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

by Ron Padgett

I want to tell you what I did today. Not because I did anything very exciting. But because I am drunk and I want something to do. And just because I do want to tell you what I did today. I just got home from eating at Aldo’s. The Italian restaurant I always eat at when I eat out alone. (Queer Italian.) Because they have a good jukebox. Because the waiters are beautiful (pretty) and because I get some sort of mysterious buzz out of being mysterious to them. (I eat there a lot.) I delight in always ordering the same thing. A half bottle of white wine (French), I never can remember the name. Something like “polly-fuse,” veal scallopine with lemon and butter sauce. Asparagus. And salad with oil and vinegar. Most of the waiters don’t even have to ask what I want. They just bring it to me. This pleases me and (I hope) this pleases them too. I got up this morning late. (10:30.) I had breakfast at a Puerto Rican place on Hudson. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. A large orange juice. And coffee. Then I came back and worked most of the day on some wildflower cut-out gardens I am doing. There was a beautiful blond boy reading in the garden next door with his back to me. He teaches economics at N.Y.U. I did a lot of whistling so he would know that I was “here.” Not that I expected him to do anything about it. I did my daily push-ups. I drank my daily can of Nutrament. I smoked a lot I am sure. And drank a lot of Pepsis. Mail came. I got a note from Tom Clark saying he had broken two ligaments in his leg. I got two invitations to two book parties at the Gotham Book Mart. And a pamphlet advertising girlie pornography. I went to the art store to get some more X-ACTO blades for cutting out more wildflowers. I called Bill Berkson. Not home. I’m lonely. But I’m lonely by choice. So I can’t complain. I can write about it tho. I’m lonely. What I wish is that some person would just knock on my door and say “Let’s go to bed.” I’d like to be with someone right now without any of the hassle of “getting together.” What a shit I am. No new news to me. But I’m nice too. Now it is almost ten o’clock. I guess I will read some more of Querelle of Brest by Jean Genet. It isn’t very good but I like it. And smoke some pot. Anne gave it to me. (Anne Waldman.) You know, I’m putting you on a little bit. I mean, this isn’t exactly me writing. I’m just taking advantage of being drunk. I’m writing outside of myself really. I feel as tho I am watching myself write. I know that I will feel good tomorrow. I know what I am going to do (more or less) tomorrow. But I wish I didn’t. I wish that life would really surprise me. I’m tired of “making” it surprise me. And I’m tired of being a bore. Because I’m not. And because I am.

  Wednesday Morning

  I feel great this morning. And for no particular reason. It’s really great to wake up in the morning and feel great just because you do. I don’t have anything to tell you because I just got up. I just wanted to tell you how great I feel. Because I feel so very much that way. I love extremes.

  Wednesday Night

  Here I am again. Not so drunk tonight. But feeling just as lonely and dramatic. Of course, I could walk down Greenwich Avenue and pick somebody up in no time flat. If I really wanted to. One good thing about me is that I never feel sorry for myself. Only thing is that I don’t really know “how” to pick somebody up. And I’m afraid of being rejected. And it’s five minutes after twelve and I’m going to get sleepy very soon. I hope. I wish I was in the middle of a good book. But I finished Genet last night and I’m not up to getting into a new one right now. I want to live a very wild and exciting life. Why don’t I? I guess I must be chicken. I can’t think of any other reason for not living the way I want to. Unless, perhaps, to protect myself. I wish that nothing mattered to me except having fun. I wish that I wasn’t afraid of being a fool. I wish that I was a stud. I wish that days wouldn’t just evaporate. I hope that I don’t grow old before I realize how terrific I am. I hope that tomorrow won’t make this sound too corny. Tho I know that it will. That it is. And that, actually, I don’t care. That’s what this special diary is all about (a luxury).

  Sunday Afternoon

  I got drunk again last night. (On purpose.) So I feel a bit funny today. Not bad. I don’t have a hangover. But I do feel a bit slow. Relaxed. A bit too relaxed. Drinking often does this to me the next day. Actually it’s a pleasant feeling. Lazy. But I don’t like it. This morning I worked some more on my wildflower cut-out pictures. Some are getting too “art nouveauish.” Must watch myself. I stopped shaving. At first I was just being lazy but now I like the way it looks. So I’m not going to shave again until after the book party Monday. At the Gotham Book Mart. For Fragment by John Ashbery with drawings by Alex Katz. Where I got drunk last night was at Julius’s. A light queer bar. I’ve been there three times now. Not to pick anybody up. Or to be picked up. But as practice at being comfortable in queer bars. It’s a new thing for me. Queer bars. And it’s exciting. In order to have something to “do” I pretend that I am looking or waiting for someone. Someone in particular. And it works. Most people stay away. And to the few that do try to get together I just say that “I’m waiting for someone.” I feel that I am not telling you the whole truth. In fact, I know I’m not. But it’s too complicated. And I don’t want to think about it. And probably I don’t even know what the whole truth is myself. All I know is that I’m out to make my life more exciting. I feel up to it now. Whatever it takes. I’m up to it. (I think.) I don’t believe very much in words anymore. (Too easy.)

  Thursday Night

  It’s so cold tonight. (I love it.) On my way to Aldo’s (to eat) I overheard this conversation:

  1st Woman: It’s so cold.

  2nd Woman: I’m wearing two sweaters.

  1st Woman: I wish I was. I need it.

  For some reason this struck me as very funny. Perhaps it was the use of “it” in reference to two sweaters. Both ladies were old and fat. I’m sorry. But they really were. At Aldo’s I had my usual veal and 1/2 a bottle of white wine. Plus, tonight, a glass of white crème de menthe on ice. Plus total jukebox music. Three dollars in quarters’ worth. Music is great. Wine is good. It is eight o’clock. Soon I’m going back out to go around to queer bars. I found a new one that I like even more than Julius’s. (Danny’s.) But it’s too early to go now. That’s why I am writing. (Time.) Time is around too much these days. I am too aware of it. Spooky. Sometimes, tho, it can be pleasant. (Safe.) Being so aware of time. I don’t know what I’m talking about. And I suspect that I am taking advantage of it. (Oink.) “Oink” is too easy. (And this diary is too easy too.) You know, I really am sorry that Jack Kerouac died. I liked him a whole lot. Will stop now. Maybe I’ll write more after the bars. I’m sure that I will come back alone. That’s my style these days. I hope that doesn’t sound sinister. Sinister (thank God) I am not. I’m not about to give up. I’m just beginning. And I care.

  Death

  Death is a funny thing. Most people are afraid of it, and yet they don’t even know what it is.

  Perhaps we can clear this up.

  What is death?

  Death is it. That’s it. Finished. “Finito.” Over and out. No more.

  Death is many different things to many different people. I think it is safe to say, however, that most people don’t like it.

  Why?

  Because they are afraid of it.

  Why are they afraid of it?

  Because they don’t understand it.

  I think that the best way to try to understand death is to think about it a lot. Try to come to terms with it. Try to really understand it. Give it a chance!

  Sometimes it helps if we try to visualize things.

  Try to visualize, for example, someone sneaking up behind your back and hitting you over the head with a giant hammer.

  Some people prefer to think of death as a more spiritual thing. Where the soul somehow separates itself from the mess and goes on living forever somewhere else. Heaven and hell being the most traditional choices.

  Death has a very black reputation but, actually, to die is a perfectly normal thing to do.

  And it’s so wholesome: being a very important part of nature’s big picture. Trees die, don’t t
hey? And flowers?

  I think it’s always nice to know that you are not alone. Even in death.

  Let’s think about ants for a minute. Millions of ants die every day, and do we care? No. And I’m sure that ants feel the same way about us.

  But suppose—just suppose—that we didn’t have to die. That wouldn’t be so great either. If a 90-year-old man can hardly stand up, can you imagine what it would be like to be 500 years old?

  Another comforting thought about death is that 80 years or so after you die nobody who knew you will still be alive to miss you.

  And after you’re dead, you won’t even know it.

  Autobiography

  I was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1942.

  No, I wasn’t. I was born in Salem, Arkansas in 1942. I always say I was born in Tulsa tho. Because we moved there when I was only a few months old. So that’s where I grew up. In Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  A lot has happened between then and now, but somehow, today, I just don’t feel like writing about it. It doesn’t seem all that interesting. And it’s just too complicated.

  What’s important is that I’m a painter and a writer. Queer. Insecure about my looks. And I need to please people too much. I work very hard. I’d give my right arm to be madly in love. (Well, my left.) And I’m optimistic about tomorrow. (Optimistic about myself, not about the world.) I’m crazy about people. Not very intelligent. But smart. I want too much. What I want most is to open up. I keep trying.

  Some Train Notes

  Riding a train is pretty funny.

  * * *

  Especially when you don’t really feel like you’ve “been” where you’ve been.

  * * *

  Especially when you don’t know exactly what you are going back to. Or why.

  * * *

  Especially when you’re totally stoned out of your head.

  * * *

  Only three cigarettes to last me from Southampton to New York City.

  * * *

  As the trees pass by none of them look very unusual so far.

  * * *

  That house still has its Christmas decorations up.

  * * *

  Being on a train makes me feel a certain way only being on a train does.

  * * *

  Being on a train is only where it’s “at” when you’re on it.

  * * *

  (I told you I was stoned.)

  * * *

  I don’t think I’d want to know who lives in that house.

  * * *

  The snow is so blue today in the shadow parts.

  * * *

  All those cars out there are really crazy.

  * * *

  This train stop is a long one.

  * * *

  Smoking my first cigarette a woman just came over to me and said “This is a No Smoking Car.”

  * * *

  I wish I had said to her “Oh, where are the cars that smoke?”

  * * *

  I wish I had said to her “Up the butt, lady!”

  * * *

  What I wish is that I hadn’t have put the cigarette out.

  * * *

  Only two more cigarettes to New York City.

  * * *

  I like that lumber yard.

  * * *

  This train has really had it.

  * * *

  I think I’ll dedicate this to Anne and Michael.

  * * *

  This piece is dedicated to Anne and Michael.

  * * *

  A lot of dead trees in this area.

  * * *

  I’ll just hit the city in the middle of the rush hour.

  * * *

  That grown-up man was waving at this train.

  * * *

  That same woman who told me this was a no smoking car just got up and told another guy the same thing.

  * * *

  A man is staring at me.

  * * *

  Too bad he’s not cute.

  * * *

  A woman just sat down across from me.

  * * *

  There were plenty of other seats.

  * * *

  Next stop: Jamaica.

  * * *

  “Bingle bangle bongo, I don’t want to leave the Congo” (the song) just came into my head.

  * * *

  I sort of wanted to keep my ticket but the conductor took it.

  * * *

  It’s getting dark.

  * * *

  I can see my own face now more than I can see what’s outside.

  * * *

  I guess I’ll stop now and try to read some Lillian Hellman.

  Diary 1970–71

  Friday, Nov. 27, 1970

  Let me tell you about today. Kenward woke me up at 7:45 with a tray of breakfast. (Having a few problems these days.) Then I got dressed and headed for home. Picking up a container of coffee, four Dr. Peppers, and two packs of Tareytons on the way. Junk mail. Watered plants. Took a vitamin pill. And worked on a long prose piece I’m working on called “At This Very Moment.” (Depressing.) Then for some reason (to cheer me up) I unpacked an art nouveau necklace that never got unpacked from the summer. Actually, it’s not a necklace. It’s one half of a belt buckle. But I’m going to have it made into a necklace. (One of these days.) Then I did some cutting out of an autumn weed cut-out. Then I went downstairs for a container of coffee and a french. The french I ate. The coffee I am still drinking. After I finish this I will either read some of Tony Towle’s new book (North) or do some more cutting out. Depending upon how I feel. Then I’ll do my exercises. Shave. Brush my teeth. Get dressed. And go out. Where I’m going I don’t know yet. But I do know that I’m going out. (Most always do at night.) Each day is such a separate and complete thing to me. (A mini life.) I think maybe I’m a bit crazy. I do get a lot of work done that way tho. And if I’m not all that happy I figure “So, well—who is?”

  Tuesday, December 8, 1970

  Here I am. Up in the air. Drinking a Bloody Mary. On my way to Chicago.

  The great thing about flying is that for a while I can make myself realize that nothing really matters.

  This is not a depressing thought. I love it. (Feeling this way.) I wish I could feel this way all the time. Because it’s the truth (even if it isn’t very practical) that nothing really matters!

  Now I don’t know if I really believe this or if I just want to believe this.

  No, I do believe this.

  Nothing really matters!

  Monday, December 28th, 1970

  Listening to Procol Harum. A bit cheap, yes, but I like them anyway.

  If I have anything to “say” tonight (a bit drunk) it is probably just this: to like all you can when you can.

  Or, don’t think about things too much.

  I don’t know who I think I am, giving you this advice. Actually, when I “talk” to you I am really talking to myself (mostly) but I guess I wouldn’t be writing it down if I didn’t think that——that you might want to know what is going through my head too.

  No, the truth of the matter is that I want you to know.

  Thursday, February 4th, 1971

  It’s snowing so very quietly outside, so nice. And so blue for night. For night in New York City. It reminds me of Christmas. How Christmas should be. And sometimes was.

  It’s a little after midnight now and I’m eating a box of raisins. Not so much because I like raisins as because they’re good for you. So they say. If one can believe anymore in what “they” say. And I doubt it. And I’m drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette and listening to Janis Joplin’s new album Pearl. (So beautiful.) I love it. Because it moves me. And so do you. You make me feel good, but sorry too.

  Not sorry for you. You’re dead and that doesn’t hurt. And not sorry for myself really either. I’m not sure why I feel sorry.

  Unless it’s because it’s so logical that you should have died the way you did. (So young.) So infuriatingly logical.

  I mean—I don�
��t want you in my pocket.

  Everybody deserves more than that.