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Forster, E.M.

Mr. Andrews

A Warning: it’s that time of year where, given the current coordinates of yrs (truly!), you may be exposed to endless nattering about heat exhaust and revelation of podcasts recorded in ice-cubey bathtubs and a relentless boycott of any outergarment. And I hope you will consider this a proper warning because I will, as desperation sets in, become especially doting to those of you in Nordic states, at the poles, or even in climate controlled golf carts (solar-powered of course), I might beg, or quickly become your best friend. And so I tell you now: don’t believe a word I say! I’ll survive! And even if it would be entertaining to try and mail myself to you packed in ice, I would never be able to afford the postage, and things can go horribly wrong (n.b. that Velvet Underground song about exactly such a situation). For my own postal sanity, then, I ask you most faithfully: listen not to what Miette might ask you do in coming months. Let her rant.

Now, back to melting the iced bath.

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Categories
Hardy, Thomas

Absent-Mindedness in a Parish Choir

Have waited nearly a year to read Hardy on his birthday, because I strongly suspect that Hardy’s just the sort of guy who should be birthdayishly feted, and in neither in an ironic nor a pointy-paper-hat way. I missed his birthday, as it happens, but not by long… and actually, missing it seems appropriately Hardyish as well.

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Collier, John

The Chaser

I have to tell you about a brilliant little moment that happened today. I was on a train, at an hour in which far too many people take the train, leaving us all sardinically resentful of one another’s smells, oversized totebags, and inter-seasonal viruses. This was, or would have been, evidenced by an isolated high-pitched sneeze from the far end of the car, -except- that from the far side of the other end, someone yelled out a brazen “bless you!” And maybe because it was Friday, or maybe because everyone on the train was under the influence of psychoactive substances, or maybe simply because they (we) were just tired of sardinic resentment, but a ripple effect of “bless you!” made its way from one end of the train to the other– maybe, not kidding, fifty times, before a “thank you” was laughed out from the other end.

I relay this to you now not for sentimental chicken-soup-for-the-mass-transit-soul reasons, but because, immediately after my heart was warmed by a rare and fleeting moment of solidarity among strangers, I thought “damn, if only I could have podcasted that.”

And I didn’t (podcast that). But John Collier might be the next best thing.

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Gissing, George

The Little Woman From Lancashire

In my ongoing efforts to impress upon you my unparalleled prowess at podCASTrophilia, I’ve spent the evening downloading all these applications that allow one to do things like “Normalise” and “Reduce Peak” and “Remove Hiss” and “Shift Frequency,” all of which I, with my many skills, understand perfectly well and can do with ease, while sipping tea with one hand and scratching my head in the other. Not that I suffer from lice or confusion or anything else that might make me want to scratch my head. Sometimes it just feels good, is all.

So I downloaded all these applications, and normalised and reduced peak and removed hiss, but didn’t shift frequency by much because the the pitch was just right (do I SOUND like I know what I’m talking about?), and it sounded really lovely and clean and you could -barely- hear the bus go by, but then went to save and realised it was all just a save-disabled demo dream. Elas. Another time perhaps; no sense delaying bedtime or a story for it. Sweet dreams.

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Murdoch, Iris

Something Special

It’s true, it is, that Miette has bought something special to aid in her PodCASTing, though in the true ghetto style she so cherishes, she (or rather, I, Miette), didn’t do much to prevent the background sounds of discs spinning up, or dogs turning to dervish, or other random technospatter. Still, a special night deserves a special reading, and what could be more special than the only piece of short fiction we have from the haunting Ms. Murdoch, a piece which, as many have pointed out, could well be a lost chapter from Dubliners?

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