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

by Ron Padgett

  As I’m sure I told you, I’m trying to gain weight. Don’t ask me why. (I just want to look better.) Vanity. Which, perhaps, is not such a bad thing really. Vanity. Some people would be better off if they had more of it. (?) I feel good today. The sun is out. This morning (it is afternoon now) I did some fuck drawings for a cartoon strip. I plan, this summer, to do one more issue of C Comics. Because two issues somehow doesn’t seem complete. (Enough.) Because I know I can do better. And because a lot of poets are going to be up here this summer, so it would be a waste not to. And because I find the new California comics coming out now very inspiring. Especially Crumb. Not always so good, perhaps, but inspiring. Especially sex. There is a new freedom. And I plan (slurp) to take advantage of it. As for painting, right now, I’m going to cool it. For once in my life, I’m just going to sit around and wait for inspiration. I’m not going to “make” any paintings. Painting is not going to be what I “do every day.”

  July 4th 1969

  I am outside sunbathing. Whippoorwill is stretched out on the grass to the left of my feet. In his own way I suppose he is sunbathing too. He does seem to love it. Anne and Lewis are here. (Anne and Lewis Warsh.) Anne is off to my right, sunbathing, on a green lounge chair in a leopard nylon bathing suit. (Two-piece.) She is reading a book. Lewis, too, is reading a book. Right next to Anne. On a big white towel. But he has all of his clothes on. Kenward is off at the cabin. I always assume, when he is at the cabin, that he is working, but I am sure he does other things there too. The sun is out. And very hot. It is a beautiful day. There are many birds. Today is the 4th of July. I plan to do nothing today, unless the sun goes away, except sun. Maybe take some pictures. And write. I have been here now for almost two weeks and I have not started oil painting yet. But I am not going to rush. Push myself. There is no reason to. Other than nervous reasons. That are no good. (For now.) Partly I am waiting for inspiration. Partly I am afraid. Partly I dread being a beginner again. Partly I look forward to it. (Starting all over again.) As much as one can. Which I hope is a lot. Lewis went inside and changed into a bathing suit too. (Turquoise.) Knit. Meanwhile, I have moved from the green lounge chair to a white towel on the grass. Why am I telling you all this? I know it is boring. I suppose I think that such boring details can sometimes be funny. Just because they are so boring and so totally unimportant. Well—I will try not to do this so much. This putting you on. Whether on purpose or by accident. If I have nothing to say I just won’t write. No, this isn’t true. I’m going to try anyway. But I will try not to be coy. I promise.

  Tues. July 15th, 1969

  This morning is a beautiful morning. A clear sky. Blue and hot. It is about 10:30. I am sunbathing. Drinking a Pepsi. Smoking a cigarette. And writing this. There are a lot of bees this morning. This morning, drinking my coffee on the front steps, I saw two bees flying together as one. One on top of the other. Some men are sawing wood not very far away. I can hear their saw buzzing. Or, an echo of their saw buzzing. Like a car trying to start. My painting is not going so well. Oils. So, that is why I am sunning today. Instead of painting. I need a break. What I have been painting are wildflowers. In cream jars. The kind you don’t see anymore. Except in Vermont. And places, perhaps, that I haven’t been. What I am trying for, I think, is accuracy. That is to say, “the way things look.” To me. This is really very hard to do. And, I imagine, impossible. What I really hope for, I guess, is that, by just painting things the way they look, something will “happen.” That is to say, a clue. A clue as to what I want to do. In much the same way, I am writing this diary now. I am telling you simply what I see, what I am doing, and what I am thinking. I have nothing that I know of in particular to say, but I hope that, through trying to be honest and open, I will “find” something to say. Or, perhaps what I really hope for, is that the simplicity of this writing will be interesting in itself. Whether I say anything or not. Anything, that is, of any importance. However, being “open” is not so easy. Nor is being honest. Nor is being simple. Or being direct. I am 27 years old, and it shows. (Complications.) I am not in love with innocence, but I suppose I am in love with youth. I miss the confidence of youth. The “I know where I am going.” And the “I know what I want.” Perhaps as one gets older one regains this confidence. This “I know what I want.” Perhaps one eventually has to. In self-defense. Make certain decisions. Whether with confidence or not. (I don’t know what I am talking about.) What I mean is that perhaps sooner or later one has to decide what one wants whether one knows (what one wants) or not. That is to say, a decision for the sake of a decision. I make little decisions like this all of the time. (Blind decisions.) But I am talking about big ones. Now that I think about it, however, I cannot think of what the big decisions are. Too much sun. I love it tho. Even if it does destroy your brain tissues. And makes you grow old faster: wrinkles. I don’t really believe that anyway. And I don’t even care much. Old age is not to be believed. Can you imagine yourself 60 or 70 years old? I can’t. I imagine, rather, that I will die young: 40 or 50. Not because I want to die young. But because I can’t imagine being old. So there is nothing else to imagine. Except dying young. Also, it is a bit more romantic. To die young. I just want you to know that the things I talk about in this diary are things I would usually not even think about unless I was (as I am) outside in the hot sun, trying to write, and with nothing in particular to say. I am not apologizing. I just want you to know that this is, in a way, forced writing. Words and thoughts just don’t flow from me too easily. In this diary, when they do, fine, but when they don’t, I’m going to be pushing.

  July 29th 1969

  Bill is here. He has been here for many days. But I haven’t written in many days. Because of the weather. No sun. And because I decided not to keep this diary anymore. I guess I changed my mind. Before I forget—I want to tell you something funny. When Anne was here she named Kenward’s lake “Veronica.” (“Veronica Lake.”) I die laughing every time I think about it. Bill and I are outside sunbathing in black bathing suits on white towels draped over green lounge chairs. The sun is not really out today but it almost comes out every now and then. So—if it does come out we are ready. Ever since Bill arrived (I forgot to tell you that Bill is Bill Berkson) we have had no sun at all. All rain and gray. So—even a hint of sun, like today, is nice. I haven’t been oil painting at all since Bill arrived. But we have been collaborating on some cartoons. A dream cartoon. And a de Kooning cartoon. Also an advertisement for “Vanish.” (Cleans toilets.) Collaborating on the spot is hard. Like pulling teeth. There are sacrifices to be made. And really “getting together” only happens for a moment or so. If one is lucky. There is a lot of push and pull. Perhaps what is interesting about collaborating is simply the act of trying to collaborate. The tension. The tension of trying.

  August 1st

  Today is the first day of August. Sniff. July is over. I got up this morning at 6:30. I don’t know why. The dew was very thick and beautiful. All white. Now, however, the sun is out. The sky is blue. And it is going to be a beautiful day. It is eleven o’clock. Ted Berrigan and Donna Dennis drove up (to our surprise) yesterday afternoon. So—they are here. You know that Bill is here. Kenward is at the cabin. Bill, Donna, and Ted are in the process of getting up. We all got very high last night and stayed up late playing charades. It was fun. And now I am out here in the sun (I just spilled my Pepsi in the grass) on a white towel. Now I am going inside for a new one. (Pepsi.)——Got it. They are eating breakfast now. For breakfast I had two poached eggs, a bowl of Grape Nuts with peaches and cream, and a piece of toast with apple butter. Kenward, by the way, is not at his cabin working. I just heard his laugh from inside the house. Let me tell you—it is very hot today. Ted just came back from Europe. (London and Paris.) He liked London best. He says that London is crazy about “The New York School of Poets,” and me too. Someone there might want to do a book of mine. New topic.——I can’t think of one.——But I will.——Sex. I think that sex should get out of the bedroom m
ore. Out into other rooms. Or, at least, off the bed. (Slurp.) It is too easy “in bed” to just keep doing the same ol’ stuff. One gets too lazy “in bed.” Or, I should say, I get too lazy “in bed.” I have a slight butt problem. My hole (evidently) is very small. So—a dick, or even a finger up it hurts. Perhaps pain is supposed to be part of the pleasure of anal stuff. (?) But, if so, I just don’t get it. Perhaps it is partly my fault, as I find it hard (when something is up my butt) to relax. As I understand it, relaxing is very important. I don’t usually find anal smells very exciting. Except every now and then. When I really get carried away. Which I wish would happen more often. There is nothing I find more beautiful than a really beautiful butt. Bill Berkson has a beautiful one. Well—now I am probably embarrassing you—as well as boring you. (?) I don’t know. I am not embarrassing myself. I guess I just have to assume that if I am not embarrassing myself, I am not embarrassing you. And, actually, being embarrassed isn’t so bad. I don’t mind it. Being embarrassed. So again I must assume that if I don’t mind it you don’t mind it either. (Being embarrassed.) However, I don’t believe very much in assuming. One of the many important things I learned from Frank O’Hara is how dangerous (and wrong) assuming is. One, really, doesn’t have the right to assume anything about anyone. We don’t know that much about other people. Why they are the way they are. And why they do the things they do. People are too complex to assume anything about. Suddenly I find that I have lost all sense of what “assume” means. If someone is crying you cannot assume that he is sad. (Tho he probably is.) That is what assume means. This is stupid. In life one simply has to assume things. Sometimes. I guess the important thing is to know you are assuming. (When you assume.) Really, I don’t know what I am talking about. I just know that assuming can be dangerous if one is not careful. I see a big blue bag on the front porch. Does that mean that Donna and Ted are leaving? I hope not. I hope they are not going to stay very long, but I hope they will stay longer than this. Ted is terrific. Also he is exhausting. Often he is a bore. But I feel very close to him. I don’t really think I am very close to him anymore, but still, I feel that I am. And this, tho a compromise, is nice too. Just feeling close. Actually, Ted and I have seen so little of each other the past few years that we haven’t even had the opportunity to be close. I’m going inside for another Pepsi.—Got it. No, it is not a blue bag on the front porch. It is the laundry. (I didn’t have my glasses on.) So I guess they are going to stay a day or two more. Good. I want to be around Ted more. (Tho he drives me up the wall.) I like Donna. Tho I find her hard to talk to, and almost impossible to look at. This I don’t understand as I love looking at people. And she is, I think, very beautiful. I think she knows it, but I am not sure. A big cloud just went in front of the sun. It is only a temporary thing tho. Bill is typing in the parlor. (His work room.) I know because I can hear it. I don’t seem to be gaining any more weight. I stay at 145. You would think by now that I would know myself pretty well. Well, I don’t. Or, if I do I don’t admit it. I think I think that most of me is just temporary. So I don’t bother to figure it (me) out much. Or worry about the way I am much. This is not true. I think about myself a lot. But I think about myself as I am now, not really believing for a minute that this is the way I will always be. And, to be realistic, I am probably wrong. I am probably very much now the way I will always be. From now on out it is probably just a matter of putting things (me) in order. Throwing out a bit. (I hope.) And pulling out into the open the best of me. I’m getting depressed. I’m sorry about the anal stuff. But, probably, I’ll just edit it out. Or, maybe I won’t. Personally, I like to read stuff like that about other people. Even if it is pretentious. And embarrassing. I want your approval. It’s depressing (to me) but true. I need it. I want to please everybody all at once, and this is impossible. If I’m going to talk about my butthole I’m just going to have to accept the fact that some people will enjoy what I am trying to do and that some people will think I am full of shit. Bill just came out in a white bathing suit. He is reading Confidential magazine. Ted and Kenward are laughing in the house. I don’t know where Donna is. Now I do. They (Ted, Donna, and Kenward) just came out and said they were going for a swim in the lake. It is not a very big lake. And full of dead twigs and trees. (It’s a new lake.) Two years old. And Kenward said he saw a snapping turtle in it. Bill, now, is reading the New York Times. I told you, didn’t I, what Anne named the lake? (Veronica.) I think I did. Ted just came back up from the lake and said “I’m an indoor man.” Now Ted is reading the New York Times and Bill is reading Life. I certainly have written a lot today. I’m going to stop now. I’m anxious to read about Ted Kennedy in Time.

  August 1st

  Yesterday was not the first day of August. Today is. A free day. Bill and I tried to collaborate this morning but it didn’t work out. I got off into doing some sex drawings and Bill got off into writing some words on a drawing I did of a de Kooning lady with a “Little Lulu” head. You remember her. And “Tubby.” Her fat friend. At any rate——the words were good but I have never been able to accept “words on a drawing” unless there is somehow a reason for them being there. Like with Larry Rivers, for example, words on his paintings are a part of his paintings. Visually. I mean, it is all one thing, first, and then you can read the words, if you want to. But with my work this doesn’t work. My work, I think, is solid. And complete. Tight. All space is taken, empty or not. That is why I like the cartoon form. A cartoon is a cartoon. A cartoon is made up of words and pictures. This makes sense to me. Doing cover designs and drawings for books and poems is something else entirely. This I love doing. And I do it very well. I know how to work with or against words in a good way. I don’t think I ever fall into the “elegant” trap. Or the “arty” trap. (Too beautiful.) (For the coffee table.) (Etc.) There is always something slightly unprofessional about my graphic work. Which is probably the best thing about it. My drawings for words do not fly off into being too beautiful in themselves. Sometimes I do this by being a bit boring. (Very straight.) Like in The Champ. By Kenward. And Living with Chris. By Ted. Another ploy of mine is to set up a little tension. But not too much. Tension can make things work well together. A little tension. Not too much. One thing I always keep in mind when I do a cover design is how it will look in a bookstore. This, I think, is one reason why my covers always end up looking a bit crude. If you have ever seen Stones by Tom Clark in a bookstore you will know what I mean. It sticks out like a sore thumb. And a beautiful one. Well—I am really giving myself a pat on the back today for a change. As most of my friends are poets, I wish that my paintings lent themselves more to actually collaborating. But they don’t. Cartoons, tho, work out well for me. And “drawing for” words. I think I am especially good at this. I respect poetry very much. (More than I understand it.) And I think that, actually, poetry (in terms of illustrating it) needs respect more than it needs understanding. I don’t like that word “illustrating.” Ted and Donna left. Before they left, tho, we took some naked photos. I am going to put some of them in this diary. One of Ted and Donna together. One of Ted and me together. And one of Bill and Kenward together. I am outside sunbathing. It is, however, a cloudy day. But hot. Kenward is at the cabin. Bill is off to my right in the other good lounge chair. (There are two good ones and two broken ones.) Whippoorwill is stretched out near my feet. I really haven’t much to say today.

  Aug. 3rd

  Actually I am not sure if today is the 3rd or not. It might be the 4th or the 5th. It really doesn’t matter. Every day is very much the same up here. Even more so than in the city. This is not a comment on life. This is a comment on my life. And I consider this both good and bad. (That my every day is very much the same.) It makes working easier. But today I don’t give a fuck about work. Today I care about me. And what I am going to do. I feel (and have felt for some time now) the need to do something drastic. Not destructive. Just something (anything) to shake things up a bit. You know how your stomach feels after a good vomit? That’s
how I want to feel. It occurs to me now that if I don’t do something to change my life now, it will be too late. I can see myself as I am now, only 60 years old. That’s pretty frightening. I feel very much the same way about painting too. That it is now or never. That I either “jump right in” now, or it will pass me by. So why am I sitting here talking about it? Because I want to. Because it is raining outside. Because “jumping right in” isn’t so easy as it sounds. And because I don’t feel very good today.

  Sex

  I like sex best when it’s fast and fun. Or slow and beautiful. Beautiful, of course, can be fun too. And fun, beautiful. I like warm necks. And the smalls of backs. I’m not sure if that’s the right word: small. What I mean is that part of the back that goes in the most. Just before your bottom comes out. I like navels. I like underarms. I don’t care for feet especially, or legs. I like faces. Eyes and lips and ears. I think that what I like most about sex is just touching. Skin is so alive. I like cold clean sheets. I like breasts and nipples. What I’m a sucker for most is a round full bottom. I really don’t like that word bottom. I think underwear is sexy. I like hair on heads, but hair on the body I can take it or leave it. Skinny builds don’t turn me on as much as normal builds. Probably because I’m skinny myself. I have a weak spot for blonds. I like to fuck sometimes but I don’t like to be fucked. What I really like is just a good plain blow-job. It’s rhythm that makes me come the best. I don’t think that, in bed, I take a masculine role or a feminine role. I guess I must be somewhere in between, or both. Sex-wise I’m not very adventurous. I am sure that there are a lot of things I like that I don’t know I like yet. I hope so. So—now you have some idea of what I like in bed.

  A Special Diary

  Tuesday Night