CarrollBlog 9.30

Once when Bob Dylan was visiting Russia, he visited Tolstoy's estate outside Moscow and was given a guided tour. In his memoirs, Dylan writes that the high point of the day was when the tour guide allowed him to ride Tolstoy's bicycle. That image has kept me smiling for two days: Bob Dylan taking a spin around the master's estate on the old boy's bicycle.

CarrollBlog 9.29

Readers frequently ask if certain scenes in this or that novel actually happened, or if specific characters are based on real people. I guess I wonder the same thing when I read, but why is it important to know this? If I were to tell you character X was based on someone I know, or that Y really happened and I was later able to use that experience in a book (in one version or another) because it was appropriate, would that change the book for you? Would knowing where these things came from make your reading experience better or worse? If so, why? We read specific authors or listen to favorite singers because we appreciate their way of perceiving and communicating their experiences. Does it (or should it) matter if they convey their vision and insight via real experiences or solely through the conjurings of their imagination? Sometimes I get the feeling certain people think that if an event in a book comes from real life, then the author is cheating-- like stealing the answers to the test from someone else's examination. Only stuff that has been prepared 100% in the imagination belongs in a work of fiction.

CarrollBlog

When our soul is full of sentiment,
our work is full of fascination.

CarrollBlog 9.25

"In the world I would make for Nuala, there would be someone to whom she could tell her greatest secret without a single thought of betrayal. In the world I would make, she would be light as a feather when she arose from her bed and always feel freshly washed. She would have the simple things that comfort her; an alpaca throw to put over her legs when she's reading, maybe a cat or a parrot for company. No Chinese takeout food; decent meals cooked at home. Plenty of hot water for her bath in the morning, and radiator pipes that don't bang like cracked old bronze church bells in the middle of the night...

CarrollBlog 9.24

I always love getting SMS messages from R. She's so smart and witty that each one is like a high-IQ haiku.

CarrollBlog 9.23

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fall
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
--e. e. cummings

CarrollBlog 9.22

While walking the dog next to the children's playground, I see a group of young kids in there all wearing blue headbands to easily distinguish them for their teachers when it's time to round them up and leave. I watch, smiling at all their loony energy while looking looking for a specific kid, a specific kind of kid I'm sure will be there if I look hard enough. And there she is. Sometimes it's a he. Today it's a little girl off alone in a corner of the playground, talking to herself, laughing, having a great time entertaining herself in a world of her own. Inevitably there are one or two of these kids in every school group. The loner, the individualist, the leave-me-aloner, the weirdo. It's likely they'll have a tough time growing up because they are different from the pack, it usually shows early, and they're easy prey for bullies for too long. But chances are, round about 18 years old they'll start to show their true colors and eventually transform into interesting people who will go on to lead much more than typical lives.

CarrollBlog 9.21

My need of your words,
for such closeness
there should be a word beyond love."

CarrollBlog 9.20

At the bakery there are two people standing in front of me: an absolutely gorgeous woman, and a man who can't take his eyes off her. The salesperson is doing something in the back of the store so we're all left to wait a while till they return. Now and then the beautiful girl has nothing better to do than to look sideways at the guy. Every time she does, he perks up like a dog that's just heard its master's whistle. He misinterprets her looks for interest and starts to try to find ways to get her attention again. At this point, a large insect lands on his head. I can't tell what it is-- but it's a big bug, no doubt about it. Unconsciously the guy reaches up and swats it, but carefully-- when the girl isn't looking-- so he won't lose any cool in her eyes. Problem is, he half kills the bug and it starts limping around on the top of his head. That drives the guy crazy and for the next few seconds he keeps trying to touch/find the thing up there and get it the hell off him, all the time keeping a close watch on beauty so she won't see. No luck-- his instinct takes over and the guy freaks for a few seconds: Throws both hands up and rubs, pats, slaps his head till Mr. Bug either falls off or disintegrates under the blows. Beauty turns and looks while this frenzy is going on and her face says it all-- What's this freak doing?

CarrollBlog 09.19

The day of her departure, he purposely didn't ask when the flight left because he wanted to imagine her in town the whole day, still nearby. Not inside some plane at noon or whenever, just another long white vapor trail high across the sky heading north that you happen to see when you look up. The games we play in our heads to mold life into how we wish it was. The never ending battle of trying to bend life to our curve and not the other way around, which of course is how it always turns out anyway.

CarrollBlog 09.16

In one country, a publisher is considering releasing WHITE APPLES and GLASS SOUP together as one big book, one long, five hundred plus page saga. The concept is interesting and logical because in certain ways, one is the sequel to the other. But to me the intriguing idea is the amount of time that passed between the writing of the two books. APPLES was published in 2002, which means it was begun at least a year or a year and a half earlier in 2000 or 2001. GLASS SOUP was completed in 2004. All told, at least a thousand days passed between when the story was begun and when it ended. What different people we are than who we were a thousand days ago, no matter what age we are now. It always amazes me to read about writers who take five or ten years to complete one book. Is the guy who completes it really the same person as the one who began it four thousand days ago? And what would that four thousand days ago guy think of the final product? Sort of like Gee Gee's disdain for McCabe's lifestyle in THE WOODEN SEA.

CarrollBlog 09.14

A friend was very concerned about her husband who'd been going through a prolonged depression. While on a trip to New York, she asked around and got the name of one of the most famous psychics in America. Apparently the clairvoyant is so good that she is often consulted by different police forces when they are stumped about certain cases. She charges a lot per session, but my friend was genuinely worried about her husband's frame of mind. Willing to try anything that might help, she made an appointment. The first thing the psychic said was, "Before you ask any specific questions, I want to talk a little about you and your past. You had a pretty unhappy childhood. You were alone a lot and it affected you deeply." Taken aback, my friend said no that wasn't true-- she'd had a very happy, loving childhood and was always surrounded by friends and family. The psychic downplayed that and continued. She spoke for some minutes about a childhood that had nothing to do with my friend's experience. At one point the psychic went into vivid detail about a bad car accident my friend had experienced. Suddenly it dawned on her that this psychic was talking about her husband and *his* childhood. Quickly tracing back everything she had heard so far, she realized the woman was sort of channeling her husband's history through her: telling her things that were spot on true-- about her *husband's* past.

CarrollBlog 09.13

The Italian translation of GLASS SOUP arrived in the mail this morning. *Zuppa di Vetro*. That sounds like a 1940's Italian bicycle racing team. Translations always delight me but I never really believe they actually translated what I wrote. Secretly I'm convinced that one day when I'm in another country, someone will come up and slap me in the face, yelling "How DARE you write that book! It's the most offensive thing I ever read." But their slap will come from what was translated, not what I wrote. Occupational hazard, I guess.

CarrollBlog 09.11

Nokia recently released a cellphone that costs over a thousand dollars. Cool metal case, unique ringtones, blah blah. It's got to have some different features to merit costing a thousand dollars. I'd seen it in magazines but never in real life. One of those obscure objects of desire you look at in life's display window and marvel at, but never go in to the store to actually buy because for god's sake, who spends a grand on a phone? In the cafe this morning a good looking, chic'ly dressed Oriental woman about 25 sat waiting for her order when I walked in. On the table in front of her were a set of keys and two of these thousand dollar phones. My eyes widened when I realized what was there and I immediately took a closer look at her. Streaked hair, black outfit, some understated jewelry here and there. One of phones rang and answering she began conversing in English. She could easily have been a living Nokia ad for this phone. A few moments later, the waitress brought over her order-- 4 pieces of the gooiest, whipped creamiest, cholesterol bomb sweeties on earth. I am not exaggerating. Malakofftorte, cremeschnitte... the kind of cake you eat one piece of a year and feel guilty about for weeks. She had ordered four. While speaking, she cut off a chunk of the gooiest of all and slid it into her small mouth. The expression on her face never changed

CarrollBlog 09.08

An old friend came to Vienna and we had a few hours visit together. He works as a "death investigator" in California and always has awful, wondrous stories to tell about his job. He knows I love to hear them so he loads me up every time we see each other. Yesterday he was talking about suicides, which he sees a lot of in a year. He said that male suicides in general are sloppy affairs. When the police get to a man's home, it is usually a mess-- three days worth of empty beer cans and pizza boxes, dirty clothes strewn all over the place, sometimes much more disgusting things which indicate the guy decided to go on one last slobby binge before turning out the light for the last time. In contrast, most women who commit suicide are generally extremely tidy and orderly about it. They clean the house before they do the act. They dress well and often put on makeup, carefully place suicide notes in plain site so they will be easily found, etcetera. He described one suicide scene which was almost astonishing in its spic and span-ness. The woman had done the cleaning, dressed neatly, written and strategically placed suicide notes to all people concerned (her children, the police,etc.) Her chosen method was to hang herself. Apparently this is not as ghastly a way to go as you think if done correctly. The woman had tied a rope in a hangman's noose and to further help the police, described where on the Internet she had found the information describing this particular knot.

CarrollBlog 09.06

"A few years ago, a young taxi driver drove me to John F. Kennedy Airport on Long Island. After a few minutes of conversation, I discovered that Mike had belonged to my synagogue years before I came to the community.
"So, rabbi," he asked while we sat in heavy traffic, "what do you say to a Jew like me who hasn't been in a synagogue since his bar mitzvah ceremony?"
Thinking for a moment, I recalled that in Hassidic lore, the baal aqalah (the wagon driver) is an honored profession. So I said, "We could talk about your work."
"What does my work have to do with religion?"
"Well, we choose how we look at the world and at life. You're a taxi driver. But you are also a piece of the tissue that connects all humanity. You're taking me to the airport. I'll go to a different city and give a couple of lectures that might touch or help or change someone. I couldn't have gotten there without you. You help make the connection happen.
"I heard on your two-way radio that after you drop me off, you're going to pick up a woman from the hospital and take her home. That means that you'll be the first non-medical person she encounters after being in a hospital. You will be a small part of her healing process, an agent in her re-entry into the world of health.
"You may then pick up someone from the train station who has come home from seeing a dying parent. You may take someone to the house of the one that he or she will ask to join in marriage. You're a connector, a bridge builder. You're one of the unseen people who make the world work as well as it does. That is holy work. You may not think of it this way, but yours is a sacred mission."

CarrollBlog 09.05

We were sitting outdoors at a cafe at the Naschmarkt enjoying each other's company and the late summer day. The beggar in the pink shirt came up and started mumbling. I wasn't really paying attention because she was talking and saying something very interesting that I wanted to hear. Finally it dawned on me someone was close over my shoulder.I looked up and saw him standing there with his hand out and smiling. He was an eerie looking man because he had a round face and,at first glance,warm and friendly eyes. But when you looked a moment longer you saw they weren't. His eyes were sly and intelligent. His dislike was physically palpable. He was begging for money but he didn't like you. I said no. He looked okay-- he was young and wearing clean clothes-- that new pink t-shirt, modish sneakers, a woolen hat. He continued to speak, to mumble. I couldn't understand what he was saying so I said "No" a little louder. He stopped and this time said quite clearly to me "That's what you say, but maybe that's not what she says." He looked across the table and smiled at her as if the two of them were somehow in cahoots. In her light but distinctive voice she said "No!' much more forcefully than I had. The man's eyes narrowed like Smiegal (is that how you spell it?) in LORD OF THE RINGS and he skulked away, again mumbling to himself.

CarrollBlog 09.01

While walking this morning, I was thinking about sea glass and what an extraordinarily good metaphor it is for what we all hope for in life. When it was created and initially used, the glass had no value. It was part of a greenish Coke bottle, a brown wine bottle, olive oil, or a blue drinking glass. Nothing of importance. Use up the contents and throw the bottle away. Somehow or other the glass broke and its pieces were scattered. This one ends up in the ocean. For a long time, maybe even years, it lives there being tossed and tumbled, roiled here and there by the whims of the sea. It's not a good life, but it manages to keep afloat. All the time it's in there however, its sharp edges are being worn away by the water's constant movement. The violence of storms, the bleaching sun, saltwater... all of them transform it. Eventually it gets washed up on a beach somewhere. It is the same glass it once was but also something new. Not entirely but almost. The color has been burned away by the sun and the acid sea, making the glass more translucent, ethereal, and lovely. It has no more edges. But without them it has taken on a shape, a form, that is often singular and one of a kind. Sooner or later someone comes by and notices it. They are immediately attracted. They love it for what it has become. Often they take it home and in some cases, even turn it into a piece of jewelry. Something they treasure.