6 minutes| We begin with landfills of batteries, and end with Mothra and Godzilla. Somewhere in between a man considers the plight of another man with a urinary tract infection (possibly himself in a disembodied experience).
Text for the voiceover began, I am nearly certain, as a Profiles in Confusion comic, which by the completion of this piece was likely a terminated enterprise. The melody under it is another favorite, and one hopes the text does not interfere with appreciation of it. The other voiceover, an automated singing voice heard at the beginning, was supplied by conditionally free software, which I did not purchase and hence never used again.
The orchestral section in the middle is hardest to explain, but it was surely thrown in because I had no other place to put it. I did something similar with Beige RGB, where an unfinished fragment was used as an introduction.
When I first attempted to compose a conventional piece of orchestration with software instruments, I was concerned with whether I could do it, but I quickly lost interest in the exercise because I am more interested in unconventional orchestration as a pursuit. Because of this, I try avoid setting off on a path of convention that simply complicates my need to create unconventional things.
Time stamps for each section: Part One, 5/18/12; Part Two, 7/19/10; Part Three, 5/02/12. Nearly a year separates the second part from the other two parts, which means it survived as a fragment before landing here.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 2| This is from the same introduction and sets a theme that will be revisited in the book:
A lissome Saint Nicholas, attired in a miter and stiff crimson robe, officiated as grand marshal over a noisy Krampus parade, and provided the only splash of color that was not of incendiary intent. He waved his scepter approvingly at “good children” gathered along the sidewalk, while his entourage of shaggy demons, flanking a cage and stoked cauldron on a wooden cart, taunted those scions deemed naughty.
Like ballast in the hem of a swinging curtain, a trailing spectator cleared the intersection and left a second Santa (one of a rental variety) alongside a Salvation Army kettle. Stray snowflakes (or dandruff) peppered the sleeves and shoulders of his red felt coat, and re-cemented a memory of wrinkles. “Look at that skinny Santa!” he exclaimed, referring to his gaunt counterpart just past. “No one is paying attention to him! He’s a backdrop! It’s all about the Devil and his minions these days!”
(The critical remark was directed at the costumed Alpine demons.)
He howled, “The Christians took the solstice away from the pagans, and now they want their holiday back!”
Lowell winced at the fellow’s slicing bell, and maneuvered around his kettle onto the sidewalk; a Bible crammed with gum wrapper bookmarks was spotted in one of his fleece-lined pocket; a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin was in the other.
“What are we celebrating, anyway?” the ruddy-cheeked preacher bemoaned. “What happened to ‘Peace on Earth and Goodwill Toward Men’? Instead, we are giddy over demons, as if, in embracing those who would roast us on a spick, we are sufficiently poking God in the eye! It’s like the mindless daughter who dates the motorcycle thug because her daddy disapproves of him!”
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