4 minutes 27 seconds| The green fairy, absinthe.
Time stamp for creation: 9/26/09. By the end of 2009, I was writing not one melody per tune, but two or more. I did not fuss with the finer points until much later. 2013, going by the time stamps, appears to be an active year for post-score modifications, although Trumpets has been little altered since it was written.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 42| The reader will note a similar theme between the prelude’s opening and the village of mechanized bears met from the beginning of the book. The prelude continues:
It was in the blessed time before his Mother started working, so Blythe was seen in the kitchen window moiling over her fragrant pots. The gravy smell of Swiss steak seeped out of a stovepipe in the roof, and left the son with an hour or two of daylight to skip his plastic rings off the gravel-shingled roof.
His hands were stiff from the chill, and where his thumb and index finger pressed around the toy, they did not meet or relate distinct sensation. He ran from the front yard to the backyard, regardless, to gather the toys where they landed among dead leaves along the fence, and with snotty nose and inexplicable anticipation his play was repeated from the opposite side of the house.
The boy would never know his joy to be more complete than this day, yet he was aware of some insidious intrusion upon it. The roof’s pitch incrementally grew steeper as its overall surface area increased, and this required greater effort on Lowell’s part to clear the peak with each throw. As he had no natural athletic ability, greater exertion meant less stability and control in his aim, so, one by one, the plastic rings got into places he could not reach. When the last one, the summer hue of banana taffy, veered in a gust, he glanced toward his mother in the window. She had lost inches off her height. Debatably the exterior wall followed the roof in its ascent, but this explanation seemed contrived, even to a child, since the top of his mother’s head was suddenly grayer and bobbing feebly above the windowsill.
A pang grabbed across the son’s chest, but he was still thinking like a child when he ran in pursuit of the toy; it had landed over a hedgerow in a neighbor’s backyard.
His mother was at the backdoor calling for him. She was restored to her abler self, though not enough time had lapsed for her to walk from the kitchen and catch him. Did, he feared, two versions of his mother inhabit his home?
The son dashed across the cracked patio slab without another thought to it, yet stopped short of the screen door on sensing an object above moving contrarily to the dragging cloud cover. Framed by skulking branches of an oak, the monster had followed him home from school over busy Memphis streets. It stared back from its tear in the sky, and had collected the tossing rings and wore them like epaulets.
The boy seized the occasion to study his pursuer: It looked less like a man than a black beetle, or a sarcophagus cover with the relief of a human face carved into it. Lowell was strangely not scared, and wanted to barter with the demiurge for the return of the toys. However, it was the neglect (or wisdom) of a child to leave things behind so they could be re-imagined in the fullness of time.
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