3 minutes 44 seconds| Psychedelia and The Diving Bell.
Time stamp when created: 9/07/09. Bach is an influence on the frenzied intro, and this feature is evocative of the previous selection. In my memory, however, I am convinced that Drosophila was written earlier than its stated start date, and definitely earlier than Whirled Peas.
The interlude melody here is one of my more ethereal tunes.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 45| More of the dream:
Lowell turned upon detection of a light flickering outside the bathroom window: A house across from the backyard fence had also succumbed to early winter darkness, and there, moving from window to window in this dwelling, the son glimpsed his younger industrious mother. Many more windows were counted than could have existed in true memory, and with each successive pane, a blind, or curtain, diminished a portion of it. Finally the windows themselves shrank, and the figure passing beneath the glass was reduced to a patch of chemical color, like the last few dissolving frames of an aged movie reel. Everything in view was subsumed in a gummy brown, except for the neighboring house’s corner window. It was spared the machinations of a collapsing star, and retained its full dimensions..
With crimson drapes drawn, the son anticipated his mother’s arrival to this point, but one second became several, and the imposing formality of this bedroom’s four-poster bed was late to make its singular impression: This bed was never intended for sleeping.
Lowell thought these chambered distortions in his vision were due to the layers of gessoed newspaper, so peeled them away from his head with the aid of the running tap. With his peripheral view restored, he remained unconvinced that he had successfully freed himself from the mask’s virulent influence.
In dropping the last dripping clump into the waste basket, it was less cause of an orderly unravelling than something unnatural in the pulp itself. The sensation reminded the boy unpleasantly of clutching a handful of leaves from a bush and finding, wriggling and sticky between his fingers, the gummy chrysalis of a plump moth stitched in them. These last scraps were not examined for hidden insects, though they continued to adhere to one another and writhe after their disposal.
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