Video of the Day


Alex Carnevale

Features Editor
Mia Nguyen

Senior Editor
Brittany Julious

This Recording

is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.

Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

Regrets that her mother did not smoke

Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion

Metaphors with eyes

Life of Mary MacLane

Circle what it is you want

Not really talking about women, just Diane

Felicity's disguise

Live and Active Affiliates
This area does not yet contain any content.

In Which We Open Up All Of Our Office Hours

Red Dust


Office hours begin at three. Who knows how long they'll last?

I run into my therapist at the opening of a local juice bar. She does not see me, but I notice that her hair is done in a completely different fashion than what I have come to expect. I am so shaken I have to sit down.

On a bus downtown, a man carries a thousand little parcels and packages, attached to each other by string, cord and tape. A teenager asks him if it is an exhibit or something. The man opens one of the packages and inside is a business card.

My friend Stacy is a major theme of this essay. She has a very useful test that I have sort of made my own. If she meets a new person, she has these two restaurants that are very easy to confuse and not far from each other. She shows up at one, and if he doesn't, well that's just too bad.

Instead of finding out what someone is like when they are really, truly angry, make them a little angry.

My therapist recently discovered some of the things I had written about her. She says, "Your depiction portrays me as sounding weird." She says, "Self-expression is the most innocent form of flattery," and then she rotates a mug in her hands upwards of ten times. I say, "Your hero is Kafka? Your summer palace is on the Rhine? You say you have questions for me?"

In Agata & Valentina, Emmy Rossum asks an employee for aspargus. My dad called to tell me to watch the full moon tonight. "Did you ever think there were so many types of lettuce?" he says. His version of being retired is like a bird who has had a wing repaired, but doesn't know it.

My brother is getting married in the fall. I am very happy for him, the way you go to one store in a strip mall, and another store is celebrating their grand opening. You wish and don't wish the attention was elsewhere. I am so tired of the concept of attention. It seems like a modern conceit, maybe the only modern conceit. One that demands we be observed or acknowledged.

Stacy has a boyfriend now. When she tried the restaurant trick on him, he said he doesn't like to meet women at restaurants. Stacy says that it's because he feels uncomfortable eating in front of other people, like he is a pig at the trough. Do you see the connection between this anecdote and the line about attention? Would you even notice if the moon in the sky was upside down.

Lately I have been doing a lot of whispering. Nattering quietly to myself is the function of living alone, in the apartment I am renting. It was just built, and so no one in the building expects anything to break. I'd like to own a place, but not in New York City. Maybe somewhere upstate.

My therapist wants to know my evaluation of her. "I love how available you make yourself," I begin. "Once I saw you in a juice bar... Never mind, never mind! I think that you are great at staying internally consistent. Sometimes I wonder if you are remembering what I said or remembering what you said. Then I think, what's the difference? If you hear one side of the conversation, you can probably reconstruct the other! It will be as if one person is there, and the second participant exists only as a shadow of the initial act." She says, "I'm not a shadow of you, Linda," and sips Tropicana.

Last night I walked along 60th at the bottom of Central Park. Rats sprang out of the greenery to feast upon all the leftover horse feed. They are mad to be satiated, wild with abandon. In order to start a new thought, it takes more than simply matching the taste to the palate.

Stacy thinks she is in love with her boyfriend. "He's kind of a weird guy," she confesses. I ask if it something other than his apparent eating issues. She says that when they went to the movies the other night, she found herself massaging his temples and touching his dick. I ask if he told her to do that. "It seemed implied," she says, cutting celery into the smallest possible pieces.

I want you to know that standing there is no more than an affectation.

My dad asks me to choose a color. He's painting my old room. "What goes on in there now?" I ask. "Mostly the same stuff as when you were here," he says, even though that was very long ago now. "Self-loathing. Pride. Catnaps. Sometimes I come in here when your mother is snoring." I say, "Imagine being invisible only at night." Half the shades he forces me to compare I can't manage to see any difference. I imagine that for a god, the variation between the worst human being and the best would be this kind of tiny shift in color.

For example, have you looked at the Periodic Table of the Elements lately? Has there ever been a more outright obvious scam?

I ask my therapist about Stacy's boyfriend. "They were in line at Starbucks," I say, "and someone stepped in front of them. He got all up in the guy's face and smacked down his coffee cup." She says, "So?" I say, "Isn't that kind of reckless and unwarranted?" She lets out a sigh that could inflate a balloon.

Full moon tonight. I whisper it and text everyone I know (the list is not long – as I get older it is more difficult to meet new people, and even when I find someone I like, the context is always wrong). In my text I detail how much more fun it will be when we are all wolves. Imagine the licking alone! I crow and cackle. Feeling like I could run up the face of a mountain, I start crumpling up all the useless pieces of paper I keep around here. Everything made or unmade was with my hands.

Linda Eddings is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Brooklyn. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.


In Which We Don't Have The Energy For Another Flight

Give Everything


Attachment is the great fabricator of illusions; reality can
be attained only by someone who is detached. — Simone Weil

By that time there were two of them, and I lived in a pointless fear that one would see me with the other.

Neither of them thought he was my boyfriend, but I knew in my heart one was.

I saw Michael with his dog in a park. She died, struck by a car, a few weeks later. You can imagine my surprise.

From New York, I moved to San Jose and back. Flights take too long.

Michael had this crest of hair, and when he touched silverware, he always turned it over in his hand. Are you good enough to touch my body?

See if you can figure out who is my boyfriend, I don't know.

OK, but so I imagined what would happen if Michael saw me with Luis. Eventually I thought of a proper solution: I would say that Luis was an attorney, I was making a will, and I would give him everything.

Some other shit was going on, too. I don't know if it is my fault, or maybe just the way the world is, but every single thing feels like a distraction from something else.

Luis did not feel that way, but I do not say it was a good thing. He had the straightest teeth I had ever seen, and he brushed them religiously. His dark hair was kept short, and he took vitamins every morning.

It took him so long to take them all.

Michael, perched on the edge of the escalator of some store he took me to. His family had money, and he never knew what it was to be without it.

The thing is, I always did like taking pills. This all happened after I stopped taking them, but I still liked them.

I never mentioned it to Luis, but Michael knew about my habit. He asked me what it was like, and I said that it was like I was a honeybee that finally found the nectar.

He said, "Did you know Russia doesn't have honeybees?"

He knew a lot of little things, like how to wear a scarf and where to eat on Tuesday night.

Luis was not like that, although he was far from the creative type.

You can probably tell I have moved on from both these men.

I liked the idea of one telling me what I did not like about the other, but I knew they would find out about each other eventually.

OK, so Luis' mother died. It was March, his hands were calloused from moving all the stuff out of her house and sanding down the floors. His mother was a smoker, and sometimes, but not all the time, she ashed on the floor.

I asked Luis how his mother could do that. Was there anything particularly difficult about an ashtray? Then I closed my mouth. 

I wasn't overly celebrating my sex life with either one of these men. That is not to say we did not have moments. They were both very serious people.

It is wonderful to think of life that way, like you are Anna Karenina or Hamlet, or both wrapped up into a sad package. I am not that type of person, so I aspire to be with someone who is like that, and stay nearby.

Michael's dog was named Rye. He said that she was a willful dog. I threw out the golden's collars. He didn't need them anymore, but he thought he did.

It took me awhile, maybe a few cross-country trips, to realize I am a judgmental person. I think most people evaluate others on their words and deeds, which is a fine way of doing things, I'm sure.

I prefer to focus on what people are not doing or saying.

Let me start with Michael. He did tell me he loved me, but he did not do it all the time. He did not introduce me to his family until much later. He never prayed, he never shot pool, he never rode the bus.

All the straight rows of houses out here. It bothers me sometimes. It is fun to observe normal things only if you are irregular, which is the attraction of such drugs. I could have taken them forever, and on some level I wish I was taking them now.

Luis' mother developed lung cancer. It progressed rather quickly.

He never held out much hope.

He did not know how to drive, he had a horrible sense of direction, he never wore jeans, never drank coffee after noon. He never said, "I love you," but honestly he did not have to, and it would have ruined things.

I don't have the energy for another flight. I actually still take drugs, just none that are any fun, except klonopin, which makes me feel like a bean bag.

I miss Luis, and probably the Michael I am writing about a bit more. I think they both knew they were not the only one, and that ruined things.

I admire people who can keep such things separate in their mind, discrete partitions of experience. I find myself going back there, stretching through the flimsy walls. I would not like to be a man.

B.H. Dansforth is a contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in New Jersey.


In Which We Have An Excuse Ready For You At All Times

Hard to Say is This Recording’s weekly advice column. It will appear every Wednesday until the Earth perishes in a fiery blaze, or until North West turns 40. Get no-nonsense answers to all of your most pressing questions by writing to justhardtosay@gmail.com.



My daughter Jessica is two years old. Recently, we've made an arrangement with another couple in the building that also has a child around the same age named Theo, e.g. he will come over to our home and vice versa on certain days. 

Theo's parents are wonderful, educated people. They are very focused on teaching him all sorts of things. A recent lesson I walked on concerned me, though, as it did not seem terribly age appropriate. Theo's mother was explaining the historical plight of the Jewish people to the kids. Maybe they can't process it at this age, anyway, but I'm not sure I want my daughter hearing about this stuff without me present. 

Am I crazy, and is it all right to say something to Theo's mother about that?

Janet S.


Ideally you would just be near your daughter at all times to mitigate what Theo's mother is saying. "Many other minority groups faced similar discrimination!" you could crow as a kind of victory lap. I don't know what you think you are protecting your daughter from, but she lives in the world. Lots of stuff will happen to her that she can't control. I mean, who knows, in a decade she could be referred to as a member of the Trump generation. 

If you want to give her a different narrative to latch onto, consider the work of the Catholic writer Garry Wills. I believe he does a fantastic set of flash cards.


I have been dating this guy I will call Nate for around five months. He is very difficult to make plans with and will often want to do things on the spur of the moment. I am the type of person who needs to know where I am going to be and what I am going to be doing at all times. At first it was nice to be around someone capable of spontaneity, but recently Nate and I have gotten in fights because he claims I don't make him a priority, like I should be waiting by the phone for him to call?

Is this a fundamental lack of compatibility or is there something we can do to make this work?

Ilana W.

Dear Ilana,

I think probably you just need to think of better excuses. When you tell Nate that you can't do something that he suggests, here are some foolproof ways to get out of that activity without hurting this man-boy's feelings:

- it's the mensies oops

- I have a strigoi in my hymen ("feel better honey")

- I'm going to see a local production of The Cherry Orchard. Would you like to come?

- I have to work on a long research project that could be a useful excuse for the next six months

- Actually, it's Uncle Vanya. Still want to come?

- I want you so much. But like, not at this time.

Illustrations by Mia Nguyen.