« December 2005 | | February 2006 »

CarrollBlog 1.31
'After winning the Golden Globe Award for best ensemble in a TV drama, 'Lost'' co-star Terry O'Quinn, surrounded by fellow cast members, gave this acceptance speech. 'A friend of mine always says if you don't have something nice to say about someone, let's hear it. So about our cast, I'd like to say that this is the saddest collection of climbing, grasping, paranoid, back-stabbing, screen-grabbing losers and schmoozers that you ever saw on your stage in your life. But we love each other very much."'

PS Check out the website www.ashesandsnow.org and look at the photographs

CarrollBlog 1.30
The window of the piercing studio is filled with lifesize, lifelike displays of the various organs and limbs one can have pierced there. For example, on prominent display are a very realistic penis pierced through the head, a very realistic vagina pierced through the labia, etcetera. An impeccably dressed older couple is standing in front of the store looking in the window. They have identical tan canes and are holding hands. Passing, I look closely at their faces but their expressions are inscrutable.

CarrollBlog 1.29
Listening to a Tom Waits cd today, I remembered a story someone told me years ago. They were in London on a back street near Covent Garden. Looking up, they saw Waits standing in a doorway smoking a cigarette. He was instantly recognizable with that head of broccoli- hair, alligator shoes, and wearing a cheap black suit. This guy is a big fan of Waits but who isn't? As he approached, he racked his brain for something cool to say to THE MAN. But when he got there, all he could come up with was a line from an early Waits song: "Nighthawks at the Diner." Waits nodded slowly and said right back "Emma's forty-niner," the next line of the song. When the guy had passed, the singer called out to him. Turning, he saw Waits grinning broadly now and he said to my friend, "Hey, thanks."

Carroll 1.28
I want you and you are not here. I pause
in this garden, breathing the colour thought is
before language into still air. Even your name
is a pale ghost and, though I exhale it again
and again, it will not stay with me. Tonight
I make you up, imagine you, your movements clearer
than the words I have you say you said before.

Wherever you are now, inside my head you fix me
with a look, standing here whilst cool late light
dissolves into the earth. I have got your mouth wrong,
but still it smiles. I hold you closer, miles away,
inventing love, until the calls of nightjars
interrupt and turn what was to come, was certain,
into memory. The stars are filming us for no one.

~Carol Ann Duffy

CarrollBlog 1.27
Last night I found out that one of the memorable people of my youth recently committed suicide. I disliked him very much back then. He was one of those cynical but clever opportunists who succeed mainly because they instinctively know how to play the game; whose ass to kiss, as well as what backs to stab at just the right moment for maximum effect. He used people like tissues and then discarded them quickly after they'd served their purpose for him. Eventually people came to realize what he had been doing all along, but he got away with it for a very long time. Reading his obituary yesterday, I was half-surprised to learn that after school he went on to lead a forgettable, undistinguished life before ending it. The novelist Walker Percy had a fitting description of once-golden people like this. Everyone knows them-- the absolute A-list of a school. The classmates we all jealously watched, yet wished they liked us because their approval meant enormous prestige among our peers and allowed us to bask indirectly in their glow. But then years after graduating when we ask what happened to them someone will say,
"Smith? Oh, he went away."

CarrollBlog 1.26
Words, Wide Night

Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.

This is pleasurable. Or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.

La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine
the dark hills I would have to cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you and this

is what it is like, or what it is like in words.

--Carol Ann Duffy

CarrollBlog 1.25
She was selfish and careless with both her life and others'. So the best thing that ever happened to her was having the child. Because it allowed her to blame her continuously bad, self absorbed behaviour on her young son. 'I know I promised to do that for you but I couldn't because the baby was sick.' 'I was an hour late for the party because the baby had a bad night, was teething, had a doctor's appointment I forgot about...' A small number of her excuses were true, but most of them were not and everyone knew it. She was like the person who farts and then blames the dog.

CarrollBlog 1.24
from Janwillem van de Wetering's THE EMPTY MIRROR:

A novice at a Zen monastery goes to the master with several questions he thinks are the essential ones. If the master answers them, the novice will know the answer to life. The master hears him out and says,

"I could answer your questions but I won't try because you wouldn't understand the answers. Now listen. Imagine that I am holding a pot of tea, and you are thirsty. You want me to give you tea. I can pour it but you'll have to produce a cup. I can't pour the tea on your hands or you'll get burned. If I pour it on the floor I shall spoil the floormats. You have to have a cup. That cup you will form in yourself by the training you will receive here."

CarrollBlog 1.23
As a boy, I knew a tough guy named Anthony who would always start fights the same way: he'd shove you in the chest and ask "What are you going to do about it?" If you did nothing, he shoved you harder and asked a little louder "What are you going to do about it?" Etcetera until you got pissed off and swung at him. There are adults who do the same thing. But instead of shoving you in the chest they do little thoughtless or mean or bad...things, then bigger bad things, then unforgivable things, all the while silently asking "Do you still love me?"

If you say nothing, they do another ugly thing, but their demeanor asks "Do you still love me after that?" Until invariably they do something so awful or wrong that you explode and fight with them, or walk away, or write them completely out of your life. From firsthand experience I've learned that some of these people aren't even aware that they're doing this and are thus genuinely surprised when you tell them to go to hell.

CarrollBlog 1.22
When you're in love you don't have to do a damn thing. You can just be. You can just stay quiet in the world. You don't have to move an inch."

Charles Baxter

CarrollBlog 1.21
Years ago, my first literary agent read one of my first novels and gave it a big thumbs down. Would not even submit it to publishers. Said it failed primarily because there was not one likable or sympathetic character to root for in the story. All of them were creeps, crumbs, losers, and yecchs. Then she asked if I (honestly) liked anyone in there? Unhappily I had to admit I didn't. The question shook me and subsequently I have been deeply influenced it. In whatever fiction I have done since, somewhere in the writing process the question invariably arises who is there to like in this story, and I don't mean that in a trivial cutesy-wootsy way. If I don't like the people I've created, then why should a reader be interested in them, much less wish them well? Even a villain like Hannibal Lector in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS works wonderfully because he's so suave, attractive, and evil all at once. Sort of like THE THIN MAN gone south. You'd like to hang around and schmooze with Lector, listen to his stories and opinions even though you know he'd just as soon kill you as talk. That's why Clarice Starling is fascinated by him-- because the man is genuinely charismatic and sexy. Whatever you are writing, who in your story would you want to dine with? Spend a weekend with? Take to bed?

CarrollBlog 1.20
There's a sculptor who uses transparent tape to make a variety of spooky, ethereal shapes and figures. See for yourself-- the link is below. While I like the work itself, what I like more is where he chooses to place them-- both in plain sight and out of the way locations one would never think to look for "Art." On top of traffic lights, in the middle of construction sites, on the nose of a bronze statue in a public park, etcetera. The compelling idea is that genuine art might be on display anywhere we are. We just don't see it often because we're too concerned with our everyday trivia. This artist seems to be saying I will make these intriguing figures and place them everywhere you go. But that is only half the equation: it is your task to be open and observant enough to notice them.

http://www.xmarkjenkinsx.com/outside.html

CarrollBlog 1.19
"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."

"Planning to write is not writing. Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you're doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing."

both quotes from E.L. Doctorow

CarrollBlog 1.18
Sometimes I'll be walking along and seeing something, instinctively think Gee, I wish X were here to see that. Or I wish X were here so we could see it together and talk about it afterwards. X can be a person I see every day and am intimate with, or someone I haven't seen in years and have no idea where they are or what they're doing now. But this thing is so THEM that more than anyone else, I want to share it with that specific person. More interesting still though is sometimes X is a person I haven't seen in a long time because I detest them. Yet my first instinctive reaction after seeing whatever is I wish X were here to see that.

CarrollBlog 1.17
"To know someone
here or there with whom
you can feel there is understanding
in spite of distances or
thoughts expressed--
this can make life a garden."

Goethe

CarrollBlog 1.16
I had that feeling again the other day. You know the one: you read a book that everyone has read and loved, or one strongly recommended to you by a person whose opinion you respect very much. But having finished it, your only reaction is either a mild shrug or active dislike/resentment for having wasted those hours looking for something to like in the story. For me the feeling is usually an uncomfortable mixture of disappointment (that was a bore), paranoia (why does everyone like this book? Is there something wrong with me because I don't?), and vague annoyance (why would X think I'd like this dumb story?).

CarrollBlog 1.15
"Near the end of his life, living in Berlin with his lover, Franz Kafka went for a walk in the park and saw a little girl crying. He asked her what the matter was, and she told him that she had lost her doll. Without missing a beat, Kafka assured the little girl that the doll wasn't lost, only traveling; Kafka knew this for a fact, he said, because the doll had written him a letter describing her journeys, which he promised to bring the girl the next day. Every day for three weeks, he brought the girl a new letter that he had spent much of the previous night composing, until she could no longer remember why she had been sad in the first place."

Jeff Turrentine

CarrollBlog 1.14
a letter from a friend:

Today I visited my aunt in her fabric shop. We were sitting having coffee when the door suddenly opened and a bum entered. We were both totally astonished and wary. My first thought was he either came in to warm himself or to steal something. Why else would such a filthy, disheveled, repulsive man enter an elegant shop? He came over to us, took off his woolen cap and showed his few teeth in a wide smile. Then to our surprise, he asked whether we sold blue velvet for a suit. He started describing the kind he wanted, telling us that he possesses a huge collection of smart, expensive suits that he loves to wear on all occasions. He was behaving as if he were a very important, wealthy person. So we treated him like one. The baron had entered the store and so we gave him the royal treatment. It was a funny and sad few minutes. He was trying to create for himself or us (I couldn't tell which) an image of a normal successful life and for a while we sort of believed him. For a while we saw a normal, elegant man instead of a worn flat bum. Unfortunately, there was no blue velvet in the shop and the man said that maybe he would buy a suit instead of getting one made. Before he left he said he would go next to the most expensive men's shop in town. A few minutes he later he was gone.

CarrollBlog 1.13
"I remember a day back in art school when, upon realizing we had run out of film, a friend and I burst into spontaneous applause at a magnificent sunset. It was the most fitting, heartfelt tribute we could think of."

Armand Frasco

CarrollBlog 1.12
Even when it's not in the direction I'm going, sometimes I'll make a detour to look in a certain display window nearby. The store sells cheap silver jewelry and electric trains. The jewelry is sold by an old Sikh who wears a turban and always sits in exactly the same place, glowering. On the other side of the store, a blond fat man sells the electric trains. He always appears busy arranging or dusting his small wares, which only adds to the frown of the old Sikh who never moves. A few years ago the place sold only electric trains, but I guess things went sour in that singular business and the owner of the store had to find a partner to share the rent. Now and then what appears to be the Sikh's whole family is sitting in there with him. They are almost always eating. Jaws moving, the old man continues to glower. The train man arranges. I cannot remember ever having seen a customer in that store.

CarrollBlog 1.11
I know many people have favorite books or movies that they revisit again and again over the years, always drawing new pleasures or perspectives from them. Not me. I've now laid down the law with myself that with very few exceptions, I am not allowed to re-read books I once loved or movies that long ago and far away sent me into a swoon. Too often for me, going back to a once loved book (or film) is like looking up an old girlfriend and going out on a date. The experience is almost invariably a disaster. When the first James Bond film DR.NO came out in the early 60's, I thought it was about the coolest film I'd ever seen. I watched it again for the first time in decades the other night and everything about it is either goofy, ridiculous, or dull. But I knew that was going to happen as soon as I put the dvd into the machine. Why couldn't I have just left my boy's memory of James Bond alone?

CarrollBlog 1.8
Winter weather. Gravel in your shoe weather. Gravel strewn over ice to keep us safe. Invariably those small stones seem to find creative ways into your boots and shoes. And those big cold water drops that hit your head or neck from the snow melting off the roofs above. Yellow dog pee stains on the many islands of leftover snow everywhere. The sound of cars sliding over gravel as they slow to a stop at a traffic light. The metallic knocking of radiators as they expand and contract. The muffled *whump* of clumps of snow when they fall off a tree or roof and hit the ground. The smell of wet stone streets. The smell of damp wool. The lovely treasured smell of wood smoke. January weather.

CarrollBlog 1.6
Someone I know suffered 2 tragic losses recently under hideous, unbelievable circumstances. Having just returned with their friend P from the funeral of one of the victims, they wrote the following. The subject heading of the mail was "The first good thing."

Something cool just happened here. The doorbell rang. That never happens, because there are something like 19 keys to my house and whenever someone comes here, they usually just knock once or twice and then let themselves in. The doorbell is usually reserved for the Saturday morning visits of religious zealots and other such crap.
But today it rang, P and I both answered, and it was this cute little Girl Scout. She was very young so I think it was her first year out of the Brownies and into Scouts. Her mom was with her, but the little girl did all the talking. You know the whole GS cookie pitch, and she ended by saying I know someone has already been to your neighborhood, but maybe you could just buy one more box from me?
P and I just kind of looked at each other sideways. I told the kid that we have not been home a lot this week so we have not ordered cookies yet. She jumped up and down clapping, so excited that she might get a sale. She looked at her mom and said, Maybe they will order three or four! Her mom told her not to be rude.
P and I looked at each other again and he said, What do you think, 20 boxes? and I said, No. Better make it 50 boxes. And we did. We ordered 50 boxes of Girl Scout cookies from this girl. You should have seen her face. It was the best thing I have seen since Christmas.
Our cookies will be here on Feb. 8th.
And I hope you like GS cookies because there will be tons heading your way.

CarrollBlog 1.5
An artist friend and his family are in Vienna for the week visiting. They were over for dinner last night and were talking about the things they'd seen and enjoyed so far while here. At their mother's urging, the two children got out notebooks and showed us what they contained. It turns out that whenever the family visits a new place, all of them buy new sketchbooks there and whenever they see something they like or want to remember, they draw it. As a result, trips to museums or cafes sometimes take hours. The children are 8 and 12 but their sketchbooks are full of sophisticated striking things. Interesting characters they glimpsed on the street, those sexy Viennese sphinx statues with big breasts and wings on their back, their own versions of Egon Schiele portraits. So much better than a photo album. How wonderful it will be when these kids have grown up and look at these books, their drawings, a personal record in their own hand of what life looked like at eight.

CarrollBlog 1.3
The New Year

It is winter and the New Year.
Nobody knows you.
Away from the stars, from the rain of light,

you lie under the weather of stones.
There is no thread to lead you back.
Your friends doze in the dark
of pleasure and cannot remember.
Nobody knows you. You are the neighbor of nothing.
You do not see the rain falling and the man walking away,

the soiled wind blowing its ashes across the city.
You do not see the sun dragging the moon like an echo.
You do not see the bruised heart go up in flames,

the skulls of the innocent turn into smoke.
You do not see the scars of plenty, the eyes without light.
It is over. It is winter and the New Year.
The meek are hauling their skins into heaven.
The hopeless are suffering the cold with those who have nothing to hide.
It is over and nobody knows you.
There is starlight drifting on the black water.
There are stones in the sea no one has seen.
There is a shore and people are waiting.
And nothing comes back.
Because it is over.
Because there is silence instead of a name.
Because it is winter and the New Year.

Mark Strand

CarrollBlog 1.2
In the dressing room at the gym, one man starts to whistle. There are several people in there and all of us stop what we're doing because the guy is phenomenal. He's just whistling unconsciously as he gets dressed, no big thing, but he's so good at it that he could give a concert and sell tickets. Trills and flips and glissandos, all of it amazing stuff. You can't believe what this guy can do with his lips. He finishes dressing and cheerfully says goodbye. After he's left the room we stay silent and look at each other.

I love that about life. Now and then someone shows they possess these unexpected abilities-- whistling or juggling, dancing, solving puzzles, or drawing that you never knew about. But when we experience them, life suddenly becomes a bit larger, more mysterious, and definitely more wonderful if only for a little while.

CarrollBlog 1.1
After Christmas every year in the park across the street, the Vienna sanitation department designates a place where people can dump their Christmas trees. In time they will be properly disposed of by the city. Inevitably some bring their trees into the park but don't get as far as the dump spot. They just leave them wherever they please. Which means for a week or two there are a variety of trees laying on their sides scattered around the park. Dingles and dangles of silvery tinsel hang from the branches, now and then even a lone ornament too.Especially If it has snowed and their dark stands out against the white these trees are prominent, sad reminders when you walk through the park that the holiday season really is finished for the year.

please feel free to contact us with any comments, requests, questions or issues.