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CarrollBlog 6.22
I'll be traveling for the next week, so this blog will likely be going on screen saver mode for the next few days. But if I see something interesting along the way, I'll check in. If you're on the road too, travel well
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I {Heart} My Wife
by Darlyn Finch

"I {Heart} My Wife"
the bumper sticker read
in the window of the pickup truck
ahead of me at the red light,
and I burst into tears
for no particular reason
I could explain
to the crossing guard on the corner
or even to the man driving the truck,
who looked quite ordinary,
and did not realize
those four happy words
could rip a woman's heart out
under certain circumstances,
when she's one man's abscessed tooth,
and another's dirty little secret.

Then I stopped to wonder,
as I blew my nose
and wiped my eyes,
whether the man had bought the bumper sticker
at all, or if his wife had perhaps
stuck it there,
in the window behind his head,
as a message to women like me,
whom she surely knows are sitting
at every red light
in every town,
wishing they could one day be
someone's
very best thing.

CarrollBlog 6.20
A woman told me she was talking to her young son about religion, Life, God-- all the big things.
The boy asked, "Mom, if God is everything and everywhere, how come we can't see Him?"
Before his mother had a chance to answer, the boy said, "No that's not true-- we *do* see him; we see Him when we love someone."
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One of the first painful lessons children learn as they grow up is that they don't automatically deserve to be loved or forgiven.
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a new discovery:

www.ninjawords.com

CarrollBlog 6.19
Soon after walking into the cafe in the late afternoon, I start smiling but I'm not sure why. Then the answer comes to me: Over in one corner is an old old man eating an enormous one foot high ice cream sundae and obviously relishing every bite. In the opposite corner of the room is a very old woman chain smoking cigarettes and obviously relishing every single puff. I love them both instantly.

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The first dog I ever owned cost three dollars from the New Brunswick, New Jersey animal shelter. When I bought it, the man who ran the place said, "Ah ha, you want the dog of the week, eh?" I looked confused so he showed me the town newspaper. Every week this shelter chose one dog from the place and took a picture of it which the paper published. Normally at the time, dogs cost two dollars there, but the dog of the week was obviously a breed apart so for *that* one they charged three. I was told I was very lucky because already that day they had had phone inquiries about this fellow and any minute now someone was sure to sweep in and buy him. He was auburn colored with white paws. A nice looking dog but very clearly a mixed breed. However for some reason, his whole life people stopped and asked me what breed he was. They always seemed either disappointed or suspicious when I said he was only a mutt I'd bought from a dog pound. So one day when asked yet again, I promptly said that he was a New Brunswick T-tum, a very rare breed. The person was duly impressed. From then on, three dollar Loopy from the pound became the only 'New Brunswick T-tum' on earth. He lived fifteen years and died in Vienna, light years away from that New Jersey animal shelter. But what else would you expect from a being with such a distinguished pedigree?
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an interesting website from BL:

www.filmnoirwoodcuts.com

CarrollBlog 6.18
The fashion designer Gianfranco Ferre died last night. Years ago I was thinking of writing a novel set in the world of fashion, so I arranged to do a series of interviews with Italian designers for the American edition of GQ magazine. Because I live in Europe, it was convenient for them to say go to Rome or Milan and talk to so and so, 1000 words asap. One of these designers was Ferre. His office was in Milan so a date was set and I went down. The day I arrived I went directly to their office. His assistant came out to greet me ashen faced. Apparently Ferre wasn't in town because there had been some problems at their plant in Bologna and he wouldn't be able to return till tomorrow. I said I had another interview to do the next day in Florence so they would have to re-schedule with GQ. The assistant literally grabbed my arm and said no, please stay. We'll get you a room in the best hotel in Milan and hire a car to drive you tomorrow to Florence immediately after the interview. I said okay, but I would have to do it at 7 in the morning because it's a long drive to Florence, my interview there is at noon, etc. The assistant spluttered Impossible! Mr. Ferre doesn't wake up till ten and doesn't arrive at the office till noon. I said sorry, but it would have to be 7 in the AM or it couldn't be done. The assistant asked me to wait while she phoned Ferre. A few minute later she came back and with a look of serious trepidation said okay-- seven it is. The next morning I was standing outside their office just before seven. On the dot, a red Volkswagen Golf came flying down the street and screeched to a halt three feet from where I was standing. The assistant leapt out of the driver's side and ran around to open the other door. A hefty but short man slowly emerged and looked at me with eyes like a flame thrower. Ferre had arrived. In those days I was smoking and had one in my hand. He came over but instead of shaking hands, took the cig from me and flicked it away. "I don't like cigarettes" then he turned and unlocked the office. "Come on. We will drink coffee and after I wake up I will answer your questions." Surprisingly the interview went very well. When it was over, he handed me a pair of sunglasses I had admired from his most recent collection as a small gift. I still have them.
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Beauty
by Tony Hoagland

When the medication she was taking
caused tiny vessels in her face to break,
leaving faint but permanent blue stitches in her cheeks,
my sister said she knew she would
never be beautiful again.

After all those years
of watching her reflection in the mirror,
sucking in her stomach and standing straight,
she said it was a relief,
being done with beauty,

but I could see her pause inside that moment
as the knowledge spread across her face
with a fine distress, sucking
the peach out of her lips,
making her cute nose seem, for the first time,
a little knobby.

I'm probably the only one in the whole world
who actually remembers the year in high school
she perfected the art
of being a dumb blond,

spending recess on the breezeway by the physics lab,
tossing her hair and laughing that canary trill
which was her specialty,

while some football player named Johnny
with a pained expression in his eyes
wrapped his thick finger over and over again
in the bedspring of one of those pale curls.

Or how she spent the next decade of her life
auditioning a series of tall men,
looking for just one with the kind
of attention span she could count on.

Then one day her time of prettiness
was over, done, finito,
and all those other beautiful women
in the magazines and on the streets
just kept on being beautiful
everywhere you looked,

walking in that kind of elegant, disinterested trance
in which you sense they always seem to have one hand
touching the secret place
that keeps their beauty safe,
inhaling and exhaling the perfume of it--

It was spring. Season when the young
buttercups and daisies climb up on the
mulched bodies of their forebears
to wave their flags in the parade.

My sister just stood still for thirty seconds,
amazed by what was happening,
then shrugged and tossed her shaggy head
as if she was throwing something out,

something she had carried a long ways,
but had no use for anymore,
now that it had no use for her.
That, too, was beautiful.

CarrollBlog 6.17
cool idea:

www.moo.com

CarrollBlog 6.16
THE END OF PARADISE
by Jack Gilbert

When the angels found him sitting in the half light
of his kerosene lamp eating lentils, his eyes widened.
But all he said was could he leave a note. The one
wearing black looked at the one wearing red who shrugged,
so he began writing, desperately. Wadded the message
into an envelope and wrote ANNA on the front. Quickly
began another, shoulders hunched, afraid of them.
Finished and wrote PIMPAPORN on it. Began a third
one and the heavy angel growled. "I have Schubert,"
the man offered, turning on the tape. The one in black
said quietly that at least he didn't say "So soon!"
When the ink ran out, the man whimpered and struggled
to the table piled with books and drafts. He finished
again and scrawled SUZANNE across it. The one in red
growled again and the man said he would put on his shoes.
When they took him out into the smell of dry vetch
and the ocean, he began to hold back, pleading:
"I didn't put the addresses! I don't want them to think
I forgot." "It doesn't matter," the better angel said,
"they have been dead for years."

CarrollBlog 6.15
At the gym there used to be a man who worked behind the counter handing out locker keys, mixing power drinks for the serious weight lifters, joking with the women who sat at the juice bar and made small talk. He was a big guy-obviously a body builder with a crew cut and the kind of Cubist face you see on posters of Fascist art celebrating the working man. I'll call him Lacky because he had an odd name sort of like that. We were friendly in a casual way. How are you? Hot day today. Not too many people here this morning-- that sort of communication. Now and then he would come into the gym and watch people work out. Several times he showed me that I was lifting a certain weight wrong and corrected me. He was pleasant but firm in his instruction and obviously knew what he was doing. He was there for years but then one day he wasn't. For a long time I waited for him to show up again, thinking he was off travelling or sick. But he never reappeared. Recently I asked the gym owner whatever happened to Lacky. While washing out some glasses he said indifferently, "Oh, we caught him stealing so we fired him." I didn't know the man but still hearing those words made me flinch. His only epitaph here.

CarrollBlog 6.13
On TV last night there was a clip covering the latest world tour of The Rolling Stones. Watching 60+ Mick Jagger strut his stuff, it struck me that every single member of the band is beginning to look like Snow White's Seven Dwarves.

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We were having dinner in a good Italian restaurant. At the table next to ours, an old couple were eating course after course of food. Soup, then pasta, an entree, salad, cheese... It was sort of astonishing to watch, particularly because neither person was very large. I mentioned this to my friend. He looked at them and said with a shrug, "Food is sex for old people."
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During this dinner he also said, "I loved a woman who was a coward. But she loved me enough not to be cowardly for a long time. That always touches me most when I think about her: She fought her natural instincts as long as she could."
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcXwqc1ym10

CarrollBlog 6.12
Someone asked recently what with all the strange stuff that goes on in my books, had I ever seen a ghost. My first reaction was no, but I wish I had! Then I remembered something that's haunted me a little since it happened a couple of years ago. Maybe I did see a ghost after all. A friend died unexpectedly of cancer. We knew she had the disease, but her therapy seemed to be working and everyone was hopeful. Apparently she went into the hospital for a routine check up but a couple of days later suddenly died while there. This happened over a weekend. I only found out about it days later. She died on a Saturday. We lived in the same neighborhood and often bumped into each other on the street. She was a lovely timid woman who was always slightly hesitant about making physical contact. When we saw each other it was always a quick shy "Hi Jonathan!" and then she was gone, like a bird darting across the sky. That Sunday I was walking down the street where we often met. A woman passed me but I was talking on the telephone, head down, and not paying attention. I am positive I heard that familiar "Hi Jonathan!" but by the time I looked up to say hi back, she was gone. I assumed she had turned a nearby corner and gone that way. When I heard the news of her death I had forgotten this, but the memory hit me soon after. I feverishly worked back in my mind to when I passed the woman on the street and she said that familiar hello. Sunday. She died on a Saturday and I am positive this meeting happened on a Sunday. It would have been just like her too-- a quick last hello and then gone.
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A reader sent me a MySpace page by a guy named "Haveawoody" The whole page is an ad for overcoming erectile dysfunction problems with this man's new wonder treatment. Your sex life will improve 200% or money back guarantee, that sort of thing. Really corny.
At the very bottom of the page it says "Currently reading GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll"

CarrollBlog 6.11
At the entrance to the subway a large black woman wearing a colorful headpiece/hat is standing, selling the Viennese homeless newspaper. She's smiling broadly and singing for everyone who passes by. Approaching, I slow down to listen because she really has a wonderful voice and her song is exotic and haunting. It reminds me of the music of the South African a capella group Ladysmith Black Mambazo. I assume it is something from her homeland. As always, I think how did this woman end up *here*, and did she ever think one day she would be selling newspapers in Vienna, Austria. The song and her voice are beautiful. She smiles so warmly at everyone who passes. Few pay attention to either of the things she is offering.

CarrollBlog 6.10
An enormously pregnant woman is staring intently at the posters outside a karate school. The posters state what disciplines are taught there and the cost of lessons. When I walk back in this direction minutes later she is still there, only now she's writing things down in a small notebook. But who is it for, her unborn child? The post pregnant her? Someone else? In my imagination I can't stop seeing this giant bellied woman throwing vicious karate chops and kicks at serious bad men, a la Bruce Lee.
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The bum speaking on the red cellphone breaks off his conversation long enough to give a big smile and thanks to the passerby who throws a coin into his cup.
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Half angry he says, "Women are so damned hypocritical. They spend hours preparing to go out. Carefully bathe and do their nails. Put on the makeup, choose the right outfit, try on different clothes... Hours. But when they do go out and a stranger stares at them or shows any obvious sign of appreciation, most women get annoyed or even disgusted. It's like a cook spends a long time preparing a great meal, but if you eat it and show any sign of appreciation, this cook gets offended."

CarrollBlog 6.9
http://tinyurl.com/3a4d8c

CarrollBlog 6.7
A couple are walking arm in arm, emanating summer love in every direction. Both are sweet looking and all dressed up. She's looking at him as if he's everything she's dreamed of. It's a hot sunny day and he's eating a large chocolate ice cream cone. They're coming towards me so I see this whole thing happen by the time we pass each other. She points at his ice cream and asks for a lick. He makes a naughty face like no, you don't get any-- it's mine. She nudges him-- come on, give me one lick. Bringing the cone to her mouth, at the last second he jumps it upward and smooches it into the tip of her nose. She jerks back as if she's been slapped. It's just a little bit of chocolate ice cream on her nose. He smiles. But not her, boy, not her. Wiping it off, her eyes are completely dark, sad and hurt. Really hurt, as if he's done something awful to her. She looks at him and he sees all this in a second. His face falls. She looks away, unhooks her arm from his. His eyes widen, oh Christ what have I done? And then they pass me and I don't look back.
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great stuff from GB:

http://www.stephanehalleux.com/

CarrollBlog 6.6
'Did this ever happen to you? Did anyone ever say to you its over-- I want out.'
Jane turned around smiling and walked back. 'Oh yes. Everybody has had it happen to them. Most of us more times than we ever thought bearable. Nobody gets out of love alive, Vanessa. Thats half the deal and we all know it by the time we are about fifteen years old. You gamble and 9/10 of the time you lose. Its like buying a lottery ticket: The chances of winning are a million to one. We know that but it doesnt stop us from trying again and again. Which I think is good because it shows the human race is optimistic about the most important thing in life.'

from the new book

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"You would probably do just as well to get that plot business out of your head and start simply with a character or anything that you can make come alive. Wouldn't it be better for you to discover a meaning in what you write rather than to impose one? Nothing you write will lack meaning because the meaning is in you."

Flannery O'Connor
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cool story:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/main.jhtml?xml=/news/2007/06/04/nlets04.xml

Carrollblog 6.5
INTRODUCTION TO POETRY
by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

CarrollBlog 6.4
I love the new video footage and subsequent fevered discussion of the Loch Ness monster that's turning up everywhere on the Internet. If you haven't seen it yet don't worry because there's not much to see. Shot by a shaky handed amateur, something sort of long and sort of dark moves for some seconds through choppy water. That's all. It could just as well be an oil slick in a rain storm. But Loch Ness monster believers are saying this is the Ah Ha! moment--real proof that Nessie really does exist. The first recorded citing of the mythic creature was back in 500, which means we're either seeing a 1500 year old Methuselah monster or one of its grandchildren. The Loch Ness monster, Bigfoot, yetis... what difference does it make if these things exist? If they do, it's just proof of another rare species living on the planet, like the pika or the white rhinoceros. Why have these things so captured the human
imagination and obviously held it fast for generations?
_________________
Here's something pretty sobering from BS:
http://www.chrisjordan.com/current_set2.php?id=7

CarrollBlog 6.3
A very happy man is standing in front of a jewelry store trying to frame a picture with a small silver digital camera. He's aiming at a beaming young woman standing directly in front of the display window, pointing at something with her arm outstretched. I don't want to stop and embarrass them by staring, so I look quickly and see she is pointing at a ring in the window. It appears to be an engagement or wedding ring. I keep walking, much happier than a moment ago. It must be the ring he is buying her today, five minutes from now. They want a picture of the momentous day, of the store where they bought it, of her pointing proudly at the ring before it becomes hers hopefully forever.

CarrollBlog 6.2
I was reading how the wonderful Country and Western singer Chely Wright came to write her song, "The Bumper of My SUV" which I gather is her biggest hit. Her brother, who has been a US Marine for years, sent her a "Marines" bumper sticker which she put on her car. At a stop light, a woman saw the sticker, shouted at her "You've got the wrong war!" and gave her the finger. Wright was so disturbed by this that she went home and immediately wrote the song which went on to become a smash. Reading that anecdote made me wonder how much successful art has resulted from people being hurt or angry, betrayed or defeated in some way. Apparently JK Rowling started writing the first Harry Potter story because she was dead broke, just divorced, and literally had nothing to lose. She'd always wanted to be a writer so what the hell-- why not give it a shot. Edmund Rostand wrote Cyrano de Bergerac, one of the greatest love stories of all, after a woman left him. How many beautiful love songs or poems were a result of someone's heart being broken or betrayed? How much great work was done as a reaction to specific hurts, a kind of counter punch back at a life that had just socked them in the soul, or at someone or something that cut them off at the knees? Maybe that's the only real alchemy-- turning the dross of horrible, mean or wretched experiences into the real gold of art.

CarrollBlog 6.1
At the street fair, hundreds of people are milling around the many booths, looking for bargains and fun. It's midday and the place is packed. The smells of grilling chicken and sausage are in the air, along with patchouli from the perfume stand, cheap badly tanned leather, and organic rug cleaner. I amble along not thinking about much, comfortable in the roiling energy of the crowd. From far away I see a huge number of people stopped at one stand where a man is demonstrating something. Curious, I wander over there. From what I can see, the guy is only telling and selling the wonders of a red plastic window cleaner/sponge thing. He does the typical demonstration-- look at this, this this-- voila-- your windows sparkle-- the typical street salesman's schtick. But I can't understand why *so* many people stand watching. Looking around, I realize many of their faces have that goo-goo/blank eyed expression of the hypnotized in a bad movie. "You're getting very sleeeepy..." But the salesman is only pushing some crappy little window washer that you can buy in any junk store. Why have so many people crowded around to listen to him? Why are they staying here? Is there something else going on that I'm not seeing or getting? IS THERE A SECRET MESSAGE BEING CONVEYED HERE? A CONSPIRACY???? Creeped out by my own paranoia and imagination, I slink away.

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