Ramblings Of A Man Named Joseph Carro

Posts tagged “Writing Life

The Rundown

Posted on December 11, 2018

When I was fifteen years old, the world was my enemy. And why shouldn’t it have been? It was 1996. Up until that point, the world had done its best to drag me, sometimes screaming, through metaphorical gutters of the worst kinds of waste. At that young age I had already been half-starved, covered in lice and fleas, abused in the worst kinds of ways. I was a victim, but also a survivor. The constant battling only made me harder, scooped out the soft spots in large chunks so what I was left with was a veritable chitinous exoskeleton, impervious to the outside world. As a result, when I moved to the middle-class neighborhood in New Hampshire, filled with anxious folks living in high-end…

Danforth Street

Posted on December 7, 2018

I walked with a hobble down Danforth Street in Portland, Maine. It was around fifty degrees, and the air had a chill to it. There was nothing going on that I could see, and the night seemed extra quiet. Still, as is my habit since I don’t trust people, I kept looking behind me to see if I was being shadowed. I could never quite shake that feeling. Nobody there, of course. Better safe than sorry, though. My right foot had something wrong with it. A bone that was out of place, a cramp…something. Whatever it was – it made me limp along. I didn’t pay much attention to it. It would walk itself out. That’s how foot things usually worked, right? After a…

Excelsior: My Tribute To Stan Lee

Posted on November 13, 2018

*Artwork by me.   I don’t have any photos with Stan Lee. I was never lucky enough to meet the man in real life – So, on top of that, I also don’t have any touching anecdotes about how I met him in an elevator once, or how I sat down next to him at a convention, or anything else I’ve been grateful to read about him on the day of his death. Stan Lee never encountered me once during the 95 years he roamed our Earth – he didn’t know I even existed. And yet the mark he left on me was indelible, and though he didn’t know I existed – he knew lots of people LIKE me. I was an archetype in…

The Kancamagus Highway

Posted on November 10, 2018

There’s a somewhat alarming sign that greets you as you approach the western end of the Kancamagus (pronounced “Kan-kuh-MOG-us” if you were wondering) Highway in Lincoln, New Hampshire. It reads “No gas for the next 32 miles”. As you pass the sign, you drive along a narrow stretch of road that winds itself through the White Mountains and through some extremely beautiful scenery. It’s a real treat in the fall, when the foliage is popping – but it can be a wonderful experience in the summer as well. Driving the Kancamagus¬† in the fall is like rolling through a kaleidoscope of autumnal color. You lose yourself momentarily as hills give way to stoic mountains covered with shocks of reds, yellows, browns, and even the…

The Peacoat

Posted on November 7, 2018

I was writing at home, or trying to, when the desire to get up out of my chair finally struck me. I needed out, I needed to get out into the fall weather and interact with humans and stop looking at the page. I grabbed my pea coat, slipped it on, and slipped out the door. My girlfriend at the time wasn’t home yet. The night was cold, and my feet slid over wet leaves that covered the grimy Portland sidewalk. Several times, I had to check my pace or risk falling to the tar. I took in the night air, letting it fill my lungs and letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Upon entering the store, I wandered around aimlessly. I wasn’t…

The Barn

Posted on October 18, 2018

I remember the time when we lived in the big barn in the woods. We slept up in the hayloft with a small black and white television that constantly played old Abbot and Costello movies. We all went to the bathroom in a giant bucket when we needed to, and I remember the cold morning I urinated on a drowned lunar moth – its wings spread across the liquid human waste in a sad parody of flight. I felt sorry for it, even though I was simultaneously scared of its size. Many of my mornings there were spent in a dirty van that smelled of carved wood, of burned wood, of cigarettes and cigars and cheap beer. The metal floor was covered in sawdust.…

The Magic Rock

Posted on August 29, 2018

I meet many strange people who seem to gravitate toward me for some reason. Perhaps it’s because I have a friendly face and relaxed mannerisms. Perhaps I’m easy to talk to. Perhaps it’s an energy I give off. In any case, Portland has no small share of strange souls who happen to come into contact with me, and the man with the magic rock was no exception. I only had ten minutes left of my half-hour break at work. I had just finished eating most of a rather dry turkey panini when I stood up, stretched, and walked to the condiment bar nearby to get a couple of napkins. Upon returning to my seat in the cafe, I noticed a young man with baggy…