FireVaney

Clive and I have recorded exactly fourteen hours of conversation. It started when he picked me up at the Linden Purple Line Station last Monday and it ended last night. We did not record for fourteen hours straight. No, I had work and sleep and hunger and various chores and errands to contend with; but every time we spoke—even on the phone—the tape was rolling. (That is, assuming I didn’t forget to turn the thing on.) We may even record Friday night’s Star Wars Trivial Pursuit Extravaganza with Eryk Eiríkr. *  Alas, a few seemingly precious moments of conversation were, inadvertently, left out of this week’s recording sessions. (Id est, it wasn’t on.) How curious that the best stuff always seems to escape the tape.  29 March 2001   * [Not his legal name, nor one he chose of his own accord.]

My Timex reads four o’clock ante meridiem. Instead of sleeping, I’m shivering. My nose is stuffed. In my head, Eva Cassidy’s take on “Over the Rainbow” is stuck on repeat. Last night and earlier this morning Clive Churner * insisted that we read (aloud) the rather unique letter (a creative hodge-podge of thought) that he’d sent me (months ago) and critique it, section by section. Said readings and critiques have been preserved for posterity on a series of microcassette recordings, titled: “Is It On?” (The aforementioned query refers to the status of my microcassette recorder.) Clive’s letter is roughly thirty pages long, if not longer. At the risk of being overly reductive, he’s taken the people we’ve both known and events we’ve both experienced and spun them wildly out of control in silly little yarms—I mean yams—I mean yarns. Please note that I’ve sat here coughing and gagging after—and, at times, straight through—every one of the aforementioned sentences, along with this one, and v...