The Collected Writings of Joe Brainard: Library of America Special Edition

by Ron Padgett

  I remember body realizations about how fragile we (life) really are (is).

  I remember trying to figure things out—(life)—trying to get it all down to something basic—and ending up with nothing. Except a dizzy head.

  I remember having a long serious discussion with Ted Berrigan once about if a homosexual painter could paint the female nude as well as a “straight” painter could.

  I remember “Now I lay me down to sleep (etc.)”

  I remember, just out of bed in the morning, red wrinkle designs on your skin.

  I remember my mother cornering me into corners to squeeze out blackheads. (Hurt like hell.)

  I remember (hurt like hell) Saturday night hair washings of fingernails to scalp.

  I remember predicting that probably someday in the future people would dye their hair all different colors from day to day to match whatever they happened to be wearing that day.

  I remember a teacher who used to use the word “queer” a lot (meaning “unusual”) and a lot of snickering.

  I remember when the word “fairy” began to evoke snickering not knowing why. Then later, I do remember knowing why. What I don’t remember is how I learned what it meant. Just a gradual process of putting two and two together, I guess. Plus a bit of speculation.

  I remember white rubber sink plugs on chains.

  I remember not to stand up in the bathtub because I might slip and fall and bash my head open.

  I remember “This is the last time I’m going to tell you.”

  I remember (in the “But why?” department) “Because I say so, that’s why!”

  I remember birthday parties.

  I remember pink and brown and white ice cream in layers.

  I remember little silk American flags. And little bamboo and paper Japanese umbrellas that, if you tried to open them all the way up, broke.

  I remember at least once only pretending to make a wish before blowing the candles out.

  I remember how hard it was to get a round of “Happy Birthday” going.

  I remember never going to a birthday party where we played Pin the Tail on the Donkey.

  I remember canned creamed corn.

  I remember Cream of Wheat lumps.

  I remember roast beef and carrots and potatoes and gravy and, underneath it all, a piece of soggy white bread: the best part.

  I remember, when your beet juice runs into your mashed potatoes—red mashed potatoes!

  I remember looking forward to a certain thing or event that is going to happen, and trying to visualize its actually happening and not understanding “time” one bit. (Frustrating.) Frustrating because, at times, one can almost grab it. But then you realize it’s too slippery, and just too complicated, and so you lose your footing, totally back to nowhere. (Frustrating.) Still believing that a certain sort of understanding is somehow possible, if approached delicately enough, from just the right angle.

  I remember floating transparent spots before my eyes, every now and then, for a moment (microscopic) like when you stand up real fast.

  I remember many claustrophobic dreams of being in tight and endless places that get even more tight and more endless, and not being able to get out.

  I remember thinking about breathing, and then your head takes over the effort of breathing, and you see that it’s “hard work,” and it’s all very spooky somehow.

  I remember teenagers riding around in convertibles with their radios on loud.

  I remember (after school) soda fountain shops with booths, and a juke box, but only in the movies.

  I remember juke boxes you could see pick up the records.

  I remember blowing straws.

  I remember “parking.”

  I remember “necking.”

  I remember “petting.”

  I remember “stripped” cars. (No chrome.)

  I remember Buicks with holes in them. (Three or four along each side, I think it was.)

  I remember big sponge dice dangling up front.

  I remember noisy exhaust pipes.

  I remember souvenir state decals on car rear windows. I remember that some cars had a lot.

  I remember St. Christopher medals, on chains, around necks, that had nothing to do with being Catholic.

  I remember old ladies’ houses with a lot of things to break in them.

  I remember crocheted doilies on the backs and arms of big stuffed chairs.

  I remember maroon and navy blue felt house shoes, with fuzzy balls on top.

  I remember (z - z - z) plastic place mats the texture of woven straw.

  I remember boat steering wheel wall lamps.

  I remember “Man Tan,” and orange stains on white shirts.

  I remember trying to get a tan out in the backyard and, thinking I’d been out for an hour or so, going inside to discover that I’d only been out for 15 or 20 minutes.

  I remember, after being outside in the sun for awhile, going inside, and the few moments or so of seeing almost negative.

  I remember a tall girl with blonde hair who every year got a really dark tan. She wore white a lot (to set it off) and light pink “wet” lipstick. Her mother was very tall too. Her father was crippled from polio. They had money.

  I remember the smell of Jergen’s hand lotion on hands. And its pearly white texture as it oozes from the bottle.

  I remember large bars of Ivory soap that broke easily into two. (Actually, now that I think about it, not so easily.)

  I remember the Dutch Cleanser girl with no face.

  I remember wondering about the comfort and practicality of wooden shoes.

  I remember filling out a form once and not knowing what to put down for “race.”

  I remember speculating that probably someday all races would get mixed up into one race.

  I remember speculating that probably someday science would come up with some sort of miracle cream that could bleach skin, and Negroes could become white.

  I remember (too recently) writing something I especially liked in a letter and “using” it again in another letter, and feeling a bit cheap about it.

  I remember (to be more accurate) feeling cheap about it because I didn’t feel cheap about it.

  I remember “a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  I remember no way to scratch your ear in the dentist chair when your ear itches.

  I remember “Red Roses for a Blue Lady.” (A blue lady?)

  I remember tie clips that were hard to keep straight.

  I remember, in signing off a letter, “Yours ’til the kitchen sinks.”

  I remember face jokes.

  I remember (finger hooked in mouth) “Lady would you please hang your umbrella somewhere else?”

  I remember (pulling skin around eyes into “Oriental”) “Mommy, you made my braids too tight!”

  I remember (squashing face between hands) “Bus driver, will you please open the door?”

  I remember little records with big holes (45’s) and being able to carry a whole stack of them between a thumb and a finger.

  I remember little yellow and red and green plastic children’s records.

  I remember chipped beef and gravy on toast.

  I remember, in Boston, figuring out that a street with lots of antique shops on it might be good for cruising, and so I did a lot of walking up and down it (“window shopping”) but, as I was afraid to look at anybody, I didn’t do too well. (The understatement of the year.) So home I’d go to my “handy work”; often aided by men’s wear ads in back issues of Playboy magazine. Which was no easy feat, considering how carefully men’s fashion photos avoid any hint of a body underneath. (Underwear ads the most infuriating of all.) However, they did slip up every now and then. Like once I remember a very sexy two-page bathing suit spread that got a lot of use. And (in reference to “no easy feat”) that was long before it ever occurred to me that a little soap and water, or Vaseline, or something, might help.

  I remember (early New York City days) seeing a ma
n close off one side of his nostrils with a finger, while blowing snot out of the other nostril onto the street. (Shocking.)

  I remember seeing an old lady pee in a subway car recently and it wasn’t shocking at all, I’m sorry to say. One does learn to draw blanks: a compliment to nothing.

  I remember French bikinis.

  I remember DDT.

  I remember nothing to say when someone tells you that your fly is unzipped.

  I remember lighting the filter end of a cigarette when you want to appear “cool.”

  I remember, at parties, after you’ve said all you can think of to say to a person—but there you both stand.

  I remember trying to have a conversation with someone once with a hair sticking out of his nose.

  I remember a lot of giggling and note-passing in the balcony at church.

  I remember starched dress shirt collars.

  I remember when my arms were always too long for my shirts. Or else the neck was gigantic.

  I remember the very thin pages and red edges of hymn books.

  I remember the noisy mass flipping of pages when the next hymn is announced.

  I remember when all heads are bowed in prayer, looking around a lot.

  I remember, when it’s all over, very swirly organ music to exit with.

  I remember a lot of standing around and talking outside on the steps afterwards.

  I remember empty Sunday afternoons of feeling somehow all “empty” inside.

  I remember a big Sunday lunch, a light Sunday night dinner, and in the morning—“school.”

  I remember Monday mornings. And Friday afternoons.

  I remember Saturdays.

  I remember the washing machine and the vacuum cleaner going at the same time.

  I remember, when one stops before the other, a moment of “fake” silence.

  I remember “muscle magazines” nothing to do with building muscles.

  I remember Roman column props. Tilted-to-one-side sailor caps. Crude tattoos. Blank expressions. Suggestive G-string pouch shadows. And big flat feet.

  I remember (in color) very pink skin and very orange skin.

  I remember trying not to look lonely in restaurants alone.

  I remember the several rather unusual ways “Pouilly-Fuissé” has come out of my mouth, trying to order a bottle of wine in restaurants.

  I remember, eating alone in restaurants, making a point of looking around a lot so people wouldn’t think I was making a point of not looking around a lot.

  I remember, eating out alone in restaurants, trying to look like I have a lot on my mind. (Primarily a matter of subtle mouth and eyebrow contortions.)

  I remember (too much wine) trying to leave a restaurant gracefully. Which is to say, in a series of relatively straight lines.

  I remember over-tipping. And I still do.

  I remember liking to impress sales clerks by paying no attention to price tags. And I still do.

  I remember having a big crush on this guy, and fantasies of dropping everything and going away with him somewhere (like maybe sunny California) and starting a whole new life together. Only unfortunately, he didn’t have a crush on me.

  I remember fantasizing about being a super-stud and being able to shoot enormous loads. And (would you believe it?) (yes, you’ll believe it) I still do.

  I remember knowing what “c-a-n-d-y” meant long before I knew how to spell.

  I remember: “What’s your sign?”

  “Pisces.”

  “I knew it!”

  I remember blowing the white fuzz off dandelions after the petals are gone.

  I remember making awful noises with a rose petal in my mouth, but the “how” of how to do it is something I don’t remember.

  I remember “bread and butter” when something in the street divides you from the person you’re walking down the street with.

  I remember “Last one to the corner’s a rotten egg!”

  I remember “Go to jail—pass go—do not collect $200.”

  I remember that George Washington Carver invented peanut butter.

  I remember blowing up paper bags to pop.

  I remember cartoon stars when someone gets hit over the head. And light bulbs for a bright idea.

  I remember making up abstract foreign languages, which sounded totally convincing, to me.

  I remember keeping a list of states visited.

  I remember making a three-dimensional map of the United States with oatmeal and paste.

  I remember spatter-painting autumn leaf silhouettes with a toothbrush and a piece of screen door wire.

  I remember packing up toothbrushes and washcloths and Crayolas (etc.) into individual Red Cross boxes for underprivileged children overseas.

  I remember how long a seemingly empty tube of toothpaste can go on and on and on.

  I remember when someone grabs your arm with both hands twisting in opposite directions—an “Indian burn.”

  I remember, after eating ice cream too fast, a cold head rush.

  I remember Creamsicles and Fudgesicles and Popsicles that broke (usually) in two.

  I remember stealing pieces of candy from previously broken bags on supermarket shelves.

  I remember that because someone else had already done the dirty work it made it to my mind “O.K.”

  I remember poking my finger into cellophane-wrapped blobs of meat impossible to imagine someone might actually eat.

  I remember “Next time, you’ll stay at home!” because I was always wanting this or that, and this or that was always too expensive, or not good for you, or something.

  I remember bright orange jars of cheese spread. And tiny tins of pink deviled ham.

  I remember how that “powdered cheese” you put on spaghetti smelled suspiciously like dirty feet to me.

  I remember (Easter) drawing on white eggs with a white Crayola before dipping them.

  I remember not very hard Easter egg hunts. And the ones that didn’t get eaten soon enough got all gray-green inside. (To say nothing of smelling like shit!)

  I remember the chocolate Easter bunny problem of where to start.

  I remember some pretty fuzzy ideas as to what “Ground Hog Day” and “Leap Year” were. Or, for that matter, are.

  I remember thinking that “S.O.S.” meant something dirty.

  I remember fantasies of finding notes in old bottles washed ashore.

  I remember magic carpets and giant “genies” and trying to figure out what my three wishes would be.

  I remember not understanding why Cinderella didn’t just pack up and leave, if things were really all that bad.

  I remember getting a car door slammed on my finger once, and how long it took for the pain to come.

  I remember wondering if goats really do eat tin cans.

  I remember the fear of “horror” coming out of my mouth as “whore,” as indeed it quite often did.

  I remember rocks you pick up outside that, once inside, you wonder why.

  I remember hearing once about a boy who found a dead fly in his Coke and so the Coca-Cola Company gave him a free case of Cokes.

  I remember thinking how easy it would be to get a free case of Cokes by putting a dead fly in your Coke and I remember wondering why more people didn’t do that.

  I remember a girl with hair down to past her waist until she had to cut it off because it got so heavy her hairline was receding.

  I remember red hands from falling down on gravel driveways.

  I remember searching for something you know is there, but it isn’t.

  I remember infuriating finger cuts from pieces of paper.

  I remember (ouch!) bare feet on hot summer sidewalks.

  I remember once on T.V. news an egg being fried on the sidewalk as an example of just how hot the heat wave we were having really was.

  I remember my mother talking about women who shouldn’t wear slacks.

  I remember taking baths with my brother Jim when we were very young, back to b
ack.

  I remember inching myself down into water that was too hot.

  I remember the “tornado” way the last of the water has of swirling down the drain so noisily.

  I remember stories about people getting electrocuted by talking on the telephone in the bathtub.

  I remember telephone nooks built into walls. And “party lines.”

  I remember (recently!) getting blown while trying to carry on a normal telephone conversation, which, I must admit, was a big turn-on somehow.

  I remember not very scary ghost stories, except for the dark they were told in.

  I remember having a friend overnight, and lots of giggling after the lights are out. And seemingly long silences followed by “Are you asleep yet?” and, sometimes, some pretty serious discussions about God and Life.

  I remember get-rich-quick schemes of selling handpainted bridge tallies, inventing an umbrella hat, and renting myself out as an artist by the hour.

  I remember my high school art teacher’s rather dubious theory that the way to tell if a painting is any good or not is to turn it upside down.

  I remember bird pictures from Mexico made out of real feathers, with hand-carved frames.

  I remember picture windows with not much view except other picture windows.

  I remember the rather severe angles of “Oriental” lamp shades.

  I remember, up high, wallpaper borders.

  I remember, when relatives come visit, a cot.

  I remember (when relatives come visit) “getting away with murder.”

  I remember “good dishes” versus “everyday dishes.”

  I remember that a good way to get a “maybe” instead of a “no” is to ask for what you want in front of company.

  I remember, in pajamas with feet, long acrobatic kisses in grown-up laps to prolong “bed” for as long as possible.

  I remember being talked about as though I wasn’t there.

  I remember once a grown-up lady pretending to pull off her thumb (a trick) and the next thing I knew my milk was all over the floor of a strange house.

  I remember once at a church dinner social having to sit right across from a lady who had no vocal chords and all she could do was make weird noises and I couldn’t eat a bite.

  I remember a cigar box out in the garage filled with odds and ends of just about everything, of which a broken green “pearlized” fountain pen stands out the most to me now.