The Young Ladies of the Telephone
Chapter One from the novella Estuaries
Read the full chapter in La Piccioletta Barca.

“The morning was heavy, and could not be forced open, but would need careful fingers to peel it back like the buttery skin of a mango, which would make Leo a fine breakfast once she left her seat at the round table of her dreams.

“The night, holding a second life, does not rely on the senses, but instead on a language that is located in the radiant rim around. That this vision is understood is one small part. That a smell or taste or sound can forge the breaking of the dams and begin the flood once more gives this invasion an eternal hue, as it spreads from its starting point into neighbouring limbs. The residue is heat, without sign of fire—fingerprints on a pane of glass—sunlight hitting skin.

“In the molten substance of dreams, Leo could not feel the contrast. Each voice, each vibration entered at the same decibel, braided together as one. Her own voice could not defy these terms, either, becoming one instrument in the greater orgy of bright music.”

The Virtues of Elevator Music: On Eluvium, Ambience, and Transience
Read full essay in La Piccioletta Barca.

“Although art is not the only method of communion—religion and sex are two other prominent doorways—music most organically mimics the flow of a closed circuit current. In music, beauty, anxiety, and revelation all permeate the skin without the skill or intention of its listener. Courtney Love slides through my veins at a dark hour; Elizabeth Fraser, without words, sings of the ineffable and joyous; Enya, the philosopher, attempts to answer complex questions. These are some archetypes of modern music, and, latent, they break through in prompted moments, to close the circuit, and reconvene our feeling to an external source, and back again.”