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« December 2008 | | February 2009 »
CarrollBlog 1.31
"He had not turned out well. There is a sort who does well in school and of whom much is heard and expected and 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 university. Their 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." Walker Percy
CarrollBlog 1.30
She told me a story I've never forgotten: She was on a sailboat with her boyfriend in the Aegean. It was so hot that every night they slept out on deck. One night she awoke because she felt something moving around in her hair. Reaching up she touched something fat, firm and alive. It bit her: a rat that had gotten ensnared in her very long hair. The best part of the story was when I asked what the hell she did then, she said quietly, "I coaxed it out."
CarrollBlog 1.29
"Even if your youth sucked, hearing the soundtrack from it down the years almost always cripples or caresses you. You can never tell which it’ll be until you hear it."
CarrollBlog 1.28
His business partner was handsome, sloppy. He knew everyone, even the waitresses in restaurants who beamed and began serious flirting the minute they saw him sitting at their table. I saw this happen several times at different places. I asked if he knew these women outside their work and he said no. He wore his heart on his sleeve but it worked and people cared about him, even when he was being impossible. He drove a Mercedes convertible that was always filthy both inside and out. Whenever you rode with him, he had to take stuff off the passenger's seat and throw it in the back. Sometimes you couldn't believe what was there-- a diaper, a jai alai xistera, an intimately autographed, badly wrinkled photo of a famous actress. He had beautiful handwriting and kept a detailed daily diary. His love life was always a disaster and we all wondered why no one ever loved him for very long.
CarrollBlog 1.27
Guardian Angel Rolf Jacobsen I am the bird that flutters against your window in the morning,
CarrollBlog 1.26
A new Miss America has been crowned. Whenever I look at pictures of beauty pageants there are many shots in which all the losers are smiling valiantly afterwards, as if to say "losing's okay-- I'm just grateful for having had this wonderful experience." Obviously the contestants have been coached to look like that, no matter how they are feeling inside. But inevitably every single time there are a few photos where at least one of the losers is caught absolutely glaring at the winner with total hatred, envy, murder... in her eyes.
CarrollBlog 1.25
One of the questions people frequently ask is do I ever get writer’s block and if so, what do I do about it? Luckily I’ve never had that gruesome beast but I do have some thoughts about it, and those thoughts run into the idea of creativity in general. I love watching TV documentaries about nature/animal preserves in Africa. Particularly ones that feature the way game wardens live there. Inevitably these hardy people have one thing in common—they adopt strays. Sometimes it’s a baby rhino whose mother was shot by poachers, a one- legged ostrich, or the astonishing Jessica the hippo in South Africa (see the YouTube videos of her). Watching how these animals have become part of the game warden’s household is a joy. They wander in and out of the house, they’re fed (sometimes) in the kitchen, they constantly get underfoot and are treated like beloved pests rather than man- eating lions. I also like the way they pair off in strange ways—the baby rhino is best friends with the baby ostrich, the bull terrier dogs adopted Jessica the hippo as their sister and sleep next to her every night out on the porch. All of this is reminiscent of the famous Hicks painting, A PEACEABLE KINGDOM. But there is one thing I've noticed about all of these people. No matter where they live and what kind of animals live with them: they always leave the doors and windows of their house open. It took a while to dawn on me why this was so, but when it did the realization hit like a hammer blow. These are wild animals. They may nap on your couch, drink out of the toilet, or share a bowl of puppy kibble with the three dogs. But they are *wild animals*. As long as the human beings leave their doors and windows open, these animals come and go as they please. They feel free—they determine where they want to be. But if the doors were closed I am certain that sooner or later the animal would feel trapped and all hell would break loose. They have befriended their human family but are not part of it. They are separate and must always be treated so. If they are at any time closed in, their true natures roar out and they show their fangs, or worse. I like to write. I always have. I consider writing my friend. We sit down together in the morning and do our job. But (and this is a big but) if my friend Writing (notice the capital W) says not today because I’d rather goof off, or drink coffee, or nothing at all, I say fine—no work today. If that extends to a week, then so be it. Like the wild animals living so incongruously but comfortably in a gamekeeper’s house on the Serengeti Plain, Writing stays friendly so long as I let him come and go as he pleases. If he doesn’t want to stay in the house and walks out for a while, I simply do something else like read a book or go to the movies. I never, ever grab Writing by the neck and say you sit back down here and go to work. I'd never treat a friend like that, nor would I treat a tiger like that. So why treat the thing I love as much as my creative ability like that? I believe people get writer’s block a lot of the time because they panic when the flow stops. Then they run around the house shutting the 'doors and windows,' trying to trap their creativity inside. Bad idea. I do think that if they were to just move away from the work for however long, many of their problems would solve themselves. Some of you could say yeah but I’ve been blocked for six months—what about that? I’d posit it’s likely some of your block, perhaps not all, is because you are frightened and trying to close all your windows. Which in turn has scared your Writing and made IT panicky. You get my drift. Of course there are exceptions. But I really do believe the greatest trick to either get going in the morning, or after a long dry spell, or even trying to conquer the fearsome mountain of ‘I don’t know where to go from here’….is to get up and walk away. At least until you feel comfortable. Or in the best-case scenario, until you are eager to get back to work again. Because at that point your friend Writing or Creativity says okay, I’m rested and ready to go. I’m so happy you left me alone to go out into the world a while to recharge my batteries. ----------------------------------
CarrollBlog 1.24
The two women at lunch-- mother and daughter, obviously. The girl is beautiful, tall, eighteen or so. She can't sit still in her seat. She bounces around, tosses her hair, eats too fast, talks a mile a minute while looking all around just in case there is something interesting she hasn't seen yet. The mother is also beautiful, perhaps fifty, serene and smiling-- a total contrast to the young woman sitting across the table. How happy she is to be here with her daughter, how proud. Not many years ago this is the child who frequently tried every bit of patience she had. The difficult student, the one with dyslexia or ADHD, or just wildly impatient about anything that didn't interest her. But now look at her-- this wonder, this young adult who is moving way too quickly out of my life and into her own. She has already set sail and I can only watch. But today she's generous enough to have lunch with Mom and talk about things that matter with her first, her greatest pal. She doesn't even know it is a gift. But I do.
CarrollBlog 1.23
On either side of the large shopping street two men are playing accordions, hoping for contributions from passersby. One of them is young, energetic, and a very good musician. The other is old, scruffier looking, and not good at all. What's worse is because they are near each other, you can tell the clear difference between their abilities in seconds if you stop a moment to listen. I hear it because I'm waiting for the traffic light to change. The old guy really doesn't have much game, whereas the young guy is good enough to be on television. I walk on, but returning this way twenty minutes later, I see the old man has stopped playing altogether and, half slumped in defeat, is only staring across the street at his competition. The image is so sad and telling that I have to look quickly away.
I've posted this passage before a long time ago but it's close to Valentine's Day and good quotes always deserve new viewings: "He puts down the pen, folds the sheet of paper, and slips it inside an envelope. He stands up, takes from his trunk a mahogany box, lifts the lid, lets the letter fall inside, open and unaddressed. In the box are hundreds of identical envelopes, open and unaddressed. He thinks that somewhere in the world he will meet a woman who has always been his woman. Every now and again he regrets that destiny has been so stubbornly determined to make him wait with such indelicate tenacity, but with time he has learned to consider the matter with great serenity. Almost every day, for years now, he has taken pen in hand to write to her. He has no names or addresses to put on the envelopes: but he has a life to recount. And to whom, if not to her? He thinks that when they meet it will be wonderful to place the mahogany box full of letters on her lap and say to her, 'I was waiting for you.' "She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, read the letters one by one. As she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the years-- the days, the moments-- that that man, before he ever met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps more simply, she will overturn the box and astonished at that comical snowstorm of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, 'You are mad.' And she will love him forever." -- Alessandro Baricco
CarrollBlog 1.21
Because I write everything by hand, over the years I've grown increasingly persnickety about the pens and ink I use. They needn't be expensive. My favorite everyday pen is a 1.50 euro rollerball by the German 'Schneider' company. But it HAS to be that specific model. Any other, even when there's nothing else to write with, and I get this weird look of discontent verging on disgust on my face when writing. Naturally like any other pen fiend, I'm constantly trying and buying other kinds to see if there's an even better one. But there never is. That Schneider-- that's it-- my mother ship. The same is true with fountain pen ink. A few years ago I discovered the US company "Noodler's Ink" which is supposedly run by a man obsessed with fountain pen ink. They offer a wonderful array of colors but I have unfortunately gotten a little obsessive myself about their range of blue-black inks, which is my weapon of choice. They have several different shades of it and I'll be damned if I can decide on one favorite. This makes for some tough choices when sitting down to work with my trusty Parker 51. Shall I fill it with just the Blue-Black or the more vivid "Air Corp Blue Black" or... Don't laugh at me. This is serious business. Kingdoms have fallen because some hasty fool chose the wrong ink. VEET, an Australian product for "female hair removal" has an ad in all the papers down there today that says only "GOODBYE BUSH."
CarrollBlog 1.20
The horrible chicken store has closed. The place was probably fifty years old and looked every minute of it. They sold only chicken there-- raw and cooked. The food was barely okay but I liked to go because it felt like stepping into the 1950's as soon as you crossed the threshold. The signs on the walls were yellow with grease and age. All the machinery and utensils were fat and basic, totally uncool or un-streamlined. No Santoku knives on *these* premises, thank you. The different salads on display looked like they had been sitting bored and untouched for days. I was always too afraid to sample them. You made a point of not looking too closely at how clean things were because they weren't, and if there were ever customers none of them appeared to be less than eighty and in ill health. The proprietor was jovial and loud and always seemed genuinely glad to see you. But today while passing by, it took a moment to sink in that the lights were out inside and no food was on display. Looking again, the interior had that familiar forlorn look of no one home forevermore. I'm sure chickens all over Austria are rejoicing, but not me.
CarrollBlog 1.19
In the section of the large department store that sells perfumes, a bum and his "it looks like it barely survived World War 3" dog amble up to the shelves and peruse the many choices a while. Eventually the man settles on "Fahrenheit" cologne. Taking a red sample bottle in hand, he proceeds to spray himself everywhere with it. His head, all over his face, his tattered Army coat, pants, even his tired brown knapsack gets a spritz. When he's finished with himself, he sprays the dog all over *its* body eight or ten times. Satisfied that he has covered all their bases, he puts the bottle back on the shelf and these two dapper fellows amble out of there and back into the passing world. http://petrosphotos.livejournal.com/ http://www.bookcoverarchive.com/
CarrollBlog 1.15
"After she broke up with him, he began barraging her with flowers, letters, texts, emails. One night he even showed up at her door at midnight to proclaim his undying love. None of it worked. She had had enough hurt and loneliness. In the years they had been together, he missed or ignored so many of her clear signals. Finally she gave up on him and any possibility of *them.* These romantic gestures he made now would have meant so much to her only a short time ago. But at this point they seemed to be just the staged strategic moves of a desperate heart, not a caring one. Even though she knew him well, even now she was not sure whether he genuinely believed he was being loving now, certain of the rightness of his mission, this frantic crusade to win her back, or only cagey and manipulative as always." http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0yn7nS_wuc
CarrollBlog 1.14
My friend who works interviewing celebrities for an Austrian TV station told a funny story about Woody Allen. Once Allen was at a public event. After it was finished he tried to get away from the crowd by escaping out a back entrance. But opening the door onto a staircase, he hit something and immediately heard a terrible racket. Swinging the door open, he saw a guy in a wheelchair falling down the stairs directly in front of him. Obviously by opening the door, Allen had hit the man and sent him flying. Luckily he didn't fall too far and Allen rushed to his side. The man looked up and saw who it was. "You're Woody Allen!" Allen nodded and stooped down to help. "But you're Woody Allen!" Allen nodded again and moved to get him up. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know you were there. Is there anything I can do-" "You're Woody Allen! Can I have your autograph?" WA said the strangest thing was he had just knocked this handicapped man out of his chair and down a staircase. But lying there, the only thing the victim insisted on was an autograph.
CarrollBlog 1.13
ANIMALS
CarrollBlog 1.12
"There are three basic theories about the world, Prince. One is that it is essentially good, one that it is essentially bad, and one that it's neutral. What a wise man understands is that none of that is true. The world is a hodge-podge. Our human business, therefore-- since our chief attribute is consciousness, and our greatest gift from God is, as Dante said, free will-- our human business is to clarify, that is sort things out, put the good with the good and the evil with the evil and the indifferent with the indifferent. Only when reality is properly sorted out can there be stability or hope for the future in either the individual or the state." John Gardner, IN THE SUICIDE MOUNTAINS John Gardner, THE ART OF FICTION
CarrollBlog 1.11
"It was a face you could pity or dislike too easily. No matter how attractive it was at first, instinctively you knew sooner or later after spending time with it, that there would be scenes. And when they came, that face would melt too quickly into something unattractive. Whether from self-pity or anger, there it would be inches away, and before long you would be disliking it. The soft chin that doubled fatly when pulled in at a hurt, or the thin mouth that tightened in a pink line of anger... It was not a versatile face. It wore only one mood well but any other was not its friend or ally and it showed."
CarrollBlog 1.10
One night a few weeks ago there was a bad motorcycle accident in front of my building. Lots of police cars, two ambulances, sirens everywhere. The next morning the motorcycle-- a giant black Kawasaki-- had been moved to the curb. The front end was ripped off and half of what was left was literally dangling by a mess of wires and bent metal. Ugly stuff. The bike has sat there since then. What I find most interesting is that as the days pass, people keep sticking ads and leaflets on it-- Get your heater fixed! New Vietnamese restaurant! Masseuse available for home service! It's reminiscent of one of those coral reefs that grow off of airplane wrecks or sunken ships-- new life on top of man's mistakes. http://www.boston.com/ae/books/articles/2009/01/09/a_ghost_in_the_machine_of_living_and_dying/#footToolsMain
CarrollBlog 1.9
very interesting site: http://www.locusmag.com/Features/2009/01/cory-doctorow-writing-in-age-of.html
CarrollBlog 1.8
One of my long ago books just came out in another language. The publisher sent me some of the local reviews, naturally translated. One person who didn't like the book at all said what happens in the story is so predictable that they could see it coming fifty pages away. That made me smile because I never have any idea of what will happen in any story I'm writing, right up till the very end of it. I've spoken of this before-- some authors know everything before they begin, others (he raises his hand) know nothing and conjure from page to page, hoping for the best. Maybe if I had that reviewer's head it would make writing a hell of a lot simpler, rather than rummaging around for a plot like sliding your hand up and down and all around the wall in a totally dark room, searching for the light switch.
CarrollBlog 1.7
I like the small Turkish restaurant up the street. Their food is generally crummy, but the place is always open and when you walk by at seven in the morning, invariably you see people inside already preparing for the day. It's one of those places that opens early and stays open till very late. A great joint to go for a grilled lamb sandwich or plate of fresh humus and flat bread when you've been out late and on the way home the hunger monster strikes. You sit at one of the tables in a room full of glaring yet bleak Edward Hopper light, just you and maybe two or three others there; real "Nighthawks at the Diner" stuff. The sandwich tastes great although you know if you ate it ten hours earlier it wouldn't. You've had a nice night and are now running back the events in your head one by one. Maybe music is on quietly in the background. Here it would be something Mideastern; a woman trilling against fast strings, an oud and drums. The cook behind the counter is sharpening the long knife he uses to slice meat off the fat wad of lamb grilling on a vertical spit in the front window. He's staring out onto the street at nothing. The pretty waitress is sitting at a table reading a magazine, leaning her head on one hand. Having finished eating, you sit there contentedly, not really ready to go yet.
CarrollBlog 1.6
Here's something lovely I found on Daron Larson's always interesting website (http://daronlarson.blogspot.com/) "Here are the vows I read to my husband during our civil union ceremony in Stowe, Vermont on February 7, 2003. We held our private ceremony in the home of Justice of the Peace Elizabeth Campbell who was baking cookies when we arrived. Matt, Being born into this world is a mystery. There is no way for us to take credit for even one of the infinite number of steps that lead to the initial spark of our lives. Our lives are gifts to us and I want to be wide awake for mine. I want to live it fully and honestly. I did not go searching for you. You were a complete surprise. If I had known that such a phenomenon as Matt White existed, I would have set out to find you. You were like a pond hidden in the mountains of New Mexico that I accidentally happened upon—your surface completely still, your water crystal clear, the sun shining in the clear blue sky above you. Breathtaking. I continue to be amazed by the endless discoveries I’ve made in you. How lucky are those who have been given a glimpse of the brightly colored fish living inside you. But I am the luckiest of all, having learned that contained in your depths is a treasure chest overflowing with riches and magic beyond my wildest dreams. I will never tire of swimming in you as long as I live. Considering what stood between where we were when we first met and where we are these ten years later, I am profoundly humbled by the impossibility of our union which I know as sacred and which is now being recognized as civil. It is in awe of these miracles of life and love which are so easily taken for granted that I enter into this vow of commitment to you by the choices I make every day. By practicing paying attention to the holiness hidden inside each moment—in private and in public, in pleasure and in suffering, alone and together—may our love continue its slow, unrepeatable blooming."
CarrollBlog 1.5
The first time they went to bed, he entered the room and she said "You're wearing a different watch." from the new book
CarrollBlog 1.4
One of the nicest things to do on a winter's day in Vienna is to go to the Schonbrunn Palace and take a long walk on the huge grounds surrounding the place. If you're feeling especially industrious, there is a beautiful fragment of an uncompleted second castle called the Gloriette high up on a hill overlooking Schonbrunn and almost the entire Vienna skyline below. It's a breathtaking view, especially in the crisp, cold late afternoon air and light of a December day. We hadn't seen each other in many years so there was much to talk about as we walked along arm in arm, eventually climbing slowly up the winding path to the Gloriette, taking our time going nowhere happily on the gray/green/brown grounds of that beautiful place. Inevitably on afternoons such as these at some point you stop and think could life be any better? And smiling, you shake your head no, it could not.
CarrollBlog 1.3
I CAN SEE ANGELS I can Polishing trumpets, They all danced last night If you ask Hafiz for advice I would reply, "I could not say anything Then, O,
CarrollBlog 1.2
Today was the first time I've seen her in months. Saw the dog first and when my eyes traveled up, the sunglasses. It's gray and overcast in Vienna this afternoon so there's no need for them. That's the first thing I thought-- it's one of those babes who wears dark glasses for power effect, even when it's raining. But then I recognized her: the blind one. My eyes dropped again to the dog-- a honey colored Labrador retriever-- and there was that special harness seeing eye dogs wear. I hoped to catch a glimpse of her face. That was impossible but you can always hope. I've seen her full face only once. It was summer and coincidentally she was walking down the same street. She was bare faced that day. From a distance I was almost physically stopped by her beauty. She's young, 20's I would guess, tall and thin, hair almost the same color as her dog. Normally she wears big fashionable sunglasses that not only cover her eyes but much of her upper face. That day though there were none and you could see everything. She's a knockout-- high chiseled cheekbones, full lips. You'd love to see what she looks like when she smiles. Only that-- a really gorgeous young blind woman who wasn't wearing shades that day; letting the world see her dead eyes as she moved confidently along towards who knows where. It was nice encountering her today again after such a long time. Any big beautiful blond striding across the world is always a welcome sight. http://vlingo.com/index.jsp
CarrollBlog 1.1
I found 2009's New Year's quote in M.T. Anderson's wonderful novel FEED, which everyone should read immediately. Apparently this is an ancient Mayan spell. Even if it's not, it is a great 'call out' with which to start a new year: " Spirit of the sky, spirit of the earth, grant us descendants for as long as the sun moves, for as long as there is dawn. Grant us green roads, grant us many green paths. May the people be peaceful, very peaceful, and let them not fall; let them not be wounded. Let there be no disgrace, no captivity. O thou Shrouded Glory, Lightning Lord, Lord Jaguar, Mount of Fire, Womb of Heaven, Womb of Earth. Let our people always have days, always have dawns." |
