4 minutes 18 seconds| Beautiful Monster, Warm Laundry, and Lullaby in Chalk feature modified female torsos in their thumbnails: Dita Von Teese supplies the latter examples. The fetish photographer Paul Outerbridge was an influence in the SWF that originally accompanied Lullaby, and his images continue to smolder in my mind when I hear the trio of fuzz guitars pulling up the rear guard.
The time stamp records 8/02/09 as the start date, and this sounds right since I took my Mac home to Memphis and worked on this piece later that month. My father was then temporarily in the hospital, yet was entering what would be the last few months of his life.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 47| More of the dream:
Were he to examine closely other details of the bedroom, the chest might not have a backing, and the closet might lack clothes and shoes to carry him through a week. Rooms and other corridors, in some way forward on a frontier, possessed both benign and hemorrhagic aspects by his reckoning. Descriptions of them might begin with amalgamations of recollections, but would end where his memory was not his own, and where outsized interiors assembled and willed themselves. Floorboards sank into compost, where aromatics of elemental iron and other minerals invaded. Here the boy confronted both the beginning and end of his material body, of digging in earth with a spade or fingernails, where each subterranean molecule discovered was another window set back in the house, and then back further still.
Minutes blearily passed, and when one of the family’s little dogs appeared at the half-shut bedroom door, it thumped the rail with its muzzle and studded, tinkling collar.
Lowell identified the creature by its dark coat as a current specimen; it was very much alive. The querulous Shih Tzu came close to his bed and whimpered. When this failed to elicit a reaction, she paced back and forth along the bed and gave an impatient, clipped bark. Deirdre wished to be let outside, but the son, in thinking about the compromised layout of the house, was not sure whether the yard outside was fenced in. Any security vouchsafed by a child’s drowsy intellect was a porous, unreliable thing.
Occasionally the pleading, pitiful dog disappeared in frustration, and the son knew it went in search of his mother. Should the pet not find Blythe sleeping under this roof, it would better know where to look for her.
Lowell was left counting between Deirdre’s bedside performances, and estimated she travelled a greater distance each time in her search. When her patter at last faded, the child feared he left it too late to follow.
The bed cracked beneath him, yet to get off of it would either destroy or damage it. This sleep, he realized, had chosen him. It was a commensurate sleep, shared like a cenotaph and sympathetic response. It was, as Schopenhauer described it, “A morsel robbed from death.”
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