My husband talked me into dyeing my hair black again a couple months ago. He even went out and bought 2 boxes of dye to do it for me. It’s impossible for me to say no to him, so I let him have at it. I decided recently that I really want to go back to a…
Earlier in the week, I signed up to work overtime Saturday morning. This was before I got sick. I had to miss work yesterday for it, but I figured I should go in today since I signed up. I guess I just didn’t want to be rude to the company, heh. I have…
Aug. 25, 1944: “The Allied War Machine Rolls Through France on Both Fronts,” read the headline above this photo, which shows Nazis in France captured by Canadian troops. The picture ran with an article by André Lebord, the pseudonym of a French underground leader, as told to Leland Stowe. “This was the hour that more than 500,000 French patriots had been living for, through months and years of hunger and heartbreak,” it said. Photo: The New York Times
Ralph Waldo Emerson
A sonata I wrote after reading Stephen King’s 11/22/63. It chronicles the trials of an English professor as he travels through a wormhole back into 1958 in an attempt to stop the assassination of President Kennedy, as well as the physical and mental complications of time travel. Amazing novel, I cried at least three times while reading it, and I was so moved that I decided to write music about it :P Aside from the hero, there’s another main character named Sadie that enters the story in the second half of the book. I characterized her in the 2nd theme of this sonata with the motif AD-AD. I titled this piece “My True Love’s a Butterfly,” which is a quote taken directly from the text. The instrumentation is flute, celesta, violin, viola, and cello. I used finale 2011 for both the score and the audio.
I know there are probably sections I could have notated more effectively, but I’m still kind of new at this, so cut me some slack :) Enjoy.
It is a cramped basement annex, stacked high with metal filing cabinets, full of three-fourths of a million pounds of old newspaper clippings and photos, going back 160 years.
It’s simply called “the morgue.”
To get here, a reporter must leave the shiny glass tower that is the 40th Street headquarters of the New York Times, walk a half-block down the street, and descend three levels below the sidewalk. There, in a nondescript tower, she will emerge from a dirty elevator, walk past a janitor’s closet, then past a giant, rusted pump contraption with running water, and finally reach a pair of metal doors. There are glue traps with belly-up cockroaches in the corner.