CarrollBlog 8.1

"Sometimes he thought of past love affairs as graffitti written across the story of his life. Most of it was easily wiped away with a rag and any kind of cleaning fluid. In contrast, there were a few scribbles that had been drawn with black permanent ink. These were tougher to remove. Sometimes no matter how much he rubbed and scrubbed, faint traces of them remained for a long time. Finally there was the graffitti that had been carved deep into his surface with a sharp knife and fierce determination. It was usually small because any carving *that* deep took time and real effort. But it was the most permanent. No way could he ever erase it unless layers of himself were sanded away and obviously that was impossible. The only thing to do was accept it as part of his being now, like a scar or a bad tattoo. As it aged in years to come, it became less visible but never disappeared."

CarrollBlog 7.31

I rarely see women with their hands in their pockets. Even though the vast majority of females appear to wear pants of one sort or another these days, I almost never see one with her hands in her pockets. Is this a male genetic thing? I literally get nervous if I'm wearing pants without pockets everywhere. One film critic called actors like Cary Grant "pocket actors" because most of the time he keeps them in there in his movies. The critic contended a lot of actors don't know what to do with their hands when playing a scene. So the easiest thing to do is just hide them in there and not worry about it. Apparently some of the famous directors in the 40's and 50's instructed them to do this. But women?
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'Memento Mori' is a Latin phrase that translates "remember that you are mortal." Most of us know the phrase by the images we've seen of human skulls kept on medieval scholars' desks. There to remind those men to work hard now because soon they'll be dead and there's no time to waste. Carpe diem. About this time every year in paper stores all around Vienna, display windows start exhibiting back to school stuff (notebooks, pens, ring binders, pencil cases), although school doesn't start here until the beginning of September. Passing one of these stores this morning, it struck me that seeing these reminders of school in the middle of summer must be like memento mori for kids. Better get off your ass and start enjoying the summer right now because September is already whispering in your ear...

CarrollBlog 7.30

Benevolence
Tony Hoagland

CarrollBlog 7.29

TEHRAN, Iran - Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has ordered government and cultural bodies to use modified Persian words to replace foreign words that have crept into the language, such as "pizzas" which will now be known as "elastic loaves," state media reported Saturday.

CarrollBlog 7.28

While chatting with AP about pornography because of the blog I wrote about it the other day, I remembered an incident from years ago. I knew a man who was district attorney of a major city in America. While visiting him one day, I asked what he was working on. He said a very big pornography case. In true stupid Liberal cliche fashion, I started mouthing off about how all pornography should be permitted, it was an individual's right to look at it if he chose, the First Amendment, blah blah. Without saying a word, this man went and got his briefcase. Opening it, he took some things out and dropped them on the table between us. Three magazines. The first thing I noticed without really seeing what they were was all three looked very expensive and professional. Good paper, binding, etcetera. Someone had spent a lot of money to publish those magazines. I picked one up, opened it and gasped. Dropping it back on the table, I looked at my friend with my mouth open. He told me to look at the others. I picked up the second, opened it, looked at a few pages, and then it literally fell out of my slack hand because what it contained was so mind bogglingly hideous and evil. I didn't have the nerve to pick up the third.
"That's the kind of pornography we're prosecuting. Not PLAYBOY." He said quietly.

CarrollBlog 7.27

The visionary behind the wonderful Moleskinerie website(www.moleskinerie.com), Armand Frasco, is at it again. He's created a brand new site for those of us who are obsessed with notebooks and all the delights associated with writing in them by hand. Have a look because anything by Herr Frasco is good stuff.

CarrollBlog 7.26

There's a store in the neighborhood that sells international magazines. Once a month I go there to buy *Men's Journal* because I like to armchair travel through their articles on crazy macho adventures people actually pay money to undertake. Base jumping! Bungee jumping! Canyoning! Just turning the pages makes me tired. Anyway, at the front of the store are the normal mags-- computer, women's, teen mags... In the back is super duper hardcore pornography. The display window of the store has the covers to some of the magazines they sell in back and it's pretty strong stuff. Today I went there to buy MJ. While I was at the desk, a very elegant, very well dressed woman about 75 or 80 emerged from the back of the store. Empty handed I noticed. She looked at me, smiled sweetly and made her way out of the store. The cashier watched her go and then said in a disgusted voice, "She's in here every week looking for all the new hot stuff."
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CarrollBlog 7.25

As part of the contract, publishers always send you a few author's copies of a book when they publish them. They're nice to see, especially editions in languages you can't even decipher. But these books just go in a corner and gather dust. A few years ago I had a good idea: I started signing the Polish copies I'd received "Welcome to Vienna/Jonathan Carroll." Whenever I saw a car with Polish license plates parked near my apartment, I'd put one under the windshield wiper. A small unexpected surprise and hopefully some of the owners would enjoy the books. Yesterday for the first time I received an email saying "Dear. Mr. Carroll. Thank you for the book you put on my car when I was in Vienna. I read this book and hated it but it was very nice of you to give it to me."

CarrollBlog 7.24

It must be a grandfather and his grandson. They play soccer together two or three times a week. The endearing thing is the old man is on crutches because one of his legs is in a full cast. This is how they play: The man sits on a bench and the little boy-- he can't be more than four or five-- stands a few feet away. The kid kicks the ball towards grandfather who tries to stop it either with his good leg or a crutch. If he misses, the ball goes beneath his bench and the kid shoots his arms out to the sides like the pros do and runs in wide circles shouting "GOAAAAAAL!" The grandfather is a pretty bad goalkeeper and I don't know if that's because he's lousy or because he's letting the kid have the points....

CarrollBlog 7.23

The bums have discovered ping- pong. One of those permanent ping- pong tables was set up in the park some time ago. Ignored until recently, one day two really raggedy men were there playing a spirited game. Both were terrible at it but were playing all out-- lunging, falling down after missing shots, shouting congratulations, and having a great time. It looked like they were both using brand new paddles. I wondered where they came from. Maybe gifts from the ping pong god. Since then, a whole group of these guys have often crowded around the table, playing, watching, kibitzing, and of course drinking from those huge green liter bottles of cheap red wine for sale in the market nearby.

CarrollBlog 7.22

I haven't been in that cafe in years but I used to spend a lot of time there and got to know some of the regulars. I was in that part of town today and dropped in. One of the first people I saw made me smile. I remembered him from back then. A little squat bald man, nattily dressed, he always had the air of someone successful who retired long ago but didn't want the world to forget that he was important once. He always came into the place with his thin, blue haired wife who wore too much perfume and looked at him with adoring eyes. He ordered their coffee, but always went to the counter to pick it up himself. Wouldn't permit any waitress to bring it over. He also would not allow anyone to add the cream-- he had to do that himself. A dollop in one cup, a dollop in the other and then he would carefully carry both over to their table. His little eccentricity. He seemed to be a nice man and the waitresses humored him, although now and then you caught one of them rolling their eyes when the couple walked in.

Today in the cafe he was sitting alone at a window table. Just as I entered, a waitress brought over a cup of coffee and placed it in front of him. His face was sad and empty. He gave off the air of someone who has been alone for a long time. Passing his table, I looked into his cup and saw that cream had already been added.

CarrollBlog 7.21

A man I know lost his wife in the Spring after a long illness, and then that Fall his only child left for their first year at a university in another country. Sometimes I see this man and we chat about this and that, never for very long and always in a kind of hearty 'Hey, how're ya doing?' tone. I realized when I bumped into him recently that every time we meet, each of us looks at the other with the same questions in our eyes which of course always remains unspoken. My eyes ask how are you *really* doing? His eyes ask please don't ask me that question, okay? I'm so tired of hearing it and you already know the answer.
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CarrollBlog 7.20

I just remembered this: a couple of years ago I had dinner with an old friend who was crazy in love with a new boyfriend. She was so excited about this guy that she had taken a bunch of pictures of him on her cellphone so she could have his image with her always. Since I hadn't met him yet, she insisted on showing them to me. The problem was, in almost every shot he looked worse. In one he looked like a thug, in another like an arrogant prick, in another the kind of lady's man you wouldn't want a friend to get involved with, etcetera. She was thrilled to show me each one. When her slide show was over she asked, "Well what do you think? Isn't he adorable?" The only thing I could come up with was "I don't know. He's not very photogenic, is he?"

CarrollBlog 7.19

This is very cool. Check it out:

CarrollBlog 7.18

The weather in Vienna the last few days has been extraordinarily beautiful. To enjoy it, I've taken to going out to a park in the afternoon with the dog and reading for a while. A nice break for both of us. Today while reading, I heard a deep voice talking loudly close by. Looking up, I saw a man holding a long white stick to his ear and talking to it. As if it were a cellphone, he was having an animated conversation with whoever was on the other end of the stick. Then I happened to look in the other direction and there was a woman sitting on a bench a few feet away with seven plastic bags in front of her. She was eating lunch out of each one. She'd reach in, bring out a piece of fruit, eat it a while, and then throw what was left with all her might back into the bag. Sometimes the piece would go in, sometimes it would careen off onto the grass. Dig into another bag, bring out a different kind of fruit, eat it a while, sling it back into the bag. Dig for one... So Mr. Telephone Stick is chatting away on one side of me, the lunch slinger is on the other, and just at that moment who should walk by but the nut I see all the time practicing karate moves against a high concrete wall. He spin kicks it, hand chops it, jumps against it... endlessly. Nutty as a fruitcake, as my mother used to say. Sighing, I closed the book and pulled on the sleeping dog's leash to get going.
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"I'm 61 years old, which is too young for Medicare and too old for women to care."

CarrollBlog 7.17

"This tight focus can have an unsettling effect on a reader, which is what every author worth his or her salt wants. Get them in, lock the door, teach them the new language of your universe and tell them what you know.
A reader should emerge from a writer's grasp shaking like a golden retriever on the shore of a cold lake, and some of the drops should stick."

CarrollBlog 7.16

I love those moments in life when an unexpected smell or sound arrives out of nowhere and immediately changes the whole feeling of now. I live in a busy part of the city. This morning while staring out the window trying to figure something out in what I was writing, the very strong smell of freshly cut wood suddenly appeared. A country smell, like wood smoke or just mown grass, the aroma of fresh cut wood is singular, strong and carries with it a variety of associations, none of them connected to living downtown amidst gray concrete and car exhaust. About a mile from my apartment is one of the city's main railroad stations. Once in a while, usually late at night or early in the morning when things are quiet, you hear the sharp deeply evocative *tweep* of train whistles. There again, one sound completely changes the world for a moment or two; it beams you up (Scotty) to an entirely different place.

CarrollBlog 7.15

Ex-boyfriends in Heaven
by Gwen Hart

CarrollBlog 7.14

I have passed the store hundreds of times over the years and always thought, "I've got to go in there one day." It's a remnant, a relic, a time capsule in the middle of the block: A hat store. A 1950's hat store, somehow still alive today when the only kind of hats being worn are baseball caps. Yesterday I walked by, stopped, and turning to face it, thought what the hell and pushed the door open. Except it didn't budge-- it was locked. A small yellowing handwritten sign on the side said "ring the bell." Which made me smile. So I rang a bell the color of an old tooth and waited. And waited. Eventually on the other side of the door glass an old man appeared and smiled at me. He slowly unlocked three locks and opened up. The smell that wafted out from inside was a strong mix of stale, wool, damp, dust, body odor, and many other things that live inside a half century old hat store no one enters anymore except the owner who opens it in the morning and closes it at night. I took two steps in and noticed the contrast between how small the place was and how high the ceilings were. Fifteen feet? Wooden shelves everywhere were stacked high with brand new 1940's and 50's hats: Trilbys, homburgs, porkpies, fedoras, snap brims... You name it, they had them. It reminded me of a line from a John Cheever short story :"I grew up in a time when everyone's father wore a hat." But who bought these hats? I haven't seen someone wearing a homburg for years. Anywhere. But this looked like the Vienna home of homburgs. There must have been thirty of them stacked.
"Can I help you?" the old man asked very kindly.
I didn't know what to say. Can I stay here and just breathe this air a while and look into your shadows?

CarrollBlog 7.13

At Starbuck's a very handsome young man was working behind the counter. Almost movie star looks. Things in there were busy, but he made time to be both attentive and friendly to every customer he served. Most happened to be women (further attesting to my theory that Starbuck's is popular the world round because women love them. They love the variety of drinks, the cosiness of the furniture, the general gemutlichkeit. Whenever I have been in a Starbuck's anywhere the majority of customers were always women, no matter what time of day it was). It was funny to watch this time because all of the women this great looking, genuinely kind guy served were instantly, seriously smitten with him. You could see their eyes dance and twinkle and flirt when they answered his questions. Followed closely by an almost identical look in each pair of eyes: they asked is he being so nice because it's me, or just because he's a good guy? From what I could see it was because he was a good guy. But that didn't stop any of their long, hopeful looks. Even if the woman had been standing in line for a while and saw he was treating every customer the same, when it came their turn: Is he really this nice, or is he interested in me?

CarrollBlog 7.12

BEANNACHT
(Celtic blessing)

On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colors,
indigo, red, green
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight

When the canvas frays
in the boat of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

CarrollBlog 7.11

An email from a very pretty friend:

CarrollBlog 7.10

The woman with one hand was drinking Campari. I wrote about her here once before. Back then it was winter. We stood next to each other at the counter drinking coffee. When I asked for it, she pushed the cream container down to me with her badly deformed other hand. Birth defect? Thalidomide child? Yesterday it was very hot, just before a storm. She was dressed in a thin athletic top, running shorts and sneakers. She has a beautiful body and a plain face. She drank her red drink in slow sips, putting the glass back down on the counter after each one. She seemed to enjoy doing that-- little sip, down, little sip, down. I was on the other side of the room watching her enjoy both her summer drink and the small ceremony of drinking it. Eventually she saw me looking and raised her bad hand in a kind of hello/salute/yes, I recognize you too. I liked that she used that hand to do it.

CarrollBlog 7.9

Lines of the day:

CarrollBlog 7.8

"That's what art is, he said, the story of a life in all its particularity. It's the only thing that really is particular and personal. It's the expression and, at the same time, the fabric of the particular. And what do you mean by the fabric of the particular? I asked, supposing he would answer: Art. I was also thinking, indulgently, that we were pretty drunk already and that it was time to go home. But my friend said: What I mean is the secret story. . . . The secret story is the one we'll never know, although we're living it from day to day, thinking we're alive, thinking we've got it all under control and the stuff we overlook doesn't matter. But every damn thing matters! It's just that we don't realize. We tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, we don't even realize that's a lie."

CarrollBlog 7.7

A Willie Nelson story:

CarrollBlog 7.6

I was talking with a friend this afternoon. In passing I mentioned that Kenneth Lay, the president of ENRON who was recently convicted of numerous crimes and was awaiting sentencing, had had a heart attack and died. My friend immediately said, "Well, that's a novel way to avoid jail time. It's radical, but hey, you've gotta salute his creativity."
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just in from SS:

CarrollBlog 7.5

Old People, part 2

CarrollBlog 7.4

On a hot July day, an old woman is sitting alone in the middle of a sidewalk bench. She is wearing a wool hat, winter coat and muffler. I'm walking by in a hurry. On seeing her dressed like that I think, "God, to be cold today she must have no blood in her veins." She's gripping an old leather purse in both hands held on her lap. Opening the bag, she peers inside. Then she reaches in and pulls out a very wrinkled picture postcard and looks at it intently. As I pass, I see that there is nothing else inside her open purse. Nothing. Just that postcard.

CarrollBlog 7.3

One of the most terrible losses man suffers in his lifetime is not even noticed by most people, much less mourned. Which is astonishing because what we lose is in many ways one of the essential qualities that sets us apart from other creatures.
I'm talking about the loss of the sense of wonder that is such an integral part of our world when we are children. However as we grow older, that sense of wonder shrinks from cosmic to microscopic by the time we are adults. Kids say "Wow!" all the time. Opening their mouths fully, their eyes light up with genuine awe and glee. The word emanates not so much from a voice box as from an astonished soul that has once again been shown that their world is fully of amazing unexpected things.
When was the last time you let fly a loud, truly heartfelt "WOW"?
Not recently, I bet. Because generally speaking wonder belongs to kids, with the rare exception of falling madly in love with another person, which invariably leads to a rebirth of wonder. As adults, we are not supposed to say or feel Wow, or wonder, or even true surprise because those things make us sound goofy, ingenuous, and childlike. How can you run the world if you are in constant awe of it?
Of course there are exceptions. One need only look at the astounding success of Harry Potter, The Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, and the novels of Stephen King (the list is much longer than that, thank god), to see that people really are hungry for wonder. Still, most adults wouldn't fess up to that hunger because they don't want to admit how gorgeous it feels to sit transfixed in a movie theater or reading chair, thoroughly absorbed in a world ten times more interesting and vibrant than their own. The human heart has a long memory though and remembers what it was like to live through days when it was constantly surprised and enthralled by the world around it. Unfortunately we have been taught control, control, control all our lives by parents, society, and by our education. If you can't control something, then get rid of it or get out of it or get away from it.
Yet we know that both the heart and the imagination really are most alive when they are *not* in control of things, flying through the air without a safety net below to catch them. To live immersed in wonder means both the unknown and the thrilling surround you, as in a great love affair.

CarrollBlog 7.2

Sunday is the birthday of Wislawa Szymborska, the great Polish poet and Nobel Prize winner.
Read her if you haven't yet. She'll change the way you hear the music.