CarrollBlog 5.1

In a heavy rain, I was walking quickly along trying to get there. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a large dog dashing across the pedestrian zone. It was so wet that water was flying off its long coat. It was moving so fast and looked so excited that I stopped just to watch where it was going. Standing twenty feet away stood a very chic, elegantly dressed woman. All in beige, she had long sweeping hair a la Rita Hayworth. She held a newspaper over her head in a futile attempt to keep it dry in the rain. But seeing this dog racing toward her, she dropped the paper and slapped both hands against her thighs, urging it to come. The dog happily threw itself up on her. Because it was big, its long outstretched paws went halfway up her arms. My first thought was oh man, he's going to ruin her coat. But she was laughing and kissing the dog by then, indifferent to what it was doing to her beautiful clothes, just as happy to see it as it was to see her.
That happened a long time ago but I have never forgotten it.
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CarrollBlog 4.30

I bumped into someone on the street yesterday I hadn't seen for ages. Kiss kiss how ARE you? Blah blah. They told me they'd recently moved to the neighborhood and were just getting used to what stores to use, what restaurants, etcetera. The backstory on this woman is she is very beautiful, very messed up, and very charismatic. She's probably broken more hearts than any person I have ever known, but she does it innocently and without the slightest bit of guile. She just is who she is and that's a major handful. Whenever I've seen her in the past, she's always been involved with a number of men at the same time but none of them know about each other until she tells them and then boom. Ever since we met about five years ago I've wanted to use her as a character in a novel, but just can't figure her out. I'm often asked if I use people from real life as the basis for characters in my books. I always say yes, but with lots of alterations and their approval, naturally. It's like bringing a new coat to the tailor and having them take it in a little here, let out the sleeves, etcetera. But there are some people who you'd love to put into a book but they just don't fit, or some intangible part of them won't let you. No, not me. When we said goodbye yesterday, I stood on the street watching her walk away thinking once again, damn it, she'd be so great but it ain't gonna happen.

CarrollBlog 4.29

The sad sweetness of an outdoor flea market or neighborhood block party that is being held on a rainy day. The few people there all seem to be hunched over-- both the sellers and the buyers. Display tables are covered with big sheets of transparent plastic to protect the goods. It's almost impossible to see what is underneath them. Or the things for sale are so worthless that they've been left uncovered and are getting soaked. The vivid smell of grilling food no one is buying. The many picnic tables that have been set out are all empty except for one very thin man smoking a cigarette. A woman is playing old pop songs on a small organ. "Come on Baby, light my fire..."
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The shoe store that never appears to have any customers has decorated its display window with many brightly colored posters announcing "The New Spring Models you've been waiting for have finally arrived! Come on in and take a look."
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Three very hard looking fellows are walking down the street with that "Don't mess with us" aura to them. One is walking a young pitbull on a leash. The dog is frisky and jumping around, getting in the way. The guy finally has enough of her shenanigans and growls, "Alicia, behave yourself!"
Alicia?

CarrollBlog 4.28

A fan of Simon Haden (maybe it was even Haden himself in disguise) sent a link to a website that made me smile. It's called "The Sartorialist" and run by a guy who loves men's and, to a lesser degree, women's fashion. He walks around the streets of New York taking photos of well dressed people and then posting them with short comments on his site. Besides being witty and insightful, what I like best is his obsession/passion for the subject. Whether it is postage stamps, armadillos, meerschaum pipes, or fashion, it's always a happy moment to meet up with someone who's obsessive in an original way about something. That's one of the reasons why I chose to write about the very real Josef Kyselak in GLASS SOUP: I just loved the idea that someone could be obsessed with the usually mundane act of writing your name. What's enjoyable too about The Sartorialist are the expressions on the faces of his subjects. They're almost all smiling in happy, unposed ways. It's obvious they're delighted to have been stopped for this picture. Flattered that someone in the know, a stranger, said to them out of the blue you're dressed wonderfully today. Can I take your picture to post on my website? There isn't an ounce of smug in any of their expressions. In fact many, no matter how old or sophisticated they are, are smiling with real delight. They're thrilled by this nice surprise and the expressions on their faces are an inch or two away from the joy of children.

CarrollBlog 4.27

In Vienna, panhandlers often station themselves near ATM (Bankomat) machines. I think they do it because they believe people withdrawing money will feel either generous or guilty with their handfuls of new cash. Which hopefully means a greater chance that they'll give some away. One man I often see sits near a very busy machine with his huge unfriendly dog. He has a whole set up-- small bowls for the dog's food and water, a ratty blanket for the dog to sit on, a hat turned upside down for donations, etcetera. The problem is that the dog barks or growls at almost everyone who comes near. Whether they want to use the cash machine or throw some coins into the man's cap, the dog growls at them or worse. It struck me today for the first time when I saw them that in its way, it's sort of beautiful. Because this scary dog is the absolute worst partner the man could have for his line of business. Yet he obviously loves it enough that he is willing to sacrifice probably a lot more coins in his hat than if he didn't have this misanthropic beast as his constant companion.
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CarrollBlog 4.26

Although I don't use them, I have a soft spot for huge obscure words that mean only one weird thing nobody ever does or thinks about. For example, I read an article the other day about the Pentecostal Church and how many of the members believe in "glossolalia," or the speaking in tongues. Another taste treat from the same article, was "xenoglossy" which is the sudden ability to speak in foreign tongues you never knew before. When I read that, I lit right up because that's exactly what happened to Harry Radcliffe in OUTSIDE THE DOG MUSEUM. Hot Damn, if I only knew then there was an actual dictionary word for that phenomena! There are numerous websites on the internet that list hundreds of tongue staggering, multisyllabic, use it once in a lifetime words. There are even some writers, like the great Alexander Theroux and SJ Perelman, who actually used them in their work. But to me no matter what these words mean, they're all vaguely funny. Even stranger or funnier (I can't decide which) are the people who create the words to fit the things. How the hell did they ever come up with "xenoglossy"? I'm sure there are perfectly logical prefix and suffix reasons, but still I picture some guy behind a huge pile of books in a dusty chamber somewhere scratching his sparse hair with a well used pencil, narrowing his eyes while thinking, "And what about the person who's suddenly able to speak in foreign tongues? What do we call THAT phenomena?" Rubbing his hands gleefully together, he dives head first back into the wild sea of unborn words to create something suitable.

CarrollBlog 4.25

My beloved pal AP is a paramedic. I asked her to tell me a good story from her job.

CarrollBlog 3.24

While at the airport waiting for someone to arrive, I remembered the time I was here and saw the woman waiting with a large bouquet of flowers in her hand, a big expectant smile on her face. She was very dressed up and her hair was the kind of too-perfect that said she had been to the hairdresser that day. I guessed she was waiting for her husband or boyfriend because she was wearing a clinging, sexy dress. Sure enough, a few minutes later the doors opened and a rush of people flooded out. She appeared to recognize one of them, a man in a suit and tie, and hurried forward all smiles. The guy was very plain looking, very nondescript. Just as she was about to reach him though she pulled up hard and quickly turned around. Obviously mistaken identity that she had avoided at the last moment. A few more minutes passed while people came and went and then it happened again: Doors opened, big rush of people, a very nondescript man, she rushed forward only to screech to a halt at the last moment-- mistaken identity. At that point I thought what if you were married to someone so average, so like everybody else, so easily mistaken for a million other people that you actually embraced them, gave them the flowers, kissed them hello, took their arm, took them home, made welcome home love to them... and neither of you realized the mistake for days?

CarrollBlog 4.23

A friend who has an ongoing terrible relationship with her mother told me a great macabre story yesterday. Her mother never calls, but when she does it's always with some ridiculous impossible request, or a nasty job she demands daughter do. True to form, she recently called and said Nikolas is very sick. I want you to take him to the veterinary and have him put to sleep. Nikolas was my friend's cat through half her childhood and a great friend. But she moved out of the house ten years ago and has had almost no contact with the cat since. Despite that, dutiful daughter went and picked up poor old sick Nikolas, took him to the vet and had him put down. Lots of tears, childhood memories, etcetera. The mother had asked her to bring the body back afterward and they would bury it together in the backyard, the cat's favorite place. When she got home again, Mom was out in the yard having already dug the small grave. Dry eyed, she told her daughter to wrap Nikolas's body in this blanket and then put him in the grave. My friend's eyes widened when she saw the cerement Mom had chosen-- her own baby blanket. Appalled, she shouted, "That's *my* baby blanket! You wrapped me in that when I was little! I used to carry it around with me all the time! Don't you remember?"
Unimpressed, Mom said coldly "So?"

CarrollBlog 4.22

Two young boys are playing on the monkey bars in the park. They look like brothers maybe three or four years apart. It's plain they really like each other and are together because they want to be, not because Mom said take your little brother outside for a while. The older boy does some clumsy tricks on the bars. After watching closely and clapping his admiration, little brother gets up there and copies them immediately, sometimes successfully sometimes not. The older boy gets on again and hooks his legs over the bar. Hanging upside down, he waves his arms and makes silly faces. His audience of one laughs and laughs. After the other swings down and off, the young one jumps on and takes his place. As soon as he's upside down, his white t-shirt drops to his neck. Going all the way down the middle of his chest is a huge hideous purple scar. It looks like the kind of scar people have after open heart surgery. Older brother sees me looking and what I'm looking at. Immediately, awkwardly he pulls his brother's shirt back up, yanks him down from the bars, and the two of them walk away.

CarrollBlog 4.21

"All sorrows can be borne,
if you put them into a story."
Isak Dinesen

CarrollBlog 4.20

from the journal of Olga Nunes (www.olganunes.com)

CarrollBlog 4.19

When her father was old, sick and bedridden the only thing he wanted to eat was cookies. By then he weighed almost nothing and it was important that he eat healthy nutritious things to keep him from wasting away altogether. But he only wanted cookies. He had not been a very nice father to his children. When his daughter came to visit it was hard to associate this gravely ill half-child in bed with the dynamic, fascinating bully who had so captivated and frightened her when she was growing up. From the sidelines now she watched the battle of wills between her still-feisty mother and father as they fought over what he should be eating. It might have been funny or at least comical if it weren't so sad to hear these two one time titans fussing at each other about the nutritional benefits of the chocolate chip. There was no budging either of them, so the daughter decided to take matters into her own hands. The next time she was at the market, she bought three bags of the most expensive cookies they sold. When her mother was out of the house, she brought them to her father's bedroom and held them up in front of him. She knew the kinds she had selected were his favorites. Her first instinct was to just give them to him, tell him to hide them from Mom, and be done with it. But as soon as she saw the greedy gleam in his eyes, she was flooded with memories of things he had done and said to her and her siblings when they were kids that were cruel or humiliating or manipulative. For long moments she battled the wickedly powerful urge to dangle the cookies in front of her dying old man and go "Nyah nyah-- want them? Can't have them," and walk out of the room.
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check them out:

CarrollBlog 4.18

Early Easter Sunday she and her husband went out to have coffee together. On the way to the cafe, a gypsy (the Austrians call them "Romer") woman and her small child were sitting on a side street, begging. The young mother had no teeth. The child could not have been more than three or four years old. Both of them were filthy.

CarrollBlog 4.17

For those of you who'll be in Italy in May and are in the mood, I'll be there at the beginning and end of the month for 2 different book festivals: May 5-8 the "Fiera del Libro" in Turin, and then "La Biblioteca in Giardino" in Milan on May 30. Come by and say hello if you can pull yourself away from the cappuccino. The trips coincide with the Italian publication of A CHILD ACROSS THE SKY, which will be titled "i bambini di Pinsleepe." The book sports a wicked yellow cover by Dave McKean.

CarrollBlog 4.16

from "The Chair She Sits In"

CarrollBlog 4.15

At the stand up sandwich place there are mirrors everywhere. A man comes in and orders one sandwich. That is sort of odd because the sandwiches there are very small and basically eaten in one or two bites. Even children usually order three or four, but this guy wanted one. He walks to the table in front of mine looking straight into the mirror the whole time. He lifts the food from the plate and begins to eat, eyes never leaving his reflection. It's odd and disconcerting to watch. He does not stop staring at himself while eating verrrry slowly, sometimes turning his head a little to the left, sometimes to the right. It reminds me of the way you look at your hair in the mirror after standing up from the barber's chair when your haircut is finished. Interestingly enough I recognize this guy. Years ago he used to work as a salesman at a men's store where I shopped and we talked a few times. Years later, I jumped in a cab and he was the driver. Fast forward a few more years and by chance he was working in a giant appliance shop when I went in to buy something. It almost feels like I know him because I've seen him in three different jobs. Maybe he felt that too because finally for a few seconds his eyes left the mirror and looked around. When he saw me, his glance lingered a few blinks in one of those "Do I know him?" pauses. But then as if they couldn't stand to be away longer, his eyes slid back to his reflection. They stayed there until he had finished eating.
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CarrollBlog 4.14

A long time ago when I was doing journalism, I was assigned by a men's magazine to interview a clothing designer. Generally I don't like reading interviews with famous people because the questions are either fawning or transparently aggressive. So I thought okay, if I'm going to do this I'll at least try to ask things that come from an unexpected direction and hopefully elicit different responses. The first question I asked this man was, "What do you think when you see a short fat guy wearing one of your three thousand dollar suits? Or a skinny birdlike woman who's just this side of anorexia in one of your chic gowns? Does that bother you? Let's face it-- at a fashion show, your clothes are shown on beautiful models with remarkable bodies, so of course everything looks great. But what happens when you see those same clothes worn by real people who are bald, have bad posture, etcetera?

CarrollBlog 4.13

The man has Parkinson's Disease. I watch closely as he waits for the waitress, gives his order, and then prepares the coffee when she brings it. Someone I was very close to had Parkinson's Disease for years but I had forgotten the elaborate array of moves they use to deal with the many difficulties of the disease, and to disguise from the world as best they can that they are afflicted. While waiting, he covers one hand with the other because it is shaking. When the coffee arrives he waits until the waitress leaves before uncovering the fluttering hand. He stares at it for some time to see how strongly it shakes before deciding to risk using it to pick up the spoon for the sugar, etcetera. So much thought and effort for a gesture that comes effortlessly to most of us. The untrustworthy hand does what he asks-- holds the spoon upright while he pours sugar into it, moves without shaking to the top of the cup, spills the sugar in, etcetera. Shifting the spoon to his good hand, he drops the other to his lap, and stirs the coffee. Only after all that is accomplished does his whole body relax. Then his eyes close a long moment in relief or gratitude.

CarrollBlog 4.12

As soon as I saw the photograph on the cover of the book, I knew I must try and get a copy of the original. I tracked down the photographer, wrote him an email, and asked if it would be possible to buy a print of that wonderful work. He wrote back a nice letter saying sure and asked what size I wanted because the cost would depend on the size of the print. I remember reading his reply and feeling vaguely odd for a while. Almost as if I'd written to, say, Van Gogh and asked if he could paint me a copy of "Starry Night." He answered yes and asked what size do you want? The price depends on the size of the copy you request: Do you want a three hundred franc "Starry Night" or a six hundred franc "Starry Night"?

CarrollBlog 4.11

Stealing

The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
Midnight. He looked magnificent; a tall, white mute
beneath the winter moon. I wanted him, a mate
with a mind as cold as the slice of ice
within my own brain. I started with the head.

Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want. He weighed a ton; his torso,
frozen stiff, hugged to my chest, a fierce chill
piercing my gut. Part of the thrill was knowing
that children would cry in the morning. Life's tough.

Sometimes I steal things I don't need. I joy-ride cars
to nowhere, break into houses just to have a look.
I'm a mucky ghost, leave a mess, maybe pinch a
camera.
I watched my gloved hand twisting the doorknob.
A stranger's bedroom. Mirrors. I sigh like this--Aah.

It took some time. Reassembled in the yard,
he didn't look the same. I took a run
and booted him. Again. Again. My breath ripped out
in rags. It seems daft now. Then I was standing
alone amongst lumps of snow, sick of the world.

Boredom. Mostly I'm so bored I could eat myself.
One time I stole a guitar and thought I might
learn to play. I nicked a bust of Shakespeare once,
flogged it, but the snowman was strangest.
You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?


Carol Ann Duffy
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"Poetry is about slowing down. You sit and you read something, you read it again, and it reveals a little bit more, and things come to light you never could have predicted."

CarrollBlog 4.10

I went to the Leopold Museum here in Vienna yesterday to see exhibits of the work of Egon Schiele and Alfons Walde. Two things in particular struck me:

CarrollBlog 4.9

A madman is in the subway station. He is talking loudly to a rat that he has inside his shirt. For a while it looks like he's just talking to himself, almost shouting, but eventually he reaches down into the shirt and gently takes out a large white rat which runs nervously up and down his arms and shoulders. People are watching and the guy knows he's the center of attention. When he looks up and makes eye contact with any of his audience, they quickly look away with outraged or disgusted expressions. This appears to delight him. He starts walking down the platform, asking individuals if they'd like to see or talk to his rat. He keeps saying that word with real emphasis-- my RAT. As if he wants to make sure everyone understands that he has one. To a person, they all turn away and either shake their heads or looked very pissed off that he confronted them. Evenutally he comes to a nice looking woman with a 5 or 6 year old child. You can see Rat Man is looking forward to what Mom is going to do when he sticks white fat Willard in her child's face. Instead the woman smiles and very sweetly asks, "What's his name?" The man freezes and pulls his rat back, as if she were trying to steal it. "Does he have a name?" Both Mother and child are watching and waiting, all smiles. The man squints, then makes a very suspicious face. He shoves the rat back down into his shirt and hurries away.

CarrollBlog 4.8

"I have an idol in my life: a poster I have kept for many years. This is myself at 11 years of age; he's my greatest hero in life. At that time I was at my best, at that time I had an absolute belief in the imagination as a tool to handle reality. I thought it was possible to do everything. Today I know more, but the power I had at that time...!"

CarrollBlog 4.7

Girlfriends

CarrollBlog 4.6

Coming towards me are a man and his dog. The man is very lame and walks with the sort of rolling limp that you see in people who have one leg shorter than the other. The two of them move slowly but gamely. The beautiful part is that the dog keeps looking up at its master with worried, patient eyes. Its expression is entirely human and loving. Its eyes ask am I moving too fast for you? Are you okay?
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Outside one of those "we sell everything" discount stores is a bin full of women's bras. So what, until something dawns on me and I have to look again. They are the biggest bras I have ever seen. They are so enormous that you could easily carry two infants in each of them and perhaps some groceries as well. And the metal bin is filled to the top with them. There must be fifty in there, all that same 747 size. Vienna is a town of hefty women with very large chests but these things are beyond belief. Parachutes for munchkins. Temporary housing for Lilliputians. Lean to's for leprechauns.
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She told me a small story from her past that I later reshaped, edited and used in a novel. After the book was published, she was angry at me for not writing her story exactly as it happened. I protested that she had given me permission to use it. Yes, but I didn't know that you were going to change it. The irony is that her anecdote had a very sad ending. Mine was much more hopeful.
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Just in from RC:

CarrollBlog 4.5

While watching a documentary on the life of Charles Dickens, I started to grin. Apparently the master kept a large mirror on the wall of his study. Often while writing he would suddenly jump up, rush over to the mirror, and start making strange, grotesque faces while talking into it. To a visitor it looked like he'd gone mad, but to Dickens' family it was no big deal. He was just acting out the roles and words of the characters he was creating to see how they looked and sounded. I think a lot of writers do that whether they admit to it or not. When I am writing I often say words, sentences, or whole passages aloud (especially while writing a movie) to hear if it sounds right or real or both. The dog, who sleeps at my feet, used to raise his head when he was young when he heard me spout off. Now he doesn't even open an eye. That would be a neat scene in a film-- the camera moves around a city peeking into different windows. In every one of them, a person alone at a desk is talking to themselves and gesturing dramatically. Only later do we find out they're not lunatics, but just writers doing their work.
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"Write about what you're afraid of."
Donald Barthelme
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check out the sculpture at www.jessicajoslin.com

CarrollBlog 4.4

Two old women are eating fish together. It's a fast food restaurant and they're sitting at the window table. But neither is looking out because they're so busy talking to each other. Both must be in their late 70's, dressed nicely but not specially. With some old people it is hard to tell what they once looked like because their faces have begun to lose their distinguishing features to the onslaught of both gravity and wrinkles. Granted, there are some seniors who are still knockouts no matter how many wrinkles or jowls they have. But these two are not them. Just a couple of old women having a nice meal and chat together in the window seat. A teenager who works there brings one of them an order of fried potatoes which must have just been made. As he approaches their table, both women light up. They thank him and then start to flirt with him. It's marvelous to watch because his presence transforms both of them. No matter how old they might be, they are both suddenly 17 again competing hard for his attention. The kid obviously likes it too because he sticks around to talk with them. I realize only after a while that I have a forkful of food halfway to my mouth that hasn't moved for some time because I'm so caught up in enjoying their three way flirt.
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"O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of
movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder."

CarrollBlog 4.3

Every Sunday in the New York Times there's a section I enjoy reading entitled "Weddings and Celebrations." It chronicles not only the details of different couples' wedding ceremonies, but how they met and courted. If you're depressed and think life offers only bad luck, bad breath or bad timing; that there is no magic around anywhere, then read a few of these columns and some hope will return. My favorite story was from some years ago: A man was riding in a cab through Manhattan on a rainy night in the middle of the week. He was depressed and just going home from work. At a traffic light he happened to look outside and right there was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen walking alone in the rain without a coat on, weeping. Without any hesitation, he jumped out of the taxi, walked right over to her and asked what was wrong. Turns out she had just broken up with her long time boyfriend. Crushed, the only thing she wanted to do was walk and weep. Her world had come to an end. A year later these two were married. Or more recently, the two eighty year olds who met in a Connecticut rest home and romance followed. If you appreciate stories like this or just want to go on believing that positive, sometimes even astounding things really do happen in the world, check out www.nytimes.com on Sundays and look for "Weddings and Celebrations."

CarrollBlog 4.2

The great novelist Stanislaw Lem died last week. I love his work and will always be grateful to him because he originally suggested to the Polish magazine FANTASTYKA that they publish The Land of Laughs almost two decades ago. I was asked by a newspaper in Cracow for my feelings on Lem's passing.

CarrollBlog 4.1

At the gym, a woman is sitting on a stationery bicycle pedaling energetically while looking at a magazine. She is directly in front of the machine I'm on so I can see over her shoulder. What's peculiar is she appears to be reading only the ads in the magazine. She skips over every article and every picture, but full-stops when she gets to an advertisement for car insurance. She spends a long time reading it, then skip skip skip-- until an ad for prefabricated houses with a whole page of miniscule text. She brings it up closer to her face and reads it. Skip skip--- on to beauty cream with a long description of the miracle product. I have always wondered why companies bother writing copy for advertisements because who the hell reads that crap. Now I know.
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A woman and three children are standing near a bakery. Every one of the kids is eating an absolutely enormous piece of pastry, all of them different kinds. The sweeties are so big that the kids have to hold them with two hands. The stuff is all over their faces. The mother is watching with such love in her eyes that it is the biggest pastry of all.
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The handicapped man who looks like he has some form of the "Elephant Man" disease is standing in front of a lingerie shop looking at the window display with his hands in his pockets. When I return that way minutes later, he is still there window shopping.