockett', the latter of which just builds and builds until you feel like cheering them on yourself, is a real big hitter; softly softly and then a step by step build up... This is party music through and through.
It begins how it ends, with vinyl-esque popping, imitation fireworks. Whistles and a synth riff accompanied by a heavenly Drawbar organ (through a Lesley, of course) welcome you, with open arms. "They are all with in my reach/They are free" choruses across your ears before 'Careful Crossers' smashes through, threes against twos in heavy distortion with a squealing lead over the top and liberal use of the top edge of the cymbals really characterise not only this track, but the first half of the album. The lead single, 'Daisy', is Fang Island in a nutshell, and that's a very good thing. Chunky distortion in the rhythm lines, melodic lines harmonised in thirds, lots of Drawbar sound mixed in, abrupt drops in texture, euphoric chanting of seemingly nonsense lyrics, with a calm down before the stomping intro to 'Life Coach'.
The last two tracks keep up the feeling, with 'Welcome Wagon' continuing the trend of foot-stomping intros and third-harmonised melodies, the syncopation of which cuts straight across the rhythm underneath. At times this is the most generic-sounding of the whole line up being a straight-up drums/guitar/bass track, but that melody is pretty catchy, and the consecutive fifths near the end are worth keeping your ears open for. 'Dorian' rounds the day off, with a synth flying in like a violin over the top. This is a real mellow end, with a soft shuffle behind the return of the organ, gradually coming down to the sound of distant fireworks and chirping crickets...
The band have been on paper describing their sound as "everyone high-fiving everyone", and there's no better way to say it really. They have distilled that idea into this very disc, a celebration of fun just for the sake of being cheerful. From the picture on the cover that looks like it might have been picked at random from an old family album to the jack-o-lantern pattern on the CD, there's a sense of amusement woven through the whole enterprise. This isn't the bleeding edge of sound anymore, granted, but it really is still one of my absolute favourites that's sat on my phone for instant replay ever since I got it.
Next time, I'll follow this up with Fang Island's follow up, 2012's Major. I hope I never understand!
Reviewed on a Philips AX1100/00 CD Player through Philips/O'Neill 'The Snug' SHO8802/10 headphones and Logitech Z323 2.1 Surround Speakers.
Thursday, 13 November 2014
Tuesday, 11 November 2014
To-Do List
I am my own worst enemy.
As always, I am behind. The only feet I have left really are back ones, and when told to "put my best foot forward" I am wracked with confusion. Anyway, that's enough barely amusing jokes. Last week I posted the biography that I'll be using for the concert I'll be singing solo in with Truro Choral Society this weekend. I decided to post it with minimal advertisement as this is where everything I publish ends up, and it's always here if I need it for another concert. Basically the only thing that will change is the centre paragraph because that's the one that reflects actual singing work at this time. The rest is all preamble and stuff intended to persuade the reader that I am in fact a normal member of society, and not just some subversive countertenor (wait a minute...) after all. Oh, except for "In preparing for postgraduate study, he is writing to a weekly schedule...". What happened to that? Aha... The road to hell is paved with good intentions, don't forget. Even I have lost count how many times I've said and written something just like that and then promptly not done so. Hypocrisy at its best.
I suppose the central problem is confidence, the lack thereof. I said recently in conversation that my confidence and self-belief are finite supplies; I ran out long ago. Every now and again I get hold of some but then it fritters away (shades of psalm 39), and we are back to square one (which square?). Or worse! We are even behind that starting point! God isn't it awful... Change is difficult and exceptionally slow to implement for me, but it's there (no really it is I promise please believe me), which makes me wonder just what the hell I'm going to do about this verkakte schedule I'm supposed to be keeping to. In having a schedule, I might just be able to reinstate order into my life out of all this time of chaos, rather than live a life of dead-end fucking boredom. There are probably lots of times where it isn't my fault I am so truly awful to and about myself, times when I have been used, abused, vilified, ostracized in my own home or just straight up insulted by somebody who wasn't me (who would ever want to do that I mean honestly?)... But then perhaps my defence has been inadequate?
Perhaps though, in establishing a weekly round-up, I can actually make myself do things as well. I have stopped listening to music unless it's in preparation for some specific occasion - but when one's life has a musical regularity like mine does a bit of silence every now and again doesn't hurt. I've returned to the cinema (certainly compared to my previous life as a University student), but still mainly watch crap designed to entertain and make money, rather than say anything profound (and still make money). Then there is the thorny issue of going back to study itself: An aborted application to Falmouth Uni at the end of August has been belayed a new plan that will need a lot of very careful consideration; it is likely to take me away from here and I need to think about this one very hard indeed. That said though, I probably won't go through with it. Even my cooking has fallen by the wayside recently, which is unforgivably poor, so I must really actually and very vitally get my act back together. I am conscious of being able to help myself more effectively than you would expect, but it doesn't half take a long time to get going. I've had a lot of fight knocked out of me over the recent past, and losing that has been more disastrous than one might first consider. In many ways the War Requiem over the weekend was a great rallying call, something to fight through an 84-piece orchestra and disconcertingly difficult intervals for. I think another central issue is that I just don't do enough. But then, I don't do much because I don't put myself forward for anything and that's because I don't have any confidence yes! *drum roll*
What happens next? I start writing, you keep reading, I keep posting and you tell your friends about how good I am, yeah? Since I'm so late to the party I'll have to start with reviewing things that I've had for a while in order to build the momentum, perhaps a few more responses to concert repertoire like the last post as well - those who knew my relationship with Peter might well have been surprised that I was bothered at all but at no point did I ever take him for a fool, doubt the reasoning process that was behind his decision making and at the end of the day, I would like to think that he would have been impressed and pleased that I was part of such monumental performances. His sometimes low opinion of "everyday" countertenors, Songmen like myself now, spurred me on to prove him wrong.
Having a routine will presumably keep me away from the pub as well. As usual, it's not exactly my liver I'm worried about but more my bank balance; I might be out of my overdraft for the first time in almost half a decade, but paying all my rent myself (oh boo hoo) isn't going to leave me with much pocket money at the end of the month. I must once again cherish the value of things I already have rather than buy more in an empty hope of improving my life. I once read that buying things in order to cheer yourself up is as effective as stapling sandwiches to yourself when hungry. Think about it.
I may well be my own worst enemy, but especially at this time of remembrance, it's worth making peace.
As always, I am behind. The only feet I have left really are back ones, and when told to "put my best foot forward" I am wracked with confusion. Anyway, that's enough barely amusing jokes. Last week I posted the biography that I'll be using for the concert I'll be singing solo in with Truro Choral Society this weekend. I decided to post it with minimal advertisement as this is where everything I publish ends up, and it's always here if I need it for another concert. Basically the only thing that will change is the centre paragraph because that's the one that reflects actual singing work at this time. The rest is all preamble and stuff intended to persuade the reader that I am in fact a normal member of society, and not just some subversive countertenor (wait a minute...) after all. Oh, except for "In preparing for postgraduate study, he is writing to a weekly schedule...". What happened to that? Aha... The road to hell is paved with good intentions, don't forget. Even I have lost count how many times I've said and written something just like that and then promptly not done so. Hypocrisy at its best.
I suppose the central problem is confidence, the lack thereof. I said recently in conversation that my confidence and self-belief are finite supplies; I ran out long ago. Every now and again I get hold of some but then it fritters away (shades of psalm 39), and we are back to square one (which square?). Or worse! We are even behind that starting point! God isn't it awful... Change is difficult and exceptionally slow to implement for me, but it's there (no really it is I promise please believe me), which makes me wonder just what the hell I'm going to do about this verkakte schedule I'm supposed to be keeping to. In having a schedule, I might just be able to reinstate order into my life out of all this time of chaos, rather than live a life of dead-end fucking boredom. There are probably lots of times where it isn't my fault I am so truly awful to and about myself, times when I have been used, abused, vilified, ostracized in my own home or just straight up insulted by somebody who wasn't me (who would ever want to do that I mean honestly?)... But then perhaps my defence has been inadequate?
Perhaps though, in establishing a weekly round-up, I can actually make myself do things as well. I have stopped listening to music unless it's in preparation for some specific occasion - but when one's life has a musical regularity like mine does a bit of silence every now and again doesn't hurt. I've returned to the cinema (certainly compared to my previous life as a University student), but still mainly watch crap designed to entertain and make money, rather than say anything profound (and still make money). Then there is the thorny issue of going back to study itself: An aborted application to Falmouth Uni at the end of August has been belayed a new plan that will need a lot of very careful consideration; it is likely to take me away from here and I need to think about this one very hard indeed. That said though, I probably won't go through with it. Even my cooking has fallen by the wayside recently, which is unforgivably poor, so I must really actually and very vitally get my act back together. I am conscious of being able to help myself more effectively than you would expect, but it doesn't half take a long time to get going. I've had a lot of fight knocked out of me over the recent past, and losing that has been more disastrous than one might first consider. In many ways the War Requiem over the weekend was a great rallying call, something to fight through an 84-piece orchestra and disconcertingly difficult intervals for. I think another central issue is that I just don't do enough. But then, I don't do much because I don't put myself forward for anything and that's because I don't have any confidence yes! *drum roll*
What happens next? I start writing, you keep reading, I keep posting and you tell your friends about how good I am, yeah? Since I'm so late to the party I'll have to start with reviewing things that I've had for a while in order to build the momentum, perhaps a few more responses to concert repertoire like the last post as well - those who knew my relationship with Peter might well have been surprised that I was bothered at all but at no point did I ever take him for a fool, doubt the reasoning process that was behind his decision making and at the end of the day, I would like to think that he would have been impressed and pleased that I was part of such monumental performances. His sometimes low opinion of "everyday" countertenors, Songmen like myself now, spurred me on to prove him wrong.
Having a routine will presumably keep me away from the pub as well. As usual, it's not exactly my liver I'm worried about but more my bank balance; I might be out of my overdraft for the first time in almost half a decade, but paying all my rent myself (oh boo hoo) isn't going to leave me with much pocket money at the end of the month. I must once again cherish the value of things I already have rather than buy more in an empty hope of improving my life. I once read that buying things in order to cheer yourself up is as effective as stapling sandwiches to yourself when hungry. Think about it.
I may well be my own worst enemy, but especially at this time of remembrance, it's worth making peace.
Sunday, 9 November 2014
In Memoriam
From his obituary in The Times of the 18th of September, 2013:
This is an odd one really, but I couldn't let this weekend pass without some kind of memorial note to our old Professor Emeritus. We may not have seen eye to eye, in fact, we hardly ever saw eye to eye at all... That's beside the point. The point is that this weekend I have been part of the culmination of the 'Cornwall Remembers' events in performing Benjamin Britten's War Requiem. Earlier I said it was rather like the Kafka stories that I'm reading at the moment: totally remarkable, thought-provoking, full of meaning and depth and yet difficult to understand on so many levels. That's a huge over-simplification, I realise, but the similarities are there. The marriage of the text to the Missa pro Defunctis and the poems of Wilfred Owen, put together by a pacifist, in often deeply touching and unsettling ways is an absolutely incredible piece of work, whichever way you look at it. Above everything else, it can't help but remind me of one of many unintentionally hilarious anecdotes from the great man himself (some liberties with patchy memories but work with me here):
"I had arranged a concert in St. Andrew's Hall in the city of Ben's Requiem, in the winter of 1976. Unusually, ticket sales had been rather slow, which was surprising as it is a work of incredible profundity, as you know. As the date of the concert drew closer, there were only around a hundred seats sold, which would have been a drop in the ocean, even with the vast forces required. Ben had been very ill for quite a while, and regretfully he passed away, although not suddenly. Of course, tickets boomed, and in fact, it turned out that I conducted the very first memorial performance of the Requiem for Ben himself [chortle chortle]"
Peter had several anecdotes, most of which he regaled us with either in conducting sessions or just on the street itself. He always came out with things that were completely legitimate and often very interesting statements, but with some kind of... Unexpected comic cadence. Perhaps in his sermon at St. Peter Mancroft, which was more a Bach High Mass lecture: "And of course, you can't have a resurrection without Trumpets". Or at that great church once again, in concert this time with his Morley Consort of voices and friends: "...which I have wanted to perform in its original setting for so long, remember, these are genuine street cries...", of Gibbon's Cryes of London. Sometimes ridiculous as well, in reviewing my dissertation abstract and first chapter, after pointing out a number of typographical pitfalls said "it's clear to me that you know far more than this about I do", or in a letter: "Even though it is a formative piece, I find myself pleased with my work from so long ago". He even recounted a lunch with Peter Pears: "We had asparagus, the butter was dripping from our fingers".
He was not a great fan of countertenors, as I found out almost... all the time. I obviously took it personally as that's what I do, you know. There are lesser people to be disliked by at the end of the day, and I've certainly met them too. Some ridiculous conversation where he waxed at great length about the merits of mixed alto departments in Ton Koopman's recording of Bach Cantatas ("the very finest"), lest in an all male department one or two members would go sharp in chorales... I dunno?
The point of all this is not to decry a man who left a respectable legacy behind him. It is not to point out his personal faults, but to recall a musician, who showed great decorum and an unfailing willingness to teach those who wanted to be taught. I would like to think that somewhere, along with all the other souls of the fallen in the Great War, he too will be remembered by others with the same admiration, if not more. I may not have been his favourite student, or indeed his best, and I may not have ever been invited to sing with him, but for tonight's second and final performance of the War Requiem at Truro Cathedral, I will remember him.
"Peter George Aston was born in Edgbaston, Birmingham, on October 5 1938, and
was educated at Tettenhall College, for whose 150th anniversary this year he
composed a setting of Let us, With a Gladsome Mind from John Milton’s
arrangement of Psalm 136."
This is an odd one really, but I couldn't let this weekend pass without some kind of memorial note to our old Professor Emeritus. We may not have seen eye to eye, in fact, we hardly ever saw eye to eye at all... That's beside the point. The point is that this weekend I have been part of the culmination of the 'Cornwall Remembers' events in performing Benjamin Britten's War Requiem. Earlier I said it was rather like the Kafka stories that I'm reading at the moment: totally remarkable, thought-provoking, full of meaning and depth and yet difficult to understand on so many levels. That's a huge over-simplification, I realise, but the similarities are there. The marriage of the text to the Missa pro Defunctis and the poems of Wilfred Owen, put together by a pacifist, in often deeply touching and unsettling ways is an absolutely incredible piece of work, whichever way you look at it. Above everything else, it can't help but remind me of one of many unintentionally hilarious anecdotes from the great man himself (some liberties with patchy memories but work with me here):
"I had arranged a concert in St. Andrew's Hall in the city of Ben's Requiem, in the winter of 1976. Unusually, ticket sales had been rather slow, which was surprising as it is a work of incredible profundity, as you know. As the date of the concert drew closer, there were only around a hundred seats sold, which would have been a drop in the ocean, even with the vast forces required. Ben had been very ill for quite a while, and regretfully he passed away, although not suddenly. Of course, tickets boomed, and in fact, it turned out that I conducted the very first memorial performance of the Requiem for Ben himself [chortle chortle]"
Peter had several anecdotes, most of which he regaled us with either in conducting sessions or just on the street itself. He always came out with things that were completely legitimate and often very interesting statements, but with some kind of... Unexpected comic cadence. Perhaps in his sermon at St. Peter Mancroft, which was more a Bach High Mass lecture: "And of course, you can't have a resurrection without Trumpets". Or at that great church once again, in concert this time with his Morley Consort of voices and friends: "...which I have wanted to perform in its original setting for so long, remember, these are genuine street cries...", of Gibbon's Cryes of London. Sometimes ridiculous as well, in reviewing my dissertation abstract and first chapter, after pointing out a number of typographical pitfalls said "it's clear to me that you know far more than this about I do", or in a letter: "Even though it is a formative piece, I find myself pleased with my work from so long ago". He even recounted a lunch with Peter Pears: "We had asparagus, the butter was dripping from our fingers".
He was not a great fan of countertenors, as I found out almost... all the time. I obviously took it personally as that's what I do, you know. There are lesser people to be disliked by at the end of the day, and I've certainly met them too. Some ridiculous conversation where he waxed at great length about the merits of mixed alto departments in Ton Koopman's recording of Bach Cantatas ("the very finest"), lest in an all male department one or two members would go sharp in chorales... I dunno?
The point of all this is not to decry a man who left a respectable legacy behind him. It is not to point out his personal faults, but to recall a musician, who showed great decorum and an unfailing willingness to teach those who wanted to be taught. I would like to think that somewhere, along with all the other souls of the fallen in the Great War, he too will be remembered by others with the same admiration, if not more. I may not have been his favourite student, or indeed his best, and I may not have ever been invited to sing with him, but for tonight's second and final performance of the War Requiem at Truro Cathedral, I will remember him.
(1).jpg) |
| A head shot for the ages. |
Tuesday, 4 November 2014
Paul-Ethan Bright - Countertenor
Paul-Ethan Bright is a countertenor of Truro Cathedral Choir.
Born in Derby, he became a chorister at the Cathedral at the age of eight, and stayed there until he left for university some ten years later, becoming an alto in the process; his life having been given purpose by listening to a rendition of Orlando Gibbons’ This is the Record of John by one of Derby’s Songmen.
Reading Music at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, Paul-Ethan was appointed not only alto choral scholar but also organ scholar at the Church of St. Peter Mancroft, the largest mediaeval church in Norwich. Here, he was taught by Julian Haggett on the prestigious Collins organ. While studying, he was a mainstay of the University Chamber Choir, and performed the role of The Spirit in North Norfolk Chamber Opera’s 2009 production of Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. Paul-Ethan is also a keen bassist, and has been found underpinning the rhythm sections of Swing bands, pit bands for musical and cabaret productions and jam nights wherever he goes. In 2012 he was delighted to perform Bach’s G major cello suite (BWV 1007) in concert at Truro Cathedral on the tenor banjo.
Having been at Truro since graduating in 2011, Paul-Ethan joined Three Spires Singers as haute-contre soloist in Charpentier’s Te Deum, and sang Ich will dich all mein Leben lang from Cantata 117 as part of the Cathedral Choir’s Lutheran Vespers reconstruction in June 2014. He is currently busy planning a summer concert with the current organ scholar, James Orford, which will include American songs from the New England school of the early 20th century.
In the rare moments when he isn’t found singing or playing, Paul-Ethan likes to relax by reading American literature, cooking, and appreciating fine ales and stouts, often all at the same time. In preparing for postgraduate study, he is steadily building a portfolio and writing to a weekly schedule, which can be found at www.asylumsouthwest.blogspot.com
Saturday, 1 November 2014
Welcome Back
This is exciting. I'm excited. Are you excited? It's time to reopen the Asylum.
I've had a month off, there's no two ways about it. After managing an almost water tight 50% every day post schedule last month, I've had a bit of a break. A little rest. I've been working a lot, as I'm sure most of you will already know. To be quite honest... I feel a little burnt out. I truly have no idea how you do a full time job; I don't think I can. Not full time all the time. Not like this. See, working full time like that is, uh... What is it now? It's distracting. I think that's the biggest problem really, it takes over your life. It becomes your life in the absence of your actual life. I haven't written for a month because frankly, I haven't felt like writing after sitting at that desk, answering that telephone and kicking the photocopier for most the day and then hot footing it to choir only to be late anyway because of having to take the bloody meter bags to the post office. Yes, "because I don't feel like it" is exceptionally weak, I mean weak, but it's what I've got, and importantly, it's what you're getting.
Work has been bringing money in though. But that's another story for another time.
I need to get back to work on this though. I need to start my novel! A great novel full of social pitfalls, the trap of growing up, and importantly, all of my mistakes so you can avoid them. Or feel superior for having avoided them already. Which is where we're going with this. I have come to understand that I am a man who makes fundamentally bad decisions. And I make a lot of mistakes. So many. I don't think I've ever made the same one twice, unbelievably... More that I make such vast, colossal waves of them that I've never had to repeat anything. Like 'Just a Minute' but for critical errors in judgement instead, and rather than Nicholas Parsons, the never-ending self-doubt and blaming and... You get the picture. I just get things wrong. I can't interpret social and interpersonal relation cues correctly, I can't tie my shoelaces properly, I probably don't clean my teeth often enough. The list is endless.
Actually, one of the big problems I have is that I do not say no. No to people. Work with me here, it looks odd I know. It looks even stranger when you consider that one of my chiefest regrets is not saying yes and taking a chance at University but... You know, it was a different time and I wasn't as capable (or appear to be) as I am now. It's all smoke and mirrors, guys, and any denial of that on your part is an act of deception on YOUR PART WOOOOOO. I digress. The point is that there's not enough people that get told "no". Or at least I don't think so. Don't think I'm excluding myself from this as well! I'm sure there have been people who regret not saying no to me, and that's hardly limited to my ex-girlfriends, either (ha ha ha). There's some kind of... Oh, I dunno, I need a soundbite don't I... Miasma of mediocrity. There are too many things in my life that are simply "okay". There's no real screaming excellence (except for my uncanny ability to scream to a melody) around here, and equally, nothing that's utterly dreadfully terrible. I might as well be thankful for that! I think that my extreme and debilitating social anxiety that stops me from taking chances on things, I steer a middle way (yes, the via media). I need to make some changes. I don't mean redecorate my webpage again either.
This is obviously going to take some time working out, and you will be pleased to hear that I will be moving to a full time writing schedule. I recently wrote a concert biography (which I must post on here, is only for the laughs) in which I claimed I was preparing for postgraduate study and building a portfolio... And if I want to get anywhere near doing a Masters, I need to keep practicing. I don't have a course or any deadlines or anything, so it's all personal just like it's always been really. I've already been asked to write the programme notes for the Christmas concert already, so that's good... I haven't exactly been inundated with work requests but hey ho you know, these things take time! Speaking of which, I'm actually going to be sensible about this "full-time schedule" this time. As long as I'm writing at least five out of seven days a week by the time I'm 25 then I'll be doing juuuuuuust fine. If not, then... We rethink. Like always.
I'm really quite unhappy though, and just like always, I land the blame for that squarely at my own feet. It's cool though, you know? Like a few things, it has to be this way, and please please please don't try to persuade me otherwise. The struggle is real, after all. [cue laugh, fade to black...]
The Asylum is open again. There are many doors that haven't been opened, and maybe there are some that can't be closed. But we'll find out when we get there! I might even write some fiction again...
I've had a month off, there's no two ways about it. After managing an almost water tight 50% every day post schedule last month, I've had a bit of a break. A little rest. I've been working a lot, as I'm sure most of you will already know. To be quite honest... I feel a little burnt out. I truly have no idea how you do a full time job; I don't think I can. Not full time all the time. Not like this. See, working full time like that is, uh... What is it now? It's distracting. I think that's the biggest problem really, it takes over your life. It becomes your life in the absence of your actual life. I haven't written for a month because frankly, I haven't felt like writing after sitting at that desk, answering that telephone and kicking the photocopier for most the day and then hot footing it to choir only to be late anyway because of having to take the bloody meter bags to the post office. Yes, "because I don't feel like it" is exceptionally weak, I mean weak, but it's what I've got, and importantly, it's what you're getting.
Work has been bringing money in though. But that's another story for another time.
I need to get back to work on this though. I need to start my novel! A great novel full of social pitfalls, the trap of growing up, and importantly, all of my mistakes so you can avoid them. Or feel superior for having avoided them already. Which is where we're going with this. I have come to understand that I am a man who makes fundamentally bad decisions. And I make a lot of mistakes. So many. I don't think I've ever made the same one twice, unbelievably... More that I make such vast, colossal waves of them that I've never had to repeat anything. Like 'Just a Minute' but for critical errors in judgement instead, and rather than Nicholas Parsons, the never-ending self-doubt and blaming and... You get the picture. I just get things wrong. I can't interpret social and interpersonal relation cues correctly, I can't tie my shoelaces properly, I probably don't clean my teeth often enough. The list is endless.
Actually, one of the big problems I have is that I do not say no. No to people. Work with me here, it looks odd I know. It looks even stranger when you consider that one of my chiefest regrets is not saying yes and taking a chance at University but... You know, it was a different time and I wasn't as capable (or appear to be) as I am now. It's all smoke and mirrors, guys, and any denial of that on your part is an act of deception on YOUR PART WOOOOOO. I digress. The point is that there's not enough people that get told "no". Or at least I don't think so. Don't think I'm excluding myself from this as well! I'm sure there have been people who regret not saying no to me, and that's hardly limited to my ex-girlfriends, either (ha ha ha). There's some kind of... Oh, I dunno, I need a soundbite don't I... Miasma of mediocrity. There are too many things in my life that are simply "okay". There's no real screaming excellence (except for my uncanny ability to scream to a melody) around here, and equally, nothing that's utterly dreadfully terrible. I might as well be thankful for that! I think that my extreme and debilitating social anxiety that stops me from taking chances on things, I steer a middle way (yes, the via media). I need to make some changes. I don't mean redecorate my webpage again either.
This is obviously going to take some time working out, and you will be pleased to hear that I will be moving to a full time writing schedule. I recently wrote a concert biography (which I must post on here, is only for the laughs) in which I claimed I was preparing for postgraduate study and building a portfolio... And if I want to get anywhere near doing a Masters, I need to keep practicing. I don't have a course or any deadlines or anything, so it's all personal just like it's always been really. I've already been asked to write the programme notes for the Christmas concert already, so that's good... I haven't exactly been inundated with work requests but hey ho you know, these things take time! Speaking of which, I'm actually going to be sensible about this "full-time schedule" this time. As long as I'm writing at least five out of seven days a week by the time I'm 25 then I'll be doing juuuuuuust fine. If not, then... We rethink. Like always.
I'm really quite unhappy though, and just like always, I land the blame for that squarely at my own feet. It's cool though, you know? Like a few things, it has to be this way, and please please please don't try to persuade me otherwise. The struggle is real, after all. [cue laugh, fade to black...]
The Asylum is open again. There are many doors that haven't been opened, and maybe there are some that can't be closed. But we'll find out when we get there! I might even write some fiction again...
Tuesday, 30 September 2014
Alleluia! I Heard a Voice
So. One month. Ah... Almost every day. How was it for you?
Like I said yesterday, even though it starts to become a struggle, I really like writing every day. I enjoy writing. I like it because it means I have a voice without having to open my mouth, without making a sound except for the constant clatter of the keyboard. It's therapeutic. It's a great stress reliever. Hopefully, I'll be able to make light out of all my problems by writing about them. I'm still just a little tiny bit too serious about everything; it's all so personal, I can't so much detach myself as completely dissociate, I haven't found my middle ground, but... Still. Baby steps.
I'm still very much established in a mode of personal reflection. Write what you know, huh? There are awkward forays into different territories, so I ought to work hard on myself and push to be more comfortable. One thing is that I get no feedback these days. There used to be a stock of regular readers who would give oral feedback but that seems to have dried up, and I certainly don't get any comments, here or there.
It's blatantly obvious that I have fewer readers compared to my last blog as well, which is a little disheartening, but we carry on. Tomorrow will be seven (SEVEN) months since I started over, and all told I'll have pulled in around two and a half thousand hits, which is pretty tidy. There's still plenty of time for me to go viral after all.
But it's time for the scores on the doors, so without any further ado...!
So, what's next? Obviously I haven't really been posting every day. I think every writer experiences days where there's just nothing to say, not like having block but just nothing. I don't have an enormous stock of suitable pre-written material that's ready to be edited for here either, so substitutions aren't exactly easy. Whether by madness or bravery I decided to put a sonnet up, and who knows, maybe I'll get a hold on the exact lunacy that led me to and do so again. This is after all, my blog for everything, not just moaning about how much I hate myself and everything around me. There have been some things that I've wanted to write about, like Chestnut-gate and what Madame Mim really means to me, but those things have been so close to the bone it'd be a third degree burn.
Maybe I'd like to get involved in more community based things? I dunno! I should obviously get out more. Maybe this would help. The latest upcoming trip to Exeter (either this Saturday or next) will obviously form prime candidacy for this sort of thing. Over the coming months there are ideas for London, Oxford and maybe even Bristol on the books as well. Travel broadens the mind even if it does narrow your vision sometimes, and lessen your funds. I'm still not really taken with pictures in my blogs but it's no reason not to try I suppose. Even though I keep my commonplace with me I hardly write in it anymore, but that's because my life has been boiled into the alarming regularity of a 9-5 office job. Yes, exciting things happen like my sickness (don't worry everyone, I'm still ill!), but other than that it's still the same people in the same place saying the same things at more or less the same times. The predictability is killing me. Actually, one really thrilling thing that's happening is a band forming with the Scholars; rather than the usual done to death close harmony arrangements (And So It Goes? Enough already), we're performing as an outfit at the Old Ale House's open mic jam nights on Mondays instead! We already have Minnie the Moocher under our belts, along with My Evaline (...), so there's calls for some Earth Wind and Fire, and the likelihood of another Barbershop classic in the offing for next time.
In the meantime, if anybody does have anything helpful to suggest then go ahead. If you'd like to guess at this latest string of titles' origins as well, I'm open to competition entries. You won't find out if there's a prize if you don't try.
This is another month drawn to a close. If another opportunity for BEDM crops up I'll jump on board, sure, but otherwise I need (and I do really, really need) a regular schedule, even if that's running to a week A/week B kind of thing. Blah blah blah. I say this every time and never hold to it. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed in me. I'm still here though (yes, still), so that must be disappointing to you too. Some of you, anyway. This is it for September though, as we all breathe a collective sigh of relief, but October is literally twelve hours away. Don't think you've got off lightly.
Like I said yesterday, even though it starts to become a struggle, I really like writing every day. I enjoy writing. I like it because it means I have a voice without having to open my mouth, without making a sound except for the constant clatter of the keyboard. It's therapeutic. It's a great stress reliever. Hopefully, I'll be able to make light out of all my problems by writing about them. I'm still just a little tiny bit too serious about everything; it's all so personal, I can't so much detach myself as completely dissociate, I haven't found my middle ground, but... Still. Baby steps.
I'm still very much established in a mode of personal reflection. Write what you know, huh? There are awkward forays into different territories, so I ought to work hard on myself and push to be more comfortable. One thing is that I get no feedback these days. There used to be a stock of regular readers who would give oral feedback but that seems to have dried up, and I certainly don't get any comments, here or there.
It's blatantly obvious that I have fewer readers compared to my last blog as well, which is a little disheartening, but we carry on. Tomorrow will be seven (SEVEN) months since I started over, and all told I'll have pulled in around two and a half thousand hits, which is pretty tidy. There's still plenty of time for me to go viral after all.
But it's time for the scores on the doors, so without any further ado...!
- Out of 30 days, there are 15 posts.
- The running total not including this is 11,000 words dead on, 60706 characters in total.
- The average sentence length is 19 words, over a total of 115 paragraphs.
- The average word count is 788 per post.
- The most common word? "Time."
- Speaking of time, the average time of publishing was 1:42pm, with only two posts after midnight.
- There's been 578 views this month alone, 35.7% of all views since March.
So, what's next? Obviously I haven't really been posting every day. I think every writer experiences days where there's just nothing to say, not like having block but just nothing. I don't have an enormous stock of suitable pre-written material that's ready to be edited for here either, so substitutions aren't exactly easy. Whether by madness or bravery I decided to put a sonnet up, and who knows, maybe I'll get a hold on the exact lunacy that led me to and do so again. This is after all, my blog for everything, not just moaning about how much I hate myself and everything around me. There have been some things that I've wanted to write about, like Chestnut-gate and what Madame Mim really means to me, but those things have been so close to the bone it'd be a third degree burn.
Maybe I'd like to get involved in more community based things? I dunno! I should obviously get out more. Maybe this would help. The latest upcoming trip to Exeter (either this Saturday or next) will obviously form prime candidacy for this sort of thing. Over the coming months there are ideas for London, Oxford and maybe even Bristol on the books as well. Travel broadens the mind even if it does narrow your vision sometimes, and lessen your funds. I'm still not really taken with pictures in my blogs but it's no reason not to try I suppose. Even though I keep my commonplace with me I hardly write in it anymore, but that's because my life has been boiled into the alarming regularity of a 9-5 office job. Yes, exciting things happen like my sickness (don't worry everyone, I'm still ill!), but other than that it's still the same people in the same place saying the same things at more or less the same times. The predictability is killing me. Actually, one really thrilling thing that's happening is a band forming with the Scholars; rather than the usual done to death close harmony arrangements (And So It Goes? Enough already), we're performing as an outfit at the Old Ale House's open mic jam nights on Mondays instead! We already have Minnie the Moocher under our belts, along with My Evaline (...), so there's calls for some Earth Wind and Fire, and the likelihood of another Barbershop classic in the offing for next time.
In the meantime, if anybody does have anything helpful to suggest then go ahead. If you'd like to guess at this latest string of titles' origins as well, I'm open to competition entries. You won't find out if there's a prize if you don't try.
This is another month drawn to a close. If another opportunity for BEDM crops up I'll jump on board, sure, but otherwise I need (and I do really, really need) a regular schedule, even if that's running to a week A/week B kind of thing. Blah blah blah. I say this every time and never hold to it. I'm sorry. You must be so disappointed in me. I'm still here though (yes, still), so that must be disappointing to you too. Some of you, anyway. This is it for September though, as we all breathe a collective sigh of relief, but October is literally twelve hours away. Don't think you've got off lightly.
Monday, 29 September 2014
If King Manasses
Oh I'm sick Master. Sick as it gets. Sicker than a dog!
I really should have called this Blog Every Week Day In September, because the amount of weekends this month that I've either just not or been too hungover to actually get my laptop up and running and actually write is currently a 100% rate. In my defense for this weekend, I seemed to have come down with a light case of food poisoning that made yesterday in particular a complete and total nightmare. I know that one ought not to be so graphic, but there's a point where you vomit after brushing your teeth at twenty to nine in the morning that you just know it isn't going to be a good day. I hate to put so fine a point on it, but I really am getting tired of people just assuming that I've been out on the lash when I say I don't feel very well. There is of course a subtle difference between the two, and if anything it's just disappointing that I haven't been out!
I still feel absolutely dreadful of course, and I suppose that strictly speaking I shouldn't be sat at the desk as I am now. I shouldn't remotely have been in to choir yesterday, but there we go. I never give myself the option to miss the service unless I'm actually crippled and unable to move. Old habits die hard, eh? At least I no longer feel like a human landmine... Or do I? Updates on the appropriate social networks as the day goes on. I'm actually quite good at being ill these days, you know, I just take myself off very quietly and then go and be ill and then come back without people really knowing. Last night was absolutely dreadful and hilarious at the same time, sleeping for half an hour at a time with it feeling like an eternity, then waking drenched in a cold sweat at midnight, and then sleeping through completely unbroken until 8 in the morning. And now I'm here wishing... Not quite for death, but definitely for a cessation in PHYSICAL MISERY.
Really that's the most misery on my plate, and I have that much alone to be thankful for. I'm gradually working my way through my stack of books, including keeping a Palahniuk in the stalls of a Sunday. I've just finished Sara Benincasa's Agorafabulous! Dispatches From My Bedroom, which is at turns both hilarious and harrowing, and sometimes just grimly uncomfortable. Parts of it have reminded me of just how bad past episodes have been, which is never easy, but reading something as honest as that, without trying to sound too clichéd, does give me hope. And sometimes it's just been straight up, laugh out loud funny.
As the month limps to a close though, perhaps this is the time for a short valediction before I do the running totals tomorrow and consider what the next move is. Writing every day is difficult. It was difficult last time I tried it and it's been difficult again this time, and it'll still be difficult next time I do it. I like it though really! It's a shame I don't actually have a schedule or direction though, as trying to come up with original material every day isn't as simple for me as I'd like it. Controversially, I'm keeping a record of the music list and the repetition of repertoire - I'm sure it'll go down a bomb with the local Junior Deity but it's at least going to be interesting. Rather than sit around and think "have we done this before?" at least we'll know. I might just pull up all the music lists from the last three years so I can put together a little study because well do you think I really have anything better to be doing with my time? I can submit it to peer review and get it published in some journal and add it to my portfolio of professional writing for next year! Ha ha!
Next week heralds the return of Cardinal Sin and a cinema trip beckons so I'll have something NEW and EXCITING and INTERESTING to write about (all those capitalisations are probably going to be red herrings though, let's be honest). Hopefully next week will include a 100% return to strength and health as well, so at least I can stop bloody moaning about that. Office work is gradually winding down as well, so I'll be glad of the financial benefits come pay day, especially after having not even stepped foot in an office for at least a week by then.
If only I didn't feel so ill...
I really should have called this Blog Every Week Day In September, because the amount of weekends this month that I've either just not or been too hungover to actually get my laptop up and running and actually write is currently a 100% rate. In my defense for this weekend, I seemed to have come down with a light case of food poisoning that made yesterday in particular a complete and total nightmare. I know that one ought not to be so graphic, but there's a point where you vomit after brushing your teeth at twenty to nine in the morning that you just know it isn't going to be a good day. I hate to put so fine a point on it, but I really am getting tired of people just assuming that I've been out on the lash when I say I don't feel very well. There is of course a subtle difference between the two, and if anything it's just disappointing that I haven't been out!
I still feel absolutely dreadful of course, and I suppose that strictly speaking I shouldn't be sat at the desk as I am now. I shouldn't remotely have been in to choir yesterday, but there we go. I never give myself the option to miss the service unless I'm actually crippled and unable to move. Old habits die hard, eh? At least I no longer feel like a human landmine... Or do I? Updates on the appropriate social networks as the day goes on. I'm actually quite good at being ill these days, you know, I just take myself off very quietly and then go and be ill and then come back without people really knowing. Last night was absolutely dreadful and hilarious at the same time, sleeping for half an hour at a time with it feeling like an eternity, then waking drenched in a cold sweat at midnight, and then sleeping through completely unbroken until 8 in the morning. And now I'm here wishing... Not quite for death, but definitely for a cessation in PHYSICAL MISERY.
Really that's the most misery on my plate, and I have that much alone to be thankful for. I'm gradually working my way through my stack of books, including keeping a Palahniuk in the stalls of a Sunday. I've just finished Sara Benincasa's Agorafabulous! Dispatches From My Bedroom, which is at turns both hilarious and harrowing, and sometimes just grimly uncomfortable. Parts of it have reminded me of just how bad past episodes have been, which is never easy, but reading something as honest as that, without trying to sound too clichéd, does give me hope. And sometimes it's just been straight up, laugh out loud funny.
As the month limps to a close though, perhaps this is the time for a short valediction before I do the running totals tomorrow and consider what the next move is. Writing every day is difficult. It was difficult last time I tried it and it's been difficult again this time, and it'll still be difficult next time I do it. I like it though really! It's a shame I don't actually have a schedule or direction though, as trying to come up with original material every day isn't as simple for me as I'd like it. Controversially, I'm keeping a record of the music list and the repetition of repertoire - I'm sure it'll go down a bomb with the local Junior Deity but it's at least going to be interesting. Rather than sit around and think "have we done this before?" at least we'll know. I might just pull up all the music lists from the last three years so I can put together a little study because well do you think I really have anything better to be doing with my time? I can submit it to peer review and get it published in some journal and add it to my portfolio of professional writing for next year! Ha ha!
Next week heralds the return of Cardinal Sin and a cinema trip beckons so I'll have something NEW and EXCITING and INTERESTING to write about (all those capitalisations are probably going to be red herrings though, let's be honest). Hopefully next week will include a 100% return to strength and health as well, so at least I can stop bloody moaning about that. Office work is gradually winding down as well, so I'll be glad of the financial benefits come pay day, especially after having not even stepped foot in an office for at least a week by then.
If only I didn't feel so ill...
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