Normal Service
After yesterday's "triumphant" return to the self-publishing scene, I thought it was best to capitalise on the momentum gained by such a launch (alright stop laughing).
But what is "normal service"? This April will mark seven years of writing on the internet for free, during which time my anonymity has gradually dwindled, something I'm not entirely sure is either good or bad, or possibly neither? Maybe it's another pointless worry. But back to the question, what is "normal"? I've tried writing lots of things, including recipes and reviews and sequences of haikus, an aborted attempt at fiction and of course, the old stand-by, pieces focused on my depression and why I've never gone through with killing myself. Perhaps that's where I need to start again?
Well, that's an interesting point. A lot of my current woes are based on employment... And the fact that all that sitting around drinking beer seems to be catching up with me and I now look like a parody of myself that someone has inflated with a bicycle pump. But complaining about my job in a way like this that can be cited and referred back to in a way is dangerous insofar as it might even contravene the Social Media Policy. For saying I am an adult living with Asperger's Syndrome, I work as an office receptionist basically, answering phones and taking messages, meeting general public and dealing with requests from other members of staff as and when. This is incredibly tiring and taxing, in a way that is difficult to describe, other than relying on distressed wailing and physical outbursts. Having to describe my social and professional anxieties in the context of a work meeting is something else that wipes me out - shame I can't express it any better, eh? It's my fault for managing so admirably, although nothing will make me laugh so bitterly or so derisively at the time I was suffering from a fever and felt like death, to be told by my employer I both looked and sounded fine, only to have two weeks off and be prescribed a course of antibiotics to combat pneumonia. Did I mention the principal side effect was diarrhoea? When I saw my doctor having been back at work for a week, they thought I was making exceptional progress but that I was completely mad as well. Whatever. It's fine now.
I need this job though. Like, need. As I'm fond of saying at the moment especially, living (and working) in Cornwall isn't anything like the beautifully produced videos (or listicles) by Buzzfeed and the like - pay is low and rent is high, basically. And the weather is bad, basically. The first day of spring was hailed by the same 4-9 degree celcius temperature coupled with meaningless drizzle and an annoying wind, much like today! Ah, but Monday was good. Yes, Monday was a day that Buzzfeed could have tome to film, with blazing sunshine and still air, giving way to a wonderful haze over the sea on the south coast... Yes. How transcendent. How... Tourist friendly.
I always write in shifts. Or phases. My first blog could probably be seen now as a quiet but persistent cry for help, something I kept at to stop myself from dying, basically. My second effort came from a weirder place, where I was extremely depressed, and felt like I had discarded major parts of my personality in order to survive (you can't something I care about away from me if I just don't care, right?), a blander existence. During this time I faced up to some of my more self-destructive tendencies though, so that was surely worth it. That essentially dribbled out though, and I found it more and more difficult to comment objectively as I got more to grips with the things, people and actions that were upsetting me without just calling them out straight up. I tired to inject some life in by writing about films but surprise! It didn't work. I couldn't really hold down a write/work balance - not helped by my personal computers being in a poor state. So what now?
As I like to tell people, the title of my upcoming autobiography is Death of an Artist. And this is part of it. This blog will get me to 30 (Thirty?!? How the fuck did I get this old?!) and I wonder where I'll be then? At the moment, I'm grappling with the idea that I am wasting my life and my potential, in fact to such an extent that I can no longer rectify it. True, I have a full time position as a Lay Clerk singing the daily services of an Anglican Cathedral (the location of which I will not disclose even though at this point withholding such a thing is a pointless charade - but more on that in the future), which really is a privilege not to be sniffed at - but my experience outside of this position pales in comparison to the kind of touring and recording schedule one enjoys during one's first eight weeks as part of a major collegiate choir, you know, the kind that now has its own record imprint, the location of which I will not blah blah blah, not to mention the associated chamber music opportunities blah blah rhubarb rhubarb you get the picture. I don't put myself forward, true, but then I do not have the kind of unassailable confidence that would probably lead me to more success.
Oh well. This, then, is where it starts. But then, where will it all end?
But what is "normal service"? This April will mark seven years of writing on the internet for free, during which time my anonymity has gradually dwindled, something I'm not entirely sure is either good or bad, or possibly neither? Maybe it's another pointless worry. But back to the question, what is "normal"? I've tried writing lots of things, including recipes and reviews and sequences of haikus, an aborted attempt at fiction and of course, the old stand-by, pieces focused on my depression and why I've never gone through with killing myself. Perhaps that's where I need to start again?
Well, that's an interesting point. A lot of my current woes are based on employment... And the fact that all that sitting around drinking beer seems to be catching up with me and I now look like a parody of myself that someone has inflated with a bicycle pump. But complaining about my job in a way like this that can be cited and referred back to in a way is dangerous insofar as it might even contravene the Social Media Policy. For saying I am an adult living with Asperger's Syndrome, I work as an office receptionist basically, answering phones and taking messages, meeting general public and dealing with requests from other members of staff as and when. This is incredibly tiring and taxing, in a way that is difficult to describe, other than relying on distressed wailing and physical outbursts. Having to describe my social and professional anxieties in the context of a work meeting is something else that wipes me out - shame I can't express it any better, eh? It's my fault for managing so admirably, although nothing will make me laugh so bitterly or so derisively at the time I was suffering from a fever and felt like death, to be told by my employer I both looked and sounded fine, only to have two weeks off and be prescribed a course of antibiotics to combat pneumonia. Did I mention the principal side effect was diarrhoea? When I saw my doctor having been back at work for a week, they thought I was making exceptional progress but that I was completely mad as well. Whatever. It's fine now.
I need this job though. Like, need. As I'm fond of saying at the moment especially, living (and working) in Cornwall isn't anything like the beautifully produced videos (or listicles) by Buzzfeed and the like - pay is low and rent is high, basically. And the weather is bad, basically. The first day of spring was hailed by the same 4-9 degree celcius temperature coupled with meaningless drizzle and an annoying wind, much like today! Ah, but Monday was good. Yes, Monday was a day that Buzzfeed could have tome to film, with blazing sunshine and still air, giving way to a wonderful haze over the sea on the south coast... Yes. How transcendent. How... Tourist friendly.
I always write in shifts. Or phases. My first blog could probably be seen now as a quiet but persistent cry for help, something I kept at to stop myself from dying, basically. My second effort came from a weirder place, where I was extremely depressed, and felt like I had discarded major parts of my personality in order to survive (you can't something I care about away from me if I just don't care, right?), a blander existence. During this time I faced up to some of my more self-destructive tendencies though, so that was surely worth it. That essentially dribbled out though, and I found it more and more difficult to comment objectively as I got more to grips with the things, people and actions that were upsetting me without just calling them out straight up. I tired to inject some life in by writing about films but surprise! It didn't work. I couldn't really hold down a write/work balance - not helped by my personal computers being in a poor state. So what now?
As I like to tell people, the title of my upcoming autobiography is Death of an Artist. And this is part of it. This blog will get me to 30 (Thirty?!? How the fuck did I get this old?!) and I wonder where I'll be then? At the moment, I'm grappling with the idea that I am wasting my life and my potential, in fact to such an extent that I can no longer rectify it. True, I have a full time position as a Lay Clerk singing the daily services of an Anglican Cathedral (the location of which I will not disclose even though at this point withholding such a thing is a pointless charade - but more on that in the future), which really is a privilege not to be sniffed at - but my experience outside of this position pales in comparison to the kind of touring and recording schedule one enjoys during one's first eight weeks as part of a major collegiate choir, you know, the kind that now has its own record imprint, the location of which I will not blah blah blah, not to mention the associated chamber music opportunities blah blah rhubarb rhubarb you get the picture. I don't put myself forward, true, but then I do not have the kind of unassailable confidence that would probably lead me to more success.
Oh well. This, then, is where it starts. But then, where will it all end?
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