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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 4.29
The physiotherapist was massaging the back of my neck. She asked if I had a problem with her massaging the front. I said no not at all. She murmurs you'd be surprised how many people won't let me do that. You never know if it's only a touch thing or they have serious problems with it because of something that happened to them earlier in their life. No matter what, if they do say it's okay, you never massage both sides of the front of the neck at the same time. You always begin by using one hand. Only when they say they're comfortable with that do you use two. People have some really deep dark issues with being strangled.
CarrollBlog 4.26
In the tiny Berkeley apartment where Jim Powell has lived since 1992, there's a California license plate on the wall that says "POETICS." Powell didn't buy it, but found it years ago while clearing litter alongside Interstate 880 in Oakland. "You know on the roadside you'll see a sign that says, 'This section of freeway cleaned by 'so-and-so'? So a group of Deadheads I knew decided to clean the mile beside the Coliseum. Caltrans gives you an orange Day-Glo vest and gloves. You go down there beside the freeway and everything is covered with 14 layers of diesel soot. Someone found that license plate in the ivy in one of the cloverleafs and said, 'This belongs to you.' Whoever owned that plate had their car stolen. And the people who stole it ditched the plate into the ivy. So that's my 'poetic license' and it's a stolen poetic license, which is appropriate," Powell says with a grin. "Your poetic license should come to you that way."
from an article about the poet Jim Powell in the San Francisco Chronicle
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"Michael Silverblatt, host of the weekly public radio show “Bookworm,” uses the term “literary desire” to describe the attraction that comes with seeing a stranger reading your favorite book or author. “When I was a teenager waiting in line for a film showing at the Museum of Modern Art and someone was carrying a book I loved, I would start to have fantasies about being best friends or lovers with that person,” he said."
from an article in the NY Times about Amazon's Kindle reading device
CarrollBlog 4.24
We were talking about that medical student in Boston who's accused (among other things) of killing the erotic masseuse in a hotel room. The man appears to be getting more play in the media because he's handsome than the crime he's supposed to have committed. My always-cynically insightful friend said, "Ah, the guy's just a Ted Bundy knock off bag."
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"We don't always have a choice how we get to know one another. Sometimes, people fall into our lives cleanly - as if out of the sky, or as if there were a direct flight from Heaven to Earth - the same sudden way we lose people, who once seemed they would always be part of our lives."
John Irving
CarrollBlog 4.23
I like those small, usually on the side street stores that never change their window displays. You get the feeling the stuff inside has been there since 1977. After years in the window everything is sun bleached, wilted, bent, dessicated or worse. Dead flies often lie here and there looking as shriveled and prune'y as Egyptian mummies. At night one or two light bulbs in the window are usually broken. If you try and get a peek into the store or are brave enough to actually walk in, the owner is nowhere to be seen. When eventually they do appear out of some Ali Baba cave in the back of the store, you sense immediately by the expression on their face that they're irritated by the intrusion. They clearly don't care if you buy anything. Which of course makes you wonder how the hell have they survived here all these years? Maybe there's a secret magic inherent in absolute retail indifference that hasn't been discovered yet. It allows a seller to go on despite the world's complete lack of interest in what they are selling.
CarrollBlog 4.22
Teenager
by Wislawa Szymborska
Me — a teenager?
If she suddenly stood here now, before me,
would I need to treat her as near and dear,
although she’s strange to me, and distant?
Shed a tear, kiss her forehead
for the simple reason
we share a birthdate?
So many dissimilarities between us
that only the bones are likely still the same,
the cranial vault, the eye sockets.
Since her eyes seem a little larger,
her eyelashes are longer, she’s taller
and the whole body is closely sheathed
in smooth, unblemished skin.
Relatives and friends still link us, it is true,
but in her world almost all are living,
while in mine almost no one survives
from that shared circle.
We differ so profoundly,
talk and think about completely different things.
She knows next to nothing —
but with a doggedness deserving better causes.
I know much more —
but nothing for sure.
She shows me poems,
written in a clear and careful script
that I haven’t used for years.
I read the poems, read them.
Well, maybe that one
if it were shorter
and fixed in a couple of places.
The rest are not encouraging.
The talk goes numb.
The time on her watch
is still cheap and wobbling.
On mine - much dearer and exact.
And nothing for good-bye,
just a smirk and no emotion.
Only when she's gone
in a hurry, leaving her scarf.
A real woolen scarf,
colorfully striped,
needle-crafted for her by our mother.
I still keep it.
CarrollBlog 4.21
Sometimes unread books on a shelf are as good as a diary entry to jog the memory. You look at the spine of a novel you bought twenty years ago at the Strand bookstore in New York. You were with so and so that day. You hadn't seen them for a long time. They didn't want to go to the store but did you a favor when you said you only needed a few minutes to see if that book was there. You'd read very positive reviews. Later you had good pastrami sandwiches for lunch and talked about... You've never felt the urge to read the book although maybe one day you still will. But having it up there on the shelf, well, that's something else. A reminder, a paper souvenir-- the pages a little yellow and bent now after all this time-- of a small good day in your life.
CarrollBlog 4.20
He gave kindness only when he had some left over to spare-- like a few coins for a beggar when our pocket is heavy with change.
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Sometimes we're cornered by our memories; they're not about to let you get away this time.
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He's always a little bit at the edges of the party, or out in the suburbs of his own city.
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an interesting title and idea for a novel-- "The Seven Deadly Scenes." Seven chapters or sections, each describing a turning point in a person's life.
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two poems by Dana Gioia:
Summer Storm
We stood on the rented patio
While the party went on inside.
You knew the groom from college.
I was a friend of the bride.
We hugged the brownstone wall behind us
To keep our dress clothes dry
And watched the sudden summer storm
Floodlit against the sky.
The rain was like a waterfall
Of brilliant beaded light,
Cool and silent as the stars
The storm hid from the night.
To my surprise, you took my arm–
A gesture you didn't explain–
And we spoke in whispers, as if we two
Might imitate the rain.
Then suddenly the storm receded
As swiftly as it came.
The doors behind us opened up.
The hostess called your name.
I watched you merge into the group,
Aloof and yet polite.
We didn't speak another word
Except to say goodnight.
Why does that evening's memory
Return with this night's storm–
A party twenty years ago,
Its disappointments warm?
There are so many might have beens,
What ifs that won't stay buried,
Other cities, other jobs,
Strangers we might have married.
And memory insists on pining
For places it never went,
As if life would be happier
Just by being different.
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Unsaid
So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
CarrollBlog 4.18
She liked mystery more than answers. Both as a child and an adult she never asked or wanted to know how magicians did their tricks, how special effects were done in movies, or why men gave her flowers now and then. Her life was unmysterious so much of the time that any chance she got, she avoided clarification and hungrily embraced the unknown. Part of that was because *she* was so unmysterious. She had almost no secrets. Nothing naughty or fishy was hidden away under her bed or stuffed deep into the closet. Anyone could walk through her apartment with a 1000-watt flashlight and a magnifying glass, snooping everywhere, but find nothing that would cause her to even blush. Just that thought alone made her despondent. She looked at people around her, friends and work colleagues, and was certain most of them had secrets or secret lovers or secret stashes of stuff that both mortified and delighted them when no one was looking.
One boyfriend she broke up with said he knew things were going wrong between them the same way you know your shoelace is untied before you look—a sort of loosening and slight shoe wobble that makes you check. “I basically knew it was over when I started feeling that same kind of loose wobble between us, you know?” She was hurt more by that description than by the fact he no longer wanted to be together. But he was right. Shoes have no secrets and neither do shoelaces, tied or otherwise. No passionate other woman ever lurked in their shadows, ready to leap out and scream 'Ah Ha!' No operatic cri de coeurs that led to wrenching emotional scenes where the truth finally flooded out because too many dark secrets and words had been left unsaid until that moment. No, to him all their relationship added up to was an untied shoe and by extension, she was a shoelace.
CarrollBlog 4.17
"Patience never wants Wonder to enter the house: because Wonder is a wretched guest. It uses all of you but is not careful with what is most fragile or irreplaceable. If it breaks you, it shrugs and moves on. Without asking, Wonder often brings along dubious friends: doubt, jealousy, greed. Together they take over; rearrange the furniture in every one of your rooms for their own comfort. They speak odd languages but make no attempt to translate for you. They cook strange meals in your heart that leave odd tastes and smells. When they finally go, are you happy or miserable? Patience is always left holding the broom."
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from a friend:
Two college kids traveled around the world and recorded street musicians doing their "take" on several different songs. They turned it into a short documentary which appeared on Independent Lens on PBS. It took me a while to track it down, but here it is one clip from the video. It's awesome.
http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=2539741
CarrollBlog 4.16
an interesting excerpt from "The Miracles of Jesus" by Michael Symmons Roberts:
"The truth is that most rebels were not nailed to their crosses, but tied to them. Some would have been nailed to their crosses - it was a Roman practice - but historians believe there is little chance of finding any of their remains. The reason is simple: the nails of crucified victims were regarded as some of the most powerful charms, or amulets, in the ancient world. Ordinary people prized them very highly, believing that they had healing properties. And apart from their popularity as charms, the crucifixion nails were often reused by the Roman soldiers. So immediately after crucified victims were cut down from their crosses, the nails would be removed from their bodies and pocketed."
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and just in the nick of time, DL sends this in:
http://www.sharethepassionofthechrist.com/jewelry.asp#pendants
CarrollBlog 4.15
The great translator Stephen Mitchell (the poetry of Rilke, The Book of Job, Tao te Ching...) met an old girlfriend many years after they had been together. After spending some days together catching up she said to him, ""If I could have wished anything for you, it would have been that you might become the person you've become."
from this fascinating article about Mitchell in the Los Angeles Times:
http://www.latimes.com/entertainment/la-ca-stephen-mitchell12-2009apr12,0,631455,full.story
CarrollBlog 4.14
Sorry I haven't been active here for the last few days. I was traveling over Easter and just got back. However I *have* been a good little Twitterer (twit?) so if you want, go to www.twitter.com and look up jscarroll. That way you can have some JC blog-lite if you're so inclined.
CarrollBlog 4.10
“Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to was never there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it.”
Flannery O'Connor, WISE BLOOD
CarrollBlog 4.9
A beauty from Little O, soon to be the best Mama on earth:
OPENNESS
by Wislawa Szymborska
Here we are, naked lovers,
beautiful to each other—and that's enough.
The leaves of our eyelids our only covers,
we're lying amidst deep night.
But they know about us, they know,
the four corners, and the chairs nearby us.
Discerning shadows also know,
and even the table keeps quiet.
Our teacups know full well
why the tea is getting cold.
And old Swift can surely tell
that his book's been put on hold.
Even the birds are in the know:
I saw them writing in the sky
brazenly and openly
the very name I call you by.
The trees? Could you explain to me
their unrelenting whispering?
The wind may know, you say to me,
but how is just a mystery.
A moth surprised us through the blinds,
its wings in fuzzy flutter.
Its silent path—see how it winds
in a stubborn holding pattern.
Maybe it sees where our eyes fail
with an insect's inborn sharpness.
I never sensed, nor could you tell
that our hearts were aglow in the darkness
CarrollBlog 4.8
Today's question/ homework assignment/ interesting idea for a short story: You have to pack a small bag for your trip to the Afterlife. What among your possessions do you take? Why? Answer in no more than 100 words.
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For Italian readers, I did this interview in Panorama magazine about 'Black Cocktail' which was just released in Italy: http://tinyurl.com/ck3atv
CarrollBlog 4.6
The tiny old woman coming out of the sandwich shop chewing on a sandwich half as big as her head and smiling like she just had good sex.
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The tourist couple stopped on the sidewalk looking at a map. You go up and ask if you can help. They rat-a-tat-tat a language at you the likes of which you have never heard before. You ask if they speak English or German? Nope. Hesitantly you ask French? Nope. Uh-oh-- you're doomed. You wonder if hand signals are the same in Urdu or Bulgarian. You're about to find out.
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The coolest smoker of the week award goes to the dapper old gentleman sitting in the sidewalk cafe on one of the first sunny warm days of the year. He's dressed in a camel colored suit, white shirt, strawberry red tie. The best part is he's smoking a cigarette in a long silver cigarette holder, tapping the ash carefully and delicately in an ashtray he holds on his lap. I want to be like that when I grow up.
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I like those guys you see on the street who, when their cellphones ring, stop and start patting all of their pockets frantically because they can't remember which pocket the phone is in. It's like they're frisking themselves.
CarrollBlog 4.5
Hands down, today's YouTube clip winner:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i3cFSgVGw0I&feature=player_embedded
CarrollBlog 4.4
AG asked for this passage
"What is more gratifying than to lie next to your partner in your own bed mornings, thoughts just beginning to take shape, sharp-edged early light coming through the window and warming a patch of floor where your shoes are mixed with hers from the night before? What is more fulfilling than waking to your own satisfying life with someone treasured next to you? What more could we ask for and not be ashamed?"
THE WOODEN SEA
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"I know a divorced father with literary aspirations who makes up interminable bedtime stories for his seven year old son on the one night a week the boy sleeps at his place. The stories are picaresque, filled with adventure, magic, love and violence. They also contain surprisingly beautiful digressions, in which the father seems to be confiding his undisguised hopes and fears to his son. The boy is restless listening to these stories, but he realizes that his father needs to tell them."
Anatole Broyard
CarrollBlog 4.3
excerpting a very interesting letter from DL, who used to be a mental health case manager:
There is something fascinating about the reading preferences of people with schizophrenia that I just assume other people know, but which you might find interesting. They are typically preoccupied with art, sex, government, and religion. Either one or more of these obsessions seems to always be there. I guess the fuel that paranoia generates is looking for rich soil and finds it here. But arent' these the great themes of art?
And what I've observed over and over again in working with people with schizophrenia is that they are often drawn to certain books. Some favorites are anything written by Ayn Rand or James Joyce. Schizophrenics love Thoreau and the Bible, of course. I think there is something about the answer to the human conundrum being contained within the chaos of these works. It might be the reputation or the size or the inscrutability. There there is some impulse that 'if I could just pay close enough attention and gather enough clues, all this randomness which seems to be infused with fear would make sense. I could walk through the illusion. On the other side would be clarity and peace.
CarrollBlog 4.2
I like that Obama gave the Queen of England an iPod with his speeches on it, and she gave him a picture of herself. Now THAT'S thoughtful gift giving!
CarrollBlog 4.1
from Douglas Coupland's novel JPod:
"If I ruled the world, every day would be Thursday. Look at it this way: Mondays suck because you're resentful that you can't sleep in, and it's also the day on which sixty percent of life-sucking meetings occur. Tuesdays suck because the week has four more work days left; you hate yourself and the world because you're trapped in this wage-slave hamster wheel called life. Wednesdays are bad because you realize around noon that the work week is half over, but the fact you're viewing your life in this manner means that you're nothing more or less than the third panel of that old, unfunny comic strip CATHY, where she realizes she's a fat old spinster and her hair flies out and she makes the augggghhhhh! noise. Fridays are bad because you feel like a rat waiting for a food pellet to come down the chute, the food pellet being the weekend. Saturdays are okay, but only barely. And Sundays are like the day time forgot, when nothing happens and when, perversely, you start wishing for Monday again. So give me a week of Thursdays any time. Everyone's in a good mood, people actually get things done, and a glint of Saturday puts a sparkle in your step."
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http://tinyurl.com/a82upl