2 minutes 59 seconds| I intended to animate all my musical pieces, but it was clear after many uneven endeavors that this was not remotely feasible. Glimpses of the original animation for this music, and Provocateur and Merry Christmas, Clowns!, may be seen on my animation page: specifically in the short called Popeye Exegesis.
Popeye has a light jazz feel, which I did not anticipate as a composer. I suppose I liked jazz more than I realized, or perhaps it was love for Steely Dan that opened that door. My taste in jazz has widen considerably beyond The Weather Channel. I have taken a breather from the classical canon in the past decade, and under the tuleage of Pandora I have customized my listening list of classical jazz standards: ranging from Cannonball Adderely (always a favorite) to Miles Davis and Colman Hawkins.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 66| More description of the haunted house:
What exploration could not be delayed was due to open doorways east of the bay window. A smell of mildew drew him closer to where sagging (or collapsing) ceiling plaster was dimly glimpsed. Such disrepair, like a metastasizing malignancy invading contiguous tissue, spread down walls to the floorboards, although fear of returning too hastily to the first floor by one of these routes was excuse to keep to the hallway.
Perhaps because of these hazards, upstairs had less furniture than downstairs, although jardinières spotted on window ledges were numerous. Vining plants in these pots, even in their demise, had cemented their desiccated branches to mullions and sashes. Their networks resembled, disconcertingly, and in their thoroughness, cage wire over windows in a mental hospital. Such decay did not touch the curtains, however, either because the wind picked them clean each day or because they were recently installed.
The bedsteads connected to these accessible rooms were also in deplorable condition, although the freshly made bed intended for him surprised the guest, and too other amenities, since these respects differed from the neglect found at his improvised entrance.
Everything brought with him was placed on a dressing table. (Those appurtenances connected to his artistic commission would be unpacked later.) This left him to settle into an upholstered chair at the desk with the object of reading.
A rotary telephone sat on the same desk, though not possessing a dial tone. To say the landline was long ago disconnected was only accurate, but why should this tumbledown house have any electricity where damp infused the walls?
The chair legs beneath him creaked from stress, and in looking down he noticed how these were bracketed to the floor. Upon evaluating their position, Lowell realized he had stepped cavalierly into the mysterious arrangement. He could not picture anyone living permanently under these conditions on the denuded landscape.
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