I wish I could say that I’m over the loss of playing the organ, and that I’m no longer bitter about having the rug pulled out from beneath me again by some one who I thought was a good person — again; that person being a clergyman — again; but, I’m not. I suppose that knowing that this was the last of numerous times over the years, in which I’ve been denied access to the only musical instrument I’ve ever wanted to play, has made me take stock of what can only be considered as a monumental exercise in futility. I realise, as the sunset gradually turns to dusk, I will never play the organ again — ever. And it hurts, it hurts a lot. I suppose I’ve always sensed this to be my fate. I just didn’t want to accept it. It’s like falling in love with some one who leads you on just enough to convince you that that person may actually love you, but then pulls away just as things start to feel good and right. Yet somehow you’re convinced again, only to be disappointed again. I happens over and over until finally it’s too late, and you end up alone, spurned one last time.
Yes, it hurts. I try to compensate by composing; but, it isn’t enough. The organ, improvising on the organ was one of my best resources for the incentive to compose. Sitting at the console, when it was learning a piece of music, or improvising for hours, would give me peace, a tranquility that I couldn’t find anywhere else. Now I can’t bear to listen the instrument. It just hurts too much. In fact (as I stated before) I can barely stand to listen to classical music — which is another story altogether.
