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CarrollBlog 4.30
Desire by Mary Mackie in my dreams what was it I desired? my hands are full what was it I desired? was it your bodies? what did I desire in you? sex did I expect the clouds to what their ears fall off like petals the last face what did I desire in you? I whisper the stems of their bodies
CarrollBlog 4.27
LONG DISTANCE She could tell him everything in a touch The conversation finished, phone in hand, She would forgive him now if he were here
CarrollBlog 4.26
A terrible traffic jam. Cars lined up all the way down the street. I walk past a city bus jammed with people both sitting and standing. Every one of them seems to have long or angry look on their face. What the hell’s going on-- Why aren’t we moving? Passing the front of the bus I look over again and see the driver: He’s holding a large sprig of lilac to his nose and, eyes closed, has on the biggest smile.
CarrollBlog 4.25
Telemarketer by Brett Garcia Myhren “I’m reading on the couch “Listen to this,” I reply, “Pardon?” “Oh, there’s more,” I say, “Is this a bad time for you, sir?” “Is it for you? A quiet unfolds between us Finally she says,
CarrollBlog 4.24
“There was a flaw in the cloth of her heart that was permanent and beyond repair. It was caused by a kind of emotional narcissism. Whatever she was feeling, she expected (and in many cases demanded) others feel as well. If she was madly in love, then the object of her affection had to love her back as truly madly deeply or else there was trouble and misunderstanding. If she was depressed, then without question the world was a black and cruel place. There was no coaxing her out of it or changing her mind. You were expected to avoid her or walk on tiptoes until her depression lifted and she blew the all clear. If she felt a relationship was over, she walked away from it as coolly as a gunfighter in a cowboy movie who has just shot his opponent in the heart.” from the new book
CarrollBlog 4.23
In the bakery the woman and her young daughter are choosing birthday cakes. The owner is friendly and patient as the girl looks at the six delicious choices, absolutely unable to decide. She keeps asking the owner questions. The man answers each one smiling, looking from the girl to her mother. Suddenly the door whooshes open and a woman blows in like a big wind. She is very good looking, well dressed and made up. Although there are several people waiting now, all of us are content watching the girl make her big choice. But this woman is in a hurry and lets everyone know it with loud sighs, repeated glances at her watch, foot tapping, etcetera. No more than two or three more minutes pass before she says a loud SHIT! and leaves as stormily as she entered. The word has broken the mood. The girl looks scared now, her mother embarrassed, the man behind the counter glances at the waiting customers and his face hardens into impatience.
CarrollBlog 4.20
funny email from a friend:
CarrollBlog 4.19
PLAYBOY MAGAZINE: If life is so purposeless, do you feel that it’s worth living? STANLEY KUBRICK: Yes, for those of us who manage somehow to cope with our mortality. The very meaninglessness of life forces man to create his own meaning. Children, of course, begin life with an untarnished sense of wonder, a capacity to experience total joy at something as simple as the greenness of a leaf; but as they grow older, the awareness of death and decay begins to impinge on their consciousness and subtly erode their joie de vivre, their idealism—and their assumption of immortality. As a child matures, he sees death and pain everywhere about him, and begins to lose faith in the ultimate goodness of man. But if he’s reasonably strong—and lucky—he can emerge from this twilight of the soul into a rebirth of life’s elan. Both because of and in spite of his awareness of the meaninglessness of life, he can forge a fresh sense of purpose and affirmation. He may not recapture the same pure sense of wonder he was born with, but he can shape something far more enduring and sustaining. The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death—however mutable man may be able to make them—our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.
CarrollBlog 4.17
DON’T DO THAT It was bring-your-own if you wanted anything except that old retainer of slights and wrongs, the Rottweilers were, Rosie and Tom,
CarrollBlog 4.16
“On a very basic level all beings think that they should be happy. When life becomes difficult or painful, we feel that something has gone wrong. This wouldn’t be a big problem except for the fact that when we feel something’s gone wrong, we’re willing to do anything to feel okay again. Even start a fight…
CarrollBlog 4.15
The younger a person is, the larger the sunglasses they wear. The younger a person is, the larger the shoes they (usually) wear. The younger a person is, the louder they speak to each other. The older a person is, the more noise they make when sitting down or standing up. The older a person is, the more apt they are to recognize their limitations and the fact there is little they can do about them. The older a person is the fewer clothes they buy with words printed on them; or new clothes that have been bleached, sanded, ripped, or otherwise pre-wounded.
CarrollBlog 4.14
“This Is A Love Poem” by Mary Fell It is shouting your name It runs It wants to be It wants to be a boat Through all the rooms of my body A child in a tantrum stamps
CarrollBlog 4.13
Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: the salvation of man is through love and in love. I understood how a man who has nothing left in this world still may know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the contemplation of his beloved. In a position of utter desolation, when man cannot express himself in positive action, when his only achievement may consist in enduring his sufferings in the right way - an honorable way - in such a position man can, through loving contemplation of the image he carries of his beloved, achieve fulfillment.”
CarrollBlog 4.12
Her dog is sweet but very neurotic. So neurotic that it destroys her apartment whenever she leaves it alone for more than half an hour. She works as a social worker at an office that doesn't allow employees to bring their pets. This was a serious problem until she met Peter. He is a middle aged homeless man who spends half the year in Vienna and the other half in Switzerland. When in Vienna, he lives in a tent on the Danube Island next to the river. According to her he's a dignified guy-- never done drugs, doesn't drink at all, well kept and well spoken. He's just a free spirit who prefers living rough to the confines of a job and a 9-5 life. They met a few years ago and became friends. When this problem with her dog arose, Peter suggested a solution: He would take it with him on his wanderings during the day, and then bring it back to her in the evening. He gets along well with the animal and said he would appreciate its company. She asked what she could pay him. He said nothing--they were friends and he'd be happy to do her the favor. She's a good heart and wouldn't take no for an answer. So they worked out a deal: three times a week she cooks dinner for him. Her workaholic boyfriend really likes Peter too and always tries to make it home on time to join them. Their visitor regales them with stories of life on the streets. She says whenever Peter is at their table, the dog sits next to him and rests its head on his knee.
CarrollBlog 4.11
The lovers are a different thing altogether. You see them on the street smooching, groping, laughing, hugging, trying to eat one another in a few big bites. Seeing this makes you smile, but there's also a jab of something else in your heart towards them that's like discovering a bone in the middle of a bite of a delicious piece of fish. You must stop eating immediately to locate the thing with your fingers and get it out of your mouth before it chokes you. So too the lovers; you see them and smile, but you also can't help disliking them a little. Disliking them for their obvious joy, completeness, their this-moment-is-all-that-matters-ness. You have a thousand things on your mind, none of them of any importance. The lovers have exactly one thing on their minds and it is more important than anything. The person they are embracing, their all and everything, completely fills the view through their windshields. You want that; seeing their passion makes you miss it like air when you are deep under water. Chances are it's been a while since you felt that crazy about someone, about *anything*. Seeing them is concrete proof of a glory that is possible but not frequent. You want to linger and watch their happiness. At the same time you want to pass quickly by before it reminds you again with a kick in the soul how wonderful life can be sometimes--just-not-right-now for you.
CarrollBlog 4.10
I bought your new book today when I was downtown and had a perfect place in mind to begin reading it. At the Museum Quarter a few minutes from my apartment, there is a vast open piazza-sort of space between the two new museums. It has become a favorite gathering place of the Viennese in nice weather. It's so big that there are several outdoor cafes and restaurants, a huge pool that kids and dogs wade in when it gets really hot, and lots of benches scattered around so there's always a place to sit even when it's crowded. I went there, took your book out of the bag and read the first page. I was smiling. After finishing that page I put the book down in my lap. I looked up to think about it and get some sun on my face. But suddenly I saw something and I've got to tell you, I stopped thinking about the book, the surroundings, everything. A child was riding a bike with training wheels on the back. His mother walked in front of him holding what looked like a dog leash attached to the handlebars of the bicycle. I looked at the kid's face and saw he was blind. His eyes were recessed so deeply into his head that for a moment I didn't think there were eyes at all-- just dark dark spaces. The boy was smiling and talking animatedly to his mother. She laughed and walked just far enough in front of him so that he had to pedal the bicycle and I guess steer towards the sound of her voice. I realized that they had come here because there was nothing to endanger him and he could ride wherever he wanted. I was sure that was why the mother had brought him to this plaza. She had that leash on the handlebars just in case, but wanted him to be the master of his own ship and this was the perfect spot for that. I started thinking about what it must be like to ride a bike blind. Then about all sorts of things having to do with blindness. But watching these two, I kept coming back to the mother and what a great, sensitive gesture it was to bring her son here so he could have all the space and freedom he needed to be a kid.
CarrollBlog 4.9
Take time to read this carefully. It was sent to me by someone I know. Been on my mind ever since I read it: "A young lady I have been working with at the woman’s center sent me an e-mail today and asked me what the definition of courage is. My reply: No can do. If you want the formal definition, I suggest you find Mr. Webster and chat it up with him. If you’re looking, on the other hand, for experience with courage – or a lack thereof – I might have something for you. It seems, however, far less daunting a task to tell you what I believe courage is not, rather than what I believe it is. Courage is not the same as conviction. It takes conviction to go against the crowd, but not necessarily courage. It takes conviction to live a moral and ethical life, though not necessarily courage. It takes conviction to stand your ground, though not necessarily courage. And as an aside - let me tell you I’m a big supporter of going against the crowd, living a moral and ethical life, and standing your ground. All three will inevitably take you places where real courage is needed and will undoubtedly lead you to places and experiences that may well define the essence of your being. In the same way that courage is not the same as conviction, courage is also not the same as inner strength. When I was undergoing treatment for cancer, I was told I was courageous because I was “strong” through it all. Likewise, I have been told I was courageous for having survived being raped at gunpoint when I was fifteen years old. So too, was I labeled courageous after I buried my stillborn daughter. But not one of those things truly came from courage, and I was not courageous in any of those examples. When I went to chemotherapy every week and radiation every day, I was not courageous; I was just doing what one does when one is sick. I was merely going through the motions. When I survived being raped by two men with guns, I was not courageous; I simply survived. When I buried my daughter, I was not courageous, either; all I was during that time was present. During my treatment for cancer, if I had ever broken down and let loose, if I had ever screamed “Why me?” and “It’s not fair,” if I had ever started crying and refused to stop, admitted I was scared, stated out loud that I was tired, if I had ever said, “Please hold me and make this go away,” if I had ever let anyone know just how human I was during that time… well, those things may sound cowardly to you, but those are the very things that would have made me courageous. And, if, after I was brutally raped and tortured, I had not waited ten years to tell someone, if I had instead allowed myself to express the humiliation I experienced day in and day out for a decade, if I had traded my silence for a voice, if I had been willing to claw my way back from being made to feel utterly worthless, if I had somehow managed to associate touch with safety instead of always connecting it to evil, if I had done anything to lighten my world – a world that for so long I kept dark on purpose because I was convinced that dark was all I deserved… well, those things would have made me courageous. And, if, after my baby daughter died and I buried her before she even took a first breath, if I had ever said anything to anyone other than, “Yes, I’m fine; thanks for asking,” if I had ever cursed at God, if I had ever – even once – let the man whose daughter I shared for such a brief moment in time comfort me and wipe my tears instead of spitting at him with all my useless and intense anger… well, again, those things would have made me courageous. Because it turns out that sometimes the bravest and most courageous thing you can do is cry. Courage, after all, is not about puffing out your chest and taking on the world. It is not about being stern or tough or invincible. And it most certainly is not about fighting difficult battles on your own. When you disclose to other people – whether the disclosure is something embarrassing, painful, humiliating, or desperate – when you admit fear, when you share pain, and most especially when you cry in front of someone else… when you do these things, you make yourself vulnerable. You allow other people to see you at “less than” whatever society – or your family or your friends – has deemed appropriate for people in your given situation. You allow people to get close. You allow for the possibility of rejection. You put it all out there and it screams, “This is who I am right now. It is not strong. It is not pretty. It is not easy to see. But it is exactly where I am right now, and it makes me me.” And when you do that, the person you are disclosing to has the option to walk away. And in giving people the choice to walk away from a pained and scarred and raw you, you made the bravest choice of all; you showed what I believe to be real courage."
CarrollBlog 4.8
Inside the cafe early in the morning the first customers straggle in: The first-to-workers, a sunglassed hipster who's obviously been out all night and looks it, an earlybird or two-- not many. The feeling inside the place is like the weather outside-- glum, hunched, dark gray. The waitress who is usually in good spirits serves coffee with a blank face and says in passing, "I feel so damned tired this morning." Outside on the street an enormous yellow and blue moving van from Italy pulls up and parks. It's one of those trucks so big that in a movie, the back door would drop open and the gleaming black "Night Rider" car would slide out on its way to a mission. The doors of the cab open and four men, each the size of Naples, wearing snappy yellow and blue uniforms that match the colors of the truck climb out. They're laughing, rubbing their hands together, horsing around, glad to arrive and ready for some breakfast. When they enter the cafe the place is electrified in an instant. Their size, loudness, exotic language and happiness makes everyone freeze and gawk at them. The movers pay no attention. The waitress walks over to take their orders. In seconds they have her smiling and shyly flirting. The four men order: eight croissants, a few pieces of cake, six espressos, four Coca Colas and oh yes, a few bottles of mineral water. They all try to outdo each other messing around with the waitress but it's good natured sweet sunny stuff. She walks away from them beaming. Everyone in the cafe is staring and smiling.
CarrollBlog 4.7
I just had a mildly schizophrenic March re-reading FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS , a novel I wrote over fifteen years ago (I seldom re-read my stuff because it makes me tsk-tsk too much about all the youthful writing mistakes). At the same time, I was slowly snow plowing along writing a new book which is hopefully about half done. Carroll past and future pulling in distinctly different directions. I re-read ANGELS because as some of you already know, it is now available as a KINDLE download at Amazon.com for the very nice price of 99 cents in the US, $2.99 internationally. Even if you don’t have a KINDLE machine, Amazon will supply you with a free KINDLE reader application for your PC, iPhone/iPad, or even one for Blackberry users. Just go to the Amazon page that offers ANGELS as a KINDLE book and all necessary links are there . In other news, ABC television in the US has optioned THE GHOST IN LOVE. They plan on making it into either a television series or feature film which would be deliciously delightful either way. All this is in the early stages and contracts are still being ironed out. But the folks at ABC are extremely encouraging about the project, so let’s cross our fingers that German, Ben, and Pilot’s story will show up on some kind of small or large screen in the future. 2 new short stories will be appearing in the Spring issue of CONJUNCTIONS magazine due out in May, and Neil Gaiman’s terrific looking anthology entitled STORIES. An intriguing mix of writers there—Chuck Palahniuk, Jodi Picoult, Roddy Doyle, Michael Swanwick and many others are in the book. I urge you to be on the lookout when it’s published by William Morrow in June. I hope you are all well and thriving. The weather in Vienna as I write this is cold and clear. Sweater weather still but with thoughts of t-shirts and real Spring just around the corner. JC
CarrollBlog 4.6
When you've owned a white dog (or cat I assume), even long after they're gone you still find their hair on everything. Your clothes (especially the dark things), the furniture, and odd places like a cup way in the back of a cupboard, or the solitary hair trapped beneath the clip of your fountain pen. After my dog Jack died and I'd find these reminders, it would make me sad. I would brush them quickly away and try to clear my mind of how much I missed my old friend. Years later, I occasionally still find these small white mementos. But now when I do they almost always make me smile. The passing of time certainly has something to do with it. I also take it as gentle proof that the bullterrier is still inhabiting my life in a small, whispery way. Today I took a sports jacket out of the closet that I hadn't worn for a very long time. Seeing it was dotted with dog hair, I couldn't decide whether to give it a good brushing or leave it like that and take Jack for one of his beloved walks.
CarrollBlog 4.5
Out of the blue someone I hadn't heard from in two decades wrote me an email. It was a long letter mostly detailing what they had been doing in the ensuing years. Then they reminisced about the last time we saw each other way back when. I didn't remember the event at all, but they did in detail. The gist of it was we were crossing a busy street together when a dog ran out in front of us and was hit square on by a speeding car. The impact was so great that it spun the large dog round and round like a top. I had forgotten this completely and only after reading their description did I have one of those "Oh yeah, I remember that!" moments. It led me to wonder how much else of my life have I forgotten--lost-- but other people still possess because they remember. There are so many things that happen to us along the way that we forgot. But someone often does remember them, as we remember things about others that they have forgotten. Isn't it strange that events in our lives-- OUR lives--belong to others now? Unless we see or talk to these people, we will lose these things forever. Yet even without us, those events live on in the lives and minds of people we often forget or never see again. Our lives on their hard drives...
CarrollBlog 3.4
How Could You Ever Be Fine
CarrollBlog 3.3
Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there. Henry Miller
CarrollBlog 3.2
You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken.
CarrollBlog 3.1
To My Son's Girlfriend It's uncomfortable for me |
