Wood, Monica


It’s that time of year, my dears, where I’m about to head off to foreign parts for what’s known in various circles as “vacation,” “holidays,” or “days spent without LCD bathing.” I can’t believe it, either, actually, and am not sure I’ll be able to pull off things like “relaxing” and “not having much of anything to do,” which have only existed as very high level concepts in my foggy head. And there are so many things lined up when I return that I’ll probably never ever take time off again, which could be good for you, if your ears are burning. I’ll do the big reveal of a few of those things as soon as I return.

In the meantime, if you really need some sort of morbid fix, here are a few other scattered places where I’ve littered the internet with my sonant scraps. There’s a reading of Stella of the Angels at The Urban Sherpa. A recording of an Amy Meckler original poem at Revolving Floor. I can’t stress enough how pleased I am with the serial reading of The Man Who Can’t Die, which you’ll be able to catch up on while I’m away… And if long form’s your game, I still drop in and have a drink with Librivox from time to time. Have a listen to The Decameron or Moll Flanders, and honestly, if that doesn’t keep you busy for the next couple of weeks, you really should be reading to ME.

See you next month. Run through a sprinkler or open fire hydrant vicariously for me in the meantime.

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins

The Yellow Wallpaper

From over here, Evie says:

I would like to recommend “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. It has to be my favorite short story… no matter how many times I read it it still gives me the chills!

To which Miette replies: your wish, my command, and about those chills, have you ever tried to read it aloud? It’s utterly skin-crawling. Of course, I’ve already read the Virginia Woolf story with a similar (though not -quite- as resplendent with crawling-skin heebies) narrative structure.

I was just the other day staring at the ceiling in my own bedroom, and could’ve sworn it was comprised really of thousands of cats, trying to escape the two-dee flatlands of the ceiling. And while at the time I attributed that vision to… the detritus of some decisions of my youth … given the evidence put forth by Woolf and Gilman, I’m in pretty good company for textured wall hallucinations. Anyone else ever stare at their walls until they go stereoscopic?