Jonathan Carroll's Blog, page 27

CarrollBlog 12.19

One of the most terrible losses man endures in his lifetime is not even noticed by most people, much less mourned. Which is astonishing, because what we lose is in many ways one of the essential qualities that sets us apart from other creatures. I'm talking about the loss of the sense of wonder that is such an integral part of our world when we are children. However as we grow older, that sense of wonder shrinks from cosmic to microscopic by the time we are adults. Kids say "Wow!" all the time. Opening their mouths fully, their eyes light up with genuine awe and glee. The word emanates not so much from their voice box as from an astonished soul that has once again been shown that the world is full of amazing unexpected things.

When was the last time you let fly a loud, truly heartfelt "WOW?" Not recently I bet. Because generally speaking wonder belongs to kids, with the rare exception of falling madly in love with another person, which invariably leads to a rebirth of wonder. As adults, we are not supposed to say or feel Wow, or wonder, or even true surprise because those things make us sound goofy, ingenuous, and childlike. How can you run the world if you are in constant awe of it...?

The human heart has a long memory though and remembers what it was like to live through days where it was constantly surprised and delighted by the world around it.

CarrollBlog 12.18

THROW YOURSELF LIKE A SEED

By Miguel de Unamuno

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit

sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate

that brushes your heel as it turns going by,

the man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.



Now you are only giving food to that final pain

which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,

but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts

is the work; start then, turn to the work.



Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field,

don't turn your face for that would be to turn it to death,

and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what's alive in the furrow, what's dead in yourself,

for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds;

from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

CarrollBlog 12.15

A Road Runner Moment

Obsession. I have always liked that word. The sound of it, what it means, and particularly its turbo boost effect on the heart rate when the object of our fascination is within reach. You can be obsessed with anything—a woman, a song, a wine, a breed of dog, a seaside bar in Mykonos, a moment in life you wish could be frozen in amber. Literally anything that instantly sets the desire ablaze and makes you want to swoop down and possess whatever it is RIGHT NOW forever. Obsession stands out like a tropical island in the everyday sea of same old/same old. If you are obsessed with something, it not only becomes the focus of your attention, but also a concrete clear goal to strive for in this very confusing life; a reason for keeping alert and attentive when, let's face it, most of the events of our daily life leave us either bored or sleepy in their sameness.

I am no longer obsessed by watches although years ago I was, big time. I am a novelist and can now (sheepishly) admit I once spent an entire large royalty check on one watch that I haven't worn for a decade but still like to look at every day over there in its case across the room.

When I was younger I didn't care about watches. I wore whatever was cheap and dependable. I also thought people who spent a wad on Rolex, Breitling or vintage Omega were status creeps or posers—probably both. A watch told time. Basta. If you needed to show the world how cool or rich you were via what you wore on your wrist you were one serious loser, Dog.

Then one day while walking downtown in Vienna I passed a store, glanced in the window and kept moving. But a few steps on I had a Road Runner moment. You know what I'm talking about—in every Road Runner cartoon there's a moment where either the bird or Wile Y. Coyote slam on the brakes while the rest of their body carries forward like a rubber band being stretched to the breaking point. Accompanied of course by the appropriate stretched-rubber band sound effects. A moment later their body snaps back to its proper shape. It's what happened to me two meters down the road from that store. I Road Runner'd and after my body had righted itself, I literally walked backward to look again at what I'd just seen. It was a watch in a vintage wristwatch store. It was very large and had a beautifully simple face turned old man's tooth-yellow by age. On the face it said 'International Watch Co.' which at the time meant nothing to me. I stared in awe. How simple and elegant it was. I had never seen a watch that looked so beautiful and…complete. Then I had a sort of epiphany: I realized that without knowing it, I had been searching for this object a long time even though until that moment I didn't give a shit about watches of any kind.

I entered the store and the owner, nice man that he was, took a long time explaining that the watch model was called a "Portugueser," who made it, why it was very special, and other things that honestly meant little to me because as I said, I was indifferent to wrist candy back then. I just thought that THIS timepiece was like no other. Finally he stopped talking. In a small voice I asked how much it cost. He said it had been in the display window a very long time but I was the only person who'd ever inquired about it. He'd sell it to me for seven thousand Austrian schillings, which at the time was about five hundred dollars. That was a lot of money for me in those days but I pulled out my wallet immediately. My obsession had begun.

BREAKINGby Karen Schubert"When I knocked the coffee...

BREAKING

by Karen Schubert

"When I knocked the coffee cup

from its ledge, and it broke

into the shower, surrounding

my feet with sharp pottery

slipping along in the currents,

I felt the way

I'm always breaking

something, a hand-thrown

mug, a path, a promise.

This life requires a map

I can't find, a gentleness

I can't feel, a surety I know

only in these edges that keep me

from stepping on a mess

of my own making.

Such a gift

we have in the consent of others,

the minutes they give

us, I offer

no refund, only lie quiet

in the whole of it, saying,

don't believe I think I know,

only see me now, bending

to pick up what is too small.

Don't walk too close, unless

you are willing to mix

your blood with mine."

CarrollBlog 12.6

He went to court and filed for divorce from his secrets, fears, shortcomings and failings. Citing irreconcilable differences, he said they had simply grown apart over the years and no longer had anything in common.

CarrollBlog 12.4

"A while ago I gave a public lecture at a university. The speaker who preceded me talked for about an hour and a half, running over his allotted time. The break period between our talks was shortened, and I was called to the podium right away. Concerned for the audience, I opened by asking, "Did you all have time to urinate?"

Apparently this was not what the audience had expected to hear. Perhaps they were particularly surprised because the person standing before them, talking about pissing, was a monk. Everyone broke into hearty laughter.

Having started out on this note, I continued to drive home the point, "Pissing is something that no one else can do for you. Only you can piss for yourself." This really broke them up, and they laughed even harder.

But you must realize that to say, "You have to piss for yourself; nobody else can piss for you" is to make an utterly serious statement.

Long ago in China, there was a monk called Ken. During his training years, he practiced in the monastery of Ta-hui, but despite his prodigious efforts, he had not attained enlightenment. One day Ken's master ordered him to carry a letter to the far-off land of Ch'ang-sha. This journey, roundtrip, could easily take half a year. The monk, Ken, thought, "I don't have forever to stay in this hall practicing! Who's got time to go on an errand like this?" He consulted one of his seniors, the monk Genjoza, about the matter.

Genjoza laughed when he heard Ken's predicament. "Even while traveling, you can still practice Zen! In fact, I'll come along with you," he offered, and before long the two monks set out on their journey.

One day while the two were traveling, the younger monk, Ken, suddenly broke into tears. "I have been practicing for many years, and I still haven't been able to attain anything. Now, here I am roaming around the country on this trip; there's no way I am going to attain enlightenment this way," he lamented.

When he heard this, Genjoza, thrusting all the strength he had into his words, put himself at the junior monk's disposal: "I will take care of anything that I can take care of for you on this trip," he said. "But there are just five things that I cannot do in your place, I can't wear clothes for you. I can't eat for you. I can't shit for you. I can't piss for you. And I can't carry your body around and live your life for you."

It is said that upon hearing these words, the monk, Ken, suddenly awakened from his deluded dream and attained a great enlightenment, a great satori."

Soko Morinaga

CarrollBlog 1.12

Today it struck me that in certain ways, the internet is very much like high school. Because in all schools there are cool groups that every kid wants to be part of but very few can join because they're not 'cool' enough. The beautiful kids group or the athletes, the scholars, the beautiful AND athletic, the stoners or the dangerous crowd… But on the internet and in internet discussions, even geeks and idiots get to participate in these 'groups' whether the cool ones want them there or not. A total loser can chat or argue with the coolest kid in 'school,' or at least respond directly to something cool one said, whereas in real life cool kid would pay no attention at all to the loser. Sting posts something on his Facebook page and anyone can respond, which means they must think either Sting (or someone close to him) reads that response. Twitter is the same. In glorious instances, particularly nice people like Neil Gaiman actually do respond to these postings which makes it really feel like you're in with the In crowd, no matter who you are.

CarrollBlog 11.29

I've always been interested in the photography of Joe del Tufo. He's probably best known for his photos of musicians and concerts, but to tell the truth what I like most are what I think of as his "ice photos". I know nothing about photography but what my eyes like and which I post examples of daily on my Facebook page. Apparently through some process you camera-whizzes will know, del Tufo turns the world we know into a kind of surreal otherland of "iced" figures that often make my mind stop on seeing them and shake its head like a dog that hears an alien but interesting sound. For example del Tufo shoots a big man playing a trumpet in such a way that big man with a horn becomes a kind of mythical blue figure, part man, part ice figure, part I don't know what. He's on/of this earth but not really. You know him but you've also dreamed him as well. You'll see what I mean if you take some time to look at the link at the end of this. If you've read my work you know I'm fascinated with the point in life where the very real becomes the very unreal and magical. Maybe that's why del Tufo's work strikes a chord with me. See for yourself:

http://spiritofeden.tumblr.com/

CarrollBlog 11.24

Marie Howe wrote this poem after her brother John died of AIDS.

For non-Americans, Drano is a very strong acid product that unclogs drains

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.

And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.

It's winter again: the sky's a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat's on too high in here and I can't turn it off.

For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those

wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.

Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want

whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,

say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:

I am living. I remember you.

CarrollBlog 11.23

SEPARATION

by Marie Howe

Driving out of town, I see him crossing

the Brooks Pharmacy parking lot, and remember

how he would drop to his knees in the kitchen

and press his face to my dress, his cheek flat against

my belly as if he were listening for something.

Somebody might be waiting for coffee in the living room,

someone might be setting the dining room table, he'd

place his face under my dress and press his cheek

against my belly and kneel there, without saying anything.

How is it possible that I am allowed to see him

like this - walking quickly by the glass windows?

- what he wears in the world without me,

his hands swinging by his side, his cock quiet

in his jeans, his shirt covering

his shoulders, his own tongue in his mouth.