9-2, a dash of 5th and a crash for good measure

I recently read a novel written by Anne Rice, called Violin, in which the main character makes reference to the Second Movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony:

It’s like walking music, the music of someone walking doggedly and almost vengefully up a mountain. It just goes on and on and on, as though the person won’t stop walking. Then it comes to a quiet place, as if in the Vienna Woods, as if the person is suddenly breathless and exultant and has the view of the city that he wants, and can throw up his arms, and dance in a circle. The French horn is there, which always makes you think of woods and dales and shepherds, and you can feel the peace and the stillness of the woods and the plateau of happiness of this person standing there, but then …

… then the drums come. And the uphill walk begins again, the determined walking and walking. Walking and Walking

I understand exactly what this means, as it is, almost identically, my life …

my life, interspersed with the motif of Fate rudely interjecting itself as the catalyst for everything falling down around me before I start to walk doggedly once more.

The past month has been a bigger pain in the ass than I could have imagined, with everything falling through in regards to the promotion and move … while I admit the location was far more appealing to me than the job, it’s all still a pain in the ass.

Of course, now I have received yet another lovely package of life’s excrement, as the possibility of obtaining the Letter of Permission is pretty much out due to lack of a music program here, and the BCCT’s favoring of those who are already certified (understandable, but still frustrating).

I am playing more now than I have in the past two years, being careful not to push myself too far, too fast. The theory and history books are at my reach, but there are times I really wonder if it’s not an exercise in futility to continue pursuing music … I can’t afford to go back to school right now, and there isn’t enough of a musical centre in this area to make the slightest of a living. The EI keeps the money mongers at bay for now …

I know I could go for ‘a job’, but I can’t handle working nickel-and-dime jobs forever, and my career plans for teaching seem as far away now as they did when I was in Kindergarten. One of my old co-workers has been hounding me to ask the new owner of my old store for my job back, but I don’t particularly want it … I don’t want graveyard shift, and I don’t want the mess that I’ve seen that store become since CJ and RJ turned it over.

I’ve been seriously contemplating the options of moving to Prince George somehow, and seeing if I can’t get placed on the EOC (Educator-on-call) list, since the demand for substitute teachers here requires only a grade 12 diploma and criminal records check. If I could do that, I may be able to transfer some of my current abysmal transcript to UNBC and work a piece at a time towards a B.Ed while gaining valuable teaching experience … and at least Prince George has the PGSO …

… whatever happens, I guess the Fates leave me no choice but return to the seemingly never-ending trudge