In the dystopian fantasy of my days, we would each have our own child in the toolshed. For Ursula, of course, we need only one. Not a bad daydream, if you can prevent yourself from drawing the natural comparisons… oh, I do hope this doesn’t cause you nightmares.
Why did Miette stall before posting the final chapter of Dostoevsky? Was she sad to have it end? Having second thoughts about finishing it? Did she lose her voice? Building suspense? No. I, Miette, was too occupied thinking of an excuse for not posting the final chapter of Dostoevsky to post the final chapter of Dostoevsky,
We’re nearing the end of this little mini-chronicle. Can you handle it? The few I’ve heard from have been most encouraging, but one must be careful with encomia before this turns quickly to Miette’s Bedtime Story Proustcast (and I’m only half kidding). For the rest of you, one more night, fess up, you love it.
Still with me? Hope so– this is the turning point. The Dream. Quite possibly the best dream sequence committed to print, or at least the best committed to ridiculous Russian print. Nothing Ridiculous About It… excuse me while I contain my excitement.
Yes, don’t be misled by what you hear in the opening seconds of tonight’s bedtime story. This was going to be chapters 2 and 3 (they’re short), but then from nowhere appeared a chainsaw, and who can podcast when the sun is out and the chainsaws are calling…
Nothing says hither-springtime quite like the spin cycle of alienation, dispossession, malaise, apathy, and indifference! Perhaps it’s best to go for a long stroll in your nearest park, have a couple of classes of wodka, break your own heart and maybe a dish, and then listen?
Did you miss me yet? Thanks to all of you for your determined and consistent telephone calls, e-mails, and picket lines to my internet service provider (although to those of you with the eggs and tomatoes, I have to say that while the gesture was appreciated, I cannot condone violence of any sort).
Miette read a very big book last night, it’s true, and after a marathon thirteen hours of podCAST-free oral storytelling, only two thoughts remain in this once-nimble head. One, that why-oh-why didn’t we just podCAST all thirteen hours, and how can I find a piece suitable, yet short enough for what’s left of these droopy nerves, and two,
It is the storms of March that prepare us for the flowers of April and May. The Italians would be so naive. Regardless, the Italians, they know their fairy tales; this from an out-of-print collection, which only means that ultimately they will all need to be read, for the sake of the verisimilitude of indelibility. Just you remember who has it in print! Remember, and be thankful for March.
It’s so wet here and even upon peeling off my socks I can barely make out where the water ends and the feet begin. And then my olfactories open as the dog greets me with lick-to-nose and it’s the same thing: where does the wet-dog smell stop and the dog herself start? I dare not eat under these conditions, which remind me of Maugham.