This is the story I wrote for MaestroRage, had the theme of the coming MAC been "Story" rather than "Picture", so I'll just post it up here for you all to read. It's actually pretty nice, I think, albeit a bit rushed. It has a happy ending, so savour the moment, it's not a common thing for me. >:D

Scrabble

I'm not an unintelligent person. Nor am I an ignorant person. But if you asked any member of my family what they thought of me, on a good day, they'd say that I have "special needs" or that I'm "not your ordinary human being". On a bad day? Well, behind closed doors, they'd admit to thinking that I'm a "freak of nature", and they'd make off-hand comments like "he's not right in the head". These are things my mother and father are saying about their only son. How dare they? How dare they belittle me in front of friends and family, as if I don't understand them, as if I'm a house-pet, as if my limitations are sitting, begging, rolling and playing dead at the commands of my owners.
I'm not a hostile person, and I don't try to be, but I'd freely admit that I feel like my parents are raising me poorly. Sure, they feed me, and give me shelter and the possessions that I require, but other than that... nothing. My relationship with them seems to be only materialistic. No love, no family bonding, just a hostility, as they can't accept me for what I am, for who I am.

It wasn't always like this. They tried to raise me normal, pretend that my problems didn't exist. They tried forcing normality down my throat and raise me like the son they so desperately wanted. I would have gladly done what they asked of me, I would have gladly carried on the family name, following in my father's footsteps, if only they had accepted me for me, not for who they wanted me to be. It was only after they accepted the fact that I was the way I was, and I wouldn't be changing any time soon that they started giving me the possessions that I craved, to pacify me, to make me somewhat less of a burden they had to bear.
And they did soothe me, and for a moment I thought that these parents of mine were capable of emotion, that they did care about me, but I was lost in a dream world. They only cared about maintaining a certain level of civility in the household. They mostly keep to themselves now, and let me carry on "in my own little world", which I've come to accept just fine.

I've found that I can escape my emotions through a determined focus on my daily rituals. As I've got no job, nothing to do all day, a standard schedule keeps me feeling like I could almost lead a normal life. At 7:00 every morning my bedside alarm goes off, and I wake up. 5 minutes later, my secondary alarm goes off and I slip my red non-slip shower shoes on. Red for Monday, Wednesday and Friday, blue for Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday and yellow for Sunday. I go into "my" bathroom (in "my" corner of the house) to get showered and dressed. At 7:15 my bathroom alarm goes off and it's time for breakfast. Friday, marmalade on toast day. A loaf of bread would be sitting on my kitchen counter, waiting to be sliced. It was freshly baked for each 'toast' day, Tuesday and Friday. The loaf would cover my breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea meals. A pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a jar of home-made marmalade would be placed beside the bread. I would pour myself a glass of the juice and take my daily medication pills with the first mouthful. I would continue on these schedules all day, every day.

Each Sunday, my parents would go to church in the morning. I used to go with them, but I didn't want to be there, and they didn't want to be embarrassed. My Aunt Josephine would come to the house and keep me company. She was good company, she really cared for me and I always enjoyed her visits. It had become the Sunday ritual that we would play scrabble on the back veranda in the antique rocking chairs. It was fun because my parents had made it clear to me that those chairs were "out of bounds". Aunt Josephine knew about this, and I think that's why she was so fond of the idea, too. At first she said it would be good for my psyche, but now it's just become another routine in my life. Dear Aunt Josephine, always trying to get me to come out of my cocoon and see more of the world. On the days that were too cold and wet to be outside, she'd bring over the photo album, and show me the places she'd been on her world trip. She would have been about my age when she visited all those wondrous places.

Aunt Josephine was the one who made the loaves of bread for me, and the marmalade, she was the one that looked after me and cared for me. She was always coming to the house to check up on me, even when it wasn't Sunday. But the Sundays were the best. My parents would come home from church and they'd pretend to be interested, and they'd always ask "who won today's Scrabble?", to which Aunt Josephine would reply "Who do you think?" I always won, but my parents never believed it. They had convinced themselves that Aunt Josephine was just saying things to make me feel "special". But then she'd go back home and I'd go back to my routines again, and I'd feel a loneliness and longing for company that I knew only my Aunt could bring. It wasn't until my mother came into my bedroom while I was reading, that my life started to change for the better. At first I was annoyed and defensive, but when I heard the words "phone" and "Aunt Josephine", I felt pacified. It turned out that Aunt Josephine just wanted to spend more time with me.

She sounded quite upset at first, she mentioned something about her fish and chip shop, and someone quitting their job. Next moment she was telling me that she would love it if I would work for her, maybe one or two nights a week. The quiet ones. I was apprehensive, nervous of the thought. Although I wasn't really agoraphobic, the prospect of leaving the home, and leaving the safety of my routines, it was a scary thing. And I told Aunt Josephine that. She was very comforting about it, adamant that I come and work for her, she'd give me a lift from the house to work and she'd never leave my sight. And so it was settled, I would start my very first job on Tuesday.

I walked in to my parent's lounge room to deliver the news, but they were watching their shows. I cleared my throat. My mother threw me a look that said "what do you want, boy?"
"Hey mum? Uh, Aunt Josephine gave me a job at her fish and chip shop. I start on Tuesday."
I got an irritated nod from my mum, which I assumed to mean "yeah okay, whatever. Now scram, I'm watching my shows." So I went back to my reading, thinking about Tuesday. My routines became a little less focused, as I was mostly just waiting for that day to come. But when the day and time came along, I felt unprepared to make the leap out of my comfort zone.

But Aunt Josephine was really great about it all. She had the uniform for me, just a plain shirt with "Josie's" written on it. And on the car ride to the shop, she gave me a crash course on what my job was, although for the first half of the shift, I'd just be watching her, and she'd pass the work on to me when I felt up to it. It was pretty quiet, there was only four of us there, and after about half an hour, Aunt Josephine had given me a full run-down of everything in the shop. So we talked about other things. The other two guys working there were friendly, and they had some interesting stories to share. It wasn't long before I donned the hair-net and latex gloves and took on the work for myself. I was nervous, but with Aunt Josephine's soothing voice backing me all the way, I handled myself pretty well. We closed the store a little early and the other two left. Aunt Josephine took me into the small office in the back, because she wanted to show me something. I sat down in the chair across from hers. She held in her hand a photograph. She let out a little sigh, before turning it around and passing it across to me. It was a picture of her and her ex-husband, standing outside their little cottage home, and Aunt Josephine appeared to be pregnant.
"I never knew you had a child" I said.
"Yeah, I gave birth shortly after he left me. I was depressed, I was left with almost nothing, so I didn't keep him." She spoke with a tone of regret. "I gave him away to a family who could afford to look after him."
"So, I've got a cousin?"
"No, the child I had... it was you. And now, well, you're old enough to make your own decisions, so, if you want, you're welcome to live with me."
I hadn't anticipated this, not at all. Yes, I would love to live with my birth mother. I would love to leave the people who raised me without affection nor sympathy. And I would love to know the feeling of a mother's love, day after day after day.

It turned out that my foster parents only found out that I had "special needs" after they had taken me in. But it also turned out that those special needs stemmed from the depression of my mother, and the overall lack of comfort and love that I had yearned throughout my first years. Now that I have my mother in my life again, and the emotional balance has more or less rectified itself, I can lead a somewhat normal life. I still have some rituals and habits that I stick to, especially when I'm away from home, but it's nothing like what it used to be. I took a trip around the world with some friends from college last year. I was terribly homesick, but I sent letters and photos almost every day, and my mother added them to the photo album. She says to me every now and then that we should take another trip around the world, just the two of us, but the right time hasn't come yet. Our lives have completely changed for the better. But there's one thing that's always stayed the same, each Sunday morning, we still go out onto the porch, and sit in the rocking chairs (these ones mum bought just for us), and we play our game of scrabble.

I'm an audio mod now. Yeah, just posting this so it doesn't clog up my story post on the previous blog. Also, congrats to B0UNC3 and snayk, who are also now audio mods, and SBB, who is now a BBS mod as well as audio mod.
From one BBS mod to 3 in the audio forum, those self-whoring, zero-vote-whining, etc etc threads will never see the light of day >:D

Part 1: The Park Bench

I sat on the old, dampened bench, the rotting wood sagging slightly under my lean frame. I had the most advantageous view of the apartment block that resided mere meters from my bench. It was across the street. Well, to be honest, it wasn't much of a street, it would be generous if you could show enough grace to bestow such a title upon that rain-slick, potholed traffic hazard of a thing. I witnessed many a crash while I waited in the park, the worst of which, a man who had skidded on the wet road, and slammed into a lamp post. He pulled himself out of the torn and twisted wreck, holding his hand to his head. He was literally gushing blood from a deep cut on his skull, limping hopelessly all over the place, gushing his all onto the sidewalk. I'd been sitting on that bench for several months now, and my mentality was beginning on a downward spiral. I saw some terrible things whilst on that bench, and I simply stopped caring about a lot of things. My hair had become long, lank and greasy, my teeth blackened and decayed, my body unwashed, and my clothes left smelling rank, and worn in an unkempt fashion. My friends and family knew I was on a mission, but they'd be worried sick by now, but I just stopped caring about them, how would they comfort me here? How could they comfort me now? This was what I was reduced to, this... life of anonymity, and for what? Money? Respect? They mean nothing to me. But I sat on that bench, and waited. And I hated every minute of it. Every stinking minute of every stinking day, I sat with my eyes peeled, noting down every single person walking into the apartment building, and every single person coming out. At the end of every day, I would ball up on the bench, and try to mimic sleep through sheer willpower, but the biting cold kept me from that one thing that could help me escape from it all. I craved sleep like a drug, but nothing I did could give me even just one small release from the cycle. At the end of every day, I would fall into yet another bout of manic depression, as it was another day where my task was elongated. I had been waiting these months, for just one man, John Westacott.

From what I had learned from previous researches and investigations, Mr. Westacott wasn't all that abnormal. He had lived in the outskirts of the city, with his wife and daughter, working at Somerville Accountants, the business he had been with for fourteen years. His old friends and work colleagues seemed adamant that John was a good person, and that he couldn't have done what he reportedly did. I would smirk at their naivety and continue asking them questions, devoted to finding John's whereabouts, and determined to reveal the truth. After all, I had earned the respect of my superiors, and thus had been entrusted with the responsibility of this case. And after a few weeks poking my nose around, getting into the thick of it, I was confident I knew what I was doing, I had tracked him down to the building I was watching now. I had assembled a small team of men to help me to take John to the police station. I would have brought him in and questioned him, I would have done all it would take to get an answer from him, persuasion or intimidation, it didn't matter which. I would have yelled 'till my face turned blue and my voice was hoarse, I would have beat him to within an inch of his life, hell, I would have even played the "get out of jail free" card, if it were any use, but my superiors had a sudden change of heart.

Apparently, Mr. Westacott was a valuable source of information to us, he could lead us to other criminals, he could spill the secrets of the underworld, provided that he remains a free man, for the meantime, and provided that he knows nothing of the police investigations currently going on. So there I was, sitting on the bench, staring at the apartment building, watching and waiting for something. But he didn't go in, and he didn't come out, the back alley was another option that had run through my head a thousand times, but it was inexplicably absent of life and movement. Only the tenants of the apartments taking their rubbish out, and the city refuse truck taking the rubbish away. I looked at my watch, it was 12:15. Ray was late. He's never usually late. After the months that I've been out here in the park, this was the first time Ray had disappointed me. Every day since I started, Ray would show up in the park, drop off a brown paper bag containing food and drinks and other consumables. He'd also pass on news from my superiors. It'd usually be the same old thing; "sit tight, Dave, the boss needs you here." Sit tight? I've been sitting tight all throughout Autumn. It's now Winter, and I'm still waiting around. In fact, the only thing that's keeping me from giving up is the fact that I'd be target practice as soon as I get up to walk away. No excuses, just bang- dead- end of story, and to add insult to injury, these superiors of mine would fabricate a bullshit cause for my death, declare me guilty of treason, an enemy to the government, and they'll leave it at that. As much as I relayed messages back and forth through Ray, I got nowhere, no new information, no new plans or strategies, and a reminder that my superiors are firm believers in the "if you're not one of us, you're one of them" attitude, a reminder that was black and blue and swollen all over my skull from the last time I so much as thought about throwing in the towel.

I waited anxiously, checking my watch every 30 seconds or so, using the time in between to scan the street up and down, and scan the park for any signs of him or small, blue, environmentally friendly car. My watch read 12:30. Although I realized he wasn't coming after the first 5 minutes, I had nothing else to go on, so I kept on waiting, to my increased frustration.
"Where the bloody hell are you, Ray?" I said under my breath.
"He's gone out of town for a few days, he didn't mention it to you?" A man in a large beige coat stood behind me, a stranger, teasing me, taunting my ignorance. "Have you got the time?" he asked as if he were just another person passing me on the way to the café for a light luncheon. And he looked like it too, with the newspaper tucked beneath his arm, but he knew me. He knew more about me and what was going on around me than I did.
"How do you know Ray?" I asked, ignoring his request. I didn't want to waste time on small talk when I knew he had information I could use.
"You don't need to worry yourself with that. There are more important things going on, believe me, your messenger boy should be the last thing on your mind. The bottom line is, you've been screwed over, and there's no use sitting here and feeling sorry for yourself any longer. Here," he grabbed the newspaper from under his arm and handed it to me. "It's a little old, but I think you'll find page 21 quite interesting." And with that, he walked back through the park, leaving me at a loss for words.

I sat on that bench, paper in hand, still unclear of what was going on. It took a while for my brain to process the information. Where had Ray gone? Who was that man? And what's so important on page 21? I had been skimming through newspapers for a while now, reading the headlines, browsing the rest, assuming all importance was in bold black letters accompanied with a photo which together took up more than half of the front page. I checked the date on the paper, October 24th, 1989, a Tuesday edition of The Morning Express. The headline was nothing unusual, a report on the property damage of a storm that hit several nights before. I rifled through the pages until I reached page 21, and quickly scanned the page for a clue as to what might be so interesting. It only took a moment before the name jumped out at me; John Westacott. It was displayed above his photograph. I read the lines below the photo, the four small lines of text in the narrow column. My throat turned to ice as I read and re-read those lines; "Born August 12th 1964, Died October 19th 1989. May you join your loving wife and daughter in heaven." Dead... John Westacott was dead. I had wasted my time waiting out here for nothing, and worse than that, Ray, and the others, they lied to me. They stabbed me in the back, an ice cold blade running through my heart. Fuck you, Ray, I trusted you.

I sat still, staring right through the paper, lost in a stupor. I felt cold, I felt empty inside, a cocoon that once contained life, but had become just an abandoned shell. I was so angry, and as much as I knew that as soon as I left the bench there would be no turning back, I didn't care. I'm not sure that I had anything to turn back to anyway, just the charred remains of a bridge that once lead to a life I now despise. And so I folded the newspaper, and stashed it in my backpack along with some blankets and the minimal amount of cash I had received from Ray in my last sustenance pack. My hobo pack. I got to my feet and hoisted the bag onto my shoulders, and I walked across the road to the building that suddenly looked so empty and uninteresting, yet I walked up the three steps to the front door. I pushed the door open, and stepped into the foyer area. There was a small list on the wall, with a list of names engraved upon it. Where apartment 6 was, there was just a scrawled marker name, John Westacott.

I took the stairs to the fourth floor, and walked along the corridor to apartment 6. I was about to knock on the door when I noticed that it stood ajar. I took a few steps closer to the door. I could hear a man in the apartment, talking on the phone. Could it be...? As soon as I thought it, I was doubting myself. Either the paper was an elaborate hoax, or John Westacott was on the other side of that door right now. I held my breath as I reached forward and pushed the door gently open. The man wasn't Mr. Westacott.
"I've got to go, someone's just arrived. I'll call you back, Phil" the said, and hung the phone up on the receiver. "Ah, you must be here for John's things then. Andy called a moment ago and told me you'd be coming. He's organized for the furniture to be removed tomorrow morning, and he didn't have a lot of possessions, mostly clothes, TV, CD player, computer, you know, the usual stuff. You're right to take all this lot now?" According to the tag on his shirt, his name was Blake.
"Yeah, sure. I've uh, I've got my car parked out the back. I'll just take these few boxes and things and I'll be on my way." I wasn't too sure what I was doing, but I thought the best scenario would be to just haul all this junk into the skip out the back, maybe come back for a few of the boxes when I could go home and get my car.
"Do you want a hand at all?" Blake asked. He bent down to reach for a box.
"No. Thanks, it's fine. I'll be fine." I picked up the box he was reaching for and walked out the door.
I made my way outside, to a very run down outdoor dining area. A knee-high brick wall separated the small courtyard from the narrow alleyway. On the far side of the alley was the skip bin I was looking for. It must have been blue one time long ago, but the weather had faded the colour almost to a bone-white, the paint had flaked, and there seemed to be more rust than rubbish on the thing. I placed the box in the bin and turned to walk away when an unexpected low rumbling noise emanated from the box.

I pulled the box back out of the bin and unfolded the lid. In the box there was a couple of office files, an alarm clock, a few burned Cd's and right at the bottom was the source of the rumbling noise, a small mobile phone. It was still vibrating, so I pulled it out of the box and answered the call. I was intrigued as to who might be trying to call the phone of a dead man.
"Hello, who is this?" I asked, at a loss of what to expect in response.
"Hi, is that Dave- David Bradshaw?"
"Yes, but how did you-"
"I was the man in the park. Look, there's no time to be messing around, I'll be at the apartment in 10 minutes with my car. I want all of the gear in the Westacott apartment out in the alley by the time I get there so we can just load it all up and go." And then the phone became silent.
I closed the box again, and, should the man try and call again, I put the phone in my pocket and headed back into the apartment to fetch the other boxes. I had made the conclusion that I should act on his word, since he's given me reason to believe him where the only others I thought I could trust had let me down. I went back and forth emptying the possessions from the apartment, and I was bringing out the last item, an old, small, box-shaped TV, when the car pulled up next to my pile of boxes in the alley.
The man got out of his car and said "Toss it. What do we want with his TV? It's useless, just throw it in the skip there."
I did as instructed, as he loaded the boxes into the boot of his car, TV landing in the bin on a pile of garbage with a satisfying thud.
"What now?" I asked.
He pulled the boot down and said "Get in."
Prior to this I would have never been so careless and trusting, but the police would likely be looking for me by now and I had nowhere else to turn. Besides, this guy had information about John Westacott, and he looked like he was willing to help me, and share this information. So, without a second thought, I sat in the passenger seat, and took one last glance at the bench that had been my home for the past months, and I couldn't be more content to leave the place, although I envisioned that my departure would be under much less trivial circumstances.

So, I've been thinking of starting a segment in the audio report where I pick out my favourite mainstream songs on youtube and explain why they're popular/awesome. But right now, I don't feel like it. But I still feel like sharing some of my favourite catchy tunes and awesome songs with you guys anyway. I like surfing youtube for songs I've heard on the radio, or songs from CDs I've just bought, or something along those lines.

This first song I heard a few times on the radio, and only just now bothered to look it up on youtube. It's catchy as all hell, and in it's fun atmosphere, it makes for an awesome listen. It's called "Dawn of the Dead" by a band called Does It Offend You, Yeah?

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The Killers are a band that have had my interest for a little while now, I really like their catchy melodies and generally well structured songs. Mr. Brightside is one of my favourites off their Hot Fuss album from 2004. It was quite a success, but don't put it past yourself to give the song another listen.

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Going back a bit further, to 2001, I've picked a song off the very first album I bought: Discovery, by Daft Punk. While I must admit, the first 4 songs kick ass, and I could stick Aerodynamic or Digital Love on repeat and never get bored, some of the other songs, such as Voyager and Verdis Quo, are well worth the listen. Most of the songs are catch at first, but then they grow on you, and now, one of my favourite songs on the album is Superheroes. I just love how it builds up. I especially love the classic synth arpeggios that are the climax of the song. The video is also one of the many brilliant scenes in "Interstella 5555", the musical to the Discovery album.

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Now, go forward a bit in my life, to about 2003-05 ish, we'll get to a time in my life when I had become a fan of a band at the end of their career. Blink-182. Fun-loving, light pop-punk riffs, immature jokes. Catchy songs, nothing overly complicated, such was their lives before they faced the inevitable (yet inexplicably late) coming of their maturity. The year was 2000, the song was Man Overboard. The video was a parody of their previous videos, and stars 3 midgets. What more could you want?

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A song that also came out in 2000, of which I first heard from the soundtrack to Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 3 (I still enjoy playing these games), an Australian punk band; Bodyjar. The song? Not The Same. These guys have some great energetic punk rock tunes, and Not The Same is no exception. Great vocals, energetic beat and a light catchy riff that makes this tune a win in my books.

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Bohemian Like You, by The Dandy Warhols:

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I don't need to say anything here, the video displays the txt quite nicely.

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Now, two awesome songs for the price of one; Birds of Tokyo, with songs off their latest album Universes, "Broken Bones" and "Silhouettic". These guys are from Perth, and they're damn awesome.

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And another Aussie band, The Living End, considered one of Australia's best live acts, Loaded Gun is one of my favs off their new album, White Noise. It's got a good story, too.

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Still Waiting, by Sum 41. Now THAT'S fucking punk.

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Orange Crush, by R.E.M, and you can watch pictures while you listen to the music, OMG!!!

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Anthem for the Year 2000, by Silverchair.

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And there you have it, a whole lot of awesome songs.
But wait, what's this? John Cage? Sonata V? Just watch, and please pick your jaw up off the floor when it's done. Makes thing's harder for the janitor to get 'round here.

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Also: read this and you'll see that I fell miserably short, by about 22 levels. I had a good system!!! >:(

For those of you who are familiar with me and my music, I like to branch out and try my hand at many different styles. Right now, I'm very much in a classical mood. And I've got time on my hands.
I feel the need to create some classical music before this mood disappears into nothingness.
Now, I thought I'd have a little poll, to see what people would like to hear from me.
Would you like to hear:
a) A piano solo, fast paced and agressive and insanely complicated, or-
b) A piano solo, slow and delicate and beautiful, or-
c) An orchestral composition, an epic soundtrack type song, or-
d) An orchestral composition, that's not so epic, but has a certain finesse about it.

It's up to you, tell me what you'd like to hear me attempt and fail horribly at (lol), or suggest something that isn't one of the above 4.

Go go go go go!

I'm great at starting my own rumours, especially since there's even odds of the rumour being true as it is of being false.
Well, I've heard (through the grapevine) that WritersBlock is writing a new story. Well I hope it's as dark and disturbing as his previous two. I also hope it shows new growth in his writing talent. And I also hope he doesn't tie himself down with deadlines and makes something really worth my time to read.

Well, I am writing a new story, and I've got a great idea, I'm hoping to get better character development and plot depth than I've had in the past. And I'm hoping to stick to the dark disturbing tone that I've developed from reading a handful of stories by H.P Lovecraft. But I'm trying to mix things up, and I feel as though I could get better plots and characters through a slightly more modern setting, rather than the typical cobbled streets of london ye olde era. The main character is a police officer/detective, I'm not sure yet, probably a detective (do they work for the police force?), anyway, he's working on an investigation that's apparently one of the biggest investigations in the nation. I'm thinking of turning things around, with it all being an elaborate set up to keep him out of the way while the "more important" people take on the real crime of the city. Brace yourself for secret cults, brutal transformations, and quite possibly, an intricate character set up that sounds pretty cool in my head.
Ba-dum.
Can you hear that?
Ba-dum.
...
Ba-dum.
Can you hear me?
Ba-dum.
Are you there?
Ba-dum.
The Beating Heart of Mr. Lincoln
Coming soon.

Oh, whoops. It's just the audio report.
And I can't post it all at once because it's just too massive!
The first interview is real long, and the second interview is even longer! Then there's some more completely awesome articles and an audio report collaboration on the way.
So, if you make music, you like music, or you're a fan of the good ol' newgrounds audio portal, drop by, have a read, and let me know what you think.
Link!

Oh, and Tuesday the 9th. That's my 18th birthday, a "coming of age", of sorts. I'm going on holidays tomorrow, and coming home on the 11th, it'll be the first birthday I have away from my parents. I'm spending it with my brother, so it should be pretty fun. Got a long car trip tomorrow, and an even longer bus trip on the return, so I'll be loading up my mp3 players full of everything I can get my hands on. Rock, punk, alternative, metal, dance, trance, techno, classical, videogame soundtracks, podcasts, drum n bass, the whole deal. Mainstream stuff, newgrounds stuff, and some of my own, too ;D
Got a 2 min demo of "Carbon Baby" which I've rebuilt, and I'm not sure if I should submit it to newgrounds before I go, I probably will. It's definitely turning out well, although I'm not doing much on it today, today I just want to get my stuff packed, my music on my mp3 players and the audio report on newgrounds.

Also, if anyone in the audio forum puts the effort into making me a birthday thread, chances are, I won't see it until I return, so, just a little heads up ;D no my lack of response doesn't mean I'm ignoring you guys. <3

Um, yeah. I'll just try and submit this nex part of the audio report, and then maybe submit my Carbon Baby demo.

Cheers, guys. I look forward to returning to Newgrounds as an adult. These past 17 years have really rushed by.
Now get off my lawn! >:(

Okay, I had a performance last week, an original composition for solo piano (see previous blog) and my old music teacher suggested that I enter it in a national youth composer competition. The issue I had was that it was for solo piano. I checked out the requirements today, and it turns out the piece has to be for between 3 to 5 instruments. So now, I have to discard my ready made track for something new. I've opened up Finale Notepad, and I've created a project for Viola, Cello, and Piano. I've set the time signature to 4/4 and the key signature to C minor. The title at the moment, something angsty, to capture my feelings at the moment, "Vulgar". Yeah, fuck you Sibelius and your rules I hadn't read yet.
The competition is split into 2 age groups, secondary students and tertiary students. Secondary students require the length of their compositions to be between 2 and 5 minutes long and tertiary 5 to 10 minutes long. I left school last year, so I'm assuming that I'll be placed under the "tertiary" umbrella.

According to last years results, there were over 200 entries, so it looks like I'm in for a tough challenge. Sure there have been MACs with turnouts like this, but these people have been studying classical music and they'll probably have teacher-approved entries, ie. a much higher overall quality compared to the MACs. But I'll give it the old college try and I'll hopefully have something done by the deadline of September 15th, not October 26th, that's the date when the winning pieces will be played live over national classic radio. The poster was misleading, and now I'm on a real race against time, and with the MAC (which in all honesty, I probably have a better shot at winning) due at near the same time, and I'm taking a holiday from 5th to 13th for my coming of age, so I'd say I'd have to be done and entered before the 5th, otherwise I'll be trying to finish up after partying hard on the friday. But the prizes look pretty sweet. If I'm good enough/lucky enough, I might find myself with some cash, a copy of sibelius and/or an M-Audio keyboard/hardware and other software stuffz and "opportunities". So I'd be a dumb fuck to not even try.

I might as well do a bit more advertising for the competition, for anyone interested, if you're Australian, and you can make a 2-10 minute classical song comprising of 3-5 instruments in a short space of time, give this competition a crack, who knows, you might find yourself on the national airwaves alongside me. ;D

Ok, as you may or may not know, I've been talking about this performance I had coming up. It was tonight. And it went really well.
I'll say a bit more than that though.
A couple of months ago, I filled out the official forms to participate in my town's local annual Music Festival. The piece; Prologue
For the previous 7 years, I've performed and watched others perform in the festival. I've done guitar solos, piano solos, a guitar duet, a guitar trio, guitar ensemble, modern guitar solo, piano concerto and choir. This was the first time I have performed an original composition. A piano solo.
Out of my 8 years competing in this festival, I've had ups and downs. I've felt the euphoria of succesfully completing my pieces, and the self-disappointment in feeble attempts, and one time I could only perform one of my two submitted pieces. I was late to start learning the piano, age 10, when others had been learning from 5 or 6. So there I was, a good couple of feet taller than the younger, more disciplined girls that I was up against. I should point out now that the festival is split up into sections, such as grade restricted piano solos and age restricted solos for other instruments, and then marked and critiqued by an adjudicator.
The adjudicator changes from year to year, although they're always the well learned and highly skilled and experienced musicians. Sometimes they judge hard, sometimes they judge soft, sometimes they comment negatively, sometimes positive, it's a real russian roulette to see if you're going to suffer at the hand of a merciless judge. So, year after year, I'd walk out onto the stage, light shining brlightly on me, and out there is about 300 seats, with probably 100 filled with parents hoping that their child doesn't forget their dynamics or that they stick to the tempo. I'll say now, as a 10 year old kid with about8 months experience on the piano, and about 5 months on guitar, going out onto a bright stage, and looking at all the anticipating parents, and the adjudicator, pen at the ready, it's no wonder some kids succumb to tears, and it's certainly no surprise to feel terrible nerves. For the first couple of years, I coped remarkably well. A few years into it and I was coping much better than others, but unpreparedness caught me unawares. While it was all fine and dandy to play my piece of 4 lines long and take away a glittery certificate, as I gained more experience, the music became more complicated, I needed to practice more... I needed to practice. I learned that public performance isn't always so easy. The music wasn't that hard, but even a little doubt and a whole lot of nerves can lead to a downward spiral of disappointment. But it's something you get over. When you think about it, there's hundreds of people performing, going through that same mental challenge, the nerves before a performance. No-one's going to judge you for stepping down or for fumbling a note, or, in one instance that I had, forgetting to open up your book and playing without the music only to realise what you had done once you finished. There's also the mature age entries, the people who started learning an instrument at age 45 rather than age 5. To them, it's not about going on into a bright and prosperous career in music, rather a personal goal, a yearning to learn the universal language of music and to share it with the community. Now for a lot of these people, it's a step out of the ordinary life, performing in this event, and so they get the nerves too. Age doesn't factor in one's ability to cope under pressure, although experience does help. A friend of mine performed tonight brilliantly in a lengthy cornet solo. It appears that he has all the confidence in the world. But for the amount of times he's been out on that stage, the nerves become just another part of performing.
I don't get nervous nearly as bad as I used to, now I don't really take these nerves as a bad thing. It lets me feel alive and vulnerable, like I'm gambling on the expectations of the audiences. Tonight I was a little more nervous than if I were just performing some song that some professional composer wrote, but this was all me, performing my own composition which only a few have heard me play before. So I was being judged on the composition as well as the performance.
Well, it's suffice to say that, as the only competitor in my section, I scored a first place (not always guaranteed, I'll let you know) with an 85/100 with a kind, but tough judge. The comments were all positive, and the audience enjoyed it too. My mum cried. My grandparents cried, and my father was rather proud of me. Friends and acquaintances gave congratulations, two of my past music teachers were backstage, and they were rather impressed. They had seen me attempt to tackle my last two years of music in high school, skipping grades in an attempt to reach the standard of piano performance required for university. I didn't do so bad in the end, but not enough to pull through. But that didn't disappoint me. Performing isn't my strong point, and I tried to bite off more I could chew attempting to reach a 6th/7th level grade starting from 1st grade 5 years earlier (first couple of years were preliminary grades only). So I've settled in with my strengths in composing, and I've come to enjoy the occasional performance, now that the pressure has eased off. I'm only doing it for myself, and I find comfort in the fact that my family supports me and is proud of me, and my friends and teachers enjoy hearing me make the music that I love making. My theory teacher came up to me after the performance and told me about a songwriting compotition he thought I should enter the piece into, so it's great to know that this teacher, who's taught me oh so many things, and watched me gain confidence and skill, only to decline in the last few years and pull up right before the finish line, he sees what I've done as a thing worth nurturing and building upon.

I apologies for not paragraphing this better, and I appreciate those who take the time to read this "personal journey" of sorts. I feel this is worth sharing, as I don't think I'm alone in these experiences, and others might posibly benefit from gaining some insight into my performing "career".

Thanks very much newgrounds.

I have a new song on the Audio Portal. Much love goes out to all who listen. If you can sit through the 8 minutes of music I've created, and maybe even leave a vote or review afterwards, it would mean a lot to me. I thrive off feedback.

Fantasie Mystique

It's the opening track for a planned album I'm working on. The album's called "The Chamber Chronicles.
Read more about it here.

Right now, I'll just shout out a thank you to the people who've helped me to get to where I am now, I doubt I would have done as much as I have without them. The people who've listened to and voted and reviewed my music. I love feedback, it drives me to be the best I can. To the people who've added my music to their favourite submissions lists and to the people who've added me to their favourite artists lists (my "fans" lol). The audio forum regs that give me tips and give others tips that I conveniently listen in and pick up on. Specifically, I feel a thank you is long overdue to: MaestroRage, Rig, SolusLunes, Nav, Rucklo, EchozAurora, Blackhole12, Suspended-3rd-Chord, ZENON, Envy, Karco, Whirlguy, toucanman16, LJcoffee, Mizox, knuxrouge, Coop83, Haggard, Little-Rena, Shanus (and various others from the review request club), xCore, LadyArsenic, WolfBlitz2,cyberdevil, waterflame, cornandbeans, and BigBazz. AND everyone from bandAMP.com. Although I don't think anyone from the site comes here, they helped me get off the ground, and I probably wouldn't be submitting music to newgrounds. Specifically MindsAtPlay, Flyer7747, JimkdaAdtman and Marino. Sorry I haven't been more active on that site in ages. :'(
And I'm sorry if I missed anyone, there are lots of people who have affected my life.
Thanks guys.

EDIT
I knew I'd forgotten someone. SBB. Thanks for the review oh mighty king of the ambience. You're a world of brilliance. Hadn't heard much of you in a while and it was only when I saw your review that I remembered. Thanks SBB, you're awesome.
And MJTTOMB. Now this guy is seriously underappreciated. He makes classical, and he's damn good at it. He should be up there with Winterwind in fame. Seriously, check him out now.