Poetry in Emotion.

So in October I go back to studying after what has pretty much been a year out, for this reason and that. For the first time in a long time, I'm genuinely excited about the possibility of starting again, and I'm more determined to keep my head up than I have been in a long time.

This year, I don't want to become "the new me" I want to become the revised edition, the 2nd or 3rd generation model that people clamour for, because some of the major issues have been ironed out, and the manufacturers have learned from their mistakes, not just stubbornly made the same ones, or given up completely. Giving up on myself is no longer an option, because all the wonderful people in my life deserve more than that, they don't deserve to be leant on this heavily any longer.

I need to put the past year or so behind me, properly, for good, and deal with the repercussions and curve balls it has thrown me calmly, and quietly, because the song and dance I've been making, is not one that the world wants to hear. I CAN do this, because I say I can, and from now on my word is good. My word is no longer entirely self-deprecating and inwardly vicious, or terrified of judgement and failure, because my word now stands for the things I have come to know, like how valuable true friends are, even if I thought I was aware of this before, and that it's ok to slide off the rails, as long as you can right yourself again, with help if needs be, before being eclipsed in the tunnel.

I know this sudden burst of optimism will fade and flicker, but I would like to think that I'm climbing back out of the valley and heading for flatter pastures, with some trite but resonatory clichés to fill gaps in the path ahead, and stoke fires to hold off those cold, dark nights.

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The Show Must Go On

By the end of this week, I will have played in 4 concerts, and the majority of my peers couldn’t care less. (That’s right, couldn't, but that grievance is for another time) 

It kills me that because of the violin on my shoulder and the Beethoven symphony on the stand in front of me, lots of people won’t come out and support us, because classical music has this reputation for being boring and stuffy. I wish I knew how to show these people the utter ecstasies and heartbreaks that symphonies can conjure, how the right piece of music can touch your very soul, bring you to tears and leave you gasping for breath with 3 more movements yet to experience. I genuinely pity those who have never sat amongst an orchestra, never felt the utter emotion of being enveloped in the sound of the ensemble, every player as one, as everything slots in to place in that moment, and every other care in the world has quietly slipped away, leaving what can only be described as this ball of emotion simultaneously in the pit of your stomach, and rising in your throat, as the tangible sense of unity hangs in the air.

The high of a good performance is incomparable, and it’s not even bad for your health. Well, except for the odd muscle strain and the mental strain of some rehearsals that really feel like they might never end, but as with all “mornings after the night before” you naively concur that you will never let it happen again and pull your ostrich costume, complete with protective headgear, out of the wardrobe on your way to the nearest sand dune, because music just means that much to you.

 Musicians are a special breed, it’s true, but music is one of the simplest pleasures on Earth, because all that is required is that you just sit back, engage your ears, and listen. Classical music is not hard work unless you consciously make it that way, by closing your mind to it. You don’t have to be a musician to appreciate music, you really don’t, because sure, you can delight in the technicalities of a piece of music, but you can also immerse yourself in notes that sound wonderful when played together, and marvel at the percussion section going hammer and tongs at the bass drum with a look of glee so pure that its memory will continue to make you smile for weeks.  

I have met friends for life through music, which makes it really hard to try and get friends to come out and support concerts, because they’re pretty much all queuing up there with me, ready to go on stage, so we need other people to come and watch us play, because even though playing to an empty room is still playing, it’s massively disheartening. Think Olympic athletes having trained for years to reach their peak, only to have to struggle to hear themselves over the deafening silence, and hurdle tumble weed on their way round an entirely empty stadium on race day.

So I urge you to support local ensembles, go out and share in their joy and passion, and reap the rewards of their weeks and weeks of hard work.

Classical music isn’t cool, but it shouldn’t have to be. 

Classical music has nothing to prove, nor does it need to jump up and down screaming for attention; it should just be luxuriated in regularly, and without regret, because it deserves it, and so do you, and because it really, truly is good for the soul.

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One of Those Days

“One of those days” is just one of those phrases. 

Who was it that decided that those days were bad days, or difficult days? It would be nice, just once, to be able to cry out that it’s been one of those days, with a smile and a sense of elation, and have people instantly understand where you’re coming from, and how wonderful your day has been. The way I see it, this might suggest that those bleak days are few and far between, so as to merit this distinctive turn of phrase, but in reality, I fear it’s a  by-product of human nature’s proclivity for negativity. Society dictates that we are supposed to be happy; it is pretty much expected of us, but then there is always the desire to keep up with the Joneses, and that niggling feeling that the grass might just be greener on the other side.

It has been well established that a little bit of competitive negativity is allowed, nay encouraged; industries thrive on peddling self-improvement and wonder products to propel you to the front of whatever herd you choose to run with, but when someone is seriously down, medically even, they are singled out and picked off for being “weak.” I refuse to use the word depression lightly, because in its most serious manifestations it is lethal, and at the very least, it derails entire lives. For sufferers of depression, of which I am one, “one of those days” can indeed be a positive day, just one day of let-up, in what can feel like existing on the seabed of an ocean of darkness. 

My issues don’t define me, and I’m sure I will go in to more detail at some point in the life of this blog, probably more than once, because at times it can be all consuming, but when you can come up for air, if you can change even one negative attitude towards sufferers, or educate one person about how to notice the warning signs, or even take the steps to protect their own mental health, then you might just feel like it’s worth treading water one day at a time. 

In England and Wales, MIND is a fantastic organisation, and their current campaign of befriending “The Elephant in the Room” is wonderful, and something that should be receiving more media coverage than it is. So yes, today was “one of those days” for me, in the traditional sense, but thankfully it was just one of those days, and they are becoming fewer and farther between, and with an elephant on your side, there are few battles you can lose.

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Quotation Time

“The word that is heard perishes, but the letter that is written remains.”  Proverb

I'm nothing if not unoriginal.

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The Power of Prose

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I was first introduced to this beautiful poem at the age of 10. 

Just the other day I was reminded of its ethereal beauty and both genuinely delighted and more than a little surprised, to find that I can still recite it word for word. I hated school, but thankfully no amount of bullying could stop me learning, or deter me from my thirst for knowledge. Sadly, genuinely inspirational teachers are few and far between, (don't get me started) but I was lucky enough to encounter one, even if it was under less-than-wonderful circumstances, who thrust this poem, and many others, under my nose, and then taught me to inhale.
From Frost's snowy woods, to WH Davies' daffodils, with Conan Doyle's eagle circling overhead, each week my imagination was expanding without me even realising. Little did I know that these words were padding quietly across the soft expanse of my childhood consciousness, silently imprinting their images in the corner labelled "For Future Use." 

People have always said that children have minds like sponges, and for me, it is these poems and their lasting effect on me that has cemented this. If, or when, I have children of my own, I will do my utmost to fill their fledgling years with the beauty, and inspiration of the written word, in the same way mine were. I will read at them until I am hoarse, read with them until my fingers are stiff and blackened with ink, and listen to them conjure words until my ears no longer hear. When my life was being made a misery at the tender age of 10, it was the weekly poems that helped me escape, even transcend, the cruelty of the world I found myself in, along with the books of poetry handed down to me by my Mum, which seemed to hold together at the spine through faith and faith alone. I truly believe that I put my faith in those pages, and those pages in me, which is testament to the fact that we have both survived to this day. 

I can pinpoint literary works that have actually shaped and influenced my life. Anyone who knows me away from this keyboard will know that I am positively cuckoo for cats, and I very definitely have T.S Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats to thank for it. The fact that the musical "Cats" stems from this collection of wonderful characters is also very definitely entrenched in my love of music, but that's a different tale for a different time. 
I am a passionate believer in the written word, and as much as reading saved me back then, so writing rescues me now. My parents taught me to read, and spell, inside out and back to front: literally. Words were fun in my house. I was taught that words are meant to break down barriers, not build them; words are not to be feared, or used to exclude or intimidate. I think this is why I have such an affinity with words: I turned to words when my peers turned against me, because words themselves at least, don't judge. 
The beauty of words, of literature and of prose, is that they never stop giving. With age, words read differently, and life will throw stuff at you that will change both you, and how you read. 

The love affair I have with words is mutual, everlasting, and ever-forgiving, and nothing else will ever come close.

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A disclaimer, of sorts.

It strikes me that the internet is both monstrous and wonderful in equal measure. Every day I have this unlimited access to a veritable wealth of news articles, videos, academic journals, and even some pictures of cats captioned with bad grammar, that make me smile and question, but most importantly: think. Ok, so maybe a video of kittens on a Roomba (look it up, it's just about the cutest thing ever) isn't going to inspire me to get on and finish my first novel, and I'm almost certain that my love of stumbleupon is the only thing preventing me from perfecting that cure for cancer, but I believe that everything has its place.
I'm not going to pretend that my answers outnumber my questions, or that anything I have to say can change lives, but I would like to think that here in my comfy nook somewhere between the FTSE, and Rebecca Black, I might just say something worth hearing every now and again. No promises though.

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