I used to describe myself as a musician, and really believed it. The music I was 'making' then seems utterly pointless and slow now. I've been trying to nail a new song down and keep getting to a point where I don't know what else to do to improve it - my technique on the keyboard, not perfect at the best of times, limits me to a style that is little more than a child's standard, and not in a Mozart-child way at all.
Maybe it's just my current mindset that's limiting me in what I can do. It's something that will feed on itself because if I don't get a recording 'quickly' then I feel I've failed.
Bollocks to music. Only that music is why I'm alive - it can't be for anything else.
Jimmy Page is in my head, which for a guitarist is a bit daunting. There's some footage of Led Zep at Earls Court in 1975 and Jimmy is playing as though he's possessed. It's effortless but accurate and incredible in the range of techniques he uses. If it can't be perfect, why bother?
Songs come to me easy enough, but it's the arranging where I struggle. Partly it's because of the way in which I record, which is building up each part myself and so there's no spontaneity or 'group interaction'. I dunno. Maybe playing with actual musicians where there can be a certain level of creation that takes ages to achieve on my own.
This is when the madness of spending £4100 on guitars in January seems, er, mad.
Never mind. I just need musical laxatives.
Snow - Winter 2009/10
Proof of Fun Being Had...
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Wednesday, 30 July 2008
Number nine, number nine, number nine
Whatever plot there was, it has eroded and is now but a memory.
Not being of the criminular type, I don't really know what prison is like in terms of the mental entrapment and the physical one, too. If it is anything like the way my head works, then the punishment really does fit the crime.
I've been wanting to get back to recording regularly for a few days now. The problem is that I can't physically do it without a nagging doubt, that manifests into an extreme sensitivity over any small detail - be it the sound of the guitar, my playing or just how the whole piece is hanging. Just doing something is very difficult, I'm insecure and struggle with creating music. The paradox is that I have recorded some of the best music I've written in the last four years, achieving this with less effort than before.
The problem is...if I don't understand all of this and what is driving particular mental cul-de-sacs, crippling me totally...who can understand it?
One of the things that my father said to me towards the end of his life was that he did love me, but I made it very difficult. Maybe it was the illness talking, maybe not. Since then there has been a casual and growing belief that my parents, and my relatives don't like me, too. The non-malicious apathy that has left the wider family groups frustrates me, even though I'm as guilty as the next person of this. I haven't the courage to confront my family about this loving/liking thing. I don't have any rational ability to get around this.
I think that I need to see my cpn again - there's been a mental dip in the last week. I feel unwell for most of the time, and it's not of the man-flu "I'm dying" variety. Would you be happy about that? As a psychiatrist told me a few months ago, "Blind people can be happy". Excusing the absence of empathy and misunderstanding of my whole psychology, it taught me a lesson. Ultimately, regardless of whatever support there is, and I get a lot of it, the part of my head that is wrong makes it very difficult to cope. I know that I've fundamentally lost a lot of understanding about my life or anybody else's, for that matter (other peoples' lives are worth more). I can't handle social situations and I feel a burden on everybody. Being alone with my head is not a good choice, but all the while, I do need human contact, but....
Round and round we go...
Not being of the criminular type, I don't really know what prison is like in terms of the mental entrapment and the physical one, too. If it is anything like the way my head works, then the punishment really does fit the crime.
I've been wanting to get back to recording regularly for a few days now. The problem is that I can't physically do it without a nagging doubt, that manifests into an extreme sensitivity over any small detail - be it the sound of the guitar, my playing or just how the whole piece is hanging. Just doing something is very difficult, I'm insecure and struggle with creating music. The paradox is that I have recorded some of the best music I've written in the last four years, achieving this with less effort than before.
The problem is...if I don't understand all of this and what is driving particular mental cul-de-sacs, crippling me totally...who can understand it?
One of the things that my father said to me towards the end of his life was that he did love me, but I made it very difficult. Maybe it was the illness talking, maybe not. Since then there has been a casual and growing belief that my parents, and my relatives don't like me, too. The non-malicious apathy that has left the wider family groups frustrates me, even though I'm as guilty as the next person of this. I haven't the courage to confront my family about this loving/liking thing. I don't have any rational ability to get around this.
I think that I need to see my cpn again - there's been a mental dip in the last week. I feel unwell for most of the time, and it's not of the man-flu "I'm dying" variety. Would you be happy about that? As a psychiatrist told me a few months ago, "Blind people can be happy". Excusing the absence of empathy and misunderstanding of my whole psychology, it taught me a lesson. Ultimately, regardless of whatever support there is, and I get a lot of it, the part of my head that is wrong makes it very difficult to cope. I know that I've fundamentally lost a lot of understanding about my life or anybody else's, for that matter (other peoples' lives are worth more). I can't handle social situations and I feel a burden on everybody. Being alone with my head is not a good choice, but all the while, I do need human contact, but....
Round and round we go...
Ooh, two blogs in one day. Hey-ho.
The ucking heat is ucking awful, destroying every diabetic in its path. Sleep is something that other people engage in, clearly. I've spent the afternoon trying to get some jobs done about the house, but the stupid eyes are not playing today.
I somehow think that blindness will release me from this constant need to justify my health, sight, life. No more explaining why I can see bits of things and nothing of other things. No more pathetic, but well-meaning people talking over me rather than at me. I haven't gone deaf, you imbecilic ordure-sniffers.
Still, I'm not in hospital, which is good. The summer time heat is a killer, and it floors me almost immediately. Joy.
I'm beyond caring right now about the diabetes game I've been playing this last two months. To say I'm angry is an understatement. If only each medic was consistent with their colleagues. The whole thing is fucked. I'm fucked and I'm fucked off with these mind games that diabetes plays on one.
Serve the servants, indeed.
Over and out.
I somehow think that blindness will release me from this constant need to justify my health, sight, life. No more explaining why I can see bits of things and nothing of other things. No more pathetic, but well-meaning people talking over me rather than at me. I haven't gone deaf, you imbecilic ordure-sniffers.
Still, I'm not in hospital, which is good. The summer time heat is a killer, and it floors me almost immediately. Joy.
I'm beyond caring right now about the diabetes game I've been playing this last two months. To say I'm angry is an understatement. If only each medic was consistent with their colleagues. The whole thing is fucked. I'm fucked and I'm fucked off with these mind games that diabetes plays on one.
Serve the servants, indeed.
Over and out.
Living With Your Enemy
It's only just dawning on me that my life has become a series of dramas, each one causing much stress regardless of its' size.
I've been heavily reliant on the transitory highs of retail therapy - eBalls and Amamamazon being the chief targets. It's a sense of spinning around, trying to ensnare my usual impulses. These impulses are very deep, during which I have to be very vigilant or I would buy more things than I want or need.
Understanding the difference between need and want is the best lesson I've learnt over all of this year's purchases. I don't need a new guitar, or four new guitars. They look nice and sound lovely. It hasn't improved my mental state or general health. I've got more money than at any other time in my life and yet, it somehow doesn't feel nice. Security comes from living beings rather than static objects. I never felt more safe than when I was at home with my parents, with no outside stresses, either school or work situations. I'm a frightened little boy housed inside a decaying shell of a half-man. I look like I'm a vicious sod, and yet I'm too, too delicate.
There have been some wonderful people in my life, coming from many different circumstances and the few who I have become close to deserve a medal for putting up with my constant woes and whinging, whining whines. It would be nice to explain to them that I'd like to step out of my body and join them in wondering what the hell I'm playing at. You hurt those close to you and I have a remarkably lucid comendium of pain I've dished out. Being ruled by some thing that is coursing through my veins I can be very hurtful verbally. Some things can't be unsaid. I've found trouble in every area of my life and as I grow older it seems that being alone is the only safe way of avoiding hurting people I care for.
Sayoung Sorry is less of an apology and more of a means to the end of getting past what I've done or said or not said or not done. But having a mind like mine means that I can punish myself far more efficiently and deeply than would equate the hurt I have caused. I'm still punishing myself for things I did and said in a special relationship and will no doubt continue to do so until I die. Not having my parents around means that I have created a reality in which I believe I was a bad son to them and that they didn't actually like me. They loved me very much, but that isn't the same as liking me as a man or person.
So, when these black moods strike, I tend to isolate myself from everybody and everything. I know that isolation is the worst thing to combat depression, but being with people now is a very big stress. My sight situation means that I feel awkward and disabled. It's an ordeal.
Soup of the day will be pity and ego with bread cobs.
I've been heavily reliant on the transitory highs of retail therapy - eBalls and Amamamazon being the chief targets. It's a sense of spinning around, trying to ensnare my usual impulses. These impulses are very deep, during which I have to be very vigilant or I would buy more things than I want or need.
Understanding the difference between need and want is the best lesson I've learnt over all of this year's purchases. I don't need a new guitar, or four new guitars. They look nice and sound lovely. It hasn't improved my mental state or general health. I've got more money than at any other time in my life and yet, it somehow doesn't feel nice. Security comes from living beings rather than static objects. I never felt more safe than when I was at home with my parents, with no outside stresses, either school or work situations. I'm a frightened little boy housed inside a decaying shell of a half-man. I look like I'm a vicious sod, and yet I'm too, too delicate.
There have been some wonderful people in my life, coming from many different circumstances and the few who I have become close to deserve a medal for putting up with my constant woes and whinging, whining whines. It would be nice to explain to them that I'd like to step out of my body and join them in wondering what the hell I'm playing at. You hurt those close to you and I have a remarkably lucid comendium of pain I've dished out. Being ruled by some thing that is coursing through my veins I can be very hurtful verbally. Some things can't be unsaid. I've found trouble in every area of my life and as I grow older it seems that being alone is the only safe way of avoiding hurting people I care for.
Sayoung Sorry is less of an apology and more of a means to the end of getting past what I've done or said or not said or not done. But having a mind like mine means that I can punish myself far more efficiently and deeply than would equate the hurt I have caused. I'm still punishing myself for things I did and said in a special relationship and will no doubt continue to do so until I die. Not having my parents around means that I have created a reality in which I believe I was a bad son to them and that they didn't actually like me. They loved me very much, but that isn't the same as liking me as a man or person.
So, when these black moods strike, I tend to isolate myself from everybody and everything. I know that isolation is the worst thing to combat depression, but being with people now is a very big stress. My sight situation means that I feel awkward and disabled. It's an ordeal.
Soup of the day will be pity and ego with bread cobs.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
The Ending Of Youthdom
How does one know when one is not a young man anymore? Well, I think I've found a way of determining whether you're mentally as close to being 20 or 40.
Fridges.
The fridge in my kitchen had been failing for some time. It was running at full pelt all the time, made a noise that sounded quite worrying, and had a funny smell. Being an integrated fridge it meant that to replace it would be fairly expensive.
Today I took hold of a brand new fridge of the integrated variety. Luckily for me, there was a nice man who was able to install it in the afternoon. I'm not one of those alpha-male types who can put up a shelf as easily as it is to eat chocolate (I know about eating chocolate and I can assure you that it is very easy to eat). Within the hour, he had completed it and the silence was golden. It also closed properly and looked very nice.
The thought occurred to me this evening that I don't remember another time where I'd be remotely excited at a new fridge and its' working properly. A new guitar used to be very exciting (in fact, to prove the point, I bought THREE Gibson Les Paul Standards in January and a Fender Jaguar). So I've experienced both the former youthful high and this new, worrying high. That must make me middle-aged or something.
Funny how you become older almost every day.
Fridges.
The fridge in my kitchen had been failing for some time. It was running at full pelt all the time, made a noise that sounded quite worrying, and had a funny smell. Being an integrated fridge it meant that to replace it would be fairly expensive.
Today I took hold of a brand new fridge of the integrated variety. Luckily for me, there was a nice man who was able to install it in the afternoon. I'm not one of those alpha-male types who can put up a shelf as easily as it is to eat chocolate (I know about eating chocolate and I can assure you that it is very easy to eat). Within the hour, he had completed it and the silence was golden. It also closed properly and looked very nice.
The thought occurred to me this evening that I don't remember another time where I'd be remotely excited at a new fridge and its' working properly. A new guitar used to be very exciting (in fact, to prove the point, I bought THREE Gibson Les Paul Standards in January and a Fender Jaguar). So I've experienced both the former youthful high and this new, worrying high. That must make me middle-aged or something.
Funny how you become older almost every day.
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