3 minutes 40 seconds| Crafting an accompanying illustration to a piece of music is another overparticular practice of mine, and these are as changeable as song titles. To make music about something specific blurs the line between journalism and poetry; and I wish to keep my associations pure (oblique), in the spirit of Salvador Dali.
I can find no reliable time stamp for this composition, either. A Paul Klee painting called Fish Magic was my original inspiration. It also supplied the first title and thumbnail image, which places the time of creation around 5/08/10.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 28| Lowell leaves the tower to investigate the strange occurrence witnessed in the window of 1136. He finds a trail of mirrors in the brothel’s corridor and follows it:
Given the graffiti, and sense of vacancy, the excavator followed the fractured path without difficulty, even up a dark staircase. As each mirror peeled away from the remainder, the object imagined as an endpoint could only be the much-discussed sofa. Lowell faltered in his resolve to reach it, and glanced over his shoulder more than once to gauge his progress. From the perspective of the flashlight, the way backward looked much like the way forward. Without the light, the dark jagged shapes, in both directions, resembled steps of a collapsed staircase.
He pressed on.
A row of oblong metal boxes emerged flanking an outer wall; these were amendable to some small description. With fingers extended, the top of the first box was grazed lightly—recessive features provided the relief of a human face.
Lowell tipped his light into the concave mold and found, among the reflective aluminum surfaces, the anatomical outline for a human-scaled statue. In coming on the second mold, a subtle change was met under his hand, but Lowell did not use his light to highlight the difference.
This face felt less human than the first, and he grasped that each mold would become increasingly less human should he work his way down the line. In sum, these provisional caskets threw off a chill that could not yield so benumbing an effect without the abetment of imagination.
The last aluminum plates followed the harrowed excavation and ended, presumably, with another door, although no door as such was seen. The catacomb, and whatever simulacra were attached to it, represented something of an altogether too specific nature to contemplate. Terror was imminent, but otherwise too abstract to admit room for specificity. The transformation documented here receded through a chain of nightmares, and owing to the graduated darkness, the seeker could no longer find his hand before his face without placing it directly under the flashlight. Every second he was exposed to the blackening atmosphere, the greater the peril he imagined for himself.
A shuffle was heard ahead, and, worryingly, whatever he visualized as a target seemed to be moving toward him. The light was switched off in hope of eliminating glare and refraction, and to expose, by way of darker shadow, anyone in his path. Whoever stood in his way had also stopped.
“You are trespassing,” he said aloud, in his best authoritative voice (even though he was trespassing as much as any vandal lurking on the premises).
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