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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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