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.
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.
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