Christmas Eve, Wednesday the 24th of December, 2014

The Christmas Holidays have arrived! With the arrival of the aforementioned vacation, comes at a price for the local shops. Aside from making a majority of their profit from the student population which makes up well over a third of the city's overall population due to the two universities and various higher education colleges which have left this weekend - the city feels a little deflated. Despite this, the Market Square is resplendent with white Christmas lights in the shape of artistic baubles which overlook the actual square itself filled with the annual German Market and temporary ice rink. Lots of last minute shoppers fill the city all looking for last minute bargains, of which I am not one of the partakers.

      And now finally it is Christmas Eve, and the onslaught of Christmas services and lack of sleep, of which includes the Crib Service, Midnight Mass, and the Christmas Day Eucharist in one church followed immediately by the same service in another church – begins this afternoon. All my hard work leading up to these services which started about a month ago has pulled off and I am ready for whatever the diocese and deanery throws my way.

I am no scrooge and nor am I one of those people in society who talk about how "Christmas is over commercialised" - I personally prefer a quiet Christmas. There is so much pressure to fit and conform to society - and indeed my Christmases are always chopped up and dissected by the numerous Christmas services which occur with a large frequentation over the initial Christmas period. Despite this, in regards to food which as family tradition has always had it, Christmas dinner on Christmas, after the crib service and before midnight mass was always done to nothing less than perfection and pulling in all the trimmings and extras you could imagine. My childhood Christmases are of legend now; but to this day, one cannot help but get excited to see what is in actual fact a feast laid on the table before you. My younger self could not contain myself at all the amazing food set before me, and if you ask my parents to this day - they will adamantly say that I am no different to this day.

      This year as I have returned home to my parents for Christmas and my old role as an organist is relived for a few days - I only have the four services of the Carol Service, Crib Service, Midnight Mass and the Christmas Morning Service. It will bring back so many memories playing the organ to all the festive favourite carols - I used to have such fun playing the organ parts - it will be when I do them this year, provided my fingers remember their old ways!

In regards to my organ work, of course I have prepared seasonal favourites for my postludes, but I have included some “Easter eggs” if you will (I don’t know what the Christmas equivalent is for this) – things that will surprise the congregation if they listen hard enough! Unfortunately I am not in my old church this year, I am playing in the main church of a local town – with a nice big choir to boot – tonight and tomorrow’s service should go down a storm. Quite literally and physically pulling the stops out, is what for me, being an organist at Christmas is about. Filling the church with what I hope will be glorious sounds emitting from the pipes is what I will be trying to achieve – let’s hope no ciphers or dying of wind chests happens on my watch tonight.

      Last time I played in this church, the blower to the organ died and so what can only be described as the sound of a dying duck was emitted from the organ as it tried to squeeze out the remaining air from the wind chest. I was mortified to say the least but luckily there were two strong men in the congregation who were prepared to work the old bellows at the back of the organ so everything went as smoothly as I could have hoped past that point. Luckily, this church obviously had forgotten this had happened; otherwise they wouldn’t be so keen to have me back. And so Christmas day itself will be a combination of waking up early, showering, having breakfast, rushing off to the service, coming home, eating Christmas Dinner and finally sleeping!

This will be the last post of this year – and my, what a year it has been. 2014 has passed through safely enough, with enough illness, tiredness, heartbreak, romance, murder, tragedies for the world in a lifetime. Despite this, I wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a most joyful New Year. Let us wait and see what the year 2015 brings us! 

       On a side but not as unimportant note; lots of elderly people spend Christmas alone, as many of them have either no family, or do not have the capability emotionally or physically to move and or see people to celebrate it. So if you have a spare moment, go and spend some time with someone lonely this Christmas – it might not make yours or seem that important to you, but it will certainly make theirs.

Thank you, and goodnight for now.

The Lonely, but busy, Artiste.

Sunday, the 7th of December, 2014

It is the final few weeks of the year, and one week before this city is left by most of the student populous which will result in a relatively quiet city for a month. Alas I will not be here to appreciate it as much as I could do as I myself are visiting my parents back home for a short while. Christmas is a time that one should not spend alone. As a result of this, in my youth when I lived with my parents, we would always take mince pies and carol books along to the lonely elderly to give them comfort and company, mince pies and carols. This resulted in a friendlier and closer community, as I can only imagine the terrifying world of having lost a love one and oneself being the only one to console with about it.

Two more concerts left of the year in this city before all the multitude of Christmas services begins. Every year, a hectic slalom between churches and services begins as soon as I arrive at my parents. The preparation to have all the preludes and postludes ready by then needs to start now if I stand any chance of being the standard I need to be - no less than utter perfection. As an organist, my Christmas repertoire consists of perennial and congregational favourites and lesser known pieces which often take the limelight over these more popular pieces. I have almost decided my Christmas eve and Christmas day postludes - a chance to both literally and metaphorically pull out all the stops. With an aim to have a large congregation and large choir all uniting in the annual timeless classic Christmas carols, I will firstly need to practice to oblivion but also give the organ builders a call to give the organ a good tune. Oh the joy of being an organist! Still, after the Christmas Day services - I plan to sleep, after about no less than 6 services in the space of 24 hours.

The weeks ahead will prove strenuous. And now to begin.

Sunday, the 30th of November, 2014

The word busy once again springs to mind as I contemplate the week's events. Various church services and concerts have arisen resulting in what can only be described as a chock-a-block timetable. Concert after concert, service after service; time to sit down and think has been a rarity. Nevertheless, I have a free moment and thought I could sit down and write about my life from my last post to this.

The city symphony orchestra a couple of weeks ago needed some last minute percussionists, and so being the thrill seeker I am - set out to do so. With only two short rehearsals, I and another emergency dep had to perfect our parts on only two hours practice. Intuition told us all we had to do was watch the conductor. This was rather difficult at times, as being on snare drum, in rehearsals, would try and match my tempo when actually I was trying to follow his. This resulted in what can only be called as a musical heap. Nevertheless, the concert ran smooth with only a couple of minor hiccups which we ironed out within a beat. At the end of the couple of hours long concert, at the point when the applause came round, we in the percussion section got a cheer. Not the polite applause that the rest of the orchestra received, but a well intentioned and warm cheer. I went home a content and happy man.

Today was largely spent in bed, after a bout of sickness last night - today was spent recuperating drinking tea and listening to choral music to rest my shattered nerves. The concert I performed in the night before (yet more concerts!) was a success. With over 200 singers and a 90 strong orchestra, organ and heavy percussion, we played through our repertoire with only a few minor hiccups. The applause after we had finished was monumental, but not before the beautiful minute silence after the final double bass notes had died away. The silence was so special and so moving we all held inner smiles which then broke out amoungst everyone when the applause had finished.

So many concerts in the past few weeks, and yet more to come. After missing advent vespers at church, I need to recover as soon as is humanly possible if I am to survive the concerts this coming week (another couple of orchestral concerts, jazz gig, various church services as well as going home and serving a church for the Christmas services). The life of the lonely artiste only gets busier and busier, time to crack on and learn the shed-load of music I will be piling through over the next few days and weeks. And my time starts .... now.

Sunday, the 9th of November, 2014

Tis the beginning of November. Out with the autumn and in with the winter. This years autumn has been particularly colourful this year, with all the trees in my neighbourhood reflecting the red and white bricked buildings. Now the end of the autumn has come, and so all the trees are bare perhaps bar the remaining surviving leaves, clinging on the trees by a limb. However,  all the leaves lie freshly on the ground; walking to church on Sundays is particularly enjoyable, scuffing the brown, reds, yellows and golds in my shoes as they carpet the pavement. This sadly will only last a few more weeks, when the leaves rot away, leaving no colour on the trees or the city pavements - but that's where the Christmas lights come in. Over the past week, the city council has been putting up the Christmas lights in the city, adorning the streets with sparkling and bright rows of lights. Over ten thousand bulbs come out every year, and yet each time - it feels as if the city has been reborn.

Another busy week and and another busy schedule, for the third week in a row for the show that I am directing, my pianist and assistant have not turned up. This makes proceedings very difficult; my job is to take the performers beyond the notes and into the music, but seeing as I am limited to the job of playing the notes for them on the piano, means I cannot clearly bring them in and bring them off when they are needed to be so. Although I am more qualified to do the repetiteur job, my job now is Musical Direction, not playing the piano for the singers' references. Despite this, for the first time in a long while, I have had the time to actually sit down and put pen to paper in the form of music. However this is not my own composition, this in actual fact is my job of arranging the shows' orchestral parts to a much smaller ensemble, reducing the size of a normally 30+ players strong orchestra to a group of about 15. This is no mean feat, as there are at the very least 36 hours hours worth of parts to input into the computer in the first place; and then many painstaking hours to come as I re-write and re-organise the music from about 40 individual parts to about 11. In any case, as they say - the show must go on!

What is really quite frightening is the fact that Christmas is fast approaching. Firstly, there is the palaver of buying Christmas presents and cards, and then secondly the slog that is the Christmas haul - every church service conceivable essentially occurs on the few days that is the Christmas festival. This year again promises to be a busy year, with churches in my home village all demanding my services. As a fool or opportunist, I don't know - I accepted. Let the hard work and preparation begin!

Sunday, the 2nd of November, 2014

It has been an extremely long time since I have had the time and the place to be able to sit down and over analyse my life; for I have had a dark soul as of late. Various first world problems have occurred in the time that has elapsed between my last lengthy period of being able to stop and ponder on life's intricate yet ever growing more worryingly bigger - problems and inaccuracies which directly are the bane of our hopes dreams and yet ever fuel our deepest and darkest fears. In a nutshell, the past month has been, no less than hell. Not quite the burning inferno that scriptures speak of, I have struggled and fought off a rather infectious yet hacking flu, of which I must have caught off of one of the new university students who recently moved into the city. Alongside all the fresh faces of the newly enrolled student populous; a severe bout of flu and colds and coughs were rife throughout the city. I was not prone to this. For almost a month, I lived off of hot cups of tea - every quarter of an hour to supplement the moisture and hydration which was being expelled from my body through the medium of a rasping cough and torrential cold. The power and heating in my house has also decided to follow suit and pack its metaphorical bags off to the power company; as a result, if I didn't wear thermal socks and long-johns and a vest underneath woolly clothes - I would have easily caught pneumonia or hypothermia. I was born and raised in the country, which resulted in a slightly thicker skin than my city-dwelling friends; Despite this, I still half-froze to death in my house. You never realise the value of hot water when there is no way of obtaining heat anywhere else in the house you live in. Due to this, I spend at the least, fifty pounds worth of tea and milk and sugar over the past thirty days.

Recently, an acting company approached me to take up the post of Musical Director for their next production - of a comic opera/operetta. Opportunistic or foolish are the verbs you can choose to apply to me here, whichever works best for you. Either way, two nights a week, getting through the music for a song or chorus number, learnt and off-score, is no mean feat. The first few rehearsals however, the rehearsal pianist and my assistant failed to turn up. Nevertheless, leading from the piano, meant that I was in my comfort zone and powered through the music. Although we zoomed through a number or two per the session, we did not often go back and revise what we had learnt; even though the show was months away, as soon as the music is learnt, there is the small matter of the staging. Giving them only 5 mins break halfway through the rehearsal perhaps is very stingy, but it means we make use of the two and a half hours that we get two nights a week. At the end of each rehearsal, a couple gin and tonics are needed by everyone, maybe a little shattered, but I keep everyone busy resulting in a fun rehearsal. In the new year, I will need to sort out the small matter of getting together a chamber orchestra. It may need to be small, but I will need a good strong ensemble to underpin the madness which I am positive will erupt onstage. At the end result, I don't expect a sell out show, but the knowledge that we did a top quality production with a high musical standard - casting is next week, so getting the characters right is essential. Fingers crossed we power on like a train with no breaks - relentless and ever steaming forward relentlessly.

After my last adoration and infatuation of a lady, I was not in a rush to meet anybody new. I was always courteous but nothing more than cold and polite to everyone I have met and in my social circles. After the way I felt that my heart could not take any more pain, and so I bided my time for the pain and heart-ache to dissipate; and in any case, she found someone special in her life. A stable income, a nice house and a nice guy, and being the owner of a rather adorable Labrador to boot, her new partner was ideal for her and her situation. I supported her in any that I could as a friend; now we are the best of friends, because I knew this was where she was happiest most. Nothing was awkward, because we were adult about everything, and she knew that I had no ulterior motives other than to make sure she was doing the right thing for her and ensuing her happiness. In any case, we still meet up from time to time, drinking coffee and laughing about various anecdotes we tell each-other. However, in my low period a few weeks ago, whilst I was suffering from a bout of bad inner feelings and illness, I met a person. A fellow pianist, and a flautist, she too was new and exciting. We met in a bar, with some mutual friends of ours. After a few too many drinks, we hadn't really talked but yet we parted thinking nothing of it. Later a few days later, we crossed paths and exchanged telephone numbers and had lengthy conversations. It may be very early days yet, but we spend hours together but we provide such relief from each our own work. Taking the slow road here is the only option as I really want to get to know her really well before throwing myself in the deep end again. After having made a couple of "casual" inquiries, I discovered that she may, for the sake of coyness, she wouldn't say either way - feel the same way in the want to get to know me properly and really well. Things can only hopefully move forward from here - both of us has admitted to the moment we step into our own homes, hoping for a phone call from the other or an answerphone message, and checking hours later even if there has been no ringing.

In all, this has been a very eventful few weeks, illness, sadness, an opera which is still going on and me meeting this person. With the changing of autumn to winter, the boiler-man announced that he will come and fix my heating next week, so I can look forward to toasty evenings in. The only thing I would change about the last few weeks - more chocolate digestive biscuits.

With love from the (not so) Lonely Artiste.

Sunday, the 7th of September, 2014

In direct contrast to the week before last, the past week has offered nothing other than rest, recuperation, time to clear up the house and compose some music from the relatively quiet abode of my study. My coffee consumption has fallen significantly this week as caffeine hasn't been needed for the mental and physical exertion I used the week prior to this. Au lieu, my daily intake of caffeine has been supplemented by multiple cups of tea over the 18 waking hours over the day. Added to this, alongside my increase in tea intake, the whimsical need for chocolate digestive biscuits has also risen triple-fold. On the first evening of the week I made a delicious vat of sausage casserole which lasted me a couple of days. Amongst my musical jobs, my hobby is cooking; although my diet waxes and wanes according to my work schedule, I always adore the luxurious smells and odours of the kitchen - from ever since I was a young boy. Every time I open packets of raw vegetables, meat, spices and herbs, my inner child once again comes out to play and I am submerged in a world of steam, heat, and at the end of it, a vast pot of food bubbling away on the gas stove.

September the 1st fell on a Monday this year. Although it is a silly thing, I do like the 1st of the month to be on a Saturday or Monday, for some strange reason. Other than looking organised and neat, it sits comfortably in my brain. It is a silly whimsical thought, but this and other trivialities keep my brain thinking lightly as opposed to it's usual state of over thinking and overwork. This provides light relief to the massed musical thoughts that usually pervade my musical brain. In my childhood, the 1st was always a dreaded time as the start of term would always be close by. Then at university I revelled at the extra month of holiday, watching all the schoolchildren grumpily and reluctantly returning back to school whilst I lazily lived day and night in my bed. Now, being a self employed musician get no such pleasure as I get no holidays or sick leave or any break of any kind.

Sometimes I disparage at my career, overworking myself at times, losing sleep for work which is never permanent. Despite that, I love music, it speaks for my soul in times of darkness and is the only way I can express myself since spoken and written communication I find difficult and not adequate for what I am often trying to convey. Even so, if I don't work, I don't earn and money is a thing scarce in this industry unless you are at the very top. Despite this, I get by and cope - living within my means at all times yet enjoying life's pleasures such as cooking and enjoying music. One might say I am married to my job; being a bachelor in life is made almost bearable by the job which captivates me at every turn. Half the time however one thought pervades my being. Although I have music, I am alone. I have friends and family but I yearn for a someone more. My endless waiting for the one has not yet been fruitful and so I remain solitary and so very alone.

Saturday, the 23rd of August, 2014

Once again the past two weeks have been incredibly busy, my diary filled and eventful as a fairground at the height of its popularity; so filled  in that there was no blank space or time to fill with my own thoughts. Monday mornings are my worst morning of the week as my head often is filled with dread at the mountain of work that awaits my eager inner workaholic. Nevertheless, after having being roused by the alarm clock that is the dawn chorus - I sauntered into the kitchen. Having a freshly brewed cup of coffee and a croissant for breakfast set me up for the morning of endurance that lay in wait ahead of me. After having suitably dressed, I left the house before the rest of the sane world had even began to stir, and I made the brief walk to my old university.

I ventured into the music department and the recital hall - nothing had changed. I ran a hand over the sleek and beautiful wood over the concert grand piano. I opened the lid to the soundboard and strings, then slowly I lifted the keyboard lid. I pulled out the stool, adjusted it until it was at a comfortable height; I sat down and began to play. The quality of the notes produced by this piano were beyond compare. To say this piano was beautiful would be an injustice and insult to this being of heavenly splendour. After having sat down and played to the empty concert hall with 300 empty seats offering silent applause at every break, I pulled some manuscript paper from my satchel and began to structure out a song which I had agreed to collaborate on with a singer overseas across the pond. My job was to write the piano as additional parts for two songs, and she would write the vocals and lyrics; all of which would be recorded and sent out for release to the world at a later date.
A long while later, after having worked solidly for hours, I put away the manuscripts still freshly wet from ink, locked the piano and left the  hall empty and silent as ever behind me. 

The early afternoon provided me with a short break for lunch, and a wander around the town centre before I was due for an extra long session in the studio. Lunch for me came in the form of a cheese sandwich I had made the night before and a cheap wrap from an off-licence. A couple of hours later I made my way to the studio, and made my trek to the top floor where the it was located, in an old factory. The long hours which ensued were filled with endless takes of recording and editing and multiple cups of tea and a packet of digestive biscuits. At the end of my time at the studio that day, a suitable amount of progress had been made on a different project upon which I was working on with a producer. Four new tracks had been set in motion and  another nearing completion offered much joy  between the two of us. We parted ways and I set off home.

When I had hung my bag and coat up, I fell heavily upon the sofa, deeply exhaled and drew a huge sigh. I turned my head to the bag, my thoughts on the many sheets I had to write up in neat.  Tiredness had just started to creep up on me, in this the early hours of the morning. I knew coffee alone would be my saviour, save for the exception of digestive biscuits which were my absolute source of energy.  Day one was not nearly over quite yet and the week had only just begun - more hard work and endless hours lay ahead.

Sunday, the 10th of August, 2014

Today, my organ practice regime commenced again with the aim of reaching cathedral standard. A mere half hour walk from my new house, the church where I had practised in my younger days remained as tall and proud as ever. Although when I was a student I was a choral scholar in the rival church, many of my friends held scholarships here, and I was always welcome to practice the organ when I needed it. A short walk again from the main market square, I paused at the churchyard gate. I looked at the central tower, and walked towards the porch, ventured in and slowly pushed open the heavy iron doors.

As I entered the vast airy church, I did my old habit of turning right, walking a few hundred meters and passed through the doorway to the lady chapel of where the organ perches precariously above. I asked a verger for the key to the small door to the organ loft, I turned the key and ventured up the narrow spiral stair-case. I came out onto the cluttered landing where the old organ used to sit, and turned left up a steep but small ladder to the new organ; upon which I came out onto a small balcony. This I was quickly reminded was unsettlingly small and seemingly suspended in mid air, the church floor a good 40 foot below. I powered up the beast and began to play. For a good few hours I sat and played, playing quiet romantic pieces right through to the big bold pieces which resounded through the columns and aisles in the church. My fingers quickly remembered their old ways and in no time I was playing the pieces I had played in my youth.

The final piece I played was my fastest, and by no means the quietest. With the pedals booming away underneath the rapid flourishes of notes produced by my hands, I was awed by the sheer versatility and power that this instrument offered, and when I played my last chord, the notes rang through the church, a dying testament to the glory I had produced only moments before. So I sat on the bench for a while, taking in the stained glass, the ceiling and stonework that had been so tirelessly carved and sculpted centuries before - I had once again found my old home. The church.

Friday, the 5th of August, 2014

The past two weeks have been the very busiest weeks I have had since church work at Christmas. The shows which I took part in the creative team and sung on-stage in the show destroyed my health. I harboured a hacking cough and a cold to match the congestion created with the cough. Despite this, the shows were a success, despite having rather less audience than the director expected, everything run smoothly, like a freshly oiled lock. So after the last show, we drank champagne, packed our bags, and the cast and orchestra all parted ways to potentially never to see each other again. Friendships built up over the past few weeks now seem a distant past but we all felt unity by the final act of the final matinee, all united over the final cadence, only to leave the blacked out stage never to return again.

Another change in my life took place, I decided to move house. Moving from the outer city, I moved north, past all the towns I visited in my youth, going by train to the city where I went to university. Passing field upon field of green and gold of the summer turning into the dark golds that are found in the abundance of autumn, I pictured all the music I had written in my old house. Saying goodbye to the old house, despite its clear emptiness, was emotional and tear-ridden; and I could barely keep the tears running down my cheeks as I checked every room, now seeing empty cupboard and empty room ringing with the loudest silence I have ever experienced. I left the house and pulled the key from my pocket to the front door for the last time, locked the door, gave the house one last glance, turned on my heel and left the street, my memories and past behind me.

 I turned up at my new inner city house in this northern city with a suitcase, my few possessions following in a small rented van with my father; in the early afternoon. After having unpacked, my father left and I was left to my own devices. With nothing other to do for the day, I decided to walk round the town. I visited the market square, with its huge market building and dome imposing over the city skyline; visiting the churches where I sang and practiced the organ in my youth.

Later, after I had returned home, and shut the door after having watched the sun dip under the skyline; I realised all I had achieved in my life had led to this point. It was time for a new start, and now it has arrived. Time to do the things I couldn't do before, and meet new people and form new circles. I started to make my way up the stairs to bed after a very long day - my life had just re-begun.

Sunday, the 20th of July, 2014

Very recently, I have been  giving my services as an accompanist to an opera company in the south of the country. As one of Repetiteurs, It was my job to help the soloists and singers to learn their parts, help memory, practice with accompaniment and in general, be on call for whatever came up musically. Despite the 11 hour days, it has been an absolute thrill to be working with an outstanding  orchestra and beautifully voiced singers. Every day for three weeks I trudged my way to rehearsals, to be bombarded with 19th Century Opera, drinking coffee regularly to keep my eyelids from clamping themselves shut.

Staying in the cathedral city where it was being held, meant that on weekends, we the instrumentalists and the cast, could wander freely. So on my first Saturday in the city, I met up with an old friend from years ago. We walked and talked, reminiscing about old times, talking about all the mutual acquaintances we had. We had lunch, and then proceeded to the cathedral. To say the cathedral was beautiful would be an understatement. With a soaring roof, and equally long nave, the ancient stones remain a temple to God's holy work. The organ was resplendent, and when one of the scholars started practising, the entire building rang and reverberated by the bold and powerful chords of the music and the organ. Me and my old friend wandered under soaring buttresses and vaulted ceiling and stained glass as old as the cathedral itself. We slowly wandered out the building again, to leave the many strains of music still filling the cathedral.

After we had parted, it struck me how much we need friends in our lives, not only to share our problems and old memories, but to have someone there who can just be there. Due to this gut feeling, we resolved to meet again in the next couple of weeks, in between my long hours at the opera. Later this week, shows begin, and I can only imagine how tired and exhausted I will be after the many rehearsals and show times. It is all part of a musician's life, and I am no different to the next person. As they say, the show must go on!

Thursday, the 10th of July, 2014

Today was an excellent day. The aforementioned divine being that I made the delightful acquaintance with last week, sent me a handwritten letter. It came through the letterbox in the morning and hit the doormat with a definite authoritative slap. I went to the door as soon as I heard it, as post is scarce in my house. Made of good quality paper, the envelope had her beautifully scripted lettering on the front, I opened it. Full of her perfume scent, I opened the letter and read it slowly. That very afternoon, she was coming to town, with the specific intention of socialising with people, and when she said people, my over-thoughtful mind said "me". Realising I only had a half hour to get to the station, I grabbed an apple from the kitchen, grabbed my coat and rushed out the door.

From the sublime to the ridiculous. Although the station was a mere two and a half miles away from my house in the leafy suburbs of where I live, it was too close for a cab or a bus but too far to walk. Nevertheless, I ran. Upon reaching the station gates, the big 19th century iron roofed station imposed above the modern buildings. But even this did not distract my eyes from the lovely woman I had spotted, who has won my favour and affection. She saw me and began to walk towards me, which then steadily became a brisk walk. We collided with grace and embracing arms, to which I saw she had a tear in her eye. We, the reunited pair, walked and talked our way to the town centre. After having wandered around the beautiful cathedral with its ornate stained glass, soaring vaulted ceilings and gilt organ; we walked into a restaurant and had a beautiful candle-lit lunch. After having a few too many glasses of wine and having left the bill and tip on the table, we left the quiet restaurant with light jazz piano playing in the background, into the hustle and bustle of the town.

Wandering around the streets, we discussed our lives and jobs; me a self employed composer, she a teacher. Despite our match and our connection, her job demands and my unstable income would forever condemn our future together. So after a very long drawn-out goodbye, we parted as friends, to hopefully return again to each-other in a better light.

Hope, thus remained.

Saturday, the 28th of June, 2014

I met a person today, to use the medium of speech, written word or music or painting to describe her would be an insult to the near perfection that stood before me this morning. Speaking to her was like being born again, we found we had many likenesses and areas of interest that both cross our mental appreciation spheres in our minds. Although we only spoke for most of the day, it felt like we had connected, a link that was forged in the fire of our hearts; an unquenchable flame that could burn for ages if tendered and looked after properly.

To my great sadness, she was to be gone in the evening as her train arrived at and left the station not long after 7 o clock. So throughout my time with this celestial being, one Judas-like thought was tugging at my ever straining heartstrings, our impending separation. For the first time in a while, I felt like I had to keep her at all costs to stop her leaving, but I knew she had to catch it. Should I stay here in my house or try and find her? I feel like no distance at all can separate us, and deep down I know this is what I really want, but all this time of being sure of my feelings for her, not once had I even considered if the feelings were reciprocated let alone understood or received.

Love is a curious thing; it builds our hopes up, keeps them up and when it sees fit, destroys them before our very eyes. Yet we as people seek it out for the exhilaration and the thrill of the chase. I do not usually try and engage myself with the idea or topic of love as I know it will end badly; but once, just for once, I feel that it will not lead our hearts astray, the bond from me to her can only be made stronger if she had a similar bond with that which I felt. Her goddess-like face, her smile as beautiful as the sunset and her eyes as preciously stunning as gemstones, and her hair as flowing as the ever changing ocean; will ever haunt my dreams until I either win this angel and call her mine or feel the ice cold shard of rejection piercing my heart. For now, all I can feel is one feeling which fills my being, a feeling in the shape of a dove; a feeling so pure it is whiter than any white and as perfect as perfection itself.

Hope.

Monday, the 23rd of June, 2014

This weekend I decided to head down south, to spend some time with my parents, time to enjoy the sun and the heat which is seldom occurrent where I live, or at least not as nearly often as it happens where my parents live. Their house in the country was fairly large, with a room containing the piano of my childhood overlooking the garden. The garden was filled with trees, shrubs, flowerbeds; all containing abundant life and colour. The colour inspired me to write luxurious chords on the black beauty that is my parents upright piano.

I decided to wander down to the church where I used to be organist and held a short post of choirmaster, and before those, a chorister when I was even younger. Visiting these places of my childhood really struck at my very core, and provided me with a deep sense of strength. Upon entering the church and after having looked around at the intricate stained glass and shiny brass, I walked into the organ loft, took out the key from my keyring, and unlocked the doors. Opening the doors, I pressed the button to start the blower, pulled out a small selection of stops and played a chord.

The glorious and ground-shaking chords of the organ really reminded me of how much power can be held by the least powerful of people, hearing the ringing notes ringing around the church harked back to my memories of playing to packed Christmas services and hearing the united voices in song. When I left the church it was dark, but the music would not leave my head, so I went back to my parents house, cooked dinner, and picked up a book of the old bookcase in the hall. I settled into an armchair in the lounge with a cat on my lap and began to read.

Monday, the 16th of June, 2014

After having contemplated on my last meeting with the acquaintance I made, I decided to make a trip abroad from my study, into a break away from the menial tasks that surround my daily being. After having returned home, I packed a small change of clothes and the usual pen and manuscript. I tidied up the kitchen and turned in for the night.

The next morning, I awoke at dawn, and set off on my journey. Travelling through the many changes of scenery was particularly good for my soul which I feared had become tired of the monotony of working all day, every day from my study. Seeing the changing landscapes around me, from flat land, to lakes, to mountains and snow gave a renewed sense of purpose that I presumed I had previously lost.

My almost month-long sabbatical I spent in the lakes and mountains and valleys was a great relief to my musical being, taking inspiration from the rolling mountain-sides and peaceful lake-sides. This I would then take with me in my soul and write vast orchestral-scapes to reflect the grandeur and sublime power of the outdoors that only the mountains and lakes can afford to offer. I spent the days walking, pausing only for food, all the while taking in the beautiful and impressive vistas surrounding me. In the evenings I would cook for myself and write; spending the night times catching up on the sleep which I lose on the average working day.

At the end of the week, I packed up my belongings, left the warm cosy cottage, leaving the armchair by the fire to return to the plain and empty state that my soul and house exist. The country had offered a rest for my soul, providing me with the revitalisation of energy that I had so desperately needed. Upon returning, I inked up my scores which I had written in pencil in the mountains the month previously. After having toiled on this, I put down my pen, and once more placed the freshly inked papers onto the piles of paper which cover my study floorboards.

Wednesday, the 28th of May, 2014

I met a man today. Neither short, nor tall; neither tanned nor pale. Hair well kept but not styled. All in all, a quiet and unassuming character. We spoke for a long time and came to the same conclusion that the existential purpose of culture was to both educate and inform the human race. Despite this, we could not between us decide in any way how music today informs and educates the average human. After our meeting, we both picked up our coats and umbrellas and parted ways.

When I returned back to my home, I put down my coat and went to the kitchen, where I made a cup of coffee and went through the corridor to where my piano was stored in what would usually be the living room of a normal house. I put down my cup and started to play but nothing new came through my soul and into the keys. So I decided to saunter upstairs into my study.

Today clearly was not an artistic day, nothing poured from my brain to the paper, so I sat at my desk drinking my steaming cup of tea. All this time I imagined how lonely this existence was, writing music, only stopping for food, drink and the menial house duties. When I finished my cup, I put it on the desk, still steaming and gazed at the bare plaster walls waiting for the spark of imagination to fill my being.

Saturday, the 24th of May, 2014

After having recently obtained a job at a local church, I once again sat at my desk and peered outside the window. Despite it being late may, the weather has seemed to take a turn for the worst, reverting from the glorious sunshine we had enjoyed over a few weeks back to the grimy, wet and cold substance that is rain.

Now is the weekend, the time for relaxation; well it would have been had it not been for various pieces of work that have to be completed for the coming Monday. Feeling slightly deflated, I set to work. Pausing only for hot cups of tea and coffee, I dredged through my work. After not making much headway, I decide to go on a walk. So I once again leave the study, lock it, and slide the small key into my trouser pocket.

At the front door, I pause, gazing at the cold and drizzly rain. Despite the uninviting nature of the rain  I decide to venture out; after locking the door I realise the full brunt of my error. Freezing rain dripped down my collar, and I step forward into ever more chilling rain.

Tuesday, the 20th of May, 2014

This morning, I awoke to the sound of birds with bright sunlight and fresh air entering my room as I roused myself from the deep sleep I'd had the night before. As I lay there, musical ideas entered my head, formed by the birdsong which had entered my dreams, waking me up.

Like many countless musicians and composers before me, being inspired by the tweets and chirrups of the Blackbirds and Dunnocks outside my window, I left the bedroom to begin the walk to my study. Whilst all this activity was occurring in my brain, the walk to the study seemed to take much longer than ever, like the last walk to the gallows. However, this did not deter my from my path. I shuffled to the study door, took out the small brass key and put it in the keyhole. I turned it, and heard the lock click.

Upon entering my study, I locked the door behind me and sat down at my desk. With bright sunlight streaming across my desk, picturing soaring violin lines and luxurious piano chords, I pulled out my pen and manuscript paper; and I began to write.

Sunday, the 18th of May, 2014

As I sit at my desk, I wonder what to write about. Nothing at first springs to mind, so I look towards my empty in-tray and sit back and ponder. At the beginning, nothing, but then a spark. A very small spark at first, but nonetheless a potential for a bright flame. I then open my desk, pull out some manuscript paper, and begin to pen new melodies and harmonies.

Often, I wonder to myself what is the point. Yes, what is the point in inking all these melodies to page; when in reality it will forever remain a dream for my work to be performed. Continually doomed by the curse that is the unpredictability of a music career, these dusty parchments will ever build higher in their static piles. These piles will soon become stacks, and ever perpetuate a state of stationary being.

So I lay down my pen, close the lid to once more condemn the freshly written music to the piles of paper that carpet my study floor. That is it for now, the lonely artist ever locks the empty room that is his study in search of some freshly made coffee that is waiting for him in the kitchen.