3 minutes 58 seconds| The theme starts with little embellishment as a jewelry box melody, whereupon its toy-like sweetness is upended with the éclat of an exploding steam locomotive boiler. I cannot honestly say whether I wrote or heard the supporting melody. I jotted it down years ago on paper, yet have tried and failed to find its original; should there be an original other than my jot. Everything else here is unequivocally mine.
When I think about my creative life with Garageband, it is mostly about that first year of discovery. In 2010, I remained prolific for a while, but then slowed down after I started dating someone. Compositions made at this time have positive memories associated with that budding relationship, and especially in the idea of travel and having a travel companion. (The Road Trips, written in 2017, is a reflection on several of those travels.)
By comparison, works composed in 2009 are swarm in my mind: I remember their energy but nothing else contemporary to them. I speak of this phenomenon in my first novel where I recount my relationship with my paintings:
“His long-neglected canvases offered few clues. They aspired to be a trail of crumbs back to his youth, but the artist could neither remember any contemporaneous biographical details that might inform his works, nor assign them a relative chronology. Nothing in their layers of oil sediment tied him intimately to what he created.”
Time stamp: 9/21/10
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 23| This plot line is developed, and here an allusion is made to a new neighbor, a woman, who Lowell has spotted in a dark field at sundown playing with her dog:
The carton taken from the nursing home was removed from his bicycle’s basket and placed on the kitchen table on his return to the house, where Lowell did not think about it again until bedtime. Keys on the ring were duplicates of those already in his possession, although one—a smaller, robust key—brought to mind a large strong box in the attic, for which the property owner had no key.
Taking his hunch up the fold-down attic stairs, Lowell pushed away crates to clear a path to a utility closet. The key fit, and in prying open the stiffened hinges of the door, wooden bed slats framed a regal molded nose inside. Several boards were removed before a life-sized plastic archangel, of quality workmanship, was uncovered.
The Christmas adornment was dragged to the attic hatch, and with the scheme it should be retrofitted with a new bulb and extension cord and placed on the edge of the field, incidentally to serve as a signal torch for his mysterious new neighbor.
This proved an unworkable plan, and was abandoned when the strategist was unable to get the figure through the opening into the hall below. With extended wings, the puzzle posed by the angel was one of a schooner built inside a bottle: How was the angel, or the cabinet that contained it, ever removed to the attic in the first place?
The guardian was left to hover over the hole where, lacking egress, it gazed down the attic steps authoritatively to bar entry.
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