I’m not sure how I heard that David Sedaris was reading a short story by Miranda July for the New Yorker, but when I did I was alone in an adult’s house in Essex and to stave off my fear of the dark, isolated countryside, I thought I would listen myself to sleep with it. I assumed the combination of Miranda’s gentle, sexy storytelling and Sedaris’ uniquely comedic New York twang would be sublimely relaxing, and I like, never use the word ‘sublime.’
So I curled up, turned out the light, pushed my fears under the duvet and pressed play.
The story was so good that by the time it was finished I wanted to leap out of bed and do something, write a novel, go to a life drawing class, learn French or fly a plane. It’s the type of thing that makes you feel like you’ve done something productive even though you probably haven’t. Like baking, or university.
I’ve included a link. Enjoy. Miranda July is my favourite and if you don’t like her it’s because you have a soul made of old, dry roast potatoes and congealed ketchup lids.
If you haven’t already check out Me And You And Everyone We Know
PS. The Future is good.