5 minutes 43 seconds| Other song titles in the running: Equipoise, Wheelbarrow, Imbecile de rigueur, En Papillote, Traffic Cone, and Skin: An Abundant Organ.
Apart from providing time stamps, I am stumped for what to say about these pieces. What animates me are memories concurrent to the writing of the music. I borrow the following text from something I wrote on Facebook about an interview in The Guardian with David Lynch:
“A film director who does not watch movies? Yeah, that sounds like autism. I would not be surprised to find that Shakespeare had no interest in other playwrights; and that his interest in history came down to a single influential book he ran across in youth (that, in fact, may have been the case). Autism is the genius of being uninformed on a number of subjects, and yet being capable of offering perspectives on them so unanticipated that they appear to originate from the mouth of a visiting and impartial space alien.”
(For this reason, the reader may find less informationally than they desire while purusing these blurbs. [Autistic relish in supplying time stamps, notwithstanding.])
Time stamp for creation: 7/02/12.
Novel-in-Progress, excerpt 1| The book, in brief, deals with two autistic brothers and how they deal with grief and love. The story also has a larger aim, which becomes apparent as things develop. These paragraphs open the introduction and, at this juncture, are of a settled order:
The way out of animalism was arduous and, ironically, it was still in an arduous age, before the industrial machine assumed his labor, that Man achieved his fullest liberation from it. The prize was self-awareness itself: of the mind that was coextensive with the Universe it envisioned, and indispensable to its existence.
Words were clay forged against abysses, where stoked kiln fires illuminated Plato’s shadows at close quarters: The pinnacle of achievement therefore occurred early on, when men still sought essential truth in cave walls. What followed was a generational degradation in the language for describing it.
Leisure was the creation of science, yet the Towers of Babel that came to shade their grove misdirected in their confidence: It was not a problem of too many tongues grappling with the significance of things, but too few words. Unwittingly a paradox was furthered under the Banner of Progress: that of employing a refined tool to fashion a cruder one and, consequently, losing the workmanship of the former by demonstration of the latter being incapable of articulating it. It was more than the cautionary tale of modern Chinese who came to marvel at a clock they had invented centuries before but forgot they invented—it was the case of losing treasure in plain sight.
Explanations, born out of a need to master monsters, dominated the dreams of the descendants, even though few real monsters were left to threaten them. The fear was nevertheless residual and deep-wired, and like the tool-making reflex, still in the memory of the hand if not the hand itself. In nightmares—of falling out of trees, or being awakened by tigers where dying embers of a campfire lose their power to deter—the cave revisited the dweller who once abided in it.
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