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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

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In Which We Imitate Our Loves

Nearer Everything


What the American male really wants is two things: he wants to be blown by a stranger while reading a newspaper, he wants to be fucked by his buddy when he's drunk. Everything else is society.

Wystan Hugh Auden arrived in New York City in January of 1939. His friends in New York shared the attitude of his friends in England: they were as unhappy to see him arrive as the English were to see him leave. "Just a note to ask you not to bring Auden and Isherwood to see me," wrote Louise Bogan to Edmund Wilson. "I can't say I want to spend an evening being examined by two visiting Englishmen as a queer specimen."

Impressions of Auden and his friends Christopher Isherwood did not noticeably improve by the spring. "He's pretty eccentric and does strange things like picking his nose and eating what he finds," observed Paul Bowles.

with his one time sexual partner and friend Isherwood

Auden was unsurprised at the vastness of American wealth. That he was used to. It was this country's waste that deeply bothered and disturbed him. "The great vice of Americans is not materialism," he wrote, "but a lack of respect for matter."


In between trying to get New York's monied elite to give him and Isherwood money of their own volition, Auden reviewed only the books he liked. (He had no stomach for rendering negative notices.) Despite his relative poverty - he and Isherwood shared a shabby Yorkville apartment - he prioritized taking Benzedrine in the mornings and Seconal at night. The upper intiated his writing for the day, and the downer allowed him to sleep after all that had happened.

When he finally quit amphetamines twenty years later, his social charm - what was left of it - disappeared as well.

Wystan and Chester

At the beginning of April, Auden met Chester Kallman at a poetry reading he was giving in Brooklyn. A few weeks later he wrote his brother John

Just a line to tell you that it's really happened at last after all these years. Mr Right has come into my life. He is a Roumanian-Latvian-American Jew called Chester Kallman, eighteen, extremely intelligent and I think, about to become a good poet. His father who knows all and approves is a communist dentist who would be rich if he didn't have to pay two sets of alimony. This time, my dear, I really believe it's marriage.

After the two had sex for the first time, Auden gifted his new partner a volume of William Blake.


Auden's focus on Kallman arose out of his own loneliness in his new country. The next year he would be able to summarize his plight better: "The person you really need will arrive at the proper moment to save you."

The couple was temporarily separated while Auden taught for a short time at St. Mark's School in Massachusetts. He disliked the buttoned-up place as soon as he arrived, finding the faculty and administration closed-minded and anti-Semitic. When he returned to Kallman, the two planned a bus trip to New Orleans. The entire way down Chester attempted to seduce every hot young thing he came across. Auden called it their honeymoon.

The book he came back to again and again during this time was Pascal's Pensées.


The pair moved on. About 130 miles north of Albuquerque, Taos represented the home of D.H. Lawrence's widow Frieda. They did not care for these new surroundings either, with Auden quipping that "it's curious how beautiful scenery tends to attract the second rate." The diverse community of writers in the area only emphasized how much it would never be as engaging as New York.

Auden refused to shower during this period: he would only bathe himself in a proper bathtub. (As Stravinsky would put it, "He is the dirtiest man I have ever liked.") They were driven out of New Mexico, to the Grand Canyon. Auden concluded he could only stay for a moment or forever. With the kind of bizarre sincerity he became known for, he wrote that "the Boulder Dam gives one hope for the human race."

God returned to Auden's life around the time that Hitler entered it. In response, he began reading Kierkegard almost exclusively. Publicly he remained quiet about the war, admitted later that "All that could be said, had been said. There was no point in my saying it again, a little more hysterically." He registered for the draft, applied for U.S. citizenship and moved to Brooklyn.


Chester Kallman could always bring out Wystan's jealous side. It was not a great look for the older man. The lack of sexual chemistry between the two became a sticking point; Kallman wanted to fuck and be fucked as intensely as possible, and Auden could not begin to service his needs. "I don't think," Auden once said, "Browning was very good in bed."

It was equally destructive that Kallman seemed to delight in the jealousy his behavior inspired. This drove them apart for a time. Whenever Kallman quoted Hart Crane, Auden reacted like he had been slapped in the face. Auden took a teaching position at a small college in Michigan and then in Ann Arbor.

from a course on romanticism he taught at Swarthmore

After a miserable time at the puritanical Swarthmore, Auden returned briefly to Europe for the first time in six years in spring of 1945. Upon setting foot on English soil, he said, "My dear, I'm the first major poet to fly the Atlantic." He visited Italy and Germany, finding them both inadequate in different ways. He now felt the only place he could learn to improve as an artist was New York City.

He returned there later that year, moving into a studio apartment in Greenwich Village. This constituted his first time ever living alone, and there was never a moment when the place was anything but an absolute mess. There he composed his new book.

Alex Carnevale is the editor of This Recording. He is a writer living in Manhattan. He tumbls here and twitters here. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. He last wrote in these pages about Jack Reacher.

"It Comes And Goes" - Dido (mp3)

"The Day Before The Day" - Dido (mp3)



In Which We Circle What It Is We Want

After Breakfast


Six of them came riding up.

There was something that began that way already. He left this thought and came back to it, and the idea had been changed to Five baying wolves approached out of the darkness.

He could give no real consideration to the rewarding symbol that the digit five provided. He also found it was difficult to write about or even imagine a cold place while he was in a warm climate.

He drove the rental car from the hotel to his father's modest cottage after breakfast. (He always fasted until lunch.) In the backyard, a grey armadillo haunted the modest garden. The armadillo's behavior accomplished four discrete things.

1) The first was that his father became so bothered by this desecration he had to start taking a higher dosage of his blood pressure medication.

2) The second was that the armadillo's numerous bowel movements created strange reactions from the plants in the array.

3) There was no longer the possibility of an ant problem.

4) The fourth was that the armadillo was agitated, possibly by his father, possibly about something completely unrelated in the animal's own life.

The wolves that approached (in his story) were unexpectedly kind. The underlying message was that even the most harshly regarded unconscious thing possessed, within it, the opposite virtue as well. He explained this idea to his mother in her hospital bed. It was difficult for her to talk, but she did listen intently. After awhile she croaked, "That is a cliche."

The next day, his father had fallen over in the garden looking for the armadillo with a small shovel. His body was fine, but his pride was injured. Reclining on his couch, his father kept saying, "The devil! The devil!"

His mother's nurse was a lovely woman of about 43 named Vela. She told him a story the next day while they waited to have an x-ray of his mother's torso taken. It went like this:

A great detective arrived at a typical scene - a messy, bloody body. Three calico cats continually circled the deceased woman, spooking some of the detective's fellow officers. Animal control was on the way, and the cats did not look particularly friendly, but they did not do anything aggressive except for their pacing. He told his men to make sure the cats did not molest the body. The detective stepped outside and, using sticks he found nearby, planted three makeshift grave markers in the ground.

When animal control arrived, they would not touch those calicos.

It turned out that the dead woman, before her passing, had eaten a large breakfast. Her stomach ruptured out her undigested pancakes, eggs and sausage. The cats were going to have it if she could not. He could not really find a moral for this story, but he wondered if the detective had meant to save the cats or solve the crime. Possibly both, but also, he may have just been having a laugh.

In the ensuing week his father became increasingly agitated, and more determined to rid his yard of the offending armadillo. He asked his father if he knew for certain there was only one armadillo. His father replied, "If I kill the one I see, the rest will vanish."

More events revealed themselves. When he saw his father, he saw the grey armadillo. When he saw his mother, he saw an old woman with breast cancer. When he saw a cat he ran away.

Dan Carville is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is a writer living in New York. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here. He last wrote in these pages about running in place.

"Black Tongue" - Feist (mp3)


In Which We Could Scrape Color From The Petals

photo by molly dektar

Blue Like You


The flesh is sad, alas, and I have read all the books.

- Stéphane Mallarmé

I grew up poor, I guess, though not the kind of poor that’s rhetorically advantageous. It wasn’t, that is, a son-of-a-mill-worker kind of poor — not yet — because it is an ongoing, unresolved kind of poor, the kind where you list class and poverty as research interests in your doctorate profile but come home to a family’s fridge of just condiment jars and a bottle of seltzer water and Judith Butler can’t really lend you a hand with that one, you dig?

My father was trained as a physicist in Ecuador and has used, in this country, his knowledge of gravity’s moods to master balancing eighteen bags of hot food on his bike at Wall Street noon, but he used it first to bend my childhood into a shape he liked: admittedly poor, but inconspicously poor, immigrant-poor, lives lived as a gamble that education would fix it all. We talked less than we read and we didn’t talk to anyone outside of each other. When my parents moved to Brooklyn in the 90’s, they moved to a tiny neighborhood where nobody spoke the same language, rejecting the enclave, a Babel of their own design where nobody could influence me but them. Books and foreign newspapers were stuffed into every corner of the house, piled above Bibles, as armrests and door stoppers. We read with urgency. How could we not have? Our ancestors famously lacked a written system and here we were, hemorrhaging language.

When we fought, we stopped talking but wrote each other letters that we left by the kitchen sink to find when we brushed our teeth in the morning. Milestones were pre-scripted:

Judy Blume for when I turned ten and started to bleed.

Keats and Neruda for the first time I liked a boy.

Eileen Myles for the first time I didn’t.

Gloria Anzaldúa for the very first time I heard “spic” directed at me.

Everyone has a list like this. The problem with mine was that it became religious; reading became a sacramental penance.

Then I got sick.


When doctors ask when it all started, I think of a line in a Les Murray poem — “from just on puberty, I lived in funeral” — but say I was around 16. When they ask whether I have ever contemplated suicide I ask them what they mean by contemplated and what they mean by suicide, but then they begin to write down words faster than I am speaking them, so I say no, no, not at all.

When I was still very little, there were uninspired attempts at things with outcomes I couldn’t have known how to think through — mouthfuls of toothpaste and capfuls of mouthwash, knotted rags under bathwater, traffic. They were harmless motions of sensuous violence; my esophagus may have burned and my palms may have moistened but it was nothing that couldn’t come undone by some red clover tea.

(I say red clover tea because that’s what I imagined the Pepper family drinking in Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, which isn’t exactly a handbook for living in the ghetto but it might as well have been. What I actually drank was warm liquid Jell-O prepared on the stove. It was red. )


Friends talk about my first three years of college as The Lost Years. I am not exaggerating when I say I remember almost nothing about them. At the end of my freshman year, an advisor gave me an anthology of e.e. cummings’ poetry, a slim little volume wrapped in bright paper. On the title page she wrote, “”To my kindred Franny.”

(I’d found “Franny & Zooey” in the spring.)


I came to Joan Didion through a Jezebel comment I found sometime after my sophomore year. The comment was a link to “On Self Respect” re-typed sloppily on a blog somewhere. That’s all it took.

I bobbed my hair like Joan’s, wore dresses and skirts long enough to graze the floor but not gather dirt. Her drink was bourbon and for a while I made it mine too, self-conscious when the bartender asked for a preferred label, embarrassed when I could not hold it, regretful after the third boy from a midtown sports bar whose name I could not remember. From Joan I learned to eat cucumber sandwiches on flattened slices of white sandwich bread my mother paid for with food stamps and learned to sit through panic attacks with my head in a brown paper bag except I used the white plastic ones from the corner Chinese takeout place instead, the ones with the yellow smiling faces. From Joan I learned it was okay to take expensive taxis, so long as I could cry in them. I read her packing list in The White Album as a check-off list: I was missing a typewriter so my friends found me two. Again, the bourbon. She wore leotards with stockings so I started to as well. They looked different on my body, hips and ass and breasts, not those of a steely postwar West Coast waif. 

I get the impression, through Didion’s other essays, the ones written post-cry, that she wouldn’t much like me, that we wouldn’t be buds. In “On Keeping a Notebook,” she writes about being 23, “skirts too long, shy to the point of aggravation, always the injured party, full of recriminations and little hurts and stories I do not want to hear again, at once saddening me and angering me with her vulnerability and ignorance.” 

Didion’s over it, and me, and the girls I meet at parties who wear the leotards too. Her work inspires what Caitlin Flanagan called “a cult’s kind of fierce and jealously protective loyalty” because hearing about another person’s love for Slouching Towards Bethlehem is troubling —i t means we’ve landed “both a landsman and a rival.” But I know enough to know I’m not Caitlin Flanagan at the hunger games. We don’t fill out the leotard in quite the same way.

In Blue Nights, she describes how stressful it was to adopt her daughter Quintana Roo — named after a Mexican state — which is only aggravated when a social worker visits her home:

What if the social workers were to notice that Arcelia spoke only Spanish? What if the social worker were to happen into the question of Arcelia’s papers? What would  the social worker put in her report if she divined that I had entrusted the perfect baby to an undocumented alien?”

What if my mother were to notice she’d entrusted her perfect brown baby to a rich white woman in dark glasses, smoking by the water in Malibu?

It didn’t matter, because I hoped the weight I carried would help me deserve my way into whatever space she made hallowed by her presence. I belonged more than the other leotard-wearing girls belonged. I really wished that fervently.

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, eyes  —
I wonder if It weights like Mine — 
Or has an Easier size.

- Emily Dickinson.

I hoped that if she pressed her palm to my forehead, she’d find my sorrow sound.


I went into Boston the day I decided not to take anti-depressants. I went into Boston because it was hot and I lived in an un-airconditioned dorm with some 250 girls and 250 boys — a righteous halving guaranteed by the housing algorithm and replicated in every other sphere at the college except the finals clubs, where the vulgarity of ratio was the whole point. All the girls wanted to lay on towels with their backs to the sun and the boys all wanted to play Frisbee. I wanted to be away from them.

After reading in the sun for a few hours, everything started to look bathed in an incandescent vapor, sleepy and white like a wet sheet of tissue paper held against a flame. I had forgotten my sunglasses at the dorm and the blue-white gloss of the magazine pages I was holding hurt my eyes. A group of shirtless boys threw around a football. The girls shared a joint. There were ants on the dress I’d pulled down to my waist to tan. When I sat up to brush them off, one of the football-throwing boys came over to see if I wanted a beer. I unscrewed the cap of my orange juice bottle and held it under his nose. He asked what I was reading.

I was reading an essay in an old copy of The New Yorker I picked up from a pile of unread issues. I chose it because I liked the cover — a bundled up woman in a fancy hat walking a dog in the snow. It was a Malcolm Gladwell review of two books, Gary Greenberg’s Manufacturing Depression and Irving Kirsch’s The Emperor’s New Drugs.

I was moved by it in the way you are moved when you are looking to be, by whatever. I could just as easily have found Jesus or Libertarianism or the Grateful Dead during that time. I was looking. Anyway, this part, the conclusion, stood out, and I tore out the page and carried it around for a while until too many wash-and-tumble cycles turned the paper into a dusty pulp.

Maybe we think that since we appear to have been naturally selected as creatures that mourn, we shouldn’t short-circuit the process. Or is it that we don’t want to be the kind of person who does not experience profound sorrow when someone we love dies? Questions like these are the reason we have literature and philosophy. No science will ever answer them.

Those last two sentences — that was it. Seventeen words, seven of them nouns, only three verbs, none of them poetic or philosophical or exceptional. But they imbued the poetic and philosophical and exceptional with a talismanic majesty and so they made sense to me and so I abandoned my treatment.


My senior year, I sort of emerged whole and without a backstory, like Athena fully-armed born from Zeus’s forehead. I mean, that was the reception — how else do you explain abrupt and sudden there-ness? Whenever I’d go get dinner at the dorm where I had lived for more than two years, classmates and resident advisors stopped me by the fountain drinks to introduce themselves and ask if I was a transfer student.

September was a liminal space. One too-warm night, I sat by the Charles, along the joggers’ path, and tried to light a cigarette with a red plastic lighter I picked up at the dollar store the afternoon I decided I would smoke. (I decided I would smoke like I had decided, in high school, that I would love Bob Dylan. It took a few spins before I stopped pretending I liked the taste.) It was very windy and the lighter was not working and my thumb was striped purple from trying. A clean-shaven guy in a thermal walked over, and said he’d help. I handed him the lighter. When he continued to talk, I realized he was severely retarded. The whole of that scene overwhelmed me and I so wanted to be away from the water. I took back the lighter, must have said sorry, and ran to the ice cream shop a few blocks away. I called my mother.

She visited that weekend. We ate takeout from the Square and she cleaned my room in the near-dark while I slept. When she wasn’t cleaning — and there was a lot of cleaning, the first thing to go is cleaning — she made her way through a stack of imported tabloids from the library about octogenarian Spanish duchesses with frosted hair and their bullfighter boyfriends. When she left, and she left, she left my room very clean, sticky-clean, the clean of Clorox and Sweet Williams.


In October, a professor friend from Colombia rented a car and drove us to Providence to watch a performance of “Adios, Ayacucho,”  a play about a Peruvian peasant who returns from the dead to find and bury his body. A boy I desperately wanted to like invited me to a party that was secret garden themed but I didn’t have a floral dress and I didn’t have money to go to the Downtown Crossing Mall so I bought a few stems of hydrangeas and attached them to a metal hanger I’d bent into misshape.

It was raining and traffic was slow. While María drove, we gossiped about the Spanish department and about President Uribe, that lying motherfucker, while I fastened petals to wire with ribbon and scotch tape. By the time we arrived at the party, just after midnight, the police had shut it down. At the end of the night, the boy I was with gathered my wilted petals, waxy and excreting futile juices, off his futon and into a Kleenex I threw out myself.

I could scrape the colour
from the petals
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you,
I could break a tree.

- H.D.

I rode the bus back to my dorm with the crown in my hands, the pale pink ribbon coming undone around the peeling gold wire, the scotch tape not even worth describing.


By November, I was fine. A very wealthy man, a family friend who for years had given me shopping bags full of his dead father’s books to read, paid for a gentle electric current therapy. He didn’t like that I opted for the highest pressure and so he told me to stop and also sent me stories and books, so I stopped and I read them. The treatment was very gentle and it was very nice and it helped me go to sleep at night but it dyed everything a kind of blue. So I read William Gass’ On Being Blue and Maggie Nelson’s Bluets and every Bukowski poem with the word “blue” in the text. Google Books is great.


Some weeks before I took the train into Boston, the day I decided not to take anti-depressants, New Directions published Roberto Bolaño’s The Insufferable Gaucho. Bolaño was dying of liver problems when he wrote it. He dedicated an essay in it to his hepatologist, Victor Vargas. The essay is called, “Literature + Illness = Illness.”

Karla Cornejo Villavicencio is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in New Haven. She last wrote in these pages about sex and the ivory tower. She tumbls here and twitters here.