by Ron Padgett
May Dye married and now her name is May Linger of Oneco, Florida.
Tonight is January the 3rd, 1964. Just home from the movies with a Pepsi in hand feeling sorta weird not good or bad wishing “something” would happen knowing that it is up to me. I feel horny too. When one arrives home from the movies one does the normal things one does do when one arrives home from the movies and that is what I did. However I didn’t jerk off because I wanted to save it for later and now I am writing. I live in New York and I will tell you that I have taste and that I work very hard and constantly at making collages because it is what I like to do most and I don’t know what else to do. I lack the courage to talk words very much because they are terribly definite and final and I don’t enjoy the risk. However I would enjoy the risk when I take it. I find that I rely very much upon each new day being a new day. I do not have a job and I do not have an income and I do not have money but I find that when I do “get” money it doesn’t matter I couldn’t care less that I didn’t have it before I got it. And if I decide not to be a painter and I won’t I would decide not to be a painter because of Andy Warhol and Marcel Duchamp because that is where I could easily end up if I let myself but there is not room there anymore so perhaps I go in the opposite direction but if so it is because of them and with love and it is really not as different as we think of opposite as being because at least we have opposite in common. (Thank you.) I assume that we have very much in common and that is what I want to assume and assuming that we have very much in common perhaps you know me better than I think you do. And that is a good thing. And if I love you and I do it is not by choice alone altho if I did have a choice that is what my choice is.
Colgate Dental Cream
Jimmie: Aw, mom . . . I only told him he has bad breath!
Mother: But Jimmie—tell mother! Whatever made you do such a naughty thing?
Jimmie: Well, Aunt Mary said Mr. Reed was nice—only he oughta go see his dentist about his breath—so I told him!
* * *
Mr. Reed takes Jimmie’s tip . . .
* * *
Dentist: Tests show that most bad breath comes from decaying food deposits in hidden crevices between teeth that aren’t cleaned properly. I recommend Colgate dental cream. Its special penetrating foam removes these odor-breeding deposits. And that’s why . . . Colgate dental cream combats bad breath! You see, Colgate’s special penetrating foam gets into the hidden crevices between your teeth that ordinary cleansing methods fail to reach . . . removes the decaying food deposits that cause most bad breath, dull, dingy teeth, and much tooth decay. Besides, Colgate’s soft, safe polishing agent gently yet thoroughly cleans and brightens the enamel—makes your teeth sparkle!
* * *
Later—thanks to Colgate’s
* * *
Jimmie: Boy! This glove’ll knock the team’s eyes out, Mr. Reed! I’m sure glad you’re going to be my uncle!
* * *
No bad breath behind his sparkling smile—
* * *
Mr. Reed: And no toothpaste ever made my teeth as bright and clean as Colgate’s!
Brunswick Stew
Jane was telling her mother all about her date the night before. The young man had taken her to a very expensive restaurant and then to the newest musical comedy. After the show they had gone to a supper club to dance and she didn’t get home until three A.M. It was the best time Jane had ever had in her life. “And I’m sure,” she said fondly, “that he’s in love with me, and that he’s going to ask me to marry him!” Jane’s mother smiled fondly. “Oh, darling,” she said fondly, “don’t be ridiculous! How can you tell? After all, it’s only the first date.” Jane smiled smugly. “Oh, I know he loves me because he said my dress was too tight, too short, and cut too low.” A dish that won’t be too hard on a tight, short, low budget is a chicken stew which for some unknown reason is called Brunswick Stew:
One chicken, 4 to 5 pounds, disjointed or parts
Maybe some cooking oil or butter or margarine (but chicken fat is best)
2 large onions, chopped
6 cups boiling water
1½ teaspoons salt
½ teaspoon pepper
2 cups canned tomatoes
2 cups whole kernel corn
2 cans lima beans
Some people cook the Brunswick Stew with potatoes and cooked beef, some add wine to it. As I said, I don’t know why it’s called Brunswick Stew. There were a lot of dukes and things named Brunswick, and maybe one of them was a stew.
Sick Art
Mona Lisa’s smile often causes observers to overlook the fact that she has no eyebrows.
One skin specialist offered the suggestion that Leonardo da Vinci’s model was suffering from a skin disease called alopecia. Alopecia is a skin disease in which one has no eyebrows.
On the other hand, many women in those days shaved their eyebrows and Leonardo da Vinci’s model may have just been following the fad.
There is no doubt, however, that Rodin’s The Thinker has bunions on both feet.
Today, with modern art, it is not so easy to spot diseases and physical disorders.
Many doctors, however, have noticed a strong relationship between various skin diseases and the paintings of Jackson Pollock.
Fungus infections are very common in the art of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.
Sunday, July the 30th, 1964
“Roger!” and that was all I said. I didn’t know his name and he didn’t know my name.
“Jack!” he replied.
It was beautiful the way it just “happened.” We were both wrong of course. My name is Joe and always has been. Always will be. And as I later discovered, his name was Bill. Or rather, is Bill. He is still quite alive. I ran into him just the other day going due north.
“Terribly sorry!” I said, helping him to his feet. He didn’t recognize me and I didn’t recognize him. Under normal conditions we would have parted immediately except that during the bump into one another his hat fell off and went rolling due south onto the street where the cars are. A bus ran over it, flat, and I felt terribly responsible.
“May I buy you a new hat?” I said, helping him brush our city dirt from his pretty trousers. “A brown one?”
“No, a black one,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a black hat.”
A black hat, I thought, how strange! I remembered Roger: Roger had always wanted a black hat just like his daddy’s. During the moment’s pause I had a chance to recall our first meeting: Times Square, 1951, a triple bill; three Westerns. Roger, I thought, where are you? Little did I know . . .
“Certainly,” I replied, “I’m terribly fond of black hats myself you know!”
“Really?” he said. I came back quickly with a reply. Too quickly.
“Yes, I really am terribly fond of black hats myself,” I said, squinting at the empty sky. Terribly blue, I thought. I should be able to see something by now, but there is not a sign—just nothing. Noticing my interest in the sky he grunted his acknowledgment:
“Yes. The sky. The sky is terribly blue and empty today.”
“Blue and empty?” I replied quickly, too quickly, forcing myself to dismiss the speculation and to concentrate on the black hat. So, he thinks the sky is terribly blue and empty today does he?, I thought. This gave me second thoughts: after all, the hat I so kindly offered to replace was brown. Brown: such a funny color. Almost not a color at all. Nobody really hates brown. And nobody really loves it either. I mean, nobody would dare give brown as their favorite color. Brown is like Canada. Who wants to go to Canada? Canada: somehow I’ve simply no vision of what Canada really is. Like a marshmallow. We live with them. We buy them from Camp Fire girls. We even roast them. But who cares? I mean, who really cares? Brown. Canada. Marshmallows. And Sunday. Sunday is like that too.
Example: consider this fact. In the short time it will take you to read this story or article or whatever it is going to be, over 2,000 accidents will take place. Over 440,00
0 will occur before the day ends. These accidents must be investigated.
You know, sometimes like today (it is Sunday) it isn’t even wise to walk out the door. Sometimes, on Sundays, like today, I just feel like sitting down and writing and I’ve not the faintest idea what to say. Just what is this thing about Sunday anyway? The silence. And the air. I never will understand Sunday. Besides, I have a terrible hangover. And so does Francis Vickers, my wing-man, who is on “hot intercept” duty with me at the field on Mondays and Tuesdays and alternating Fridays. Holidays excluded.
Francis Vickers! He is a real swell guy. A wee-bit of a nut, but a real swell guy. Gray at the temples. Slim and attractive. A typical illustration of how they operate. And with very little effort. So, where lies the truth?
Ah-so! The Truth.
You take Matisse for example, now he is the truth. Matisse says, “Look how beautiful!” and he really is quite right you know. Matisse paints the truth. In the most truest way. And he proves it. And so if you say to me, you say, “Why is Matisse a truly great painter?”, this is why.
Another great painter I know well is Juan Gris. The very best thing about the paintings of Juan Gris is that you can see the work in them, the conflict in them, the way they were painted and why. Juan Gris “did a lot.” I am especially fond of painters who do a lot. Juan Gris is not a perfect painter. Perfect paintings are really quite boring and bad paintings quite often turn out to be the best. Juan Gris doesn’t simply paint pictures: Juan Gris allows you to understand his work well. “Thank you.”
Thank you Marilyn Monroe for being so much what you are, rather than what you were. For being so white and so much fun.
It really is fun to be absolutely honest isn’t it sometimes? Like playing doctor in the closet. Like, this is the absolute-unspoken-till-now-truth: I don’t love people nearly as much as I should. I know that. And with very little effort you can make yourself look like a (continued on page 65).
What we need is a new topic.
I am a firm believer in the power of positive thinking. I know that I am in no position with myself to say that the recently published Sonnets of Ted Berrigan are absolutely great, but I also know that they are. (The Sonnets by Ted Berrigan / Published by “C” Press / 630 East 9th St. / N.Y.C. / dedicated to me and with a cover design by me / $1.00.)
The Sonnets by Ted Berrigan are very much written with words. (Example: “boy.”) That a single word (“boy”) is not the same “boy” as you have known before is a very special thing. The way you are not too certain. And the way it hits home. A foreign friend. And really, “Yes” is the only answer. Ted Berrigan knows words well and he lets us know that we know words well, too.
There are many descriptive words that I could use to describe The Sonnets to you. Familiar. Interior. (House-wise.) Perhaps plain. Collage. Realistic (Very-much-real). Exterior. Newspaper-like. Personal. Impersonal. And very much etc.* But I will not use any of these words to describe The Sonnets of Ted Berrigan. They do not allow that. There are too many “and”s and “but”s and “however”s and it is terribly confusing. The Sonnets of Ted Berrigan are not confusing at all. They are quite clear (“boy”) and readable. And the tone of voice; I know that tone of voice; we live it. What is there is very much there and what is not there is very much there too. If I do not seem to be saying anything it’s really quite logical that I do that. The Sonnets are like that. They are surprisingly empty, like a shell, with room inside for the reader. Actually there is not much you can do with the sonnets of Ted Berrigan except read them. Read them again. And perhaps tomorrow if I feel like it.
I feel just like looking at the sea for now! The hypnotic lure of the sea has drawn many thousands from all over the world, just like you and me, to see. Ah, to see the sea again. To look at it. You know, the funny thing about the sea is that I can never remember what color it is.
_______________
*Bulletin Board. Calendar. Diary. A Day. A Week.
Saturday,
December the 11th, 1965
I woke up this morning in Kenward Elmslie’s house: top floor. We had toast and sausage and coffee. It was Suzy’s day off. I looked outside the window and it was damp and dark but not raining, and I said, “Oh, no.” It may rain. Then again, it may not. Sometimes very early in the morning it seems to me that everyone else in the world is still asleep.
I took a cab home because I had a little headache from drinking too much the night before at a party for John Ashbery, and I still do. It’s nice to have John Ashbery back in New York City. I don’t see why he should be anyplace else but here. But I didn’t get drunk. I never do.
I picked up a tin of aspirins and a carton of Cokes, a pack of cigarettes, and a new light bulb because my old one went out. I usually drink Pepsi-Cola, but they have been on strike for over a year now. I shouldn’t smoke so much. I have this terrible cough. My birthday is March the 11th: exactly three months away. I’ll be 24.
I looked in the mailbox and there were two copies of Granta, a Magdalene College magazine (England) that somehow had two poems by Ron in it. Now that Pat and Ron are in Paris I get all their New York mail.
I got a long letter from Ron yesterday. He said that he was going to edit the next issue of C and that he would like to have something by me in it. I haven’t been writing much lately because I’ve been busy working on Japanese City and Christmas shopping. New York City is so beautiful at Christmas. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. So I decided to spend some time today writing.
Everyone loves a strong man—but not if he is strong simply because he has not washed under his arms lately.
The classic Greeks invented the bath as we know it, and ever since then bathing has been a true mark of cleanliness.
A lot of suds have dribbled down the drain since ancient Rome where in public pools 3,000 bathers bathed together. These coeducational splashes became so scandalous that during the Middle Ages people switched to perfumes and pomades to veto B.O., and Czar Peter the Great of Russia toured Europe “laden with jewels and lice.” Mixed bathing today is confined to Japan and Finland.
When I got upstairs I put in my new light bulb and walked around on my four new scatter rugs so they won’t be quite so bright. I have four new scatter rugs. I watered my plants and changed my sweater and sat down in my director’s chair and read The Platonic Blow by W. H. Auden. I was surprised at how easy it was to read.
Van Gogh
Who is Van Gogh?
Van Gogh is a famous painter whose paintings are full of inner turmoil and bright colors.
Perhaps Van Gogh’s most famous painting is Starry Night: a landscape painting full of inner turmoil and bright colors.
There are many different sides to Van Gogh, the man.
When Van Gogh fell in love with a girl who didn’t return his love he cut off his ear and gave it to her as a present. It isn’t hard to imagine her reaction.
Van Gogh’s portrait of a mailman with a red beard is probably one of the most sensitive paintings of a mailman ever painted.
It is interesting to note that Van Gogh himself had a red beard.
When Van Gogh was alive nobody liked his paintings except his brother Theo. Today people flock to see his exhibitions.
Van Gogh once said of himself: “There is something inside of me—what is it?”
Ron Padgett
Ron Padgett is a poet. He always has been a poet and he always will be a poet. I don’t know how a poet becomes a poet. And I don’t think anyone else does either. It is something deep and mysterious inside of a person that cannot be explained. It is something that no one understands. It is something that no one will ever understand. I asked Ron Padgett once how it came about that he was a poet, and he said, “I don’t know. It is something deep and mysterious inside of me that cannot be explained.”
January 26th, 1967
Today is a holiday in Australia. It is called Wattle Day. What is a wattle? A wattle is an acacia. Acacias are leguminous shrubs and trees of the Puls
e family. There are several families named Pulse who live in Brooklyn, and one of them has a candy store. The wattle in Australia is valued for its hardwood timber. In the early days of Australia’s settlement by Englishmen, the pliable branches were woven into the houses and fences. Australians are warm and hospitable people. The reason today is Wattle Day in Australia is because it is around now that the wattle comes forth with a blossom that is the country’s national flower. I don’t know what they “do” on Wattle Day in Australia. An American named Irving Berlin once wrote a song with the word wattle in the title, but it was spelled different.
Pat
I can imagine Pat Padgett picking her nose and eating it. I can imagine her making squeaky noises to herself when she is alone, picking her toe jams, munching on fudge, in a small animal sort of way. Perhaps squatting in a corner. I have, however, never seen Pat do any of these things, except eating fudge. I have seen her do that. She would look good in a box. When she laughs, sometimes it is a little spooky, and sometimes not. She is not a bore. She is extraordinary. It seems to me that what she is is based totally on herself, and nothing else. If it is possible to be born the way you are, Pat was. Pat doesn’t like to get up in the morning. She is beautiful and smart. I love her. When she was a little girl the nuns at school called her “The Little Flower.” They were almost right.