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

by Ron Padgett

  Monday, March 31st

  This morning I got locked in Kenward’s bathroom and couldn’t get out. I practically kicked the door down when Jimmy heard me from the top floor and came down and let me out. Not a very good way to start the day. Today looks like another beautiful day. Sunny and cool. It is, I would say, about eleven o’clock. A lot of things are closed today because today is a national mourning day for Eisenhower. This means no mail today. Which means more mail tomorrow. For breakfast today I had an English muffin with honey. And a vitamin-B pill. Not much is new. I just feel like writing. But I’m afraid that I haven’t much to say. Tomorrow is my day to teach. Tomorrow is April Fool’s Day. Sunday is Easter. April 27th is Kenward’s birthday. May the 29th is my brother’s birthday. My older brother, Jim, who lives in St. Louis. We aren’t very close. I can’t wait for summer. Summer and fall to me are like new years. Fresh starts. Like beginning all over again. I do believe in fresh starts, even tho I know better. I am an optimistic person, partly, I am sure, by choice. This is better, tho, than being pessimistic. Both, of course, are silly, but, I suppose, necessary.

  Tuesday, April 1st

  Today is April Fool’s Day. This morning for breakfast I had an egg and some cinnamon toast and some coffee. Tangerine-grapefruit juice and a vitamin-B pill. It is about nine o’clock now, and I am having another cup of coffee and writing this. When I finish writing this I’m going to work on the cover for Ron Padgett’s new book of poems Great Balls of Fire. I like that title. This evening I’m not going to do anything that I know of. Tomorrow is Anne Waldman’s birthday. And John Giorno’s event-reading at the church. The other night, in bed, I was thinking about nothing in particular and I decided to try to visually realize how complicated and intricate the world really is. Like every now and then, when you see a big modern apartment building, and you get a sudden flash of all that is going on inside the building. All the little rooms and all the many little people each with lots of thoughts going through each of their heads. Needless to say, I couldn’t do it. (Visually realize all of this.) When I lived in Boston years ago I used to lie in bed, eyes closed, and try to concentrate on one color until that color was all I could see. Say, for example, red. You close your eyes and think about red until red is all you see. Red and yellow and orange are easy colors to see. Some colors, I remember, were impossible. Anne Waldman said the other day that if she died tomorrow she would feel as tho she had lived a very full life. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. We were just chatting. It wasn’t even a very serious discussion. There is nothing that gives me the creeps more than hospitals do. I don’t know what I will do if I ever have to have an operation. It’s the visual part that gives me the creeps. The off-white walls. The rubber gloves. And the silver instruments. I think I would rather die than have an operation. This, of course, is too easy to say. Let me tell you that it is a beautiful day today. Every day this week has been a beautiful day. Today, however, is only Tuesday. Usually I teach on Tuesdays but this Tuesday, today, is spring vacation. And so is next Tuesday. But today—I especially like today—it’s cool and crisp, like autumn, and sunny, like summer. I like this combination. Actually, I suppose this combination is “spring.”

  Friday, April 4th

  Have you ever noticed how much Allen Ginsberg uses “black” in his poems? I just read T.V. Baby Poems. And “white” too. But not as much as black. The other day, reading Jimmy Schuyler’s new book I noticed how often he uses “rain” or refers to rain. The mood (moods) of rain. Ron Padgett uses blue a lot. Kenward Elmslie has used asparagus a lot. It makes your pee smell funny. So he says. I cannot remember exactly what today is called but it is the day Christ died. “Good Friday” comes to mind, but that doesn’t make sense. At any rate, Sunday is Easter. It’s a beautiful day outside today, but I feel terrible. Depressed. There is a reason I feel this way, but I can’t tell you. I really wouldn’t mind being dead today. If one could be dead for a day. It would be nice to give my head a rest. It feels very full of “stuff.” I’m being melodramatic. I’m sorry. But that’s exactly how I feel. So, I’m not sorry. Too many hang-ups. I don’t like that phrase “hang-ups.” It’s a phrase people I don’t know use. This morning for breakfast I had a honeybun, some orange juice, and some coffee. There are people in the garden sawing. Otherwise it’s a very quiet morning. Perhaps, because of what day it is, people who work are sleeping. I’m going to stop now, water my plants, and try to get some work done. I feel better already. Actually, I don’t.

  Sunday, May 4th

  I wish that today was yesterday. So this weekend would be longer. I’m out here in Westhampton with Kenward at his beach house. Yesterday, Saturday, was too cold to sun, but today is just right. So—I’m out on the deck, sunning. It is eleven o’clock. I plan to sun until one. Not too much the first day. Don’t want to peel. You know how, driving in a car, you think of things that you would never think of, unless you were driving in a car? I mean, that way your head gets empty. Open. At any rate, driving here from the city (Kenward drove) (I don’t drive) it occurred to me that I think of myself as some sort of visitor here on earth. I mean like that everyone else belongs here but that I’m just passing through. What a bunch of shit that is. It is possible, of course, that we all think of ourselves this way. (As visitors.) I wonder. As always, I wonder just how much other people think the same things that I think. It really is a beautiful day today. I got up this morning at 7:30 and had an egg, a cinnamon twist, a half a grapefruit, and a cup of coffee. That is a big breakfast. Then, after breakfast, I did some drawings and started re-reading The Sun Also Rises until suddenly it all came back to me, loud and clear, and so I stopped. And then I read about half of My Father and Myself by J. R. Ackerley. It’s less sensational than I thought it would be, but I like it. I like it a lot. If this writing is a bit boring it’s because I’m in a very in-between state of mind these days. I feel very much on the verge (at last) of being a little more free of myself. But not quite. I mean like, more open, less nervous, and more human. More vulnerable. It may be a perverse thing to want, but that’s what I want. I want to be more vulnerable. Frank O’Hara. I think often of the way Frank O’Hara was. If I have a hero (I do) it is Frank O’Hara.

  Friday, May 9th

  Today is a rainy day. Dark and cool. I feel good today. I think that I would like to do nothing today. Something I rarely do: nothing. But I’m too nervous. So I am writing. And after I finish writing I’m going to try to finish the endpapers for the Random House anthology. (An anthology of poetry Ron Padgett and David Shapiro edited.) I have already finished the cover, and I like it. It is a white cover with red words and objects. Floating objects. Actually, the objects do not exactly float. They are more stationary. But suspended. Suspended in space. A chair. A cherry. A “modern design.” And a butterfly. Somewhat by accident, I have broken every rule of good design. (Which pleases me.) This happened, I think, because I did the cover very slowly. Object by object. Over a period of five or six days. With no (or little) finished product in mind. One object or one word told me where the next object or word would go. Allowing little room for “dash” or “inspiration.” The result is clean and unprofessional in a good way. And cheerful. The endpapers will also be red on white. Red objects on white paper. There is (so far) a feather, a pansy, a lipstick kiss imprint, and a boot. Each object cancels out the other objects. But not too much. Only in importance. Each object is equally important. (Visually.) Kenward and I plan to go to Westhampton this weekend. I do hope it will be sunny. I can’t wait for summer. Summer and fall, to me, are like new years. And I need a new year.

  Sunday, May 11th

  I am in Westhampton sitting at the dining room table in front of the big picture window overlooking the ocean. Today the ocean looks very gray and harmless. I am not afraid of very many things, but the ocean is one of them. Actually, I am not afraid of it, but you couldn’t pay me to go into it. It’s just one of those things I don’t understand. Like electricity. It’s just too big. It is
beautiful tho. Today is not what I would call a beautiful day, and yet, it is. Beautiful. Quiet. Cold. And gray. A white gray. What I would really like now, tho, is some sun. I feel like I need it. Like, some mornings, I just feel like I need orange juice. This morning there wasn’t any. For breakfast I had a glass of milk, a piece of chocolate cake, and a cup of coffee. Yesterday I did some brush and ink drawings of various objects I found on the beach. A rock. A feather. Some seaweed. Shells. And some other things. And then I took three long walks up and down the beach collecting pieces of wood and stuff for constructions I will never build. Then Kenward and I went for a drive to a few antique shops where I found a set of Maggie and Jiggs pepper and salt shakers. I collect figurines of comic characters. And then for supper we had chili. I made it. From a can. But I added real meat to it. And onions. Then we watched some T.V. So much for yesterday. For today I plan, as I am doing now, to write some. To walk some. And to read some. I want to talk about something more serious (personal). Like what I believe in. I don’t know. Every time I try to figure out what I believe in—it’s just too complicated. But I know what I like. I like people, and I like people to like me.

  Saturday, May 17th

  I haven’t written at night in years. I work in the daytime. And writing is work. But it’s nighttime now. Actually, it isn’t, it’s morning. Very early morning. 1:35 A.M. Which means that, actually, today is Sunday. At any rate—I just want to tell you that I feel terrible. Sad. Unhappy. And depressed. If I don’t tell you this now you’ll never know. By tomorrow it will all be too corny to write about. So—I just want to let you know that, contrary to what I usually say, life is not always all that wonderful, and not always all that easy. Sometimes it really hurts. You know this. And I know this. And there is nothing to do about it, except write about it.

  Tuesday, May 20th

  This morning for breakfast I had a cup of coffee. Outside it is wet and hot. Sticky. The other day, as I think I told you, it occurred to me that I want to be more vulnerable. That is to say, more open to whatever happens. Well, I discovered that I am more vulnerable. More vulnerable, at least, than I used to be. And I’m not at all sure that I like it. I need it, but I’m not sure that I like it. I sure am talking about myself a lot. Of course, this is a diary, and that is what diaries are for. I guess. It is the only way I am able to write anymore. I just can’t sit down and write a funny story anymore. I feel pretty good today. Better than I’ve felt for some time. And for no particular reason. I suppose that out of 365 days a year some of them have just got to be good, and some of them have just got to be bad.

  Wednesday, May 21st

  I feel good today, but a bit nervous. I’m going to read tonight with Bill Berkson at the St. Mark’s Church. In fact, to tell you the truth, that is why I am writing today. To have more that is new to read tonight. I want this reading to be good because, just because I do, and because I feel a little bit bad about my show, and this reading, I hope, will help make up for that. (For it.) Not that I think my show was bad. I don’t. I gave it everything I had. But it was rushed, and, basically, a bit false. I’m not really that interested in gardens anymore. (I just had a show of garden paintings and collages.) I do wish I didn’t need to please people so much. But—to please other people pleases me too, and we all need that. To be happy. Actually, I believe pretty much in anything as long as it makes you happy. And there are some things that I believe in even if they don’t make you happy.

  Diary 1969 (Continued)

  Friday, May 30th

  I am out in Westhampton again. Not much is new. I just want to tell you how I feel. I feel good today. Calm. I feel as tho the world is not moving today (time out) and I don’t care. I like it. It is about 12:00. I am outside on the sun deck, sunning. Today is Memorial Day. The groceries just arrived and Kenward (also sunning) went inside to tip the man. Whippoorwill is lying in the shade of the table. Two little boys are playing on the beach in front of me. Far enough away, tho, that I am not sure they are little boys. They may be little girls. I don’t have my glasses on. The sun is hot. The wind is cool. For today there is nothing I want that I don’t have. But there is a lot that I have that I don’t want. It occurs to me today that the secret of life is to live as simply as possible.

  Sunday, June 1st

  Working on my Spanish construction again this morning it occurred to me how much I rely on “the work” itself to tell me what to do. So often when I work I just “do a lot of stuff” all over what I am doing (a painting, a collage, a construction, etc.) until something I do tells me what to do. That is to say, I just work off the top of my head until one flower, or one line, or one gesture gives me a clue as to what to do. Or, as to what I am doing. My work never turns out like I think it is going to. I start something. It turns into a big mess. And then I clear up the mess. This morning I didn’t get up until 9:00. For breakfast I had bacon and eggs and coffee. I just remembered that I forgot my vitamin B pill. After breakfast I worked on my old Spanish construction until 11:30. Now it is about 12:00 and I am outside in the sun. By “old” I mean that it is a construction I have been working on for several years. I don’t really do constructions anymore, but this one I cannot give up on. It is made up of many beautiful things I got when I was in Spain. I only work on it when I am in Westhampton. That is not very often. Today is another beautiful day. Not so warm as yesterday. More windy. In fact, it is almost chilly. But, like I said, beautiful. Very clear. It would be hard to feel bad today even if I felt bad. The world seems so big today. Not in the “I’m just an ant” sort of way. But in a good way.

  Monday, June 2nd

  I didn’t sleep too well last night. Because of my red back. Too much sun. And now I will peel. And have to start all over again. Today is a cloudy day. Heavy and wet. But not so dark. More white-heavy. I cannot complain, however, as the last three days have been so beautiful. (Sun.) Three days out of four. Can’t ask for much more. (That rhymes.) This morning I got up about seven. For breakfast I had a soft-boiled egg, bacon, some sugar cookies, and coffee. After breakfast I tried to work on the Spanish construction, but no dice. It needs the sun. Or I need the sun. Today it looked very black. (The construction.) And it is. But not morbid. Today it looks morbid. I don’t know what I am going to do for the rest of the day. Probably read some. And roam around a bit. (Outside.) Smoke a lot. And be nervous. Actually, I always smoke a lot. Tareytons. Very interesting. Kenward is in the bedroom reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X. And I am at the dining room table, facing the picture window, overlooking the ocean. But I cannot see it. All I can see is white. It is probably very thick ocean mist, if there is such a thing. Or ocean dew. (?) It is about 9 o’clock. I have been thinking a lot about what I want to do this summer. I’m going to make a list.

  1. Oil paint

  2. Gain weight

  3. Exercise

  4. Get a good tan

  5. Do another issue of C Comics

  6. Get together a manuscript for Lita Hornick

  7. Try to let myself get closer to people

  8. Keep this diary

  Lita Hornick is “Kulchur Press.” It is, I mean, her press. I think she wants to do a book of mine this spring or next fall. (Fall after next.) As of now I plan to call it Self-Portrait. That is because almost everything I write is about me. Even funny fiction stories I write are written in the first person “I.” I must really be a conceited ass. But there is more to it than that. I want to tell you about myself. I need to try and tell you about myself. However, I don’t seem to be succeeding. Sometimes, like right now, it seems that “the need to try” to tell you all about myself is perhaps all there is about myself to tell you. That I need to. (Tell you all about myself.)

  Thurs. June 25th

  I’m outside sunbathing in Calais, Vermont. I am lying on my stomach on a big white towel and all I can see is grass. Let me tell you now (and I’ll try not to tell you again) that Vermont is beautiful. I’m so glad to be here. I can see a bumble bee every now and then, and so
me rocks. Vermont is so green. Like the reddest flower. This is what I had for breakfast this morning:

  1 glass cranberry juice

  1 poached egg

  2 pieces oatmeal toast

  1 bowl of wheat germ with fresh peaches and cream

  2 cups coffee

  1 vitamin B-12 pill