The word is my shepherd…

Please note…
…that this post is not intended as a way of generating or seeking sympathy – not for myself, anyway. My plight – such as it is – is much less awful than that of many others. This is simply a statement of fact; as well as an apology to those who I may have let down through lack of availability or response. And if it provokes any emotion, I hope that you will focus that emotion on helping those poor souls for whom there is no light – yet – at the end of their tunnel. It is, I hope, though, a salutary lesson – especially to other men – that you should not believe it is a sign of weakness to seek help; and that the sooner you do so, the earlier your likely recovery. Thank you for reading.

At around 10:30, on Friday, 12 February 2016, I was officially diagnosed with clinical depression – and, perhaps surprisingly, for the first time. As my lovely doctor (who, already running ten minutes late, saw me for nearly thirty…) said: “Anyone with a chronic condition – even asthma – is at risk; and it’s amazing that you’ve managed this long.” The key word there, I suppose, is “managed”. During my almost twenty years of constant pain, and its associated neurological deficits – including continual migraines: now increasing in frequency, length and intensity… – I’ve probably come close, quite a few times, mentally, to seeking external help; but, always, somehow, managed to drag myself from out of whatever dark pit I was stumbling into.

This time, though, it feels different. It is different. I am plummetting, Alice-like, down an infinite rabbit hole; and with very little to grab onto. And I know I have been falling for months – stupidly (and not because I was ashamed, or I would not be writing this…) because I thought that, yet again, no matter how deep and dark things got, I could still yet pull myself out of it, as I have so many times before – or at least work my way, on my own, to the other end of whatever it was I was going through.

But, you may say, you’ve been so active – walks, concerts, the theatre! And I would agree. But then I tend not to write about the prolonged ‘inbetween’ times: when I have simply lain in bed, immersed in the physical and mental pain unquenched by medication, unvanquished by effort. I too had thought, simplistically, that dragging myself away from the comfort of my quilt, achieving such repeated, short-term escapes (or, more properly, ‘coping mechanisms’), would finally achieve something long-term in the way of success (however that may be defined). But the moment each review, each short tale of my adventures, was published, the joy that they had provoked would rapidly fade. Only the darkness would remain: hence, perhaps, the addiction to Doctor Faustus – an unremitting nightmare way beyond hope: and which, to me, currently feels all too real. And why, five days later, the despair of the central Adagio – “representing a dialogue between guitar and solo instruments” – of Rodrigo’s Concerto de Aranjuéz, is what sticks with me; rather than the outrageous joy of its outer movements, or that of Mendelssohn’s ‘Italian’ Symphony.

This heartbreaking concerto movement has been linked, amongst other things, to the outbreak of war – written, as it was, in 1939 – also, more specifically, to the horrific bombing of Guernica; as well as the devastating miscarriage of Rodrigo and his wife’s first pregnancy. Whatever its origins, the soul-rending scream – to me – of the molto appassionato string and woodwind re-entry, after the guitar’s climactic cadenza – keeps repeating over and over in my head: speaking, singing to me in a way that great music often does. (It caught my mood, you could say….) As Miles Davis once pronounced: “That melody is so strong that the softer you play it, the stronger it gets, and the stronger you play it, the weaker it gets.” And I would probably have agreed. Until last Wednesday night.

¶

I am aware – having thought so, cruelly, myself – that writing about one’s depression could be be seen as somehow ‘trendy’. But, now that I am in such a position, I can see that most, if not all, such writers are aiming for catharsis (if not redemption). It feels somehow ironic to be so vitally aware of one’s predicament that you are able to (attempt to) describe it (almost dispassionately) in words – and yet are not able to resolve it.

Knowing how averse I am to medication (as is she), I know it took a lot of gumption (as well as persuasion) for my doctor to suggest “a very small dose” of antidepressants. She (and I) had hoped that simply by helping me sleep – my insomnia has increased with the depth and darkness of my mood – these tiny tablets would help. But my nights have been disturbed by vivid dreams; and the medication has yet to conquer the physical pain that is at the root of all this. The first night I took that little orange pill, I slept fourteen hours straight through: but my body quickly accommodates to all sorts of drugs, and this has not been repeated. I also seem to be experiencing increased tinnitus, and the return of musical hallucinations (which, in some ways, can – sometimes – be comforting) – as with many such medications, there can be a strong ototoxic effect (one which I know, from sad experience, I am prone to).

¶

Just over a fortnight in, therefore, I had hoped to experience some sort of change for the better: but suspect that, aided and abetted by drugs (or not), I am in for the long haul. Anyone who knows me well – and will therefore have seen this coming better than I – or who has read my last poem: and has seen where I’m at… – will know that I shall, eventually (through a combination of analytical thought, sheer perseverance, being able to talk/write about it, plus – possibly – increasing doses of medication) deal with it (and, as always, with the strong assistance of strong words…). This may – as with the physiological and neurological aspects – not necessarily mean recovery, nor victory. It may mean reaching a compromise, or signing a truce, with the black dog which stalks me (…although I see more of a tall, barefoot figure in a white suit; shirtless; and with a dour Scots accent …when giving presence to my demon – …which may be no bad thing: as it is, therefore, less obviously malevolent).

But it is early, yet. This is just the beginning. That I have moments where I can apply logic – or evenings where I can slowly metamorphose from the daylight-fearing wreck that I feel myself to be into something that is both presentable, and, more importantly, has the facility for enjoyment (and for reflection on that enjoyment) – gives me (and, I hope, others) optimism: the odd stepping-stone in a morass of self-doubt and disappointment. It is these I cling to: hoping that more will appear – even if I have to pressgang them into a forced future existence by filling my calendar with them; and then not cancelling, at the last moment (which is an easy habit to fall into).

¶

I may not appear to be quite myself (whatever such a construct may be), therefore, for a wee while. But I believe that this is as much who/what I am as the eccentric Bard of yore. It is just an undiscovered part of me that would – possibly – have better lain permanently hidden (under a bloody big rock). And yet, having glimpsed it many times before, askance, and rapidly looked away from the depths beyond the mirror’s surface reflections, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… I will be better (ahem) for acknowledging it, in the long run.

I hope that it will give me a clearer perspective on life, on others’ lives; may render colours brighter, music and drama even more effective. Who knows? It will be a long journey, I suppose – but one that I intend to finish. I am therefore setting off into the unknown regions with thought and trust (and a loving, understanding partner) as my true companions: knowing, as I do, that, in many ways, I will never be alone.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

But even the very middle of my heart…

In limbo (I feel that I am nowhere now)

For Gilly, Graeme, and Rose…

I am not dying      (except in the usual gentle way) And am only old      (to those whose adventures are over brave) Between these two states      (a permanent purgatory of sorts      where devilish disease with virtue sports) Such circumstance grates      (marking but not able to heed the grave) Thus no longer bold      (snatching at clouds brandishing words of clay) I am but sighing

I am not living      (with the clear significance of just men) Though inanimate      (a mirrored model of most needful toil) Stagnant but not still      (oppressed by judicious expectation      and circumscribed with patent frustration) Lacking want nor will      (aspiration shall replace all shook foil) Hence to demonstrate      (however abject yet ever driven) I am forgiving

Let joy be unconfined…!

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet –

– Byron: Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

It seems such a long time ago (although it is only a few months) since I turned up at a concert without having first overloaded the musical compartment of my brain with scores, and having researched the pieces to be performed (and in quite some detail). However, tempted by repeat incitements on Twitter – and having been stuck at home with a miserable migraine for the past few days… – I popped onto the Malvern Theatres website; found quite a few suitable seats free; and, before I had time to draw breath, there I was, back in one of my favourite venues. [In a previous life, I was a supporter of the English Symphony Orchestra, under the wonderful William Boughton – a superb interpreter of Elgar and Brahms; and a lovely man… – as well as a long-term member of the Elgar-founded Malvern Concert Club: and the Forum Theatre was therefore a major component of my live musical existence. (The last time I was there was to see Peter Donohoe – as always… – and Martin Roscoe. I can’t actually remember what they played – each other, maybe; pianos, possibly… – but I do remember lots of laughter – as always…!)]

The core of last night’s concert was to be two guitar concertos. However, despite my mum owning almost everything recorded by John Williams and demigod Julian Bream, it was only a chance meeting with the enthusiastic and witty Stephen Dodgson (another “lovely man” – and an inspiration…) at grammar school that ‘got me into’ classical guitar music – starting, of course, with recordings of the great man’s own works. Thus my introduction to the famous Rodrigo “Concerto de Orange Juice”; along with a whole host of other pieces.

This performance was therefore refreshing in many ways. An encounter with music not heard for a while. Revisiting that “favourite venue”. Even managing to sit in my favourite location, halfway up the tiered seating! And, of course, everything that David Curtis and Orchestra of the Swan do together “refreshes the parts other [musicians] cannot reach”.

¶

The concert began with three movements of the Suite Española, by Albeniz. Originally for solo piano (and, according to the programme notes, “known today predominantly in the classical guitar arrangements which, ironically, are not by Albeniz!”), this “first-ever string orchestra arrangement” had been commissioned by the Friends of Orchestra of the Swan [FOOOTS…?! – is this to do with Curtis’ sock fetish…?!] from Mark Chivers – who just so happens to be a “core Viola Player in OOTS”. His knowledge of string techniques – and of OOTS’ superb abilities, pellucidness, and indestructible joie de vivre – certainly showed: this was orchestration of great intelligence, employing all the players’ strengths. The final movement, in particular, was one of subtle showmanship, with some magical contrasts: and made me wish we had also experienced the three ‘absent’ ones.

What also struck me – even though I was sat much further away from the stage than I would have been in Stratford ArtsHouse – was the clarity and power of the sound. The acoustics, here, suited OOTS so much more… – I felt as if (for me) they had finally come home. I just hope Curtis’ post-interval exhortation – to “Bring a Friend Free” [as of publishing, I have yet to discover a link for this offer…] to the other concerts in this Prestigious Double Concerto Series with… – helps fill the hall, next time (with yer man Donohoe); and gives them the recognition they so clearly and dearly deserve. [Please note, by the way, that I have yet to hear them in Birmingham Town Hall. Just to say, though, that if Sir Simon really is struggling for a decent concert hall, then the Midlands has a few… – obviously, with his previous base, the Symphony Hall being (possibly globally) the crème de la crème.]

¶

Next, that Concierto de Aranjuéz, by Rodrigo, with Craig Ogden on guitar. It is so hard to make something so familiar sound fresh; appear new – but Ogden did from the outset (aided and abetted by Curtis and company); and, what’s more, made it seem almost effortless. His opening, salutary pronouncement was both crisp and dynamically astounding. This was a statement of intent that was continuously delivered on – and his (amplified) sound was perfectly balanced with that of the orchestra’s.

The famous second movement – the Adagio – was a thing of wonderment; of transcendent beauty. Curtis, here, just (appeared to) let the music flow, with the most delicate of touches: and was rewarded with some ravishing playing – especially from the woodwind and horns. The resulting tears were still damp on my face when I exited the theatre for the interval… – even though the last notes of the final Allegro gentile left me chortling with happiness: such was the delighted precision exhibited by all involved. Just stunning – even after the earlier blow-your-socks-off orchestral entry following the mesmerizing cadenza… – and a demonstration of what can be achieved by such happy, professional, collaborative musicians. Grins all round!

Ogden is a new name to me – but, after tonight, one I will certainly keep an eye (and both ears) out for. His musicianship was that rare (although not in this company…) combination of technique, emotion and inclusiveness. He obviously thoroughly enjoyed his time with Curtis and OOTS; and his return to the stage, after the interval, for Vivaldi’s D major Guitar Concerto, was another utter delight!

It would be easy to dismiss this as just another conventional piece of classical music – but there were subtleties, and harmonic and melodic gems, by the bucketful; and the outer movements, with the solo guitar (originally written for a lute – although I cared not one jot…!) accompanied by the skilful and gorgeous continuo work of cellist Nick Stringfellow, readily kept the pre-break smile on my face.

For the second movement, marked Largo, Curtis let Ogden have the floor – generosity that was repaid manyfold. His guitar sang purely – in marked contrast to the often-percussive textures of the Rodrigo – and the strings’ accompaniment was gentle, comforting, supportive and utterly limpid. Curtis conducted this with telepathic genius: stood silently in contemplation until the closing notes. If “the music flowed” in the Rodrigo second movement, here it seeped, steeped, and then sweeped… – not only to that alluring ending; but into my veins.

The jaunty final movement – with “something of a tarantella feel” – went by too, too quickly. In fact, had I sat through this whole concert two or three times, I would still have asked for it all to be repeated. Even more joy; and a hope that the partnership with Ogden will grow from these auspicious beginnings into something even more fruitful and meaningful. His repeated calls back to the stage for applause were more than deserved. Here is a musician who communicates beautifully, and with great insight.

¶

Although Curtis had instructed us, before the music began, to dream of wine and olives… – as Albeniz wrote –

…there are… a few things that are not completely worthless. In all of them I now note that there is less musical science, less of the grand idea, but more colour, sunlight and the flavour of olives…

…and be moved by this wonderful music to the warm Mediterranean (it was minus three Celsius, when I returned home…) – it was to delight that he and OOTS permanently transported us. This was an evening of repeated joy. And he had obviously instructed the orchestra that, on the downbeat of his baton for the final work of the evening – Mendelssohn’s fantastic ‘Italian’ Symphony (for me, everything Mendelssohn wrote was “fantastic”…) – they were to unleash every single iota of exultation that they could muster!

It was like being hit in the heart with huge heaps of instant happiness – which, despite the composer’s best attempts to cool things down: with a march, followed by an “uncharacteristic stately dance” – never stopped. Curtis’ smile was infectious: spreading quickly through the orchestra and on into the audience. As a result, I could have skipped home, easily, across the border to Warwickshire, under that moonlight… – “the serious moonlight”. On with the dance!

Foretelling spring…

The trick with many a National Trust property (if not all…) – whether or not you want to nip into the restaurant for a sneaky coffee and breakfast flapjack (which I did…) – is to get there early. At Charlecote Park, this morning, just after opening time, there were definitely more gardeners than walkers; and most other visitors were confined (sensibly) to the Orangery: which was doing a steady trade in warming drinks.

Out on the paths, the few fellow hardy souls I encountered – weathering the chill wind; wishing for the uncertain sun to stumble through the scudding greyness – were far between: a brace of well-insulated toddlers, with their dad, viewing the heavily-pregnant Jacob sheep with awe, before pouncing through the frequent puddles to collect freshly-fallen twigs; and a couple of sensibly-dressed folk with walking sticks, making light work of the soggy trails through West Park (so damp that the frequent imprints of cloven hooves were remarkably deep and distinct – see photograph – with only the occasional evidence of a surprised skid). Even those responsible fallow deer were somewhat somnolent; and the journeys there and back were also notable for their curious (rapturous) insufficiency of traffic – which enabled me to slow down, just a tad, momentarily, to observe the mini-murmuration of starlings that currently flows between Oxhill and Lower Tysoe.

¶

Such quietude, of course, is my delight: and I was able to meander around the extensive parkland at my own, slow, pace; relishing the peace, and the resultant almost-springtime alertness of the wildlife around me – obviously unafraid of the solitary, plumped-up, quilted figure concealed by bush-hat, dark glasses, and fleece-lined trousers; my dirty boots the perfect camouflage!

On the edge of the Wilderness, a solitary, slender robin – the front of its folded wings painted with a fine streak of almost-white – called sporadically from one of the rungs of a zinc-coloured garden obelisk. Only after a few minutes – and a wary, querying stare that probed my very soul – did it then hop up onto the finial to carry on its territorial (or perhaps lovelorn) conversation with an echo from across the Avon.

The river, too, although still coloured with silt, flowed less ferociously than the last few weeks’ torrents – the only evidence of which (apart from the spongelike squelch of the lower ground) was a continuous contour of broken reeds, wooden splinters and miscellaneous dreck, strewn sinuously along the grass (and most noticeable in Place’s Meadow: whose two inhabitant swans sat within necking distance, lazily tugging at the circle of moist, green blades within a beak’s easy reach).

¶

Later, in West Park, sadly – whilst having a one-sided conversation with the deer (mostly sat, ruminating; and mostly unbothered by me: only the youngest scurrying for shelter under the nearby lime trees) – I disturbed a kestrel (perhaps the one I had witnessed earlier, wafting above the Avon, on the other side of the house?) from its stump-of-a-dead-tree perch: but even this normally guarded falcon only flapped sluggishly to the nearest hanging branch, its beadiness now focused on this rude intruder, rather than hunting for its lunch.

So I wandered on. Past the tag-playing rooks, chatting and chauntering; occasionally flapping short distances en masse for no reason I could fathom, before resuming their prattle. And my incidental stealth was thus rewarded with a sight that still stops my breath: the gentle bobbing of a green woodpecker (my eye caught by its startling red mohican and glowing underbelly, as well as that signature, inverted arc), swinging low across the river, before finding a suitable branch for rest. The heron, rigid beneath, glanced momentarily at this harmless interloper – fish-spear of a beak temporarily raised in salute – then resumed its fluvial gaze, deep into waters that were opaque to my eyes.

A good day for wildlife, then – especially for espying birds of all sizes (frequent paired blackbirds; the exasperated mallards on the Dene; an overheard wren shrilling from inside a hedge; blue and great tits feeding on the few remaining nuts by the hide…) – and a feeling that a week of prophesied sunshine may well herald a new season (as well as the wearing of lighter clothes).

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue,

Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring,

Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view,

Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.

To the old touchwood tree woodpeckers cling

A moment, and their harsh-toned notes renew;

In happier mood, the stockdove claps his wing;

The squirrel sputters up the powdered oak,

With tail cocked o’er his head, and ears erect,

Startled to hear the woodman’s understroke;

And with the courage which his fears collect,

He hisses fierce half malice, and half glee –

Leaping from branch to branch about the tree,

In winter’s foliage, moss and lichens, drest.

– John Clare: First sight of Spring

Sentenced to life…

I feel that I am nowhere now
For the Giraffe who Has Nothing and the Rider who Writes…

I am not dying

     (except in the usual gentle way)

And am only old

     (to those whose adventures are over brave)

Between these two states

     (a permanent purgatory of sorts

     where devilish disease with virtue sports)

Such circumstance grates

     (marking but not able to heed the grave)

Thus no longer bold

     (snatching at clouds brandishing words of clay)

I am but sighing

Note
It felt like chiselling candy floss, getting the right words. Try reading it backwards, line by line; or even missing the bracketed bits out. Or both. And, if you want more of the same – but better written, of course – try this.