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"A friend asked yesterday if this blog is addressed to anyone in particular? I said yes– it’s a love letter to someone I haven’t met yet."
CarrollBlog 4.1
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 windshield. 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.
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http://englishrussia.com/?p=799#more-799
CarrollBlog 3.31
JH wrote in and asked that this passage from WHITE APPLES be noted.
Right away she smelled more than thirty-five years of her fears, lies and deceptions. Those things do have an odor. It is common, metallic, and not unlike the smell of fresh blood. It is fresh but it is also old, ancient even. Everyone knows the aroma but does not admit it because we have smelled it on ourselves too many times. It is ugly and deeply embarrassing. Good intentions, good love, good hope. We were so sure it would work this time. So sure this was the right person, or the ideal situation, the thing we had been waiting for our whole lives. But we were wrong. And as our fear, lies and other deceptions moved in to infect those new situations, the odor began again.
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Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings.
Wislawa Szymborska
CarrollBlog 3.30
The broken guys, the sleazy creeps, the lost, the haunted, the aimless. The ones who lived like you and me once but for a million reasons left planet normal and now exist in an almost-touching parallel universe with its own gravity and color spectrum. Have you got a dollar, a dime, a cigarette, a light, a heart to help me--they ask. A hat in their lap, some of them stare at you with an extraordinary mixture of hatred and help me in their eyes. The ones on the sidewalk or in a corner of the bustling railroad station. Crouched with a hand out and their heads down, unable or unwilling to look at the world. Shakily handwritten cardboard signs on the ground in front of them. "My heart is broken. I am homeless. Will work for food." You glance at them for a moment, maybe two. Sometimes you reach into a pocket for spare change. If they look scary or dangerous, you pick up your pace. Now and then it's a woman. Often overweight and strangely sexless, sometimes it takes a moment to even realize it *is* a woman. Alone, these people look sullen or despondent. But when a bunch of them are standing together, they are often happy and exuberant. The mood is festive. Some of them are drunk but some not. They just seem happy being part of a group. For the moment they are among people who listen to them, people who look at them without disapproval and distrust. There is often a confidence in their eyes then. They look at you like who's the fool now-- me or you?
CarrollBlog 3.29
He said to her "Nobody heals me like you do."
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The artist Louis Corinth used to paint a self-portrait every year on his birthday. If you look at these pictures one after the other, they become sadder and sadder but the eyes get wiser.
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Children must account for half the noise in the world.
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No part of his life ever qualified for a scene in the movies.
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Have you noticed that when most rock groups perform on TV, there's almost always at least one band member wearing a stupid looking hat?
CarrollBlog 3.28
The Pakistani stone dealer opens his large white sample boxes on the picnic table. Inside in separate sections are pieces of smoky quartz, tourmaline, mica, many others. Taking them out one by one, he tells me what part of Pakistan they come from and how they were found. Some are very beautiful, most just look like smudgy rocks. I know nothing about precious stones, jewelry, nothing. The only time I was ever taught anything about geology was a required course in university where we used to smoke dope before each class because the instructor was so boring. Today we are sitting in the park across the street from my apartment, surrounded by mothers and their children, punks shouting at each other and their dogs, police in pairs strolling by watching the punks, Turkish men playing cards at the next table. The dealer hands me a large stone that looks like it has been crudely painted green. "That is my best emerald. When it is cut by a jeweler, it will be worth many thousands of euros." The Emerald City. The Emerald Isle. Emeralds mean nothing to me, except in association with other things-- like The Wizard of Oz. The stone in my hand is rough and heavy. The dealer is smiling and nodding eagerly, encouraging me to love it as much as he does.
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nR2ygFn-yR8
CarrollBlog 3.27
Proverbs:
Love and eggs are always best when fresh.
Bulgarian
Be sure to send a lazy man for the Angel of Death.
Jewish
Eyes that do not cry, do not see.
Swedish
He who doesn't risk never gets to drink champagne.
Russian
If you do what you've always done, you'll get what you've always gotten.
Russian
CarrollBlog 3.26
When you've owned a white dog (or cat I assume), even long after they're gone you keep finding their hair on everything. Your clothes (especially the dark things), the furniture, and odd places like a cup that was way in the back of a cupboard, or the solitary hair trapped beneath the clip of your fountain pen. Right 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. A hundred days later, I still find these small white mementos sometimes. But now when I do they almost always make me smile. The passing of time has something to do with it. I also take it as gentle proof that my bullterrier is still inhabiting my life in a small, whispery way. Today I took a sportsjacket out of the closet that I hadn't worn for months. Seeing it was covered 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 3.25
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 whishes open and a woman blows in like a big wind. She is very good looking, very 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 3.24
Someone wrote in the other day saying their greatest problem with writing was the getting started- part. They hated facing that blank first page. Too frequently they threw up their hands in frustration and didn't write anything at all. They contacted me on their birthday and asked, I assumed facetiously, if I'd give them a beginning to a story as a present. That's all-- a few lines to get them going. Seemed like a fair request to me however, so I gave them the beginning to the story I had just, uh, begun. Now you have it too. If you're a writer and are interested, we can all give it a go to see if it's worth continuing.
"When he imagined it, she would call out of the blue. The phone would ring at some invisible time of the day, like 3:30 on a Thursday afternoon, and it would be her after all this time. She would say his name and that would be it. His name in her mouth would be enough. How could he ever forget the way she pronounced his name? Or it would be via email. That little cling of incoming mail would sound on his computer. He would look up and see her address. He would freeze. He would smile carefully. Then he would take a very deep breath before opening that mail."
CarrollBlog 3.23
"The only things in life that are important are the things you remember."
Jean Renoir
CarrollBlog 3.22
HIGH WINDOWS
by Philip Larkin
When I see a couple of kids
And guess he's fucking her and she's
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I know this is paradise
Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives--
Bonds and gestures pushed to one side
Like an outdated combine harvester,
And everyone young going down the long slide
To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone looked at me, forty years back,
And thought, That'll be the life;
No God any more, or sweating in the dark
About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the priest. He
And his lot will all go down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And immediately
Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.
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THE WHITE
by Alberto Rios
I saw a man at a flour mill once. Very nice,
He was also completely white, this man,
All white left and right and up and down--
It was from the flour dust we could see floating
Slightly in the sunlight but everywhere in the air.
As a result, the man in the flour mill was stained
White in all things.
Even, it seemed to me, under his white clothes.
He had a pale aspect on every side,
Even from behind-- he had no shadow I could see,
The light itself in that room having stuck to him,
Building him of an inside-out mud made from dream,
Making him an inside-out man himself--
He was a photographic negative of a man,
The sort of thing as children we used to laugh at.
He was a ghost, exactly as we imagined,
The kind we all used to scream at and run from
As they stepped out of the dark riverside reeds
Or always seemed about to, with all that cricket noise.
Everything was turned around in him--
Hard work meant white under his fingernails,
Not black.
He left a trail of fair marks on the floor,
Not dirty.
His shoes were scuffed with chalky blemishes.
When he sweated he got creases--
They looked like skeleton fingers all over him.
That's me, now, all the things I saw in him,
The skeleton fingers, I feel as he must have
When I laughed at him those years ago.
I haven't thought about him since. But it's me,
Turned around altogether in things myself.
I hear my old laugh as I look in the mirror,
As I look at myself and see him.
CarrollBlog 3.21
One way of knowing you truly love another person (or vice versa) is that you either want what's best for them or what they want for themselves. Your needs or personal agenda do not factor in to the matter. If for example they want to move to another city, or you know that move would be the best thing for them, then the move is what you want for them too. The German phrase "fall back and I'll catch you" is parallel to this. If you know for certain that person's love and concern for you is genuine, then you can go to them any time and ask "What should I do?" And you can be certain their answer will honestly be what they think is in your best interest. Not *their* interest, or what they want from you, but what they think will make you happiest.
CarrollBlog 3.20
The weather has suddenly turned cold and rainy after weeks of warm, spring days. Inside the cafe early in the morning the first customers scraggle in. The first-to-workers, a 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-- semi-glum, hunched, introverted. 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 that's 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 truck cab open and four men, each the size of Naples, each wearing a snappy yellow and blue uniform that matches 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 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 sunny stuff. She walks away from them beaming. Everyone in the cafe is staring and smiling.
CarrollBlog 3.19
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 3.18
Her dog is sweet but very neurotic. So neurotic that it destroys her apartment whenever she leaves it alone there 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 of 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 where three times a week she cooks for him. Her workaholic boyfriend really likes Peter too and always tries to make it home on time to join them for dinner. 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.
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"We are here to laugh at the odds
and live our lives so well
that Death will tremble to take us."
Charles Bukowski
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQWxIrSRDQQ
and one from the matchless ON:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AF-KagTq7qY
CarrollBlog 3.17
a letter from a reader:
Mr. Carroll-
I feel you can appreciate this story. It's mainly for those who only hear the bad things about teenagers and believe them. Last Wednesday two of our students were killed on the way to school, a brother and sister, Senior and Junior, respectively. They were bright, well-liked by teachers and had tons of friends. They were kind, generous and died horribly, and way too young. Needless to say the school was in crisis mode last week - kids were devastated, teachers were sobbing. It was hard to be a counselor, but sadly I've done it before. People eventually pull together and wounds heal. It just takes time. Friday there was a candlelight vigil, from 6-8 PM. I'm not big on these things, but I do understand that people, especially kids, need to feel like they're doing something in times of crisis, and gatherings help. Hundreds of people, kids and adults, congregated outside the house of the two that were lost. They just stood, and consoled one another, and talked. The father of the kids that were killed was inside, and he couldn't come out. He lost two of his babies in one moment, and, sadly, his wife in a similar crash ten years prior. He was not able to function last week, and I doubt anyone could blame him. Towards the very end of the vigil, as people were readying to leave, he emerged from his house and walked, shakily, towards the crowd. He was crying, and his voice was thin and weak. He was hard to hear even though there was total silence.
He thanked people for coming and quietly said "I don't know how I'm going to go on."
With one voice, yet totally independent of one another, 15-20 kids, mourners, friends of his son and daughter, said out loud "We'll help you. We'll help you."
Not a rehearsed response: just kids, in pain, putting aside their own hurt to reach out. Without fear. Without hesitation.
Just a moment of grace in the midst of terrible tragedy.
"We'll help you."
CarrollBlog 3.16
Some of the favorite categories of movie clips shown on YouTube and Google are animals doing human things. "Patches the Horse" riding in the back seat of a convertible, a rabbit that chews open envelopes ("bunny mail opener"), or that bulldog famous for its ability to skateboard. The list is endless and I've watched many of them because I like animals and most of these clips are either sweet or funny. But it struck me today that the most popular films (at least judging by their rankings) are of animals miming people, like the dog so competently riding a skateboard. There's the famous quote that says something like "Whenever I see an animal act I run for the door." Whether they are trained to do these things or the ability just comes naturally, why do we get such a kick out of animals when they are acting like us? Aren't we supposed to want them in our lives because of their otherness; because they are different, foreign, *animals*? I know, I know-- the rationale is taming animals into acting like humans is some kind of concrete proof that mankind reigns supreme. It's always comforting to know you can beat any guy in the room. But when you turn this subject a little to the left and look at it from a different angle, it is odd that we are so amused and often delighted by the dog when we put an unlit cigarette in its mouth or a baseball cap on its head. Or see a cat dressed up in a ballet tutu or a Superman costume.
CarrollBlog 3.15
"I don't think it counted for that much one way or the other. We were only one another's astronaut food."
"What's astronaut food?"
"You know, stuff in little packets that you keep lying around on the shelf. Everyone has some lying around.The people you imagine you might be with but you know you never really will be. The people who if you're in a couple but you're a little bored or restless you meet them for coffee a lot and the other half of your couple isn't really thrilled about it.Or if you're single, they're the people you're keeping on a mental list just so you don't feel like there aren't any possibilities. Friends who are almost more than friends but really, they're just friends. Astronaut food, bomb-shelter provisions. If you were ever going to have anything with them it would have happened already. Sometimes you even fall into bed with them, but it doesn't count for much. It's always a mistake to try to get nourishment out of that stuff. But not a big mistake. That's the beautiful part, how the stakes are so low."
"Only if everyone agrees that they're mutual astronaut food."
"Oh, absolutely. You can screw up your astronaut food a million ways. Even just letting them know. Though they sense it at a certain level, nobody wants to be told. The worst is when someone falls in love and then gets all self righteous about breaking up with their astronaut food, as if there's anything to break up about."
Jonathan Lethem, YOU DON'T LOVE ME YET
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one in from MD-- life explained on film:
http://www.videojug.com/
CarrollBlog 3.14
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 3.13
In the novel FROM THE TEETH OF ANGELS I set an important scene in the Cafe Drechsler. a Viennese landmark. It's across the street from the Naschmarkt, Vienna's huge open air market, sort of like the old Les Halles in Paris. As a result of its geography, depending on the time of day the cafe's clientele was traditionally a very mixed bag of well dressed Yuppie food shoppers, boisterous Turks who ran many of the food stands at the market, tourists, late night revellers (the Drechsler is the only cafe in town that opens at 4 am), drunks and dissolutes, pool players (they had a couple of tired pool tables in the back), etc. At night especiallly it was a seedy place that reeked of the 1950's and petty crime, which only added to its film noir allure. A few years ago the cafe closed and stood empty for a long time. Then someone with big money bought it, completely renovated it, and recently reopened it to media fanfare and sighs of relief that new life had been breathed into the old place. After it reopened I passed by and looked in. Unlike the old days, all of the tables were full. But the crowd was only rarified and chic. Today I had lunch there with a friend and my glimpses through the window proved to be right. The Drechsler is now beautiful inside, serves great food, and has a cool hip feeling to it. But it has also lost every bit of the atmosphere and smoky, funky patina it accrued over the years. The new face lift has made it essentially unrecognizable. Sort of like a good looking ghost.
CarrollBlog 3.12
A student once said something about new love that has often come back to me over the years because of the rightness of her observation: The best part of a new romance is the waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring, the letter (or email) to arrive, for that moment when they finally say those words you have wanted to hear. What is better than waiting for them to meet you for one of those very first dates. Arriving at the rendezvous spot early, your heart is beating fast, you're breathing shallowly, your eyes look everywhere. They're due to arrive any moment and you don't want to miss that. Your hands are nervous or too still, you're smiling and couldn't stop now even if you tried. No matter how the evening ahead of you goes, nothing will surpass the magic of these electric moments waiting for them to arrive. Either the French or the Dutch have a saying that the best part of sex is climbing the stairs. That is what this waiting is all about. Waiting, anticipating, your imagination riding off in all glorious directions at once. The waiting.
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http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5249518974978628334&pr=goog-sl
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John Updike said, "When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little east of Kansas. I think of the books on library shelves, without their jackets, years old, and a countryish teen-aged boy finding them, and having them speak to him."
CarrollBlog 3.11
THE CITIES INSIDE US
We live in secret cities
And we travel unmapped roads.
We speak words between us that we recognize
But which cannot be looked up.
They are our words.
They come from very far inside our mouths.
You and I, we are the secret citizens of the city
Inside us, and inside us
There go all the cars we have driven
And seen, there are all the people
We know and have known, there
Are all the places that are
But which used to be, as well. There is where
They went. They did not disappear.
We each take a piece
Through the eye and through the ear.
It's loud inside us, and when we speak
To the outside world
We have to hope that some of that sound
Does not come out, that an arm
Does not reach out
In place of a tongue.
Alberto Rios
CarrollBlog 3.10
from NG:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/northern_ireland/6425333.stm
CarrollBlog 3.9
At the cafe, an old woman is sitting by the window. There are three chairs at the table. On the other two are her dogs perched on small faded red pillows she has brought for them. The dogs are old and nondescript-- the ugly scraggly type you always see at animal shelters that have been there for ages because no one wants them. But obviously this woman did. She loves them enough to carry cafe pillows for them when they all go out together, which I assume is regularly. Eating a piece of bright yellow cake while staring out the window, she ignores her furry companions. But like perfect suitors, both of them stare at her, intent on her every move. And her cake too.
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interesting and spooky:
http://www.wordsofamansmouth.com/
CarrollBlog 3.8
The Taking
In the morning on my way to the subway
I pass disemboweled trash bags
at the curb, in front of the big building
down the block. You can tell how people dug things out
overnight by street light, or in the drizzle-lit dawn,
carrying some away, but others only a certain
distance maybe ten steps, maybe fifty yards before
deciding upon inspection that after all they
were not worth the taking. A child's stained pink sweatshirt hung
neatly on a fence, a rusty saucepan like a hat
on a hydrant, a bundle of old magazines
rippled by the damp on the hood of a parked car
each item taken carefully and as carefully
dismissed, for reasons known only to those who disappear.
by Anne Pierson Wiese
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In case you were feeling overly optimistic about life these days, I give you The World Disaster Alert Map:
http://visz.rsoe.hu/alertmap/woalert.php?lang=eng
CarrollBlog 3.7
for PH, who asked that it be remembered:
"There are perfect faces. I've known and slept with some, but they were meant to remain placid and untouched, not shaken or distorted by the push and pull of great emotion or a long and full night in bed. They're tuxedoes-- you wear them only on special occasions and then hang them up carefully in the closet afterwards; a stain or wrinkle
on them ruins everything. Cullen's is not a perfect face. She smiles too much, and many times it's obviously false: her safe and easy defense against a curious and persistent world. But she is beautiful and ... whole"
from A CHILD ACROSS THE SKY
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"Certain things indeed I have learnt here: for instance that my happiness has a sad face, so sad that for years I took it for my unhappiness and drove it away."
Iris Murdoch
CarrollBlog 3.6
No matter how long I live outside the United States, every now and then something happens that reminds me I am an American and always will be. On an Austrian National Radio daytime show, the kind with annoyingly loud disc jockeys who play Brittany Spears and Christina Aguilera songs endlessly, the dj was announcing with rabid enthusiasm a new fun thing the station had begun. It was called the FUCK YOU! line (in English, no less). Anyone could call in and say FUCK YOU to whoever they pleased-- a lover, boss, parents, etcetera. All you had to do was tell an entertaining story about why you wanted to tell them to fuck off, and you'd be on the air and so would your fuck you. I was in the gym puffing away on a stair climber when I heard this. As the dj went on and on (with all the cheery enthusiasm radio dj's brings to such things), my legs moved slower and slower and I'm sure my mouth dropped open. I was stunned. Fuck You is just about the worst thing you can say to someone in America. No matter how hip or jaded you are, you think very carefully before saying it in earnest to someone because it's hard and it sticks. But not so in Austria, apparently.
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GS sends in this comment:
"I'm an American living in Sweden and working in Denmark, and these somber Scandinavians sure can sling the f-word about with aplomb. To them, it means nothing. However, curse by invoking the devil, and you're sure to get looks."
NPR radio's wonderful commentator Ira Glass did a series of videos about the creative process. Someone sent this to me and I think it's a good one for those of you working hard to create things that matter, no matter what they are:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hidvElQ0xE
CarrollBlog 3.5
About half of the taxicabs in Vienna are Mercedes Benz's. It's a nice plus to be chauffeured around, if only for a few minutes, in one of the world's best cars. But even better, occasionally you see Mercedes taxis that are twenty or thirty years old. Most of the time these cars are in perfect condition and gleam like the first day they were born. Invariably the drivers of these taxis are old guys who usually wear some variation of golf cap. Why that particular headwear on these classic car drivers is a mystery to me. But I've been keeping count since I first noticed this detail and it's pretty common. Anyway, you can tell just from the condition of their vehicles how proud they are of them. Someone was saying the other day how few people take pride in their jobs now. Salespeople in stores either ignore you or pester you so much that you flee the places. Plumbers rush through their repairs. Waiters or waitresses never come to the table and when they do, it's with a look on their face that says they'd rather be anywhere than serving you. But not these Mercedes owners. More often than not when I see them parked at taxi stands waiting for a fare, the drivers (in their golf caps) are polishing the cars or doing small cosmetic work to make them even nicer. One man was so energetically polishing the bumper of his car that I stopped to watch him. Eventually he turned and saw me. With a big smile on his face, he nodded because he could see how much I appreciated what he was doing and the results. At that moment I had never wanted to take a taxi ride so much in my life. I should have just gotten in and had him drive me around for a while.
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"The world is a skirt I want to lift up."
Hanif Kureishi
CarrollBlog 3.4
"The first thing that really registered about him was he wore the most beautiful neckties I'd ever seen. They were a sort of light switch that clicked me on to being interested in him." Someone said this recently when describing her boyfriend. Since then I've been thinking about the things that draw us to others that they are unaware of. The novelist Leonard Michaels wrote that we often love in other people things they don't know about themselves: the marvelous way they move their hands when excited, the scent of their breath, or the way they tell a story. You might even buy and wear beautiful earrings to catch someone's attention. But if they said later the reason why they were drawn to you in the first place were those earrings and not your looks or wicked sense of humor, chances are you would be pretty miffed.
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"Bed is the poor man's opera."
Italian proverb
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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AL-IKaVdtTc
CarrollBlog 3.3
from KM:
Raymond Chandler, in a letter to Frederick Lewis Allen (editor of Harper's
Magazine) 7th May 1948:
"My theory was that [the readers] just thought they cared about the action; but really, although they didnt know it, they cared very little about the action. The things that they really cared about, and that I cared about, were the creation of emotion through dialogue and description; the things they remembered, that haunted them, were not for example that a man got killed, but that in the moment of death he was trying to pick a paper clip up off the polished surface of a desk, and it kept slipping away from him, so that there was a look of strain of his face and his mouth was half opened in a kind of tormented grin, and the last thing in the world he thought about was death. He didnt even hear death knock at the door. That damn paper clip kept slipping away from his fingers and he just wouldnt push it to the edge of the desk and catch it as it fell."
CarrollBlog 3.2
A New Lifestyle
by James Tate
People in this town drink too much
coffee. They're jumpy all the time. You
see them drinking out of their big plastic
mugs while they're driving. They cut in
front of you, they steal your parking places.
Teenagers in the cemeteries knocking over
tombstones are slurping cafe au lait.
Recycling men hanging onto their trucks are
sipping espresso. Dogcatchers running down
the street with their nets are savoring
their cups of mocha java. The holdup man
entering a convenience store first pours
himself a nice warm cup of coffee. Down
the funeral parlor driveway a boy on a
skateboard is spilling his. They're so
serious about their coffee, it's all they
can think about, nothing else matters.
Everyone's wide awake but looks incredibly
tired.
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Sex may be a little more factual than love. You know whether it was good or not. You know whether you liked it or not. You're not going to change your mind about it ten years later.
Iggy Pop
If you want to see what someone is about, you look at what people do. What they say is how they want to be seen.
David Fincher
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from KW:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFAWR6hzZek