CarrollBlog 4.30

They agreed the movie was terrific. A love story, it ended sadly with the woman committing suicide. Walking out of the theater afterwards, his girlfriend said she liked the film but it bugged her how often people in movies commit suicide for love. How many people in real life do that? It's just pure Hollywood, melodramatic nonsense. He stopped and stared at her strangely. "The woman doesn't kill herself for *love*. She kills herself because she knows at that time in her life she's as happy as she'll ever be. She's sure everything that comes afterwards will be either anti-climactic or disappointing. So she'd rather die now, at her peak. That's kind of wonderful if you've got the courage to do it: Go out in flames rather than sizzle down slowly into ash." Shaking her head, his girlfriend smiled as if he were an adorable idiot. He'd seen that look before. They walked on in silence, thinking about their different interpretations of the film. Finally she took his arm and said, "You always see things so optimistically." Hearing that, he winced a little because he knew the profoundly different ways they viewed life could undo them. And in time it did.

CarrollBlog 4.29

"Our ignorance is so vast that we're about eight Einsteins away from getting any kind of handle on how the universe really works."

CarrollBlog 4.28

Growing older means growing colder. On a chilly but sunny spring day I walk down the street and notice most people under 18 wearing only different varieties of t-shirt. Some are even wearing shorts too. People in their twenties are in long sleeve shirts or light sweaters. People in their 30's-40's are in spring coats or sports jackets. Those in their 50's and up are almost all wearing some kind of winter coat. It makes sense though-all that heat needed to power your engines when you're young slowly diminishing until death when there's no need for heat at all.
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CarrollBlog 4.27

Most people have a number of love stories to tell. But truth and reason go flying out the window when it comes to telling them. Because our love stories are the ultimate air guitar. IE we stand in front of the bedroom mirror, wearing only underpants and black socks, imagining ourselves playing Jimi Hendrix-level guitar in front of 20,000 adoring fans. We want to be heroic, beautiful, wise and sexy in the eyes of our lovers. Sadly and not a little funnily, it doesn't often work out that way. Somewhere in the middle lies the truth, and that is the reason why so many people play air guitar while so few of us perform at Madison Square Garden. I had always wanted to write a love story. Years ago I began one about three men, great friends, who fall for the same woman and the consequences of their love. I wrote one hundred pages but unhappily realized the story didn't work and put the manuscript away. I waited twenty years to get up enough courage to try again.

CarrollBlog 4.26

Why do we almost always look back at the thing we just tripped over? Is it some kind of reality check? Do we do it to make sure the thing is still there, or to certify we stumbled over *something* and not our own clumsiness?
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Whenever I walk by the tattoo parlor and see young girls going in, always in a pack, always hesitant and giggling, I feel like telling the guy who runs the place you can't say yes to them. Because you know ten years from now they'll regret whatever design you put under their skin. A friend recently had both forearms tattooed with waves based on Hokusai woodcuts. He says they're beautiful but whether they are or not, he's in his forties and been through enough life to have a long view about such things. One day last summer I saw a girl standing outside a tattoo parlor smoking a cigarette. She was in the middle of having a large NIKE swoosh inked on her left bicep. I thought man oh man, you'll be sorry. She saw me staring and gave me a look that was half triumph/ half what's your problem, Bub?
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D1R-jKKp3NA
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"Everyone knows you wear wool in the winter, linen in the summer, and a straw hat from June 15th to Labor Day. Everyone is right. And therein lies the problem. Follow these rules and you will look like everyone else. Better that you display a little originality. On the gravest days of winter I put on my gray flannels, a cashmere tie in a sober color and my white linen jacket. The pants keep me warm. The tie gains me entrance into good restaurants. The blazer reminds me that summer will come again."

CarrollBlog 4.25

Watching Young Couples with an Old Girlfriend On Sunday Morning
by August Kleinzahler

CarrollBlog 4.24

My parents lived in New York for many years. A very small old man lived on the top floor of their building. I used to bump into him now and then when I visited the folks. He was always dressed in a perfectly tailored three piece suit, thick silk tie, and white shirt with cuff links. We smiled and nodded at each other but never spoke. One day when I was with my father we ran into him in the hall and were introduced. His name was Lewis Galantiere and from the way he dressed and spoke, he was elegance personified. For some reason I didn't understand then, my father told this stranger that I was studying literature in university and hoped someday to be a writer. Galantiere lit up and said well, we should talk about that--why don't you come for tea sometime. When he was gone, my father told me Galantiere was one of the greatest French to English translators. His Proust translations especially were world renowned and used in many universities. But even more interesting, this man had lived in Paris in the 1920's and knew everyone who was there then-- Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Picasso-- the whole starry sky of talent that lit up that glittery city in those days. A week later we went to visit him. The apartment was small but beautiful. Oriental carpets on the floors, substantial leather and wood furniture, and artwork covered the walls. My father spent much of the visit studying the pictures and later told me there were original Matisse and Cezanne sketches, a Picasso, photographs by Man Ray, on and on. We spent a couple of hours with Galantiere and I think he was glad for the company. In his quiet ironic voice he spoke casually of having picnics with the Fitzgeralds, going to the horse races with Hemingway, arguing with the irascible Ms. Stein. He was not showing off-- just talking about the early days of his life. His stories were amazing, as close as I will ever come to knowing or being with those gods. One thing I remember vividly happened at the end of the afternoon. When he was obviously tired and winding down, Galantiere paused and deep in thought, stared at his hands. Then he said, "The one thing biographers rarely talk about is how hard these people worked. Most biographies just go on and on about Fitzgerald's drunkenness or Hemingway's carousing. But they give little credit to how *hard* they worked and at least in those days, their complete dedication to their craft. I have never seen harder working people; they were like ditch diggers. When they finished for the day, their hands were always very dirty."
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"I want to spend the rest of my life Everywhere, with Everyone, one to one, Always Forever, Now."

CarrollBlog 4.23

Sometimes people tell you stories that you want to put into your work. Not often, but now and then you hear an interesting anecdote, a description, or even a title that with trimming and shaping, would fit well into the worlds you create on paper. I'm always careful to ask if I can use the story and initially they're happy to "give" it. But almost inevitably this is the end result: the person who told it is disappointed by the way you render it. At least three times people have read my version of their tales and said unhappily, "But that's not the way it happened. You *changed* things." When it appears in your words, through your eyes and interpretation, they feel like you have somehow ruined it. Perhaps I did, but that's only because they lived their version whereas this is mine, imagined.
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"A lover exists only in fragments, a dozen or so if the romance is new a thousand if we've married him, and out of those fragments our heart constructs an entire person. What we each create, since whatever is missing is filled in by our imagination, is the person we wish him to be. The less we know him, of course, the more we love him."

CarrollBlog 4.22

When she was younger she was a model. She had a mediocre career although she slogged on in the business for years. Her one great job ended with a wickedly ironic twist. She had a beautiful figure and one day her agency told her a famous suntan cream manufacturer was casting for a model for their new campaign. This campaign is famous. The image is iconic because it is always the same-- a tanned statuesque woman with a spectacular body in a bathing suit is posed with her back to us while she looks out over some sun-holiday landscape-- Greece, Morocco, Seychelles... That's all: Goddess figured woman with her back to us, wonderful sunny setting, and beneath the photo is the name of the product. She tried out for the job and got it. The company paid her a great deal of money because the advertisement would be everywhere in the world-- in magazines, on posters... She was ecstatic. They flew her to Santorini with a famous photographer and a large crew. The resulting pictures were fantastic. Within a short time her image was on display all over the world. She proudly placed the pictures in the front of her modeling "book." The one of your best photographs that you carry to all castings to show potential clients your previous work so they can get an idea of how you look in different roles and poses. At one of the first castings after the pictures came out, she handed her book to the client. He turned to the first page and saw her suntan cream pictures. He smirked, chuckled, and shook his head. He showed the pictures to a man sitting next to him who smirked too. She asked what was wrong. The client said she was the third model who'd come in for that job with these same pictures in their book. All three women said they were the model in that campaign. Indignant, she said but I WAS the model-- all you need to do is check with the company. He looked at her dismissively. "Do you really think I'm going to call them and maybe make a fool of myself just so I can find out if that's your *ass* in this picture?" She told me this happened frequently afterwards when she showed her book to casting directors. Few of them believed her because it seemed like every model with a nice body and her color hair in Europe was taking credit for those pictures. Her greatest modeling triumph didn't help her flagging career much at all.

CarrollBlog 4.21

Man Writes Poem
by Jay Leeming

CarrollBlog 4.20

She said she fell in love with him the night of the flying saucers. It was one of their first dates. At the time it was obvious he was more interested in her than vice versa. She *was* interested, but he didn't make her hair stand on end. In Manhattan they went into a diner and sitting at the counter, ordered coffee. Those were the days of cigarettes and coffee at any time of the day or night. They lit up and started to chat. The waiter who served them was short and thin, scrawny. After bringing their order he walked away and began talking to a fat guy at the other end of the counter. A few minutes later the two men-- fat and thin-- began arguing. At first it was no big thing but quickly escalated into a shouting match. Everyone in the place was staring at them-- everyone except her date who kept chatting away. He stayed calm and didn't even glance at the men loudly arguing twenty feet away. Suddenly there was a crash. Standing, the fat man smashed a saucer on the counter. The pieces went flying everywhere. The little waiter yelled you'll have to pay for that! Big man snatched up another saucer from the counter and threw it against a wall. Furious, the waiter reached out and grabbing big man by his shirt, shouted for someone to call the police. The two fighters staggered and shoved their way down the counter until they were near the woman and her date. The customers still in the place quickly moved to the farthest corner of the diner to get away from the action. All except her date who stayed where he was sipping his coffee. She yelled at him to get out of there-- was he crazy? But he only looked at her, smiled and shrugged that everything was fine-- no problem. Luckily the police arrived and separated the fighters. The men immediately calmed down and sheepishly tried to explain to the cops what had happened. With a gallant sweep of his hand, her date gestured to the empty seat next to him. As if to say-- coast's clear. Come on back. Then. Right then she fell for him big time.

CarrollBlog 4.19

One of my favorite Beatles songs is "A Hard Day's Night" despite the fact the first time I ever heard it was while sitting in the backseat of a police car on the way to the town police station where we had to give statements about how we had found the body. So naturally ever after when I hear the song I think back to that day and remember the radio DJ excitedly saying "And now the new song by The Beatles!"
My sister worked at the town theater that summer. They were about to open for the season and wanted as much PR as possible. So she hired my pal Joe and me for five dollars each to go down to the railroad station and hand out flyers announcing the first performance to commuters as they boarded early morning trains to NY. The station was right next to the Hudson river so when there was a lull between trains, Joe and I walked over to the water and threw stones in. He threw, I threw, he threw, I threw. Sometimes we did it for distance, sometimes we threw to see who could get their stone to skip the most times across the water. Joe eventually found a large stone and heaved it in with all his might. It hit something. That something moved and suddenly a large inverted "V" appeared in the water about twenty feet out. We stared at it for a while until one of us, I don't remember who, said "It's an elbow!" Joe ran back to the station to call the police while I waded into the water to get whatever it was. When I was in about up to my chest I reached the elbow which was now rocking back and forth in the water current. I took hold of the arm and slowly pulled it toward me. It moved easily and now I could see down into the water. It was a girl. She was wearing a white bra and underpants and long dark hair obscured her face. The one thing I remember most vividly was being calm. I was probably 11 or 12 at the time and as skittish as any kid that age, but for some mysterious reason this sight didn't scare or make me nervous. To this day I do not know why that was. Holding the dead girl's arm, I calmly decided the best thing I could do was pull her back to shore. It was a short way and easy to do. Standing back on land, I reached down into the water and taking hold of her shoulders, pulled her up onto the small beach. She was in rigor mortis by then. One arm was crooked in that "V" position, the other was across her chest, as if even in death she was trying modestly to cover herself. One of her knees was bent. Across her face something that looked like whipped egg white completely hid her features. Without thinking, I reached down and wiped the frothy stuff off. She was very pretty. Her expression was peaceful-- as if she were only sleeping. I had never seen her before. I don't know how long I was there alone with her but the whole time was peaceful. She was dead and I was keeping her company until someone arrived. Someone who would take over and know what to do with her. And eventually they did.
Years later I decided to use that event in my novel KISSING THE BEEHIVE. The oddest part was before beginning the book, I wrote to the town police department asking to see their records on the case. Back then the only thing I heard about it was a rumor that the girl-- who came from the next town over-- had been murdered by her boyfriend and thrown into the river. But the police wrote to me and said they no longer had any records of the case and doubted if any even existed after three decades. I was amazed. I did further research but no one anywhere in the county had information. It was as if the event had never taken place. Stephanie Wendel. That was her name. I hope I am spelling it correctly. Last week I learned that Joe died too years ago. On hearing that, part of me wondered if they might have met up somewhere in the land beyond and talked about this.

CarrollBlog 4.18

an email from ON:

CarrollBlog 4.17

"She only kept to her bed for the last two days, and continued to converse quietly with everyone to the last. Finally when she could no longer talk and was already in her death agony, she broke wind loudly. 'Good!' she said, turning over. 'A woman who can fart is not dead.' Those were the last words she spoke."

CarrollBlog 4.16

After they broke up, she continued to send him things in the mail occasionally. Nothing big-- CD's she made of favorite music, new books she read and liked, small stuff. She did it simply because she thought he would like them too and she wanted to share even though they no longer had contact. According to the rules of romance you're not supposed to do that after you've stopped seeing someone, but who made those rules? She had loved him and they were very happy once. Wasn't that reason enough to send things now and then that she believed would make him glad? They had gotten along so well when they were together, she was certain he would understand now why she did it. I liked this and I think you will too. I remember the things you liked. That's all. Nothing more or less. I hope you enjoy it. But he didn't understand. Eventually he wrote her a short curt note saying "I don't know how to feel about these things you've been sending me." Once they'd told each other real secrets about themselves and confessed to weaknesses they tried to hide from the rest of the world. For a short blessed time, they'd felt both safe and at home with one another. Despite that intimacy, now she had become only a stranger bearing gifts and of course we should always be suspicious of them.

CarrollBlog 4.15

At one time I was close to a person who had the annoying habit of asking if they could "borrow" money, but then never repaying it. They did this frequently-- rarely asking for much, but never giving it back. Eventually I said if you borrow something you should return it. If you want it but don't plan on giving it back, don't use the word 'borrow.' You're just doing that to soothe your conscience." They looked at me strangely and then made a face like I was being ridiculous. I was reminded of this yesterday. In my neighborhood, punks have set up headquarters right next to a bank ATM machine. They're there all day long and ask everyone who passes if they have "a little money." I've gone by a thousand times but never responded to their question. What I've noticed is that usually the only ones who give them anything are either people their age or old folks. Yesterday I was grumpy and when asked, stopped, looked at the guy and said, "Yes I have some money." That's all, but I continued staring at him. He smirked, then stopped. Then tried to smirk again but failed. I asked if he wanted to know anything else. Before turning away he gave me the same "you're an idiot" look my friend the borrower had given long ago.
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"An uneasy conscience is a hair in the mouth."
Mark Twain

CarrollBlog 4.14

The Light Above Cities
by Jay Leeming

CarrollBlog 4.13

a nice one from ON:
http://theplug.net/28/strangerphotos.htm

CarrollBlog 4.12

Decades ago when I had him as a student he was all long hair angry--fuck the system, a very good guitarist in a band, sunglasses on in class, smartass remarks about everything... that kind of kid. But we always got along and I liked him. Vienna is small so over the years we've run into each other now and then. Today I saw a man walking down the street toward me in a conservative blue suit, white shirt, black tie, briefcase, very short haircut. I glanced at him but then away because he was just another suit. But as we got closer he said "Jonathan!" and I realized who it was behind all that proper middle class look. We shook hands and chatted a while. He's selling insurance now, not married but has a long time girlfriend, a new apartment, blah blah. I asked if he was happy. Half shrugging he said, "I'm just a well behaved middle class guy now." Looking him hard in the eye I said "Steve, you'll *never* be a middle class guy." He smiled like he'd won the lottery.

CarrollBlog 4.11

How easily we ignore or forget the small kindnesses and considerations in life which are really the only everyday magic we witness on a regular basis. Just think-- to make happiness out of nothing more than a few kind words or a generous gesture. In the bakery, the man in front of me is very very old and by the way he acts and talks pretty much out of it. He asks the woman behind the counter for 2 krapfen (jelly donuts). She says, "We're sold out of krapfen." He frowns, thinks about that a long few moments and then says "Okay, then I'll have two krapfen please." The woman smiles sweetly and without missing a beat says, "We don't have any more krapfen today, but our topfen golatsch (cheese danish) are just out of the oven and really delicious. I think you should try them." More silence, more thinking by the old man. "But I want krapfen." The other customers waiting are now starting to get impatient. Lots of movement and fussing around us. The woman behind the counter says kindly, "I'm telling you, even if we still had some krapfen, I'd tell you to buy the golatsch." She lowers her voice as if telling him a secret "I think they taste much better today. The krapfen were really dry." He nods slowly and says "Okay. I'll have two then." I look at the woman and there's no relief in her expression, no "Phew-- I'm glad he's out of the way." Her expression only says "Good. I'm glad he's satisfied."
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everyone's favorite clip of the week:

CarrollBlog 4.10

The truck is so bright that you can't NOT look at it. The vibrant orange of a highway safety cone, it's covered all over with black phrases. YOUR PRIVATE DJ! PARTY DOWN WITH US! NOBODY SITS WHEN 'DJ-PRIVATE' IS IN DA HOUSE. On and on and on. It looks like whoever painted the truck must have taken three days just to write all the words on it hollering how great it is to hire this company to "musically entertain" your private party. Parked at the curb, the truck is a real attack on the eyes and passersby are definitely staring. But the best part is the person sitting in the driver's seat. A frowning man who must be eighty, he's wearing what looks like an eighty year old golf cap that's sort of melted over the top of his head. His arms are crossed over his chest and glaring straight ahead, he does not move an inch. Wouldn't it be wonderful if THIS was "DJ-Private"

CarrollBlog 4.9

There was a prominent article in the New York Times the other day about how what a person reads can make or break a relationship. One woman said if she's dating a guy and finds out he likes to read, say, John Grisham novels then she's all but certain the relationship will never work because she prefers more top shelf, serious fiction. The article goes on to say a lot of people interviewed for the piece felt the same way to one degree or another. As I read I kept thinking are they nuts? This is insane: The fact your partner doesn't like the same sort of books you do, or films or music or other things like that can doom your relationship? Do they honestly feel that if they met someone new (man or woman) who liked to play video games, didn't read much, really enjoyed Adam Sandler films, and their favorite food was chili cheese dogs BUT they're kind and thoughtful and loving and funny and a good kisser and and... those latter qualities don't cancel out the others?

CarrollBlog 4.8

Joggers usually have these incredibly earnest expressions on their faces when they run. They either look like they're trying to figure out a difficult math problem, or sitting unsuccessfully on the toilet.
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I always enjoy watching people who wear sunglasses on cloudy days or at night. Or those who wear clothes like heavy leather jackets in summer. You look at the expressions on their faces to see if you can detect what they're trying to broadcast to the world by wearing those inappropriate things-- I'm cool. I'm mysterious. I'm famous. I'm all of these things. I mentioned this to someone the other day and they said "You're being mean. Maybe they just want to wear the new sunglasses they bought that day."
I thought about that a minute and then said "Naah."
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"He had not turned out well. There is a sort who does well in school and whom much is heard and expected but who thereafter does less and less well and of whom finally is heard nothing at all. The high tide of life comes maybe in the last year of high school or the first year of college. Then life seems as elegant as algebra. Afterwards people ask what happened to so and so? And the answer is a shrug. He was the sort who goes away."

CarrollBlog 4.7

Grandpa Putting Salt on His Ice Cream
by Jay Leeming

CarrollBlog 4.6

In the Nike shop, they're selling "limited edition" replicas of famous team soccer jerseys. Lots of money for a fake shirt in a nice box. We live in the era of limited editions, whether it be soccer jerseys, sneakers, fountain pens, cellphones, cars, Coca Cola bottles, mp3 players... You name it. I've been thinking about what that means but I can't figure it out. Is it because everyone wants to be individual, special, and by owning a limited edition that makes you separate from the rest of the pack? Or is it just prestige-- Owning this 'rare' object means by association I'm rich, powerful, unique... But when so many things around us come in limited editions ( I recently bought a pair of cheap khakis that turned out to be a 'limited edition.' I didn't even know that until I read the label as I was cutting it off) doesn't that negate the whole idea of specialness?
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interesting website:
www.instructables.com

CarrollBlog 4.5

For those interested in a sneak peek, Amazon.com has just listed THE GHOST IN LOVE and along with it, there's a plot summary of the novel to give you an idea of what the story's about. The book will be released at the end of September
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In the window of the tattoo store there are three separate signs in big black letters and lots of exclamation marks saying "Video surveillance in use at all times. Thieves will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law!!!" A few steps down the sidewalk I stop and think, "What is there to steal at a tattoo store? Ink?"
_____________________
"She is the kind of narcissistic mother who is always there when she needs you."

CarrollBlog 4.4

"In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever"
by Wanda Coleman

CarrollBlog 4.3

One day in the English office some teachers were sitting around discussing the different ways we taught TS Eliot's great poem, THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK. Halfway through our rambling interesting conversation, another colleague came in to the room. After listening for a while she said our approaches were wrong because THIS is what the poem is about and the only thing you need to do is convey that concept interestingly to students. I said to the woman you sound like a fascist-- there's no ONE interpretation of a poem. You can't say it's only about THIS. Kids hate it when you do that-- it takes away all the fun of reading and discussing. This teacher didn't agree. Our discussion quickly turned heated and ugly. I was reminded of this today when someone sent me a blog they'd seen that interpreted a passage in a book I wrote years ago. I recognized the passage but the bloggers' view of what it meant was completely different from what I intended when I wrote it. Night and day different. My first knee jerk reaction was wow, they got THAT wrong. But then remembering that long ago "Prufrock" discussion, I grimaced thinking how we all have the potential to be instant literary fascists when someone interprets words on a page differently from the way we do.
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the James Joyce memorial tattoo of the day:

CarrollBlog 4.2

The always-in-the-know JdT told me the popular indie group "Wolf Parade" has a new album coming out in June entitled-- get this-- KISSING THE BEEHIVE. Someone else wrote in today that the group likes my books and the title is a tip of the hat from them. It's very flattering and of course I'm touched. But what makes me grin about it is years ago when I told my then-editor the title of my just- finished book, she squawked "Are you crazy? Don't do it. Please. That title makes no sense at all. It's just too weird."
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a perennial favorite from CB:

CarrollBlog 4.1

Passing a bunch of men unloading stuff from a large moving van, I remembered reading a list somewhere that of the ten most stressful events in life, moving house was near the top-- right up there with death and divorce. For the first time it struck me how most every time you see people moving in or out of a place, you're witnessing a paradigm event in their lives. Beginnings and endings. Great happiness or anticipation ("We're moving to Rio!"), or at the other end of the scale failure and fear of a future they never anticipated but has now arrived. I'm thinking about all those people in the US who are losing their homes because of the mortgage crisis. When we see a moving van or hear someone is giving up their flat we usually shrug or ignore it. But the reality is in one way or the other, it is proof that lives are about to change profoundly. You've experienced it yourself whenever you've moved. Almost every van we see represents some kind of intense human drama.