Jonathan Carroll's Blog, page 38

CarrollBlog 3.27

We spend our lives learning how to rationalize our imperfect behavior, but let me tell you something: It all boils down to the three sizes of guilt.

When it is small, we can slip it into our pocket and not think about it for the rest of the day. Didn't do your exercises? Or write that letter to your mother? Make the call? Fix the nice soup for the family you had planned? Screw it--the day was hard enough and you did your bit.

Medium-sized guilt doesn't fit into the pocket and must be carried awkwardly in the hand like an iron barbell or, when it's really bad, a squirming live animal. We know it's there every minute, yet still find ways to lessen or shift our discomfort. Having an affair and aren't so nice to your spouse because you're spending too much energy on this new love? Go buy the old love some obscenely expensive, thoughtful gift and what time you do spend together, be so passionate and concerned about them that you glow in the dark.

Large sized guilt either crushes you or bends you so far to the ground that, either way, you're immobilized. No shifting *this* weight and no getting out from under it.

CarrollBlog 3.26

It's pretty hard to improve on the wonderfulness of a ripping summer thunderstorm, but I recently witnessed an example. The storm came in pretty quickly although you knew about fifteen minutes before it hit that those galloping dark clouds would have something loud to say when they arrived. I was working at my desk when the storm broke and the only reason I looked up was because open windows started flapping in the wind. Then came the screams. Before standing up I listened carefully a few seconds because although they were high and many, they didn't sound scared or distressed; just a lot of jubilant screaming. When I went to close windows, the storm really got rocking-- horizontal rain, furious wind, raindrops the size of golf balls verging on hale. As I walked around the apartment shutting windows, I finally saw where all this noise came from: a school class of eight or nine year old's was down on the sidewalk with their teacher waiting for the stoplight to change. All of them were absolutely positively furiously and utterly *drenched.* Their school is nearby and what had obviously happened was while out on a class trip, they got caught in this storm just as they were walking back. The wonderful part was that all of these children were dancing, every single one of them. I mean really- going- nuts- boogey'ing. And if not dancing, jumping jumping jumping in absolute ecstasy as they got soaked. All the kids had given up trying to stay dry which was impossible anyway in that downpour. They were just getting wet as hell while standing at the light, loving it and showing their love as purely as only kids can do-- dancing wildly and shouting with top- of- their- lungs joy. I couldn't even distinguish which ones were their teachers because the rain was coming down so hard. It's been years since I saw that much happiness exploding all at the same time.

CarrollBlog 3.25

I don't know about you, but when I think back on certain books I've read, I often remember the circumstances or the places I read it more than the book itself. In some cases I can't even remember the plot beyond certain basics, but can clearly see where I was and how I felt when reading it: that horrible hot airport where the flight kept getting delayed and the only thing to do was read this stupid thriller. Or the perfect table outside at a small cafe in the middle of Switzerland one summer where all I did was drink coffee, read Salter's "Light Years," and now and then look up to watch the yellow chestnut trees rustle in the breeze. The enormous blue Mark Helprin novel in a dumpy but wonderful rooming house in Greece. Reading Edward Gorey's "The Unstrung Harp" for the first time on a very rainy November day, so caught up in what I was reading and seeing that the 2nd Coming could have happened around me but I wouldn't have noticed. Proust had his matelot to remind him of his childhood. Books do the same thing for me.

CarrollBlog 3.24

He was winter to her. Whenever she thought of their relationship everything was framed in winter-- hot drinks, heavy sweaters, their breaths white together on the cold air when they took their walks. They had been together in the summer too, but he wasn't summer to her. He was always winter. It made her think we assign people-- lovers especially-- seasons in our minds. She told a girlfriend this and the other gushed back immediately, "Yes! I know exactly what you mean! I've been married so long but I still always think of Ted against a summer background. Wearing shorts and t-shirts, eating ice cream, or on a beach together playing with the kids... Never in winter. I never picture him in a big coat or gloves or anything. Why do you think we do that-- give people seasons?"

CarrollBlog 3.23

You made crusty bread rolls...

by Gary Johnson

You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie

And minced garlic and drizzled with olive oil

And baked them until the brie was bubbly

And we ate them thoughtfully, our legs coiled

Together under the table. And then salmon with dill

And lemon and whole-wheat couscous

Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill

Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.

it was beautiful, the candles and linens and silver,

The winter sun setting on our snowy street,

Me with my hand on your leg, you, my lover,

In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful feet.

How simple life is. We buy a fish. We are fed.

We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed

CarrollBlog 3.22

An interesting letter from a reader:

Mid 80' summers were long and hot. I remember being sent to my godfather's house that stood in the middle of painfully flat meadows. Both boredom and heat were slowing me down, making me dizzy and not sure who I am anymore.

And yet...

I remember one lazy afternoon. Laying on the grass in the orchard. Breathing in heavy air and smell of half - rotten fruit. My eyes were closed. I was slowly eating sweet, ripe apples.

And then the wasps came.

I felt the first one landing on my lips. Then the next one and few others. I was petrified. I couldn't breathe.

But the wasps tamed me. The tenderness of their movements hypnotized me. I didn't want them to go. I gave in. I opened my mouth, slowly letting the wasps in. They were feeding on the bits of apple and at the same time they were eating all the primal fears away. They flew away but they left the essence of their presence within me.

I was 8. Since then I'm longing for the feeling of wasps crawling into my mouth. I live my life chasing the wasps.

CarrollBlog 3.21

There is a discount supermarket chain in Austria (let's call it Delta) that sells almost- things. If your favorite candy is called 'Freddy' bars and they're wrapped in red white and blue packages, what Delta does is sell their own brand called 'Friendly' bars, wrap them in virtually identical red white and blue packages, and charge a lot less for them. Whether it be candy, frozen pizza, red wine... the company's thing is to sell cheaper products that are almost the real thing but not quite. And the same is true about how these products taste or work. 'Friendly' candy bars might have almost the same ingredients as 'Freddy' bars, but they don't taste anywhere near as good. Their dishwashing soap is thin and sort of useless although it's colored and packaged to look just like Palmolive. The meat in their dog food cans is a weird shade of gray and makes the dog fart *a lot*. However as is usually the case, it takes two to dance. The Delta people are saying "Why pay full price for Freddy bars? Ours are just like them but cost half as much." You know though that isn't true. You usually get what you pay for. But you buy the cheaper one anyway and end up disappointed. So is Delta trying to fool you with their almost-goods? Yes. But are you to blame for buying them when you know about 90% of the time products like 'Friendly bars' are crap? Yes. Walking by one of these stores the other day, someone said to me, "You know Michael? He always reminds of something you'd buy at a Delta store." I knew exactly what she meant.

CarrollBlog 3.20

Years ago I saw her almost every day walking with her daughter. The two women were inseparable. I never saw either of them with a man, so I just assumed the father was gone. They always appeared to be having intense conversations. It was clear from the way they spoke that they took each other seriously. Both dressed nicely and with care, as if they were on their way to somewhere special whenever you encountered them. Then one day I saw the woman walking alone. It surprised me because I could not remember ever having seen her by herself-- she was always with her daughter. The girl now appeared to be in her middle teens so I just assumed she was off at school somewhere and would be back for holidays. But I never saw her again. Only the mother and the sad thing is, whenever I see her now she's always walking very quickly, as if late for an appointment. However I discovered eventually where she was going: to the neighborhood park to feed the birds. She carries a large purse and out of it she'll take either bread crumbs or bird food and scatter it on the ground at specific spots around the park. No matter what the season, she's there feeding the birds and filling their drinking spots with bottled water. The other day I saw her and mentioned her to someone from the neighborhood. "Oh yes, the Bird Lady. Do you know she goes four or five times a *day* to feed them? It used to be a couple of times a week. Then every day, now it's four or five times a day. Soon she'll probably pitch a tent and just live in the park." I looked at the well dressed woman and wondered where her daughter was, her great friend, the one who for so many years kept her from becoming the bird lady

CarrollBlog 3.19

Two decades ago before the Internet and websites like www.abebooks.com made the process easy, it was both tough and expensive to find rare or out of print books. We were talking about books that really mattered to us. She mentioned Theodore Weesner's great novel THE CAR THIEF. Both of us swooned on about how wonderful it was and how we had discovered the book when it came out in the 70's. She said years later she suddenly got the desire to re-read it but could not find a copy anywhere. So she contacted a bunch of rare booksellers by mail and one of them eventually said he'd found a mint first edition of the book but it cost a lot. She first thought OW when she saw the price, but then reasoned not only would she get to re-read it, but she'd own a perfect copy of a favorite book that she could treasure always. So she took a deep breath and $$ be damned, bought it. A couple of days after it arrived, she had to go on a business trip to London. She decided to take THE CAR THIEF with her because an airplane is the perfect place to do concentrated reading. But by the time she got on her night flight, she was so exhausted that she sat down and immediately fell asleep. She never even opened the book. The next morning after landing, while moving through Heathrow airport, who should she see but David Bowie walking alone toward her. Bowie was her favorite singer and as soon as she recognized him she thought I have to say hello/do something/let him know how much I love his work. Then it came to her-- she reached into her bag, took out the unopened pristine, outrageously expensive copy of THE CAR THIEF and walked right over to the famous singer. Handing it to him she said, "I love your music and right now the only way I can show you that is to give you this. I hope you read it and love it as much as I do." Bowie took the book, smiled and after a small bow to her, walked off.

CarrollBlog 3.18

In the park across the street a war is going on. The war of the wall. One large wall of the basketball court has been given to local graffiti artists. For a long time it was a chaotic mess of squiggles and badly drawn swirly initials-- the kind of dumb doodles that gives good graffiti a bad name because it's so meaningless and sloppy. But recently something interesting has been going on and I wonder if it will continue. A few weeks ago I saw a guy in a hoodie sweatshirt at work painting the wall one afternoon. At his feet were many cans of spray paint and although he had only just begun, it was clear his work was accomplished. Later I went to the park specifically to see what his finished product looked like. It was terrific-- beautifully drawn, imaginative, very much like the work of the artist Kenny Scharf. But in two days it was gone--completely covered over by a mass of very badly painted glop-- black or phosphorescent orange and green stick drawings, letters, and other crap that looked like a bunch of ten year old 'Attention Deficit Disorder' kids had eaten too much sugar and then attacked the wall with paint. It was sad because

what they'd erased with their junk was the real thing-- an artist at work. A few days later I grinned when I saw that familiar guy in a hoodie with the many cans of paint at his feet, back working on the wall. This time what he did there was completely different but just as good. I wanted to go over and compliment him, say good for you, man. But I was too shy and didn't. Instead I just stood well back and watched him work. He was fast and adept. He knew exactly what he was doing and the only time he stopped painting was when he'd take a few steps back, look at what he'd done, and then return to work. But once again the nasties rolled in afterwards and completely defaced this new work. I wondered what he thought when he saw it. All those hours put in, coming up with something special and very much his own. His gift to the world, erased by the barbarian horde. This morning early while walking the dog in the park my heart lifted when in the early light, I saw he'd returned and covered the wall yet again with his artistry. It reminded me of that Bruce Cockburn song lyric, "You've got to kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."