8672. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW #185

185. CARSON MCCULLERS

I used to write in a mad rush :

just like that, all sorts of things

gushing  -  impressions, sights,

sounds, smells. It started when

I was about 11. I used to scribble

in the tiniest, little handwriting

you'd see. Impossibly bizarre.

Think of one of those black,

marble-look covered composition

books, the ones lined with blue,

the pages. Every two lines on

those pages, I'd get in three  -

ignoring the lines and just

sticking my little print, or

handwrite. I did both. Lots

of times it was indecipherable

upon returning to it, and I'd

have to pick and dissect to

get something back  -  as

recreated, figured out, or

approximated. Some really

screwy runic version of my

own things.  I never knew

what other writers ever did.

To me it was all sacred and

special work. Yes, an entirely

overblown sense of self. I

guess. Adolescent self

absorption : All that stuff

is so easy to say now, so

glibly it rolls. But when

you're in the middle of it,

it's an entire and different

focus. Sitting here now, as

I am, I don't really 'know'

you  -  whoever may be

reading this  -  but if you

yourself ever went through

anything like this, or if you

have kids and you notice

THEY are entering that same

tunnel  -  then you'll know

exactly of what I speak.

-

Carson McCullers wrote

'The Heart Is a Lonely

Hunter', and she also

wrote 'The Ballad of

the Sad Cafe' : "Yes, the

town is dreary. On August

afternoons the road is

empty, white with dust,

and the sky above is

bright as glass. Nothing

moves. There are no

children's voices,

only the hum of

the mill... There is

 absolutely nothing to

do in this town. Walk

around the pond, kick a

stump, figure out what

you can do with that

old wheel by the side

of the road. The soul

rots with boredom.' I

used to transplant that

nicely written southern

town scene, or try to,

right into my 16 year

old Avenel surroundings.

It very easily could seem

about the same, and I often

did it. It had a vague, pre-

indistrial quality to it, like

when the possums used to

hang from those big trees

where they later built the

homes along the end of

Inman Avenue. It was

kind of all I wanted : my

other polarity, which was

strange -   the major side

of me was ready, at an

instant's notice to split

and bee-line right up Rt.

One to NYC and,

hopefully, never be

known  again as the

me I once was. And

 then this complete other

side of me was some

weirded out rural mad

psychopath, hunkering

along dirt paths and

small roads, kicking

things, maybe whistling,

and checking everything

out. Country boy stranger,

on the lam. Both ways,

the entire world was

charging against  me.

One of McCuller's ideas

was, as I studied it all,

'man's revolt against

his own inner isolation

and his urge to express

himself as fully as

possible.' Her characters

could 'belong to any

place at any time, as

their isolation and

inability to communicate

takes on a larger, more

universal meaning.'

I loved Carson McCullers,

and all her small work.

I used to refer to it as

 'small' work, meaning to

say in my own fashion,

'regional' writing, not one

of the big hitters, universal

heavies, Joyce and Fitzgerald,

all that. Really dumb-ass

designations. She had a grace

and a writerly elan all her

own. Plus, to me she was

strange and exotic looking.

Trade talk was she was an

ugly, nasty case, often just

called 'bitch'  -  which is an

'O' away from 'botch.' Good

reaction. 'If her life was

charmed, it was charmed

not like that of a southern belle,

more like someone in a Tim

Burton movie : Odd specimen.

Tall and lanky, and as she

grew into adolescence 

she would deliberately 

emphasis her boyish 

appearance by wearing

white socks and sport shoes, 

along with tailored suits 

and sailor's caps. She 

carried around a flask 

of sherry and hot tea. 

Her birth had been difficult, 

which accounted for her 

slightly mis-shapen head. 

Her mother had claimed, 

during pregnancy, that 

she had been 'alerted

by the oracles that her 

firstborn would be 

unique.' She was 

convinced the child 

would be a boy and 

decided to name him 

Enrico Caruso, in honor

of the famous singer. 

In any event, the baby 

was a boyish girl, so

she was named Lula 

Carson  -  Lula, which 

she later dropped, after 

her grandmother, and 

Carson after Caruso. 

Different from the 

normal kids, she 

remained an outsider 

and was considered 

eccentric; skirts and 

dresses always a little 

too long, wearing dirty 

tennis shoes or brown 

Girl Scout Oxfords when 

the other girls were 

wearing hose and high 

heels. Those other girls 

threw rocks at her, 
snickered, and called her
'weird'', 'freakish-looking,' 
and 'queer.' Lastly: 'A 
childhood fever was 
misdiagnosed and

mistreated, leading to a 

series of terrible strokes

that would leave her 
almost-half paralyzed by 
the age of thirty. By forty, 
her body would be a 
wreck. Her last years she'd 
suffer through a number of 
intricate operations to
relieve the spasms of an

atrophying left hand, wrist,

elbow and leg; to repair a 

shattered hip and elbow; to

cope with repeated sieges of

pneumonia, a severe heart 

attack, and breast cancer.'

-

She wrote : 

"Nature is not abnormal,

 only lifelessness is 

abnormal." I loved that 

lady. She died in the 

Spring of 1967. I hardly

even noticed.