The Current Issue
Issue 9: Featuring adultery, architecture, our first comic, and more.
Petrichor is three years old this month. Take a look back at our featured writers and artists from our first issue.
Excerpt from “Though He Had No Fever”
He began masturbating after the baby was born, like clockwork, every morning at 4:26. He tries to be silent, but bubbles rising from the bathtub can never be contained by the parameters of his wife’s auditory threshold. It is during one of these trances of euphoric derangement that he realizes his son is sick.
At first the boy didn’t finish his birthday cake, claiming his stomach ached, but when he wouldn’t touch his scrambled eggs or bacon the next morning his mother knew something was out of the ordinary; so the boy said he was sick, though he had no fever. When he refused soup, nachos, and didn’t touch any solid foods for four days, she knew it was time to take him to the doctor.
Charlotte McKnight likes taking photos and doesn’t do much outside of that because they seem to be one thing somehow… but anyway, she does sometimes take a break from photographing and reads the odd Haruki Murakami novel, and then puts it down because he always seems to slip in his weird/kinky fascination with ears into the storyline which tends to make her feel a little uneasy. Other than that she drinks copious amounts of coffee, which she is sure will one day be her demise, listens to Nirvana records and dreams up new ideas for photos. flickr.com/photos/indigo-eyes
What makes St. Vincent such a fascinating artist is her trajectory. Between each record, Clark goes through a death and rebirth. Her latest transmutation, St. Vincent, marks her emergence as peerless art-rock royalty.
While the album’s count in, “One, two, you know what to do,” sounds like a simple snippet from a band rehearsal, the sheer force and weight of the drums and the bass’s funky pulse signals that The Information is very much a polished, studio-recorded product. The band establishes an infectious groove within three seconds—true also in most of the heavier, rhythmic-centric tracks off the album. Beck’s opening line, “I’m uptight, super-gutted out the frame,” reflects and casts a shadow on the shreds of anxiety that pervade the record.
“What I will say is this: being a writer makes me a healthier person. The poison leaves through the pen. I don’t walk around carrying it all day. Whenever I read my work to a room, I give it away.”