3 minutes 42 seconds| Bouncy Arm Candy deviates from script; intervention is required. This piece was inspired by a Sixties paint-by-numbers image of a ballerina lacing her shoes. (This, of course, is not the image seen above.)
8/12/10 is the recorded start date, and this sounds right since I took my Mac home during my visit with my mother in Memphis at the end of August, and was still working on this composition then. I had worked on Lullaby in Chalk the previous August under the same circumstances, although by August 2010 my father had passed away.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 24| A concluding fragment to the subplot, where Lowell is awakened with a start:
The resident looked again to the lightening window, as the late celestial features of dawn were rapidly evaporating. The pane glass was nearly transparent now, yet still mirror enough to convey the outline of a penetrating stare. This stare did come from outside the window, or from the listing door, which had not pushed forward during the night. Rather, it issued from deeper within the dark house, cleaving the last of the quiescent shadows like a scalpel.
Aging had dulled the rods in the artist’s eyes and retarded their ability to differentiate between shades in low light, yet instinct preserved these distinctions in his peripheral vision, where danger was most likely to originate. To the degree this murky perception threatened, it could not overlap or intersect him bodily in any way. He must have appeared as oblique to it as it appeared to him. Only his boundary, such as it was abstracted, could be grazed, though this description was more emotive in character than physical. The sensation was comparable to revulsion, as in finding a shriveled, flattened spider in one’s bed covers in the morning. Were he to sketch his impression on paper, nothing in it would suggest anything recognizable or especially alarming. Lowell could only liken the stick figure to the frenetic scribble of a schizophrenic, which both defanged his fear and required a whole new order in his mind for it.
On cue, electricity resuscitated in the homestead’s old, clothbound copper wiring; a fleeting displacement of shadows in the hallway proved attributable to strings of Christmas lights bantering across the wainscot—
Miraculously Michael the Archangel had landed on his feet. He faced the startled homeowner like a burglar caught in the act, and only lost a coronet of tinsel in his plunge from the attic.
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