3 minutes 25 seconds| “He was in Los Angeles, where halved hermaphrodites and Paleolithic tar pits dotted a fearful phobic map. The sky turned Pompeii red at dusk, and spilled down from Benedict Canyon in disquieted, erythrocytic shades.” ~Chapter One, Icarus Transfigured
Time stamp when created: 4/23/09.
This is a tribute to David Lynch and his composer-of-choice, Angelo Badalamenti, although the underlying melody here is a very old one of mine, predating much of my knowledge of Lynch, and perhaps even my first viewing of Blue Velvet in 1986. The first piano bridge is a queer and appealing melody, and one of my favorites. My first trip to Los Angeles was also an influence.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 61| Lowell arrives at his destination:
He was in a quandary before crossing onto the property, though the structure before him was nothing he had pictured. Far from being a compound, a Victorian house, with excrescences, rose in the ardoise grey light. Gables were wedded to a slate-shingled mansard roof, and these gothic features erupted over an outcrop of stripped shrubs in the very moment of his arrival, with loose shutters clamoring under the same fierce wind that dispatched snow-laded clouds. Their blows ricocheted off a butte a half mile away, and like a hunter’s cracking rifle targeting prey in the clearing.
Two enormous chimneys buttressed the bleak, ill-kept dwelling; a four-story turret added to its imposing aspect. A weathervane, forged with bluing, and stultified, formed the apex, although its bent attitude made it an unreliable report of the wind’s direction.
A row of upper windows showed a calamity of untied curtains. Where these pale forms separated, shadows in the absent places gamboled, and one second resembled moon-stalked goblins and, in the next, where they rushed together, heaving bowers of sweet gum trees. Their dark sleeves drooped from the corbels to become true branches, with long columnar fingers, like stanchions, reaching nearly to where he stood.
A bizarre notion seized Lowell, of how this entrainment of drapery might signal passersby to the presence of an empty house; and perhaps, also, the very figure encountered in travel. It was the thought of a horror running unabated from room to room upstairs of which he chiefly despaired, and the longer he delayed in sealing this breach, the more likely these shadows would splinter and become a hundred disparate shadows of greater threat.
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