Last week, it was the peak night for the Perseid meteor shower. I had just come in from three quarters of hour of stargazing, neck sore from craning up for so long. So far, I had seen nothing in the small patch of light-polluted London sky of my back garden. It was about 2:30am.
I sat down at my computer to take a short break. I saw the red banner of a breaking news story on my screen that had only been posted about ten minutes ago- Robin Williams had been found dead.
This post has been sitting in my drafts for a week now. I wanted to say something constructive and intelligent, and to express the strange and unexpected pain of losing someone I've never even met. I grew up with his on-screen shenanigans, marvelled at his talent and had heard stories of his kind nature, but I didn't know him; and yet I felt a little heartbroken. I couldn't find a way to express all of this. Thankfully, the internet, or indeed the whole world it seems, managed to convey these sentiments perfectly.
I was going to just delete this nod to Mr. Williams because I felt like I had nothing worth posting compared to everyone else, and certainly nothing as beautiful or thought-provoking as the heartfelt tributes that have gone out. However, I started to think about my own very personal dealings with the invisible but very tangible dead weight that is depression: both for myself and close friends. Then I began to think that if I can get through to just one person out there that happens to be reading this post- literally just one person in the whole world- and be able to help them just a little, then that's worth more than enough for me to post this.
There are days where you might feel like you could never be happy again. Or, just as bad, you feel like you could never feel anything ever again. There might be days where instantly when you wake up, you feel an invisible weight crushing down on you, and you wish nothing more than to just stay in bed and never get up again. There might be days where no matter what the hell you do you feel repulsive, unsuccessful and generally worthless to anyone or anything- and that either you, your loved ones, or both, would be better off if you just removed yourself from the world.
This is not the truth.
The sneakiest, most vicious part of depression is the way it convinces you that it's purely logical to feel this way. It's not. You have more worth than you can ever know, and are treasured more than you can ever realise. You don't deserve to be feeling like this at all, no matter what you tell yourself, and you have just as much right to be down as anyone else. Ignore people who tell you nonsense such as 'just snap out of it' or 'smile more' or 'be grateful for the life you have'. Depression is certainly not your fault, and these people are bloody idiots.
Most importantly of all, LET YOURSELF BE HELPED. You might feel like you don't want to burden others, but what good are the people on this earth if they can't support one another? Turn to the people closest to you, and sod the ones that run away- no-one needs people like that in their lives anyway, depression or no. Keep talking, and go to the doctor's to work out the best possible treatment for you. You know what? People with colds are lucky- they get streaming eyes, red noses, and sneeze and snort a lot, and they get all of the Lemsip and sympathy in the world. Depression is invisible, and more dangerously if you let it be- silent. So yes, there are people out there that will be of the "well I can't see it so it must not exist" ilk (again, these people are bloody idiots). Thankfully your doctor knows better than that. Go see them, and talk to them too.
I've been there. I nearly got lost. I'm back, and I'm stronger than ever. Sometimes it might feel like you could fall back into the pit. But once you realise the truth- that you deserve better- there will always be a safety net over the pit, and you'll never fall in again.
This is what I considered as I read the news that night, as well as how someone who has done so much good in the world can't feel of it for themselves. As for the Perseid meteor shower, I went straight back outside. I saw three little shooting stars and a great big one streak across the sky within ten minutes, this time.
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy
"Sometimes, when I have a little left, I like to spray my hands and pretend I'm a robot." - Me talking about decorating cake with edible metallic spray about ten minutes into encountering a new human being.
I'm really bad at meeting new people.
No no, let me rephrase this: I'm really good at pretending like I know what I'm doing when I'm meeting new people at first, but I'm terrible at maintaining any sense of normality throughout the social situation. For instance, I'll start off seeming like a nice, normal person, and then only a few minutes in of talking to someone, sporadic flashes of crazy suddenly burst through the faรงade, like some sort of nervous reflex.
I visited a friend's house to play my first ever game of Dungeons and Dragons a few evenings ago- my character was a new addition to the campaign, and the group had already had two sessions of play. I already knew my friend of course, and I had already met her husband. It was the rest of the group I had to try to convince that I was 'cool'.
I had been talking like a nice, normal person to my friend's brother-in-law when the subject of what I'd used to make the cakes I brought silver came up (I'd sprayed them silver and gold like loot). Like a nice, normal person I explained how I'd done it. My friend's brother in law joked that he might end up looking like the tin man if he got any silver on him. And then, not at all like a nice, normal person, I cracked that remark about pretending like I'm a robot out.
At another point, we started discussing about how strictly we have to stick to our character's alliances and personality, and then ended up with a philosophical statement about how the inevitability of how our characters can and can't act could be a metaphor for life. And hastily and awkwardly added "Or not..."
During the actual game, I was absent-mindedly stacking the die up in a colourful tower. Another member of the group and pointed this out, amused. I felt a silly crooked grin appear on my face. "I like stacking things, stacking things is fun."
*Facepalm*
There were plenty of other moments like these throughout the evening, made worse by the fact that I was also trying to learn the rules of the game on the fly, stay in character and remember everyone's real and in-game names at the same time; and as the game commenced, I felt myself getting quieter and quieter. The group was fantastic- everyone was very welcoming and had the same cheeky, slightly avante-garde sense of humour as I did- but I was terrified of accidentally taking the joke too far, or stepping over the mark as the newbie. I started out being super friendly and slightly hyperactive, but by the end of the evening I must have seem very subdued, and perhaps even a little aloof in my awkwardness.
I used to be so painfully shy I wouldn't be able to talk to new people at all. Now I'm much better at pretending that I'm confident and at toning down my eccentricity to begin with, but this sort of suppression results in my eccentricity forcing its way out like water spewing from a cracking dam. Honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse.
Thankfully, the people that have stuck by me after these awkward first moments are both awesome and just as nuts to boot, so I needn't worry too much. After all, life is all about finding people with the same type of crazy as you, and those people become your friends.
I'm really bad at meeting new people.
No no, let me rephrase this: I'm really good at pretending like I know what I'm doing when I'm meeting new people at first, but I'm terrible at maintaining any sense of normality throughout the social situation. For instance, I'll start off seeming like a nice, normal person, and then only a few minutes in of talking to someone, sporadic flashes of crazy suddenly burst through the faรงade, like some sort of nervous reflex.
I visited a friend's house to play my first ever game of Dungeons and Dragons a few evenings ago- my character was a new addition to the campaign, and the group had already had two sessions of play. I already knew my friend of course, and I had already met her husband. It was the rest of the group I had to try to convince that I was 'cool'.
I had been talking like a nice, normal person to my friend's brother-in-law when the subject of what I'd used to make the cakes I brought silver came up (I'd sprayed them silver and gold like loot). Like a nice, normal person I explained how I'd done it. My friend's brother in law joked that he might end up looking like the tin man if he got any silver on him. And then, not at all like a nice, normal person, I cracked that remark about pretending like I'm a robot out.
At another point, we started discussing about how strictly we have to stick to our character's alliances and personality, and then ended up with a philosophical statement about how the inevitability of how our characters can and can't act could be a metaphor for life. And hastily and awkwardly added "Or not..."
During the actual game, I was absent-mindedly stacking the die up in a colourful tower. Another member of the group and pointed this out, amused. I felt a silly crooked grin appear on my face. "I like stacking things, stacking things is fun."
*Facepalm*
There were plenty of other moments like these throughout the evening, made worse by the fact that I was also trying to learn the rules of the game on the fly, stay in character and remember everyone's real and in-game names at the same time; and as the game commenced, I felt myself getting quieter and quieter. The group was fantastic- everyone was very welcoming and had the same cheeky, slightly avante-garde sense of humour as I did- but I was terrified of accidentally taking the joke too far, or stepping over the mark as the newbie. I started out being super friendly and slightly hyperactive, but by the end of the evening I must have seem very subdued, and perhaps even a little aloof in my awkwardness.
I used to be so painfully shy I wouldn't be able to talk to new people at all. Now I'm much better at pretending that I'm confident and at toning down my eccentricity to begin with, but this sort of suppression results in my eccentricity forcing its way out like water spewing from a cracking dam. Honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse.
Thankfully, the people that have stuck by me after these awkward first moments are both awesome and just as nuts to boot, so I needn't worry too much. After all, life is all about finding people with the same type of crazy as you, and those people become your friends.
Saturday, 2 August 2014
Annihilated Knees
"Okay. What about if I move your knee like this?" My doctor twisted my leg this way and that way.
Cra-a-a-a-ck-k-k! My knee made a sound like a small bundle of twigs being snapped in two. The doctor looked visibly horrified.
"Yep, that one hurt," I confirmed as I lay on the examination table.
I'd been doing relatively well, fitness-wise, up until this week: running, gym-ing, dance classes, and a morning exercise routine involving press ups, tricep dips, crunches and squats. Unfortunately I decided to take on the 30 day squat challenge: a challenge in which you do a certain amount of squats almost every day, building up the number of squats each time. Squats are really bad news for knees, but I mistakenly believed that since I'm in relatively good shape, it would be okay.
What I'd forgotten about is that time during a judo session years and years ago when my sparring partner botched a throw and resulted in my left knee being twisted and crushed.
It's easy to forget about a weakness or illness when you're feeling fine, and my knee hadn't given me much trouble in a few years, even through all the exercise I've been doing. However a couple of weeks ago, two thirds of the way through the 30 day squat challenge, my knees- both of them- started to creak. And a couple of days ago, the left kneecap decided it wanted a change of scenery, which resulted in my knee locking every time I bent it for any reason (especially sitting down), and then having to endure a horrible crunching,, grinding sensation to straighten my leg.
Suspecting chondromalacia (the wearing away of the cartilage under the kneecap) and perhaps a torn ligament or two by the nasty way my kneecap was moving, I took myself to the doctor's yesterday morning, who promptly told me to put my left knee in a support for all waking hours, and sent me straight to hospital to get X-rays done on both knees.
I won't get the results back for another week or so- in the meantime my knee's bound up so I feel like I'm walking like a robot (which I'm trying but failing not to find kind of cool), and I'm taking supplement tablets designed for healthy joints, just in case it helps. Whatever's going on with my knees I know it's not good, and I certainly won't be able to do certain types of exercise for at very least a few months. If I'm unlucky, years- if I'm very unlucky, ever again. I can still do low impact exercise with my brace, and be careful when dancing- but no more squats, no more bounding up and down the stairs like a goat, and- alas- no more distance running for a while.
I'm a really active person, so it kills me not to be able to tear around like I'm use to doing. However, if I don't slow down, I risk never recovering and a lifetime of crippling pain, and I'll completely incapacitate my future self (aka Old Lady Tash). So, Old Lady Tash, I'm doing this for you.
Cra-a-a-a-ck-k-k! My knee made a sound like a small bundle of twigs being snapped in two. The doctor looked visibly horrified.
"Yep, that one hurt," I confirmed as I lay on the examination table.
I'd been doing relatively well, fitness-wise, up until this week: running, gym-ing, dance classes, and a morning exercise routine involving press ups, tricep dips, crunches and squats. Unfortunately I decided to take on the 30 day squat challenge: a challenge in which you do a certain amount of squats almost every day, building up the number of squats each time. Squats are really bad news for knees, but I mistakenly believed that since I'm in relatively good shape, it would be okay.
What I'd forgotten about is that time during a judo session years and years ago when my sparring partner botched a throw and resulted in my left knee being twisted and crushed.
It's easy to forget about a weakness or illness when you're feeling fine, and my knee hadn't given me much trouble in a few years, even through all the exercise I've been doing. However a couple of weeks ago, two thirds of the way through the 30 day squat challenge, my knees- both of them- started to creak. And a couple of days ago, the left kneecap decided it wanted a change of scenery, which resulted in my knee locking every time I bent it for any reason (especially sitting down), and then having to endure a horrible crunching,, grinding sensation to straighten my leg.
Suspecting chondromalacia (the wearing away of the cartilage under the kneecap) and perhaps a torn ligament or two by the nasty way my kneecap was moving, I took myself to the doctor's yesterday morning, who promptly told me to put my left knee in a support for all waking hours, and sent me straight to hospital to get X-rays done on both knees.
I won't get the results back for another week or so- in the meantime my knee's bound up so I feel like I'm walking like a robot (which I'm trying but failing not to find kind of cool), and I'm taking supplement tablets designed for healthy joints, just in case it helps. Whatever's going on with my knees I know it's not good, and I certainly won't be able to do certain types of exercise for at very least a few months. If I'm unlucky, years- if I'm very unlucky, ever again. I can still do low impact exercise with my brace, and be careful when dancing- but no more squats, no more bounding up and down the stairs like a goat, and- alas- no more distance running for a while.
I'm a really active person, so it kills me not to be able to tear around like I'm use to doing. However, if I don't slow down, I risk never recovering and a lifetime of crippling pain, and I'll completely incapacitate my future self (aka Old Lady Tash). So, Old Lady Tash, I'm doing this for you.
Sunday, 27 July 2014
But... Why?
We all do things that we don't agree with or want to do for the sake of our loved ones. They can be tiny things, but we all do them to keep relationships running: it's called 'compromise'.
A friend challenged me the other day about one everyday compromise I make. It's a cultural/ religious dietary rule I follow without believing with it or really agreeing with it, but I follow it because 1) it's very important to my immediate close family and would deeply upset them if I don't follow it and 2) it doesn't harm myself or anyone else around me. My friend challenged me because I admitted that I wished I could eat some stuff, being a natural foodie, but I had long ago decided to respect my family's wishes. The conversation more or less went like this:
"But why?"
"Because it would really upset my family if I didn't do it."
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters because I don't want to hurt my family."
"Why are you willing to compromise your own beliefs?"
"I'm not as such, just keeping one of the precious few things that link my identity to my family's."
"But why do you need to follow someone else's way of identifying themselves for your own identity?"
This is one of the reasons I really respect my friend, who's not afraid to ask the tough questions. However I was also annoyed- the question 'why' can be used an infinite amount of times and a final root answer never found. And besides, why did I have to justify my actions, anyway? My friend was satisfied in my lack a sensible or logical answer to the final question. I did have a response in my mind though: how do we identify ourselves without other people to identify with? But I didn't carry on the debate,not wanting to answer a question with rhetoric that would lead to even more debate. Also, my friend is religious and I am not- a huge difference in mindset that puts all similar debates about the human condition at a stalemate.
It's a good practice to have though, if ever you are in a personal bind. Ask yourself why, and what your motives are. Or better yet, find a friend who isn't afraid to ask the tough questions. Just be sure that you're ready to face them!
A friend challenged me the other day about one everyday compromise I make. It's a cultural/ religious dietary rule I follow without believing with it or really agreeing with it, but I follow it because 1) it's very important to my immediate close family and would deeply upset them if I don't follow it and 2) it doesn't harm myself or anyone else around me. My friend challenged me because I admitted that I wished I could eat some stuff, being a natural foodie, but I had long ago decided to respect my family's wishes. The conversation more or less went like this:
"But why?"
"Because it would really upset my family if I didn't do it."
"Why does it matter?"
"It matters because I don't want to hurt my family."
"Why are you willing to compromise your own beliefs?"
"I'm not as such, just keeping one of the precious few things that link my identity to my family's."
"But why do you need to follow someone else's way of identifying themselves for your own identity?"
This is one of the reasons I really respect my friend, who's not afraid to ask the tough questions. However I was also annoyed- the question 'why' can be used an infinite amount of times and a final root answer never found. And besides, why did I have to justify my actions, anyway? My friend was satisfied in my lack a sensible or logical answer to the final question. I did have a response in my mind though: how do we identify ourselves without other people to identify with? But I didn't carry on the debate,not wanting to answer a question with rhetoric that would lead to even more debate. Also, my friend is religious and I am not- a huge difference in mindset that puts all similar debates about the human condition at a stalemate.
It's a good practice to have though, if ever you are in a personal bind. Ask yourself why, and what your motives are. Or better yet, find a friend who isn't afraid to ask the tough questions. Just be sure that you're ready to face them!
Sunday, 13 July 2014
Just Dance
In a fit of whimsical madness, I decided to try K-pop dancing this week.
I stumbled across the dance group searching for a C-pop band I usually listen to, who also happen to have a K-pop incarnation. The dance group have been learning one of this band's routines this month, and since you can just drop in on any session to learn a section of the routine at a time, I thought, 'why not?'
I'm not a natural dancer. You'd think being a musician would make me good at dancing by default since I'm at home with beat, rhythm, coordination and the like, but you'd be mistaken. Sure, like almost anything else, if I set my mind to it I could be reasonable at it, but it's definitely not one of my natural talents like making music or cake or crafts. I know I'm never going to be a dancer. Hell, I even know I'll never have the time to go to regular classes to teach my arms and legs to work together in harmony. So why bother at all?
Well, what a sad world would it be, if we didn't try things just because we weren't instantly good at them?
I've often been been called for doing things that are a 'waste of my time'. After some debate with people with this view (usually well-meaning family members), I've realised that that the concept of something being a 'waste of time' to these people translates roughly as 'doing something that doesn't better yourself in a way that will allow you to further your career, earn more money and be more successful in life.'
What an even sadder world it would be without personal enrichment.
Really, this calls into question what 'success' really means, as a life value. In today's society, I suppose it means to have lots of money, own your own two-bedroom property and car and to go on lots of holidays abroad. If this is all that's important in life, than surely you must spend every waking moment assuring you are doing everything in your power to achieve these things?
There's a problem with this mentality, though. The most obvious one is all work and no play makes Jack a crazy axe-wielding psychopath (or maybe that's only when you work in a haunted hotel). The big one- the big, scary one that everyone tries their best to ignore- is the fact that you can't take it all with you when you die. At least, it doesn't seem that way. For all I know when you die little ghost versions of all of your life's belongings follows you to the afterlife, but for now I'm guessing now.
In your final moments of earthly awareness, as you contemplate the series of events that became your life, are you going to regret not spending more hours at the computer on that Excel spreadsheet? Or will you regret never getting round to doing that thing you always wanted to do because you were always at your computer on that Excel spreadsheet?
Money can help to buy happiness, but if you don't take the time to find out reflect inwardly on what makes you happy, then you're pretty much screwed. Other people can't make you happy either, really (although they certainly help a huge amount!) The only thing that can truly make you happy is yourself- and that, in itself, can take quiet a bit of work. Without working on yourself as a person rather than yourself as a commodity, you could have all the money in the world and feel empty, and be surrounded by as many people as possible and still feel lonely.
I am a writer by day, but in between working hours I sing and play musical instruments, bake and decorate cakes, learn languages, meet with friends all over the place, run, create cute cuddly things out of felt and wool, knit, and now apparently I try to dance. Why? Because all of these things make me happy, as well as finding new challenges and experiences in itself. Maybe K-pop dancing won't be one that sticks quite like all of the others, but for now, I'm happy with it being one of the things I remember on my death bed and think, 'Haha! That was pretty crazy but fun, huh?'
I stumbled across the dance group searching for a C-pop band I usually listen to, who also happen to have a K-pop incarnation. The dance group have been learning one of this band's routines this month, and since you can just drop in on any session to learn a section of the routine at a time, I thought, 'why not?'
I'm not a natural dancer. You'd think being a musician would make me good at dancing by default since I'm at home with beat, rhythm, coordination and the like, but you'd be mistaken. Sure, like almost anything else, if I set my mind to it I could be reasonable at it, but it's definitely not one of my natural talents like making music or cake or crafts. I know I'm never going to be a dancer. Hell, I even know I'll never have the time to go to regular classes to teach my arms and legs to work together in harmony. So why bother at all?
Well, what a sad world would it be, if we didn't try things just because we weren't instantly good at them?
I've often been been called for doing things that are a 'waste of my time'. After some debate with people with this view (usually well-meaning family members), I've realised that that the concept of something being a 'waste of time' to these people translates roughly as 'doing something that doesn't better yourself in a way that will allow you to further your career, earn more money and be more successful in life.'
What an even sadder world it would be without personal enrichment.
Really, this calls into question what 'success' really means, as a life value. In today's society, I suppose it means to have lots of money, own your own two-bedroom property and car and to go on lots of holidays abroad. If this is all that's important in life, than surely you must spend every waking moment assuring you are doing everything in your power to achieve these things?
There's a problem with this mentality, though. The most obvious one is all work and no play makes Jack a crazy axe-wielding psychopath (or maybe that's only when you work in a haunted hotel). The big one- the big, scary one that everyone tries their best to ignore- is the fact that you can't take it all with you when you die. At least, it doesn't seem that way. For all I know when you die little ghost versions of all of your life's belongings follows you to the afterlife, but for now I'm guessing now.
In your final moments of earthly awareness, as you contemplate the series of events that became your life, are you going to regret not spending more hours at the computer on that Excel spreadsheet? Or will you regret never getting round to doing that thing you always wanted to do because you were always at your computer on that Excel spreadsheet?
Money can help to buy happiness, but if you don't take the time to find out reflect inwardly on what makes you happy, then you're pretty much screwed. Other people can't make you happy either, really (although they certainly help a huge amount!) The only thing that can truly make you happy is yourself- and that, in itself, can take quiet a bit of work. Without working on yourself as a person rather than yourself as a commodity, you could have all the money in the world and feel empty, and be surrounded by as many people as possible and still feel lonely.
I am a writer by day, but in between working hours I sing and play musical instruments, bake and decorate cakes, learn languages, meet with friends all over the place, run, create cute cuddly things out of felt and wool, knit, and now apparently I try to dance. Why? Because all of these things make me happy, as well as finding new challenges and experiences in itself. Maybe K-pop dancing won't be one that sticks quite like all of the others, but for now, I'm happy with it being one of the things I remember on my death bed and think, 'Haha! That was pretty crazy but fun, huh?'
Saturday, 5 July 2014
Surrounded by Weirdos
On the train. Where else?
Reading quietly in my carriage, on my way back home from my Wednesday evening Mandarin class, I distantly noticed that a man had gotten up from his seat opposite me to sit next to me. I didn't really question why he had decided to switch seats mid-journey, engrossed in my book as I was. What I did question though was the increasing cramped conditions due to his arm sneaking further and further from the arm rest (which he had taken firm command of), and over into my space. I kept shifting sideways, hoping he'd just stop, but he kept shifting even more so our bare arms were touching (being a hot summer's day, everyone was wearing short sleeves).
I considered asking him to budge up- I'm not usually one for demurring- but since incidences of violence from such 'challenges' as that have been on the up and this guy looked like the type to look for a challenge, I decided just to hold firm. It's not fair to judge on appearances, I know, but I wasn't feeling lucky.
As I became increasingly irritated at someone else's (very hairy) arm trying to get to know mine better and venturing into my ribs, the train stopped to let on another flow of people. In the now empty spot opposite me now sat a wiry, twitchy guy with very curly hair, who promptly got out an entire pre-packed pasta salad and a bottle of Mountain Dew and proceeded to have his dinner on the train.
I didn't really mind too much: perhaps it had been a long day at work and this was his only chance to grab a bite. What did start to become a bother though was when he started belching loudly and wiping his mouth ostentatiously. Bother became slight worry when he put his now-empty salad pack back in his rucksack, chucked the bottle behind his seat and began to sway a little. Was he feeling unwell?
I considered asking if he was alright, but suddenly he began to twitch and shake ever so slightly, like he was trying to shake off invisible flies. I decided to stay put. I became very glad for my decision not to interfere, because soon every so often he'd bend over, head between knees, shake his head and mumble something, before emerging with wild eyes.
Two stops later and the hairy-armed guy, to my vast relief, got off. I wasn't completely at ease though: twitchy guy was still opposite me. At least there was only one strange person to worry about, though.
That is, until a lady on her mobile phone took the place of hairy-armed guy by my side.
I didn't really pay attention to her at first. Slowly, however, I began to pick up patterns in whatever she was saying over the phone. I couldn't understand the language, but whatever she was saying sounded a little like "I'll make you soup." Slowly, I realised that she was saying this over and over again. "I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup."
And then I realised we were still underground, with no possible phone signal.
"I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup."
Twitchy guy strode jerkily off the train a few stops after, but I was alone with the lady on her phone next to me for the remainder of the journey.
I had 15 minutes of "I'll make you soup." before my final stop at the end of the line. As the train pulled into my station, I got up, and so did the lady on her phone.
"I'll make you soup. Okay, bye."
I stared after her in disbelief as she strode off.
~End~
Reading quietly in my carriage, on my way back home from my Wednesday evening Mandarin class, I distantly noticed that a man had gotten up from his seat opposite me to sit next to me. I didn't really question why he had decided to switch seats mid-journey, engrossed in my book as I was. What I did question though was the increasing cramped conditions due to his arm sneaking further and further from the arm rest (which he had taken firm command of), and over into my space. I kept shifting sideways, hoping he'd just stop, but he kept shifting even more so our bare arms were touching (being a hot summer's day, everyone was wearing short sleeves).
I considered asking him to budge up- I'm not usually one for demurring- but since incidences of violence from such 'challenges' as that have been on the up and this guy looked like the type to look for a challenge, I decided just to hold firm. It's not fair to judge on appearances, I know, but I wasn't feeling lucky.
As I became increasingly irritated at someone else's (very hairy) arm trying to get to know mine better and venturing into my ribs, the train stopped to let on another flow of people. In the now empty spot opposite me now sat a wiry, twitchy guy with very curly hair, who promptly got out an entire pre-packed pasta salad and a bottle of Mountain Dew and proceeded to have his dinner on the train.
I didn't really mind too much: perhaps it had been a long day at work and this was his only chance to grab a bite. What did start to become a bother though was when he started belching loudly and wiping his mouth ostentatiously. Bother became slight worry when he put his now-empty salad pack back in his rucksack, chucked the bottle behind his seat and began to sway a little. Was he feeling unwell?
I considered asking if he was alright, but suddenly he began to twitch and shake ever so slightly, like he was trying to shake off invisible flies. I decided to stay put. I became very glad for my decision not to interfere, because soon every so often he'd bend over, head between knees, shake his head and mumble something, before emerging with wild eyes.
Two stops later and the hairy-armed guy, to my vast relief, got off. I wasn't completely at ease though: twitchy guy was still opposite me. At least there was only one strange person to worry about, though.
That is, until a lady on her mobile phone took the place of hairy-armed guy by my side.
I didn't really pay attention to her at first. Slowly, however, I began to pick up patterns in whatever she was saying over the phone. I couldn't understand the language, but whatever she was saying sounded a little like "I'll make you soup." Slowly, I realised that she was saying this over and over again. "I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup."
And then I realised we were still underground, with no possible phone signal.
"I'll make you soup. Aha. Aha. I'll make you soup. I'll make you soup."
Twitchy guy strode jerkily off the train a few stops after, but I was alone with the lady on her phone next to me for the remainder of the journey.
I had 15 minutes of "I'll make you soup." before my final stop at the end of the line. As the train pulled into my station, I got up, and so did the lady on her phone.
"I'll make you soup. Okay, bye."
I stared after her in disbelief as she strode off.
~End~
Sunday, 22 June 2014
And the Ukelele Makes Ten
I made my peace with music, recently.
We've always had quite an intense, turbulent relationship. I started playing the piano at the age of four, going on to complete a professional diploma in performance before I'd started university as well as Grade 8 in flute within four years of taking it up, and then earning Grade 8 singing within two years of taking proper lessons. I even ended up learning and taking a performance exam for the mbira at university. By the end of my musical education, I could play:
-Piano
-Flute
-Voice
-Guitar
-Lever harp
-Mbira
-Djembe
-Marimba
-Recorder/ tin whistle (beyond primary school level, that is)
I'd performed on each of these either as a solo or as part of a group at various and endless concerts and shows, and although the relationship was time-consuming and stressful (as many long-term relationships with anything can be), I thought the love would last forever.
Until the end of university, when I burned out.
The first sign was when my new piano tutor at university began to put pressure on me to work towards a second diploma. The way the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music works is this: you have Grades 1-8 (which everyone knows about), but afterwards there are three further levels of professional qualification: Diploma, Licentiate and Fellowship. It's not particularly for someone as young as I was to reach the diploma stage. So of course when I began my music course at university, my new tutor was eager to push me even further.
The problem was, though, that I was just so very tired of relentless examination. Playing the piano had always been a source of joy and escape for me at school, even at times of high pressure. At university, despite being used to pressure, it just stopped being fun. It started to just be all about Impressing People. Even worse, my new tutor was slightly dismissive rather than encouraging, telling me 'You won't be able to play that', or 'Oh, but everyone knows how to play that' (the latter after I learned a certainly-not-easy piece completely by heart in a week). I stopped feeling like the piano was my instrument, and started feeling like a delusional child.
I made the decision, much to my tutor's disgruntlement, not to continue to Licentiate level, and to focus on other areas of music.
The course I enrolled on was very 21st century music-orientated, which at first I thought would be interesting, but I very rapidly learned just wasn't my cup of tea. Having to write experimental abstract music felt like Monet might feel if someone dragged him to the Tate Modern and told him to be more like the artists there.
I clung to every unexamined performance, savouring every gig with my medieval band, taking in every moment with my African drumming group, revelling in every rebellious piece of music I played on the piano that wasn't what I was due to play in the next exam. Slowly, though, people in the groups I was in drifted away either graduating before me and moving elsewhere in the country or losing interest in playing themselves. The day the music proverbially died for me, though, was the day I handed in my last ethnomusicology assignment in my final year.
I loved ethnomusicology. I swear I was a stone's throw away from dreading my hair, wearing tie-dye and travelling the world in the name of music because of ethnomusicology (only I've always been too disgustingly middle class for that to ever happen. Although isn't travelling the world to spiritually find yourself a middle class thing?) Anyway, when it ended, so did my enthusiasm for music. All music thereafter was purely academic, and since music had always formerly been connected to my emotions, I became detached from it. After graduation the piano lid closed, the flute remained in pieces and my voice went back into hiding. My loving eighteen-year relationship with music had died.
Mourning was difficult. Everyone who had known me as an accomplished musician kept reminding me of that amazing concerto I performed in, or that time I sang a solo part for BBC youth choir of the year, or that gig where I only had a few days to learn twenty popular songs on the piano by heart, etc. etc. etc.
It felt a bit like the heartbreak of splitting up with your partner, but with everyone reminding you how great you were together. I tried to salvage the relationship, I really did. I tried going back to why I loved music, playing only music I enjoyed listening to. It didn't work: I put my fingers to the piano keys, and I dutifully played the notes, but that spark just wasn't there any more. Even worse, it felt too much like I was trying to reclaim my 'glory days'. I told myself that I knew from the very beginning that I'd never be a professional musician, and I admitted to myself that I'd never be the admired musician that I once was: those days were behind me. I moved on.
My creative nature, however, was still very much alive. Eventually I discovered my knack with words, and writing became my career. I started baking and decorating cakes as a hobby, discovered felting, started going to the gym and took up Mandarin evening lessons after work. Five years on, I've made good way in finding out who I am without music, having previously believed that music was all that there was to me.
I thought that the story had ended happily enough, until relatively recently.
I began to stumble across musicians and artists who reminded me that music can be fun- for example Pentatonix, who have successfully proved to the world that a capella can be awesome, and Steam Powered Giraffe, who perform as steampunk-style robots. I rediscovered old idols, from Imogen Heap to The Beatles. I started properly listening to music again. I started to sing along.
A few weeks ago, a friend posted on Facebook about a taster ukelele workshop, and something went 'ding' in my mind. I signed myself up, roped another friend in and went to the workshop last week. By the end of it I was smiling so much my face hurt. Yesterday I went to a ukelele shop, tried out a few, and bought one. I also signed myself up to regular group lessons, so I can play music with other people again.
Since since adopting my ukelele yesterday, the only times I've put it down are to bake and update my blogs (and you know, to sleep etc).
After all this time, I think my romance with music may have been rekindled.
We've always had quite an intense, turbulent relationship. I started playing the piano at the age of four, going on to complete a professional diploma in performance before I'd started university as well as Grade 8 in flute within four years of taking it up, and then earning Grade 8 singing within two years of taking proper lessons. I even ended up learning and taking a performance exam for the mbira at university. By the end of my musical education, I could play:
-Piano
-Flute
-Voice
-Guitar
-Lever harp
-Mbira
-Djembe
-Marimba
-Recorder/ tin whistle (beyond primary school level, that is)
I'd performed on each of these either as a solo or as part of a group at various and endless concerts and shows, and although the relationship was time-consuming and stressful (as many long-term relationships with anything can be), I thought the love would last forever.
Until the end of university, when I burned out.
The first sign was when my new piano tutor at university began to put pressure on me to work towards a second diploma. The way the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music works is this: you have Grades 1-8 (which everyone knows about), but afterwards there are three further levels of professional qualification: Diploma, Licentiate and Fellowship. It's not particularly for someone as young as I was to reach the diploma stage. So of course when I began my music course at university, my new tutor was eager to push me even further.
The problem was, though, that I was just so very tired of relentless examination. Playing the piano had always been a source of joy and escape for me at school, even at times of high pressure. At university, despite being used to pressure, it just stopped being fun. It started to just be all about Impressing People. Even worse, my new tutor was slightly dismissive rather than encouraging, telling me 'You won't be able to play that', or 'Oh, but everyone knows how to play that' (the latter after I learned a certainly-not-easy piece completely by heart in a week). I stopped feeling like the piano was my instrument, and started feeling like a delusional child.
I made the decision, much to my tutor's disgruntlement, not to continue to Licentiate level, and to focus on other areas of music.
The course I enrolled on was very 21st century music-orientated, which at first I thought would be interesting, but I very rapidly learned just wasn't my cup of tea. Having to write experimental abstract music felt like Monet might feel if someone dragged him to the Tate Modern and told him to be more like the artists there.
I clung to every unexamined performance, savouring every gig with my medieval band, taking in every moment with my African drumming group, revelling in every rebellious piece of music I played on the piano that wasn't what I was due to play in the next exam. Slowly, though, people in the groups I was in drifted away either graduating before me and moving elsewhere in the country or losing interest in playing themselves. The day the music proverbially died for me, though, was the day I handed in my last ethnomusicology assignment in my final year.
I loved ethnomusicology. I swear I was a stone's throw away from dreading my hair, wearing tie-dye and travelling the world in the name of music because of ethnomusicology (only I've always been too disgustingly middle class for that to ever happen. Although isn't travelling the world to spiritually find yourself a middle class thing?) Anyway, when it ended, so did my enthusiasm for music. All music thereafter was purely academic, and since music had always formerly been connected to my emotions, I became detached from it. After graduation the piano lid closed, the flute remained in pieces and my voice went back into hiding. My loving eighteen-year relationship with music had died.
Mourning was difficult. Everyone who had known me as an accomplished musician kept reminding me of that amazing concerto I performed in, or that time I sang a solo part for BBC youth choir of the year, or that gig where I only had a few days to learn twenty popular songs on the piano by heart, etc. etc. etc.
It felt a bit like the heartbreak of splitting up with your partner, but with everyone reminding you how great you were together. I tried to salvage the relationship, I really did. I tried going back to why I loved music, playing only music I enjoyed listening to. It didn't work: I put my fingers to the piano keys, and I dutifully played the notes, but that spark just wasn't there any more. Even worse, it felt too much like I was trying to reclaim my 'glory days'. I told myself that I knew from the very beginning that I'd never be a professional musician, and I admitted to myself that I'd never be the admired musician that I once was: those days were behind me. I moved on.
My creative nature, however, was still very much alive. Eventually I discovered my knack with words, and writing became my career. I started baking and decorating cakes as a hobby, discovered felting, started going to the gym and took up Mandarin evening lessons after work. Five years on, I've made good way in finding out who I am without music, having previously believed that music was all that there was to me.
I thought that the story had ended happily enough, until relatively recently.
I began to stumble across musicians and artists who reminded me that music can be fun- for example Pentatonix, who have successfully proved to the world that a capella can be awesome, and Steam Powered Giraffe, who perform as steampunk-style robots. I rediscovered old idols, from Imogen Heap to The Beatles. I started properly listening to music again. I started to sing along.
A few weeks ago, a friend posted on Facebook about a taster ukelele workshop, and something went 'ding' in my mind. I signed myself up, roped another friend in and went to the workshop last week. By the end of it I was smiling so much my face hurt. Yesterday I went to a ukelele shop, tried out a few, and bought one. I also signed myself up to regular group lessons, so I can play music with other people again.
Since since adopting my ukelele yesterday, the only times I've put it down are to bake and update my blogs (and you know, to sleep etc).
After all this time, I think my romance with music may have been rekindled.
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