Orwell and a Hard Decision

A few weeks ago I found an Orwell novel at the local used bookstore called Keep the Aspidistra Flying. It was my last summer novel before the school year started, and it was, as is always the case with Orwell, a provocative book. It tells the story of Gordon Comstock, a poet who has declared a personal war on Money. Living in England after the first World War, he is disgusted by the servitude of all around him to the endless and pointless task of earning more money. He is pressed reluctantly through school towards employable skills, and then coerced into finding a "good job"--something that will preserve the appearance of middle-class respectability. This unspoken pressure to be respectable is personified by the aspidistra, an ugly and useless plant kept in most middle class windows at the time. It can survive with little water or light, and scarcely anything--even burning it with half smoked cigarettes--seems to be able to kill it. Gordon finds ready employment in the advertising industry, where he has an unwelcome talent for writing slogans. He despises his vapid co-workers, the artless job, and the waste of his real literary talent. He is allured by some small successes in his poetic work to quit the advertising firm and devote himself fully to real literature, taking a menial job as a bookseller to support himself. He finds in doing so that his creative and personal vitality is sapped by lack of money; he doesn't have money to eat, smoke, have a cup of tea, or even take his girlfriend (Rosemary) for a train ride in the country. Constantly feeling the pressure of family and the ubiquitous aspidistra to take a "good job," he maintains his principled stand and works when he can to become a real poet, tortured by days when success seems imminent, followed by days of utter despair at his failure. Broke, indebted, and friendless, he learns that Rosemary is pregnant with his child. With London Pleasures (his unfinished magnum opus) in his pocket, he reluctantly takes the hateful job that will cost him his literary future but will provide for Rosemary and his unborn child.


"He was aware of a lumpish weight in his inner pocket. It was the manuscript of London Pleasures. He took it out and had a look at it under the street lamp. A great wad of paper, soiled and tattered, with that peculiar, nasty, grimed-at-the-edges look of papers which have been a long time in one's pocket. About four hundred lines in all. The sole fruit of his exile, a two years' fetus which would never be born. Well, he had finished with all that. Poetry! Poetry, indeed! In 1935!
What should he do with the manuscript? Best thing, shove it down the w.c. But he was a long way from home and had not the necessary penny. He halted by the iron grating of a drain. In the window of the nearest house an aspidistra, a striped one, peeped between the yellow lace curtains. He unrolled a page of London Pleasures. In the middle of the labyrinthine scrawlings a line caught his eye. Momentary regret stabbed him. After all, parts of it weren't half bad! If only it could ever be finished! It seemed such a shame to shy it way after all the work he had done on it. Save it, perhaps? Keep it by him and finish it secretly in his spare time? Even now it might come to something. 
No, no! Keep your parole. Either surrender or don't surrender. 
He doubled up the manuscript and stuffed it between the bars of the drain. It fell with a plop into the water below.
Vicisti, O aspidistra!"

A little over two weeks ago I was offered a fellowship with the New World Symphony Orchestra in Miami, FL. For the past ten years I have studied to be an orchestral trumpet player. I have practiced every day, I have attended six years of school, and I have taken more auditions than I can count. At times I've been among the last few standing at the finals. At times I've not even advanced beyond the first round.
My wife has waited patiently for me win an audition. She has endured daily hours of the same excerpts for years, listened to my inevitable vomiting the night before an audition, consoled me in the aftermath, and sacrificed much financial and personal stability that could be had by the same zealous pursuit of a career teaching music in the public schools.
The process of our decision was complicated and wretched. It came to us unsought, and with either choice would come much grieving. The orchestra, which is a musical academy functioning as a full-time performing orchestra, was only able to offer us dormitory-style housing in the company of twentysomethings. Accepting the fellowship would require us to leave friends and family in Rochester. It would mean the sacrifice of our professional inroads in the NY area. It would mean that our son would only see his uncles and grandparents over holidays. It would have no guarantee of a job or income at the end of the three and a half year program. It would mean the sacrifice of my uninteresting but hard-to-find teaching job at LCS.
I couldn't abide the thought of not going. Every former orchestra member and professional connection recommended the program with high praise. Those who knew us personally and our situation told us not to go. None envied the task of making the decision. Should we voluntarily turn down a won audition? Should we bring an infant to a cramped dormitory in Miami?
During and after I shrunk from the counsel of Christians. They simplified the decision to a choice between family or career values. They insinuated that God had purposed this, as some sort of test. They promised great rewards if I chose the right answer on the test. They are people I love and respect. And they (unwittingly) painted our God as a vivisectionist, directing me along ten years of work only to be forced to kill with my own hands the long-awaited issue. Yet perhaps it is time to rethink a God I would prefer be distant and, on my terms, benevolent.

ὃν γὰρ ἀγαπᾷ Κύριος παιδεύει,
     μαστιγοῖ δὲ πάντα υἱὸν ὃν παραδέχεται.

For the Lord loves he who he rears, and chastises every son he recieves.

I do not know why the events of the past few weeks have come. Was I committing some sort of career idolatry that needed to be punished? I still don't have an answer. I do know that there are two things I find untenable. One is to stop taking orchestra auditions, if there is, somewhere, a chair in an orchestra where I can play Brahms and Bach for a living. The second, and more important, is to compromise how I love my wife. It would have been dishonor to compel her to Florida, although, I think, she would have gone. It is dishonor now for me to sulk and hold it against her, as I have selfishly done for the past few days. No more--it was already a marvel and a wonder that I should have the privilege to be married to her. I will forget it no longer.

O aspidsitra, invicti erimus.

7/22 to 8/1

J and I are back at our home in S—port after spending the past two weeks at H—n College. (Forgive me for using abbreviations throughout; I would hate to endanger our friendly relations with H—n College by making public remarks about how there is absolutely nothing to do there. We have also had a recent scare with internet privacy…more on that below.) I practiced and attempted to stay cool while J taught flute students and nearly got herself removed from the camp faculty for performing this piece. I traveled back to R—ster several times to premiere a new trumpet quintet by Wes N. with various section members, and then to play it again at the E—man Brass Symposium. (pictured below)

I also played twice with the BPO, with J and my parents and grandparents coming the second time. Both were outdoor concerts in parks, and the conditions couldn’t have been more beautiful. We played Raiders and also some boring numbers in which the strings had the melody (just kidding) and entertained the little children on their picnic blankets. With RPO done for the season, I probably have just one orchestral concert (over in S—cuse) left before next season.

J’s best friend Jessica returned from overseas this week, and we had a joyous reunion with her. She flew in from a trip through southern Europe with her sister after leaving her African school, and within two days of returning she had already been offered a position in C—lotte. (With an upcoming audition there, it’s not impossible that we might join her.) Unfortunately she’s returned with baggage from her travels. A man she’d only met in passing has contacted J two different ways by googling information on Jessica. We have been thrilled to say that she is already spoken for.

It has been a busy few weeks looking for work; I was called up last Tuesday for an interview at Catholic school, and as soon as I finished was asked to come down to an interview in L—a for a Christian school there. The Catholic school wouldn’t add much beyond what I’m already doing, but the L—a school would be a full-time job with benefits and the freedom to preserve my gigging empire. I had also been prepping for two military band auditions this week, but it looks as if (perhaps fortunately, as I wasn’t feeling particularly well-prepared for or excited about the prospect of either) they might not happen.

In the midst of all of this job uncertainty J and I had a great conversation…one that probably deserves its own blog entry. I’ve long bit my tongue while Christians around me referred to perceived “special providences” as visible acts of God. It is fitting for me to preface any commentary on the subject by declaring faith in a personal God who acts decisively and recognizably in human history. With that said, I strongly doubt that this God resembles a tribal totem, and ought to be held as the personal and immediate cause for every minute good and ill. As J and I have looked for jobs and health insurance, we’ve come to wonder whether 1) direct and immediate divine governance is the sole and immediate cause of my being employed or not being employed, or 2) being a creature with free will among other creatures with free will, the immediate causes of my employment or unemployment are largely effected by myself and those around me. To put it another way, am I unemployed because God isn’t involved, or because he is involved and wishes it so? The truly frightening possibility is 3) that God is personally and immediately involved in working purposes which have little to do with our material comfort and prosperity…purposes of sanctification, discipline, and kingdom-service which must be learned through lowliness and want. Perhaps we shouldn’t be wholly surprised at being told by our Lord, when we ask to be blessed, that he says Blessed are the poor. (I know this is removed from its context…)

I had been preparing for several military band auditions this week, but (as I’ll explain momentarily) it looks as if they won’t be happening. Monday morning I got up early to drive our Neon in for an oil change before taking it south for the first audition. J came into the kitchen as I was getting my coffee ready with the news that our Buick wasn’t starting. I did get the oil changed in the Neon, and learned of several other infirmities. The Buick is currently undergoing a fuel-pump replacement in the shop, and I am still in New York. Blessed are the poor. (I know this is removed from its context…)

Though I was disappointed not to see my in-laws, it was pleasant surprise to see J throughout the day and to spend my birthday (26!) evening with my family. At turning 26, I’m inclined to remark on how old I’m getting (it seems particularly surprising that I’m five years removed from 21) but I’ve promised myself not to start this until much later. I’m in the bloom of youth and will not complain. I was blanketed with good wishes on facebook, and reminded again of my wealth of friends. If you are a friend who reads this sentence and I haven’t spoken with you in awhile, please be patient. I probably have your name written down on a list of people I want to call or email once I’m done practicing. The best greeting of the day was from the Haydenbaby, who has apparently learned to how to pronounce my name and now says it into the phone. Our own baby is growing bigger and kicking harder…every time I see my niece she puts a grin on my face.

Unfortunately my birthday ended up with a rather unpleasant (details omitted) of sickness all night. I am convalescing today by blogging twice and reading Mark, Livy, Plato, Homer, Aquinas, and Wright. I’m not sure whether last night came from my weak stomach (probably the fault of my NU diet) or whether my body never adjusted to not having an audition the following morning. Either way, I am happy to be healthy again. And I am thankful: for restored health, for friends, for my son, for J, and for blessings over-brimming.

Easter to the Present

It's only been a week and change since my last entry, but mind and body feel that months have passed. We now live in a new house in S-port, and have departed St. Vivian's. One of our most pressing responsibilities with the move completed is to find a name for this new house. (J is, as always, opposed to this idea. I here note her objection.) Pax lives at Hilltop. Calvus is moving into a parsonage which will also need a name. I was thinking Washington Square, but I'm now leaning towards Washington Willows. (There is a nice old willow out back.) Any ideas? J, I should note, wants the place to be simply "home." I, of course, am not opposed to this, but I think, just as we would be able to distinguish fairly well what we mean by "the baby," naming will be both formative and honoring.

I've finished Barnaby Rudge, in which I marked a passage I underlined for future bloggery. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of my worldly goods, I have packed it somewhere in an unmarked brown box and haven't the slightest idea where to start looking for it. Hopefully it will reappear in the next few days. I've always had a suspicion that moving-gremlins steal boxes from pick-up trucks and switch them with other households, leaving us to wonder what happened to our measuring cups and where on earth these patriotic candles came from. The Dickens passage, at any rate, is one of the most perfect pictures of Christian courage I've ever read. I've continued to plod along (with frequent interruptions from that fickle woman Responsibility) in Joshua, the Psalms, Iliad IV, Matthew, and Livy. I read The Maid's Tragedy in one sitting the other night, which turned out, to my great surprise, to be a tragedy. I rarely start a book knowing nothing about it, and the Maid's Tragedy recalled to me what it was like to read the classics as a child for the first time. It was gripping and horrifying, a wonderful read. I'm currently re-reading more Paradise Lost and Reflections on the Psalms, but hope to unearth another novel tonight. (Providing, of course, that the gremlins have left one.)

I played RPO last week, the second cornet (there ought to be an "s" in cornet, so I could spell it with the U.S. $ sign) on France$ca Di Rimini. It wa$ a $plendid week, and I received a double $alary. The orchestra cornets don't play particularly well in tune, but the section put up with me, and as usual, I had a glorious time. It's not quite possible to write how satisfying an orchestra week is.


I also played a concert with some ESM students of German Brass arrangements. The program included a Scheidt antiphonal number, the famous Bach Air, Corelli's Christmas Concerto, and this great Bach-Vivaldi concerto, which I enjoy almost as much as my favorite German brass number. It was an excellent chance to play some piccolo and "network," though I'd forgotten how late the rehearsal hours ran on conservatory events.

The week was full of tedious negotii, a necessary but easily neglected swarm of chores that accompany a move; I changed our address, forwarded our mail, updated my resume, called the power company, etc. I've probably forgotten some of them. If you, personally, are waiting for me to send in a form or make a necessary phone call, please post in the blog or write to
R. Dudlius
Washington Willows
S-Port, New York

On a less pleasant note, I visited the dentist for the first time in over ten years today, and only for the third time in my life. I know nothing of modern dentistry, so I can't say for sure whether this particular practice has changed at all from the 17th century. They had, of course, plenty of modern equipment, but the hygienist who came to clean (read: remove) my teeth appeared to be using a flint axe and stone hammer. She was a perfectly friendly and professional woman, and I believe she received her training from the Guantanamo Bay School of Interrogation and Dentistry. After seeing her I was visited by a serious-looking woman with a lab coat and perfect teeth who informed me I'd need to undergo at least three more visits for either "fillings" or "filings" (I can't decide which is worse) and that she would require, in the meantime, all of my money.

All of this is, perhaps, just punishment for our recent thievery. After casting mistrustful glances at Opifera during the entire course of her move, we have ourselves been found guilty of stealing several laundry baskets and vital electronics parts from St. Vivian's. Furthermore, we left (unwittingly) clocks, foil, candles, jars, checks, boxes, and brooms behind, thus further littering the property in addition to the enormous mound of garbage we generated. The rubbish at St. Vivian's is nothing, however, compared to the pile currently standing watch in our driveway, which, as we found out last night, does not receive garbage pick-up from the town. In all of these things, again, I blame the gremlins.

We really do owe significant credit to Pax, Kylie, Calvus, J's friend Michelle, Blessed Mother, and Truck-Bringing Bill, all of whom helped us move on Saturday. With such an array of vehicles we were able to move all of our worldly goods in just two trips. More impressively, the women were able to scour St. Vivian's to near perfection. We bought pizza for all of our helpers, but our gratitude runs much deeper. Remembering our lonely North Carolina days, we are blessed beyond measure to live among our people again. Perhaps the best part of the whole.

Running through the Thursday concert, a Friday night party (with a great growler of Scotch ale from Pax) and the Saturday move was the 2011 NFL draft, the great cornerstone of hope to the Buffalo Bills fan. Pax, Bill, and I made nonsensical analysis of the whole thing, and are come to the same consensus we find every year: This will be the year we return to the playoffs and glory.

Since we've moved in to Washington Willows we've made a rare indulgence in the furniture budget. Moving to a new home is a significant blank slate, and we've tried to make the most of this chance. We are re-enacting our budget, rolling out a cleaning/dishwashing policy, and once and for all getting organized. We bought end-tables, folders, lamps, a bookshelf, cleaning supplies, and organizers. We acquired (through odd circumstances) a couch, and got rid of (through even odder circumstances) a piano. The couch happened like this: On Friday morning I walked over to the local church garage sale in search of a serviceable piece of used furniture. (I can never use the word "furniture" now without thinking of CSL's Studies In Words analysis; apologies, Jack.) I joined outside the sale a long and eager looking line of elderly folk, all awaiting the 9 AM church bell. The bell rang, and I got to see, for the first time in my life, what the looting of a village might look like. There was throughout the gymnasium a swarming throng of angry geriatric people, shoving and colliding walkers, wheelchairs, and canes. Each person appeared to be contented with no less than buying every item in the sale. At one point I did find a couch, but as soon as I'd put my hand on it to examine the fabric a woman ran over and threw herself on it, as if to claim it first. As I made my way (hoping only for safe passage) towards the exit I saw an old man among the books sweeping armfuls into a box without even looking at the titles. Eventually we found that Pax and Kylie have a spare couch in their basement, which we'll use for the time being. It wasn't easy to move, but I shudder to think what might have happened if I'd tried to escape the plundering of N. Chili with anything other than my own head. The case of our piano was simply miraculous. To put it simply, I forgot it existed until we'd already packed away the rest of our house. Knowing that we had no room or desire for it in our new apartment, my brothers made the helpful suggestions of 1) pretending it had been in the garage before we moved or 2) painting it camouflage colors and hoping no one would notice it. We loaded it into Bill's truck and decided to take a chance on putting it at the end of the road. Within in an hour it was picked up by persons who, even knowing the truth about its soundboard and receiving repeated warnings from J, carted it away and out of our lives forever. We will probably need to offer libations to the gremlins to keep it from re-appearing in the future.

Though it seems long, long ago, Easter was only a week ago. I had in a brass quintet (not RBQ) for the Sunday service and Cranford Pres, including a trumpet student at RWC, a former member of the church (horn, Ithaca college) and her fiancee (trombone), and my ever-faithful tuba playing choir member. The group played quite well, and I got to show off on the Handel Suite in D Major. It's been an active few weeks at church, trumpet-wise. Ryan and I last week reprised our Endearing Young Charms, and of course I played with the hymns as well. I always feel a certain kinship with even the most liberal of Creedal Christians around Easter, what with our holding together the doctrine of the Resurrection. This year was, however, particularly chafing. The Easter sermon (which I won't detail here) was a concise example of every illiberal liberalism that the Cranfordians wander in; and the past week proved that Thomas was, after all, quite right to doubt.

Finally, I've immensely enjoyed a look through my old notebooks and mail. I found in one of them a note from M (at age 8) attached to a necklace and Catholic coin which read:

Dear R--, I hope you like it in Chicago. I'll miss you. Try not to lose your present. If you do, I'll understand. Love more than one could write, MLS

I've said goodbye to a house, sat in a symphony orchestra, and been gouged by a sadistic dentist over the last week. But it was this that brought tears to my eyes.

Finally!

We are public; J and I are expecting a baby in November! I've been anxious to write about it for nearly a month, and now I finally can. Unfortunately, I need to supervise math tests at Pax's charter school for the next five hours. This is a stern warning for me of what a dangerous business childrearing is; sometimes, even often, they turn into teenagers. In the meantime, reading Josha 3, Ps 8, Il 4, Matt 14, and N.T. Wright. I started (but had to return) an excellent book yesterday evening called C.S. Lewis at the Breakfast Table...

Also, many congratulations to Lux and M on a wonderful Smee and Michael in Peter Pan.