by Ron Padgett
“The sun’s a shinen, oh happy day-a, no more trouble, no skies are gray-a, oh, oh, oh, oh oh oh oh, happy day—.” We sang violently. Yes, violently, for the Dairy Queen had stimulated us to a fantastic degree of insight. We saw clearly at that moment, that glorious moment of knowing, that the world was basically violent, at least, in comparison to a 25 cent Dairy Queen. Tears came to my eyes. I cried, I cried for the first time in seven years. I cried violently into my Dairy Queen.
My Dairy Queen had by now melted considerably. I had dropped it several times: it was very dirty and sticky. The tears made it very watery and it was overflowing. I watched. I saw in it a fly: a fly in my violently overflowing Dairy Queen, diluted from tears. It was too much. I remembered the jolly pink man who had carefully handed it to me from the hinged small square screened opening. He had smiled as I took possession, and handed him my 25 cents, my last 25 cents. It was beautiful: so purely white and nice in a delicately crisp cone, a curl on top, ripples of white sand. “Arabia,” I thought. Yes, I must go to Arabia, I had been there so often in my dreams. I wondered if they had Dairy Queens in Arabia. It was too beautiful, and now, and now it was dirty. Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!
I wept, that is, I continued weeping.
I continued weeping for the rest of my life.
Saturday July 21st 1962
I smoked a cigarette but I couldn’t taste it. There were nine butts in the ashtray but only four used matches. I was making a collage but the pieces didn’t fit and the glue smelt bad. The turpentine from my day-old oil painting filled the air. My Pepsi stung my throat both hotly and coldly. I read Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, but I am a painter. Rainer Maria Rilke is a German. I decided that art is never contrived, controlled yes, but never contrived. Cubism serves as a good example. In all of its obviously organized complexity it might be easy to doubt its spontaneity. African sculpture, paralleling with Cubism, destroys this point. Natural forms were naively simplified in line, plane and mass to give their significant characteristics the greatest possible force and vigor of expression. But the natives don’t smoke Tareyton Dual Filter cigarettes. And Picasso denies being influenced by African sculpture. But I feel good anyway: my day has just begun.
I decide that Henri Matisse is a great painter because his paintings are very “present,” and his thoughts are big in encompassing the obvious, which is stable and right, and the unobvious, which he makes obvious: this being purely Matisse. Thus his greatness lies within his own personal concept of seeing through form and color. I saw a painting in my head, a vision, which I painted. But it is not the same one. Oh why is it not the same one? I am painting not the same one at all. The match cover which I’m lighting my cigarette with, while not painting the same one at all, says “Fresh Up with 7-Up / Mix with the Best / Close Cover Before Striking.” But I’m drinking a Pepsi and not painting the same one at all. But Matisse is great because I say so, and I have wet dreams of showing at the Tibor de Nagy Gallery. But I feel bad anyway: my day is already over. And tomorrow I will drink a 7-Up because my rent is due.
Diary Aug. 4th–15th
Aug. 4—Today went to the Museum of Modern Art to see the mummified remains of the actual asp that Queen Cleopatra used to kill herself with: a most interesting object.
Aug. 5—Today went to the Museum of Modern Art to study Excalibur, with which King Arthur proved his right to Kingship, and to sip coffee in the Museum’s sculpture garden. I found the sword to be a most unusual object.
Aug. 6—Today I thought. A rusty old sword and a dead snake? Are they kidding? Where are the real treasures of yesterday?
Aug. 7—Today I went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at the real treasures of yesterday. Their major treasures are quite exciting. I found their minor treasures rather unexciting.
Aug. 8—Today I thought seriously about Excalibur and decided it could just as easily have been Prince Valiant’s or even Flash Gordon’s. I have definitely decided this to be a minor treasure.
Aug. 9—Today I decided that perhaps minor treasures are not so minor after all. So I ran to the Museum of Modern Art to study with a new light the mummified remains of the actual asp that Queen Cleopatra used to kill herself with only to find out that the exhibition had been returned to India. I was most upset so I ran home and read Sunday after the War by Henry Miller. I found it a very exciting and major work of writing.
Aug. 10—I want to be alone.
Aug. 11—I spent most of the day today reading Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. I discovered it to be even more major than Sunday after the War.
Aug. 12—Today being Sunday, and all, I read the Journal American comic section. Strange as it might seem for me, I rather enjoyed it. Upon serious study I found that Walt Disney is taking over with five major series: “Uncle Remus,” “Big Red,” “Donald Duck,” “Mickey Mouse,” and “Scamp.” I find “Scamp” to be the most unusual, and “Big Red” to be the most exciting. Ripley’s “Believe It or Not” section stated much to my amazement that a girl in the Fon tribe of Africa is engaged at the age of six to a boy of sixteen, but before they can be married the youth (boy) must work eight years for the bride’s father as a plowhand! I found this most stimulating! It is also interesting to note that Sam Francis has done a painting called Big Red; the same title as Walt Disney’s comic series. I’ve been seriously contemplating the connection with no positive results.
Aug. 13—Today I bought some “Hy Tone” wide-line ruled notebook paper to write on and three rubber faucet washers. I only needed one, but they’re so inexpensive and so easy to lose I decided to play it safe. I read today where “Hy Tone” has been America’s most popular school supplies. This is interesting, because I’ve personally been using them for years. I did a painting called Big Red today, which only confuses the problem. But I must have unconsciously arrived at the title, for the painting is only 8” by 10” and mostly in different shades of black with green or yellow.
Aug. 14—I painted ten paintings today all called Big Red on Hy Tone. It’s interesting to note that three of these are self-portraits, and that one of these is obviously very major. I decided to destroy the other nine, even though five of these might easily be considered minor works. But instead I gave them to Ted, a poet friend of mine who married Sandy Alper: age 19. It’s interesting to note that Ted is 27 and that I’m 20. But I’ve been unable to draw any obvious conclusions other than the fact that my parents were married at an earlier age than Ted’s. It would help if I also knew when Sandy’s parents were married.
Aug. 15—Today I am truly horribly upset because Marilyn Monroe died, so I went to a matinee B-movie and ate King Korn popcorn. I decided never ever to paint again. The movie, Tarzan Gets Married, I had seen before at an earlier age. But I couldn’t remember who he married. (Jane.)
The China Sea
Death, you know, signifies nothing at all. What is important is that I have very sensitive fingertips. I like to read books. Reading this book all about conscious contact with a woman on the front wearing a key, large with wings, I have an image in mind. Like a Greek to see. There is something somewhere to see. Somehow. Last night I saw Ghost of the China Sea. I had seen it several times before, but, well . . . I love the China Sea. It’s blue I’m sure. Though I’ve never yet seen it. Perhaps what I really need to do is go on a crusade for heritage or study the scientific spirit in me. It’s there I know I think. And I’ve already read The Power of Ideas. I’m really terribly tired you know! Daily every day I must go through the discipline of overcoming unprofitable thinking, for I don’t know why? But I do. “I do.” Maybe from a metaphysical standpoint I could. I never paint science though yet. I will. The blue sea (China) won’t make room. Or the ghost. I’m not sure. I know what I need: to understand the harmonious mind of God. So I can see exactly where he went unharmoniously. See? There is so much seeing to do. And already today I’m so terribly tired. Blunted perception: I made it myself you know. We all do. For lack of reason not to. The spirit: I ma
de mine too, you know. Simply because it was there. What else could I do with it? I’m going to buy a phonograph record which voices a healing life-giving message! Or else Ray Charles’ new album. If only I had a record player, I’d buy both. If only I had the money. You see, I’m not asking for anything to change, really. I just want to see as is. If I criticize, it’s through creating: the only way. Michelangelo said something to that effect once. I read it in quotes. I think. This I know:
(1) My planet moves majestically in its orbit carrying me and my possessions.
(2) I can not escape my good.
(3) The one power is self-love.
(4) I seek at least a vision of faith.
(5) For twenty years, sleeping and awake, to place the stars and stripes on the pole has been my dream.
(6) It is good to be absent from the body.
(7) It is good to rejoice evermore without ceasing.
(8) It is good to be lost.
(9) Foes never slink back into native nothingness.
(10) Sin is obscure.
(11) Obscurity is good.
(12) My art needs more sin.
(13) I am faint and weak only because my doors are closed.
(14) Purification must be the result.
(15) No man is defeated until he ceases rejoicing; unless he’s a cripple or something.
(16) And I blue the China Sea.
Picnic or Yonder Comes the Blue
“After a white reception in the crystal room of the Hotel Kenmore, Mrs. George Eustic (Patricia Hays) and her husband left on a wedding trip to the Pocono Mountains, Pa. They will live in good old Noodleville.” (Home.)
Where the friendly purple heart is.
I like to do things. I like to eat, and things like that. I like the things that go on around me. People are nice. And, really, I like this place I live in. However, some people don’t.
Sally doesn’t.
Sick at heart, the trembling girl shuddered at the words that delivered her to this terrible horrible fate of the East. “Nasty!” How could she escape from this oriental monster into whose hands she had fallen—this strange man whose face none had seen.
Smile!
It is only a little picture,
In a little silver frame,
And across the back is written
My darling mother’s name.
(Valentine)
Pink and purple and orange ones with Venetian rose buds
Imported from Venetian
In eleven thrilling volumes
I heard a shot—I saw him run—then I saw her fall—the woman I love. My leg was broken—and my gun was gone! I had only one thought—(tee! hee!)—his strange, astounding plots must be avenged—he must die for a coward at my hands! He had the courage of a lion and the cunning of a rat. He came running towards me when—suddenly, I—
Ran.
Forgetting the ripped lace, $35, green violence, & free samples.
“I always run when I hear 3 rings!”
. . . and remember those swell picnics in Birch Grove?
“Jeez, it’s such a nice day” I said. “So I wish something would happen.” Nothing happened. I just sat there for a while. I smoke. (Cigarettes.) I sit here for a while longer. And I begin writing. (Casual.)
A True Story
(I don’t know why I chose this title.)
THE CHARACTERS:
Francine—“That’s very white of you” she says so often. It makes me laugh. Perhaps you don’t understand. Stupid! Francine is stupid, but for real. And that matters a great deal. But I am using too many words. This is not a play, you know. This is just a list of characters. (And many of them are.) Ha! Perhaps this isn’t funny. But I am using too many words. Francine is miserable. I’ll try not to explain. I mean, I’ll not try to explain. Francine is small, little, and would be a joy of a toy to sleep with now that I no longer have the cause. Francine loves cats. She has three plus a hamster. Booby is my favorite: the only cat (gray) I’ve ever seen that farts. It’s the honest truth. I don’t know if it’s a male or a female. Francine has been in jail. Francine has pixie hair and pierced ears, but they don’t look cheap. That sounds catty. (Pardon.) At any rate, I must cut this short. I’m using too many words, you know. Francine married a Negro. They are separated. Francine can’t tolerate capital punishment, loves jazz (Monk) and would like to love classical music, and has had two abortions. I’m sure you have the wrong impression of her. But I am right. And you are wrong. You just don’t understand.
Johnny—A boy who works at a newsstand. We always went to bad movies together. I could say more.
Carol—Paper-pale like fish food. Very soft. I don’t like the word skin. Carol is nice. Carol is Dick’s girlfriend.
Dick—Drinks books. Wears cowboy boots. Is Carol’s boyfriend. (Wouldn’t go to the toilet without at least The Book of Knowledge. He comes back. You say “What color?” He says, “Don’t know.”) I could say more.
Peter—I do like the name. But it might be Suzy. I do get them confused.
Ella—Ella’s been minding her own business like she ought to have done years ago.
Suzy—I do so like the name. But it might be Peter. I do so get confused.
Joe—(Me.) I love what I love with an appetite. But I also leave hairs in the bathtub. And no one has seen the insides of my pockets.
Pat—Writes me wonderful letters. Will say more later. I am using too many words. This is only a list of characters, you know. (And many of them are.) Ha! I don’t know if this is funny or not.
Bill—Bill is a novel out of a character. That is to say, strange. He is impossible to explain in words. So I won’t waste them. Besides my hands are tired and my fingernails are dirty. For I don’t have a typewriter.
Ron—Ron is hard to explain. And my fingernails are getting horribly dirty. I don’t have a typewriter. But I shall try anyway. That good ol’ college try, you know. Personally, I went to art school. Four of them. I had a scholarship for two of them. Honest! I hated them all. Ron goes to Columbia University. I could say more. And I really should say more. I will say more. (“More!”) Ha! That might be funny, but I’m not sure. It’s important to be sure. Maybe that’s why I’m in Boston: just to be sure. Ron goes with Pat. And I don’t know if I like him or not. I could say I do like him. And I could say I don’t like him. But I’ll say neither one: both are false. It’s important not to be false. You know what I like most of all? A beautiful morning. Don’t laugh. You are wrong to do so. It just makes me feel good and alive and all. And this is good. “And that is good.” I like that. I like the way I said that. “And that is good.” Somehow it sounds kinda holy, like Jesus might have said it. Or someone of that sort. “And that is good.” I like it. “And that is good.”
Sandy—Sandy is good. I could say more.
Ted—Ted is the kind of guy that laughs at the bubbles when he passes gas in the bathtub. Ted is a poet. Yet, sometimes he is frightened by the bubbles. I could say more.
THE INTRODUCTION:
In Boston I dream of things perhaps I oughtn’t to dream of. I dream of normal high school, potato salad lubricated by mayonnaise, and glory. And I am very sorry. But not always. I dream of other things too. But I won’t mention them. And not because they pertain to sex. And I am very sorry. But not always. I cry too, sometimes, just because the sky is so blue. But it is a rare thing for me to do. And March went so slowly.
I’ve only lived here two months. I can’t spell the state yet. And I read all the time, even though I am a painter. If I weren’t so afraid, so afraid of being overly dramatic, I’d say I felt like an eight-year-old kid trapped in a mine shaft. I feel like an eight-year-old kid trapped in a mine shaft. (Pardon me.) But I don’t know what the mine shaft is. Perhaps it is only a white bathroom. Not the mine shaft, but the place where I’m trapped. It doesn’t have to be a mine shaft, you know: the place where I’m trapped. But now I’m all confused. I’m not really trapped at all. I’m almost twenty-one. And what could be safer than a whit
e bathroom? Someone is sure to open the door. And I like white bathrooms. I have a brown moustache. And I make little sense at all. I know it.
I came from New York for a very good reason. Though I don’t know what it is yet. The reason. That is to say that I moved from New York to Boston by bus for a reason.
There are no days in Boston. They are all the same. I don’t have a clock but I have a calendar. The year is 1963. And soon I will be twenty-one. Do not laugh.
The setting: (I don’t know why I’m being so formal. This is not a play you know.) A small room with dirty no-color walls. The curtains are plastic. They contain on them a red and green floral design (large pattern) of a wild sort popular eight years ago when I was only twelve. I read books all the time. If you don’t believe me you are wrong. My bedspread is of pink chenille. It comes free along with weekly fresh white sheets which are yellow. Ivory actually. And I hope it is only from age. All for eight dollars a week. A bargain? No. I have a chair I don’t sit on. Am I boring you?
I’ve very little to say. And that may or may not be my problem if I have one.
I take two “one-a-day” vitamin pills every morning to make up for lack of something else. I heard cold showers were good for unmarried people. I use Vitalis on my hair (curly) only when I go out to look for a job; so the wind won’t mess it all up. (Hair.) I don’t have a job.
Ever cheated at solitaire? I have. But most of all I want to paint rare paintings: like the way I feel sometimes. I’m the best painter I know.