4 minutes 7 seconds| The discriminating ear will recognize the drum track here as being identical (or near identical) to the one used in Nadir Mound. I correct this preception in this regard: This is the original and that is the copy.
1/15/10 is recorded as the start date, although this is close to several other ambitious pieces. One or more compositions in January 2010 was likely built on a preexisting template, or one composition was not yet complete before the next one was started. (This does not seem consistent with my obsessive-compulsive nature. Overlapping projects is common between my drawings and paintings, but not to my method of composing.)
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 33| Lowell later contemplates his developing situation with a married woman:
Crawling back into bed seemed an unproductive strategy, so the homesteader brewed a pot of coffee and waited on the sun and its clarifying agency.
He was no longer a young man, and could no longer relate to what that young man wanted, or would risk. Lowell had fallen out of love with himself before everything else; and could only wince at the thought of his body going through its regrettable paces. Sexual desire was the virtue of youthful biology and its agenda. For all others, it was the sin of outliving a use. It was self-indulgent and masturbatory: a withering away, a hanging onto a pretense after that pretense was discovered and turned out. The romantic was compelled to love differently, purely; and yet he had evolved beyond biology before biology was finished with him.
Impetuousness, regardless, was not in his nature. Nor was it his practice to chase after unhappy wives. Reason reasonably trumped cinematic emotion—at least in the waking hours of an older, insensible man. For all the couple’s talk of Fate, it was perhaps a topic he had prematurely banished to the conceit of younger men. Where one hesitates, age intervenes and one forgets the urgency. Too many questions by then have been answered in life; and one has come to understand the formality and vanity in answers. Still, Fate was a cosmology that acted through foolishness as readily as wisdom; though there was no telling which was the case when Lowell thought about Eva.
The hapless suitor wondered how he should persuade her to quit her hopeless predicament at any rate. It was impossible to believe his rural existence held much attraction for her past novelty, which for youth was always ample excuse to toss away better judgment. Only desperation could cast his holiday funhouse as refuge from an abusive spouse. No woman of experience would walk willingly through a front door where a wounded child, and not a man, had built a castle.
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