Strength in adversity

Dear Diary,

Well well well. Though the grey blanket of shrouded clouds seemed to cast a shadow over an otherwise fine day, the patchwork woven coverture was not enough to dampen spirits nor stop a man making his living - as a musician. Aye.

This morning I penned a letter to the Police station, citing the Vagrancy Act of 1824 in an attempt to get rid of the thief and beggar that threatened to smash up the violin and guitar, and stole my living on the street. It was no use. He's still there this morning, as far as I'm aware.

I played the Bistro instead, was paid, and well-fed. Having not gigged on my own for quite a while meant I hadn't realised just how much I miss being at liberty to play what I please, to sing whatever I wish. Maxy was on fire this morning! Oh yeah! I was the man of the moment, a musical mæstro in residence. All is well. I am looking forward to the gig on the morrow with No electrickery. Life is swell right now, adverse circumstances notwithstanding the beggar-man/thief still being a bane.

Max.

Route to Honour

Dear Diary,

With the rain came a lull in income, it’s always this way on the street live music scene. It means I probably will only do the gig tomorrow, and not play on the street. Life, is tough. I have no idea what I am going to play, probably a load of slide stuff, some southern-fried chicken style, the usual.

I am much more enthused about getting to the gig on Sunday with No electrickery. Then it’s hanging out with Cyborg and the Toaster on Monday. Awesome.

I've been really getting into the Yale OpenLearn videos. They are really cool. So much so that I take copious notes on the second viewing. Pause. Scribble. Pause. Scribble neatly. Pause. Scribble. I wish I had known about this when I was studying A200, Exploring History 1400-1900: Mediæval to Modern. That course really kicked ass! It was hard-core, but an excellent worthwhile module. I would love to do Empire seeing as it cover the same period of history. The way things are going I was thinking of doing:

Reading Classical Latin

World Archæology

“Roman Archæology” (new level 3 module still under development)

Empire (by then I will have accrued 120 points at each level)

From Enlightenment to Romanticism (History Degree with Honours)

Then it’s a masters, phD and PGCE. (Assuming I work hard enough to be able to afford it!)

God I love the OU.

Max.

Field

Dear Diary,

I have just had an awkward experience. This woman I knew - I won't say who - invited me to a campfire sing-song thing. Great! Thought I, like a wazzuk. So, we arrived and then felt quite unwelcome, the campers were evidently homogenous.

We arrived in a beaten up stock-car with the three numbers crudely sprayed on the side. Everyone there was completely sober. I soon discovered that we had turned up uninvited, and unannounced. Then it transpired that this was a load of Londoners who were into “Home-education”. This was one of the last places I wanted to be. We went to view the “Celtic roundhouse” that had been under construction for four years, which turned out to be several wobbly modestly sized telegraph poles, cut so they stood shorter than me. Now the mist has descended, and Mr. Barker and I are almost home. Thank God.

Max.

Blood and Body

Dear Diary,

Well, I could n'er stand losing the busking war, so went out this morning, to play on the pitch. One of the first historians, Herodotus, said he'd rather suffer his share of evils than be ever fearing what may happen. So, I did what I must. I forgot my plectrum this morning, so have to use “God’s plectrum” (fingers) which meant the music was very quiet and not having played in so long meant my fingers were sore. Stealth run (an hour) and made enough for bread and beer, no baccy. I've only the blood and the body to transubstantiate myself with. With the change I can afford a cheap set of two squid strings from the charity shop and a plectrum. That's me. I even went to CAB to ask for food from the Church this morning, things have become that bad. Tomorrow I must play on my own, again, then Sunday is the gig with No electrickery. Monday: Toaster and Cyborg are getting together. Should be good. Might be alright.

In the meantime, I must stop smoking, though I've no choice. Maybe I'll hit the street again, maybe not.

Max.

Essay: to try

Dear Diary,

Today has been a trial, not unlike most days. Living frugally, and sitting beside the quite riverside field, sun shining, sobriety. With my mind as vast and clear as the cloudless stratosphere, I began to write. Not a novel nor a history essay, but the hundred-thousand dollar question: the Brexit prize.

Economics have I never had any interest in, until the field has some overlap with history, which it does. Alas, I set to work and have a clear framework now from which to build an assignment. Essay: to try, in French, with other rendering roots to the word that pre-date its original signification. However, to try. Attempt. Essay. So try I shall if I want that hundred grand which could make me and my business. You gotta be in it to win it.

The Brexit prize, even though it is un-thinkable that I might win first prize, aim high: always. If you try your hardest and aim the highest you possibly can in life, even if you fall-short of your original aim, you will be contented to know that you tried your hardest. You tried your best. No-one can ever ask more of you.

Max.

Tough Times

Dear Diary,

What a trip! It's been emotional, lots going on and not a whisper to be said about specifics. Overall a feeling of transition lingers, on all fronts. For father, brother Bliss, and even me.

We have a gig on Sunday, my megre share of one score quid shall keep brother Barker and I in food for the next however long. Next week, God only knows what I'll do. Certainly not go into the dole office, I'd rather starve. It will not be long now until I die of malnutrition, surely.

I've been having this turf-war with this beggar, it very nearly turned violent. I relinquished the spot, and even when he's not there, he leaves his false trappings in place (his sleeping bag - he is not homeless, but lives in a flat in this town). As a result, the well has dried up for Maxy. I have lost this war, and am now in the ‘hungry thirties’ of my life. I've been so depressed about it that even when I've had food I've not eaten it. Life is changing, and not for the better. I fear that a combination of sleep depravation, malnutrition and saddened sombre sorrow sends me down to darkest depths of diminution.

Surely life will change for No electrickery? Possibly not. This gig next month might be alright. A hell of a way to go for a tonne. It's good money, but a long way to travel. I might just get out of the house and start walking there, as from this upcoming last gig.

What am I to do? Fuck it. I might just live off the wild raspberries growing in my garden. Ronnie likes to pee on them, and I haven't the heart to tell him not to. I feed them to him after washing them, he doesn't like them.

I do not mind going without ... whatever the base consumer vice product; but little Ronnie not having dog food, that is a real problem.

I know two families (one druggie another violent thieves) locally who cannot stand Christians yet rinse benefits of food parcels from the local Anglican Church whilst caining the benefits from the state. I do neither out of foolish pride, nor do I steal, get violent often, nor need anything or anyone. (Except that Ron is not superfluous).

I should perhaps go poaching for fish and forage for food. Life is not a handout, life is a challenge. It's as tough as old boots, and when all these benefit reforms come in, people are going to wake up. It's been a long time in coming. I am prepared, used to living with nothing, abroad. These people have no clue as to just how hard life can be. Just wait.

Were I a plant I would be Achillia Creedo: needs direct sunlight, but is easily pleased and thrives on hard ground.

Max.

Back to Life

Dear Diary,

Well, the drama has calmed down somewhat since yesterday and the preceding days this week. Praise the Lord, Brother Bliss has resolved to rescue me, a Knight in shining red alfa-romeo. We're heading back down south, planning on going sea-fishing, taking a boat out. Lovely.

Life is strange how things pan out. I've inherited the family piano, which ushers in a new era for me, musically. It's my first instrument, and I've never before owned one. A real piano. Gosh. This is so cool. It means I can compose properly and practice pieces I've wanted to play for years.

Yesterday we went to the King's Head and the moment the couple that own it saw me: they offered me a gig, very kindly. It's awfully nice of them, seeing as how they've already booked our rock 'n roll band four times a year. They are really nice people indeed. I am hoping to play with our belovēd No electrickery there, if Gulliver can make it. We now have 75 likes for our page: facebook.com/NoElectrickery which is awesome. We have a gig coming up next week.

On another point, I am looking forward to our Game of Thrones interactive storytelling session this week. Things are hotting up there.

Reading about twelfth century eremitic movements of ascetic wanderers is fascinating. I am still engrossed in my tutor's Thesis: only yesterday was I able to read her footnotes for the first time, meaning I can follow up the citations. (Reading it in Word for the first, on a proper 'puter, not on my iPhone).

Today I intend to buy a Classical Latin dictionary in preparation for my next module with the Open University. God I love that place: Walton Hall, Buckinghamshire. As I call it, "The marshmallow space-ship spire, the wizards' tower of the Unseen University".

I watched David Starkey's From Prison to the Palace yesterday, and as a result I am going to follow in Elizabeth's footsteps and give double translation a try: doing an accurate translation of Ovidius into English, then taking Marlowe's poetic translation and translating it into accurate Latin. In any case, Brother Bliss is about to arrive, God willing, so I must go. Take care.

Max-out.

Fever Pitch

Dear Diary,

Things here have been so very peaceful today. The sun shone, the light cast down upon this humble residence, alone with my thoughts, and my little dog, Ronnie Barker. Then, into the garden, a serpent did come. It was her: "the wind from the north", the evil step-mother. With a venemous forked tongue she spat forth her lacertian acidic verbosity. Not a good word said. Not one. Father was philosophical, calm, as was I. Yet I am this close to biting her head off (metaphorically). I am about to tackle the washing up, and should she lay into me again, verbally, I shall either bark and growl as my dog, or, more likely: switch into Sergeant Major mode. I will tell her, how it truly is, and not like the Buddha, but like a Warrant Officer Class Two, when I held such a rank. Oh yes, it is so on. She has disturbed the family peace and I am about to explode. One has no idea how ... retaliatory I can be, if attacked. She has stirred a whirlwind so strong, she knows not what she is about to encounter, a storm, the likes of which the world has never seen. In thunder, and in earthquake, like a Jove. You may attack me, but beware, for what a realm I preside over: that is, the peace of my fathers home. My sisters have weighed in against her, and now, the evil witch knows not what manner of beast she shall unleash in me, and my family. Blood. Kin. Fraternity.

Not physical, that would be most unbecoming of an English gentleman, but instead, I will show her what I am made of. Time... to test mettle.

Peace be with you, and let no-one disturb your friendship bonds of family.

Maximus Fleximus.

Post-Script: Thankfully the washing up was done and the entire time the "wind from the north" was gassing on her phone. She had better be. All was resolved amicably, thankfully. I am sleeping outside in the shed tonight as I cannot stand sharing a roof with that harridan. Peace prevails. Thank God.

Awful

Dear Diary,

Yesterday was a bloody nightmare in both the waking world and in dream-land. My Lord! First off, sulky step-mum exploded into screaming hysterically with her venomous tongue, like you wouldn't believe! I wanted to check to see if she wasn't inhuman, some sort of evil android perhaps, she was that bad. Oh my giddy aunt. Shrieking at the top of her lungs, every word was like licking a razor blade coated in honey, pure poison. Gulliver's old-dear raised him under the sound principle, “If you can't say anything nice: don't say anything at all.” I wish someone would explain this to the harridan wicked step-mother. For eight hours solid each and every word that came forth from her tongue was venomous. It is horrid. She even dug her keys into him. Father and I were philosophical about it. I told him in French that I cannot speak to that woman in English any more. This morning is no different. Dad is at work, and I am subject to more verbal abuse.

In between time I experienced an awful nightmare where I went to visit my ex-missus in a rural loony bin. She attacked my groin with a pair of scissors, just before I awoke.

On the other hand, yesterday I rediscovered the magnificence of Abelard and Heliose. They are beacon of peaceful light in a whirlwind of mayhem.

Today I am supposed to be practicing for the recording. Having only just awoke, I am not truly in the mood for playing rock 'n roll with electrickery.

Max.

On the Road

Dear Diary,

Besides a step-mum going ballistic shrieking at the top of her voice then sitting in sulky silence, something I bought this morning makes my mind wander and wonder at what an exciting prospect Reading Classical Latin will be. It is going to be a pure joy to enable comprehension of ancient histories, inscriptions and most of all: poetry. All this is highlighted in a marvellous book I just bought, for thirty-three pence.

Brooke, C. (1969) The Twelfth Century Renaissance, Thames & Hudson, London.

Such a joy to read, a sheer delight.

Moonday

Dear Diary,

Well, I called up about that job, seemingly the Home Office won't issue a visa for a teacher unless they hold a PGCE. I suspected as much but had to have confirmation. It's nice to know the proper procedure: protocol. Essentially I must educate myself further. Too little too late? I hope not.

Lots of stuff happening around town. The weekend was host to an altercation, this guy I know landed himself in some hot water. It'll all be settled in court.

Right now I'm a headin' up north, off to Offa's Dyke to go cut a record with Five Jive our rock 'n roll band. Little Ronnie Barker on my knee. It's nice to be nice.

The Village Green Preservation Society going round and around in my mind. God bless strawberry jam.

Max.

Have a Care

Dear Diary,

I am listening to The Village Green Preservation Society by the Kinks, what a great record. It stands for everything that is true, good and beautiful. I want it played at my funeral.

The more I read about history, the more I unearth cohesion instead of revolt, morality in place of criminality, and of course God instead of cynicism. People just don't get it nowadays. The amount of people who share "the less you give a fuck the happier you'll be" is unreal. I thought it had a great shot of Jack Nicholson, one of my favourite actors. Yet, the more I mull over this supposēd philosophical maxim, the less I like it. Gulliver came up with a great counter-point quote from an Old-Time player, "It's nice to be nice." Not uncaring, but quite the opposite. Being a nice person, compassionate and kind is more rewarding than being cold, uncaring and selfish. Selfless.

I am rapidly losing touch with the mainstream television watching brainless morons who don't care, they only care about themselves, science, nihilism, and have no idea. The clueless masses.

To read history, learn it's lessons, and to impart that knowledge in the spirit of good-will and compassion. That is rewarding, and why I am resolved to be a history teacher one day. Hopefully not too far away in time, but certainly far away in distance: Jordan *crosses fingers*. I'll call the agency tomorrow to see if it's even worth applying seeing as I have no formal experience or PGCE. In any case, it's worth a try.

Max.

R.I.P. Steve T.

Dear Diary,

Today I saw a good friend of mine, on his deathbed. Steve T. (the Django Rhinehart of keyboard players, an incredibly gifted intellectual and a master musical arranger). He has cancer, a yellowish skin-colour and is but a shadow of his former self. Steve taught me so much about science, evidence based analysis and music history. It is such a shame to see him so poorly. He has only weeks to live, maybe only days. Not a good day.

Max.

Hardship

Dear Diary,

Awakened unto a gloriously sunny summers day, Maxy Waxy went into town to meet Gulliver the fiddler. A friendly cellist was there talking to him, we all agreed that the band that had set up were very average sounding. These old boys played "What shall we do with a drunken sailor?", very loudly amplified. The moment the 'banjo player' picked up his instrument he played duelling banjos: telling us his worth, which was zero. They then played Old Joe Clark, very ropey. As Gulliver said, if you play that tune you had better have some balls. They are all crap. They also put the cello player and us out of business. The beggar in the alley had also stopped us from making any money. Life is so hard at the moment. I am starving, wasting away slowly.

Even so, we played extremely well at the café. The pay is about a tenner a week, and they fed us, twice. I get this food, and that is what I live on, all week. It is so tough being me, beggars, amplified very average musicians, they are the bane of my life. I don't care, once I get my degree I want to be an AL or a Don, even if I have to go to the Middle-East to do it. It doesn't matter. Being a history teacher there is better than wasting away as a musician here.

We met up with the artist's artist M.T. yesterday, went swimming and spent the tenner on booze. It was like a dream, good friends, great times. M.T. has done a painting of me, it is incredible.

Max.

Friday Night Change Of Plans

Dear Diary,

We have been planning a Space-Jam' interactive storytelling session, all week. PJ told me he couldn't make it, so I made other plans: jamming with the Grey Alien. PJ turned up, out of the blue, we headed round Valravens, Cyborg was here. He needed a friend. So anyway, everything is boned, Grey-Alien is still up for a jam, seeing as Cyborg has just left I might well do that. Haven't jammed with the Grey-Alien in ages. He doesn't get on with Cyborg and the feeling's mutual (long story). I don't know what to do.

PJ wants to role-play On the Flex. This is so shit. There are no fixed rules, no structure. His "stats" include 'sun', 'moon' and 'mars'. It's based on the horoscope dice I gave PJ for his birthday. I just want to leave here.

So, I did leave there. Due to the double booking situation another guest has arrived at the party (a vegetarian barbecue - an oxymoron, but still delicious). It also means that the jam will be more acoustic than electric. Awesome. Grælien wants to still play some electric, but not for long.

Tomorrow is jamming with No electrickery (who are still together!) at the café. Should be good, I can't wait.

Man! What a great night! We jammed, acoustic, philosophised, had a lovely time. It's been wonderful. Towards the end of the night we all watched a classic Star Trek episode (original) when Kirk, Spock and McCoy were all transported back in time to the 1930's America during the time of the depression. Joan Collins.

The minute I arrived home to my little Ronnie Barker, there was a knock at the door. It was a neighbour, a young lad (twenty something) who was very drunk, he had just been embroiled in a fist-fight with some lads from an adjacent county, trying to steal some agricultural equipment from a local garden. He recounted his tale of bravery then showed me call records on his phone of him having dialled the constabulary. Evidently it was a bellicose evening for the boy, who recounted his tale of pugilism, in an overly inebriated state. I am just glad he is gone now. Peace, at last. Today has been an ... interesting day, and you who read this have but the slightest inkling as to why. This blog, is but an iceberg. Some of it is visible above the surface, just the tip, but most of it is hidden beneath the waves.

Max.