2 minutes 48 seconds| I apologizes for the Bathos, where lyrics of little wit sully an otherwise pretty tune. This is one of two scatological pieces (of which the second is easily discovered). I have no natural interest in this subject matter, but the autistic brain may have default pathways where it is not otherwise fully occupied.
Genuinely I have no interest in writing lyrics, and sometimes feel that it is lyrics alone that attract unsophisticated listeners to god-awful music, such as one hears with sing-songy nursery rhyme melodies that any idiot with an index finger can peck out on a thrift store Casio keyboard. Moreover, I have no talent for writing lyrics, either about adolescent love or twenty-something world crisis alarmism. It is probably for these reasons that I so often play my feeble vocals backwards, so to hide my palatable indifference to the words I utter. Novel writing and comic writing are more fruitful ventures in these regions.
I must go to my auto-tuned vocal addition to this piece to find an accurate time stamp for creation: 4/21/11. The piano ensemble was likely written in the previous month.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 12| Lucien returns from the sleep clinic somewhat shaken, and has a restless night in the family house. He does not know if he is chasing his mother around and turning off lights, or pursuing a ghost:
The eldest son had lived away too long, and everything had changed. His mother slept with lights on, so to keep track of these shadows that had invaded the eternally stamped shadows. She kept tabs on them like mud tracked into her house on the shoes of one of her thoughtless boys. Yet here tread of thick-soled work boots were not buried in carpet, but pranced overhead on hard boards like Old Saint Nick.
There was no mistaking it for tree branches scraping shingles, which by then were worn down to tar backing and stubborn grit. No—a spool of heavy wire thrummed the attic floor and lagged behind some busy someone. This disturbance could not be explained away as warming conduit: That feature of childhood, which regularly blew open the furnace door with a blast of hot air every time the thermostat set off the fan, was a ghost of no one’s making. This was something as impervious to daylight as it was to darkness.
A length of metal measuring tape was heard spanning a distance over a ceiling plank, and another plop sent flecks of plaster drifting down onto the ostensible form of the sleeper’s forehead.
The son wanted only forgiveness in an eternal act of asking for it, for buried in bad emotion was the good: the initial emotion autism could not eradicate or deny. It was the emotion that bound families to quiet cohabitation and responsibility, and to quietness finally.
Lucien opened his eyes to where an out-of-place slat in a blind allowed daybreak through the window. A muffled voice called down through an auger’s hole made years before the family ever set foot in the house. His daddy, with rare occasion to explain himself, stated to anyone in earshot below, “I’m putting the intercom system back in!”
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