6 minutes 1 seconds| A bit of fast, complicated piano finger work lies at the center of this. It is Mendelssohnian in speed, yet, by comparison, the middle section moves ponderously, with the pleasant torpor of a Beethoven adagio. Time stamp when created: 9/12/09. Little modification in score, though often remixed.
Blue Bottle, by memory, is one of my earliest compositions, and I do not trust the time stamp. When I chose to remix selected pieces as a mixing experiment in May 2019, I could not have picked a worse piece. Much of what I wanted to test was percussive related, but the drums in this piece are products of a drum machine, which restricted their theatre of operation. I ended up adding a conventional drum kit with a heavy snare and kick drum just to have something to bite my teeth into. I am not sure whether I did more damage than good to this beloved composition. The opening whine and closing fade melody are new from the May date.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 44| More of the dream:
The son looked up, confused.
Lucien was less charitable. “You look like a moron.”
Lowell rose, feeling weight shift over his head like more objects being removed from the attic. He navigated the darkening house and came to the bathroom, where he flipped on the light over the medicine cabinet mirror.
The papier mâché monstrosity covering his head bore little resemblance to a face beyond a bare necessity of holes. Rough peaks rose in random places over the forehead and temples, where hurried, disinterested fingers had smashed down dripping strips of paper and paste to finish the task. This was likely something made in school for crafts, and was the sort of thing for which the boy had little patience or interest. He recoiled to see himself so exposed, and with so little artfulness as to his appearance. From where did the notion spring that his whole body was shielded from public view? And by a costume supposedly left behind on the school stage floor?
The adult eyes staring back at him were not accurately recalled, but he had been falling backward through a haunted world from the beginning. He looked to his hands, which still belonged to the child: They were numb from prolonged play in the yard, with their desiccated creases and fingernails caked with powdery mud. He could not see, by his incumbrance, how to retrace his joy in those preceding steps.
First one orifice was blocked, and then another, to see how the deception lay. Each hole entailed a sense, and the removal of one sense intensified the responsiveness of the others. He fetched about for the scent of baking pie crusts, and then for Niagara Spray Starch wafting off his mother’s ironing board, but this primal, first-order sense was already stripped of an essential reality.
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