2 minutes 55 seconds| Western vistas of Aaron Copland are here compared, through plane geometry, to unruled white copy paper.
There is no reliable time stamp in either Garageband or Logic for this piece. My earliest attempts at thumbnail art present a window for completion around 1/25/10, which places it in a crowd of early compositions using classical instruments.
The original title was Tijuana Donkey Show, which, as a visual image, the corral of bumbling woodwinds could not help but rudely embellish. The tune in the developmental section strains for sweetness, and under its appeal I relented and changed the piece’s title. Toner Depletion was deemed recondite and appropriate. (I kept the braying donkey and other comical sound effects.)
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 31| Eva’s second encounter with Lowell occurs in the middle of the night, where she spirits him away first to a mysterious performance at a theatre, and then out to the concealment of an electrical dam:
The charm she held him under was not as well tended as it was previously, or perhaps her opening salvo in his comfy living room, with cookies and tea, was only the breezy first act of a tragedy. He felt he did not know her better with acquaintance, but less so.
Eva almost dissolved in the rising mist, and her illusion of transparency was likened to an encroachment of daylight, which heavy eyelids could not fend off. Still, the bracing condensation blew back onto him in a tonic, and billowed like a gown, or white fire cast off a cremated body.
He concentrated on the more settled of the two bodies of water: the bottled river, which was on the moon-side of the divide. Tufts of blooms in a field of white oleander were pictured where straight wind skipped; and any one of these whitecaps would serve as a pillow for his head.
His kidnapper intruded on this attempt to vegetate, and together the pair descended to the unlit parking area where the car was left.
The rising fortification did nothing to quell Lowell’s anxiety, and back inside the Buick, the rushing force of water continued to reverberate through the seat and floorboard. This was not a murmuring of dissembled words, but a pulse that carried through his body, and through chains of bodies exposed in sediment.
With the engine and headlights shut off, Lowell assessed the terrain: Shrubbery offered an ideal location for a stealthy husband to wait on an unfaithful wife. It was reasonable to fear repercussions should their meetings become known, yet the vexed suitor could not fathom Eva’s clandestinity in first taking him to a public theatre, and now to this remote place.
After a minute or two reestablished a mood, her question betrayed their element of risk. “Do you belief in Fate?”
He considered the introduction of this topic warily. “I have made a life actively avoiding it.”
“Do you escape it?”
“I have a drawer full of useless fortune cookie slips. I’d say Fate is working from a different playbook.”
“A man who puts angels in his yard nevertheless tempts it.”
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