About five years ago in Cambridge, MA, I went to a nightclub to see Jim Carroll and to hear him read his poems. I'd never read The Basketball Diaries, but I was in love with his poetry. And he was to be my guide from origins of punk rock to his influences, the New York School poets and abstract art. The event in Cambridge involved an appearance by Ray Manzarek, and Carroll was there to read and possibly to sing. He did sing a Doors song, but when it came time for him to read, the people of this night in Boston had gotten themselves drunk enough to heckle and to request more Doors songs. I would have thought this was funny but I was disappointed, and so I found it sad. I don't read him anymore, but his dirty New York Catholic lilting voice continues to sound in my head.
Before I left for the Brooklyn Book Festival on a Sunday morning this past September, I studied the roster of events. Jim Carroll was scheduled to appear, among many others.
Initially, I planned to tell the whole story of the Festival, of leaving my house five minutes before noon, of wandering, because I was late for George Saunders, into a courtroom on the second floor of Borough Hall, where Mary Gaitskill sat quietly waiting to read as the audience murmured. I even thought of writing about the crush I developed on Mary Gaitskill.
But I won't write about that, nor about the many tables of books, magazines and chapbooks along sunny Borough Plaza representing the usual suspects on the indie lit circuit (with a noticeable absence of McSweeney's) along with a number of niche and religious publishers and a few corporate imprints, and though a number of the free panels and readings were really great, I must go straight on, before I forget what I want to write about, to the last event of the evening, which was back in the courtroom, extremely awkward, and caused about half of the audience to walk out.
It began with Joe Meno, the cutesy Midwesterner who writes novels for the children of punk rock, sitting by himself up on the courtroom bench and watching, as we all did, Jim Carroll's procession up the center aisle and into the present tense.
Carroll's presence is felt immediately. He is tall, languid but intense, and today wears a brown fedora that shadows much of his face and glasses, which I believe are relatively new for him, and a white button-down shirt with antiquated cuffs, tucked into old brown pants. He looks like a 19th century poet.
Then he finds his seat and begins to banter with Meno about who will read first, and he is careless about keeping his voice away from the microphone. Meno reads first, an unpublished short story written in the 2nd person to an office co-worker crush, and a number of people, such as those who buy his books I'm sure, would be finding it funny and sharp, but it devolves by the end into a pop-saccharine let-me-count-the-ways mess. With my imaginary red pen I envision long slash marks through about two-thirds of the story. But the crowd likes it, and claps, and Meno smiles welcomely and sits back down at the bench, looking at Carroll expectantly, hopefully.
Carroll does not stand, explaining that he has been sick lately, and that he must keep one leg elevated. We notice that it rests across the adjacent chair. He speaks for a moment, but in such a way that is clear only to those willing to suspend disbelief, and who are patient. He manages to convey that he will read from his autobiographical novel, a work in progress. Shuffling through the papers to find what he wants to read, they are scrambled beyond hope, and then he staggers to his feet, saying, about the leg, "it's cool."
He does not read, however, and after a moment of standing there silently, rocking on his feet, he mumbles an apology. Some audience members lean forward in theirs seats, enraptured by the wait. Many others leave in impatience or disgust. And Joe Meno, still seated next to Carroll, is visibly red as he attempts to mask his hyperventilation. He just sits there, waiting. Waiting for his turn with the audience again, to convene with his late-generation punks.
But then Carroll reads, and it's brilliant. The narrative follows the raven and its unfulfilled quest from Noah's ark, inhabiting the bird's spiritual consciousness, as the raven declares, "I am the messenger of god." Suddenly, as though nothing were ever wrong, the poet has perfected his performance. And I realize that Jim Carroll is inhabited by the presence of the Modern poet, and engaged in a ritual that is becoming a lost art. Look! Look at the man, I want to say to everyone around me. This is a legend among us, breathing with the shades of those before. And his hands; his incredible long hands like talons around the pages, as it becomes evident that the raven narrative is meant to be an autobiographical metaphor, that Carroll believes to share its fate.
And then he can't find what he wants to read. And stands there, shuffling, twitching. The time is growing short. He has read for a long time and now a long time has passed before he was last reading. This is the final event of the day and the courtroom must be cleared. A young woman in a red festival t-shirt gently speaks into another microphone, first to Carroll and then the audience, asking do we have questions for either author or would we like to hear Mr. Carroll's read some more. No one says a word, and then a young man in the back says, "Just read something, Jim!"
But he doesn't, at least not in time, and another administrator is moved to address the situation, explaining that the organization will be fined if the room is occupied any longer and that every book has an ending, and just as Carroll offers to sing a song, in answer to a request from the back, his microphone is cut. He yells for a moment, surprised and cursing this action, but he offers a bow and with his tinny voice and an old punk's smirk he bids farewell to the remaining followers.
