It’s been a long week Au Pays De Miette, signified, I suppose, by the fact that we’ve gone quite a few days without a new podcast. And to complicate things, I’ve just posted a new one which, like the Fante or the Murdoch or the Dostoevsky, is close to my cuffs. That is to say (if you’re keeping tabs of my most loved writers to build Miette’s Book Recommendation Engine (and of course you are!)) that Perec makes my heart skip along to the rhythm of a 9th-grade-drumline, which is to say, the rhythm of irrhythmically loud. Which is all a long and lame excuse for the rushed and/or sloppy reading: I love Perec, see, and so my heart was beating too loudly for my mouth to have any say in the matter.
I wonder if there’s anybody who can read into a podcastophone and take dictation of his or her inner monologue simultaneously. I can’t, much to my own absolute dismay. If I could, the past half hour would have been written up this way:
Woo! Two fresh short story collections I’d forgotten all about… this’ll put the spice back into my podcast. Surely there’s got to be something in here, something new for the fine listeners, something to shake it up. Ah, Buzzati, well all right, this’ll do… I only barely recall him, but I can pull this off. You know, I’m not even going to bother reading this first; I’ve so much to do today. Nice title, good name. Oh, magical realism, I’m keen on that, this is a voice I can settle into, damn, HOLY CRAP for I would never say “holy crap” though it’s not beyond inner monologue this is the sort of dry urban satire that leaves lesser men with holes in their head. This is perfect, utterly fantastic- I wish I could stop to take a note to read it again more carefully. Why am I podcasting now and not at the bookstore taking all the Buzzati I can find? Wonder which bookstore is going to have some Buzzati in stock? Egad, did I just pause in the reading, shit, I don’t remember, there’s too much going on here, but I’ve got to finish this story already, oh if only I could be taking dictation of these thoughts right now. If nothing else, I have nothing better this day with which to preface the podcast, so this will do, right?
But since I can’t transcribe these thoughts, I should just that it’s been a Very Exciting Half Hour inside these walls.
I dreamt last night that I was a reluctant part of some Truman Showy podcasting reality television show, forced to read literature into one of those cellphone hands-free microphones round-the-clock from a text that was projected onto the insides of my eyelids, with the occasional pauses in my reading at chapter breaks to sip coffee or talk to people or, you know, to breathe and stuff. I don’t remember what I was reading, but I’ll bet you appreciated it. At least you better have.
Now, I don’t know from where in the hinterlands of my thick skull one might find the little sliver of grey matter responsible for such subconscious patter, but I’d be tempted to try this someday. Maybe not forever, and not on reality television, no, maybe not. I probably couldn’t even be tempted to go a full day, I don’t think. But maybe for a couple of hours? One day (maybe).
My Odeo Channel (odeo/8a9a5647e9565eea)
A secret: Endurance Reading is nothing new for Miette. She’s participated in marathon readings of epic Greek poetry, she stays up on Bloomsday and reads along, she reads you Dostoevsky five straight nights, no sweat off her permanently furrowed brow, not your Miette, no how. But even Miette has her limits, and this one, clocking in over forty minutes, is the podcastilian equivalent of sand blown in the eyes of those limits. All for little monkeys and all their business. Now excuse me while I wrench this fleck of sand from my head.
On a walk this afternoon, I spotted curbside an abandoned 1972 volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, volume 4 (BOTHA TO CARTHAGE!!) which somehow mysteriously made its way from its landfill destiny to my grubby paw and later, to a treasured position on my mantle (or my world’s equivalent of a mantle… equally special. Mantleworthy). And because in these podcasts I regrettably don’t offer biographical triviata on authors or enumeration on the stories’ tropes or anything else considered… well, useful… I thought I’d share my newfound encyclopedic knowledge with you. It’s the least I can do. And so this, from a random entry (and despite analogous relevance to the subject of tonight’s podcast, this was certifiably blind-thumbingly random, honest):
Cadenza, the Italian word for cadence, is the name given to an unaccompanied bravura passage introduced at or near the close of a movement as a brilliant climax, particularly in solo concertos of a virtuoso character where the element of display is prominent.
I hope you’ve appreciated this sharing of knowledge as much as I’ve enjoyed sharing it with you.
Quite possibly the quietest, most listless, bottomless podcast of Kerouac you’ve ever experienced, this. Possibly? Quite possibly. But not without due charm on its own, and intent at that! For listen: do you hear the passing buses in the background, the motorcycles, the car horns, the screaming pedestrians?
Neither do I. Wicked, right? Very exciting, indeed. So much so that we don’t want to spoil it by raising our voices, right?