by Ron Padgett
And especially, tonight, you.
Monday, February 8th, 1971
Brigid Polk said to me last night that I was the most honest person she knew. I wanted to say “No,” but somehow more than just “No.” I don’t remember what I said, but this morning I was thinking about it and it came to me what I should have said. That honest is only something you can try to be. (If you want to be.) And I do. But I don’t want to have to take credit for being honest. Because, even if it were possible, it would be too much to have to live up to. Another impossible weight.
Thursday, February 18th, 1971
Being as vain as I am I’m surprised that I’m not horrified by all the white hairs I keep finding in my hair these days. But I’m not. I just yank them out. Which means, perhaps, that I’m not going to grow old very gracefully. And that I may go bald before I go gray.
Today was a beautiful day outside but I spent it in doing drawings of Ted. (Ted Berrigan.) One is a good drawing but doesn’t look much like Ted. And the other one looks a lot like Ted but it isn’t a very good drawing. Then after Ted left I worked on the new I Remember, ate an apple, and began writing this. And now it is beginning to get dark already. Another day gone before you know it. And that’s the way I like it.
Tuesday, March 23rd, 1971
I just knew this morning when I asked the deli man for three packs of cigarettes instead of the usual two that he was going to say something and he did. He said “You sure smoke a lot son.” And I said “Oh, I don’t smoke all these.” And he said “Well, who does?”
But by then everything was in the bag and paid for so I didn’t have to continue my lie.
He’d really be shocked if he knew that at night I buy more cigarettes at a different deli.
Well, everybody deserves one or two things not to have to be careful about, I figure. And smoking is one of mine.
Too many things to do today and I really don’t know why. I shouldn’t even be sitting here writing but I feel like it, and somehow I can’t face this day without first sorting it all out.
Larry Fagin arrives at eleven to sit for me (to draw) and to pick up the flyer Bill Katz did for my reading.
I got a beautiful purple rock in the mail this morning from Bill Berkson for my birthday. (Late.) And last night Brigid Polk gave me a necklace she made out of feathers in the shape of a heart.
But back to today. I should call the dope man about picking up the dope tomorrow instead of today. And J. J. Mitchell. And Kenward Elmslie. Call Kenward Elmslie about dinner.
Then new cut-out to take to Kulicke to be framed. I really should do that today.
And then 2:30 I go to do some drawings of Louis Falco and his company. In rehearsal. That ought to be interesting, as they never stay still for more than a second. So sexy, dancers, I envy them being so down to earth with their bodies.
I do wonder sometimes why I try to do all I try to do. (Too much.)
I mean—what do I want?
I guess I don’t know. I guess I’m still trying to find out what I can have. Then maybe I’ll know what I want. But I doubt it.
And surely what one wants is continually changing. (I should hope.)
Actually, if the truth be known, I think I just like to keep busy so I don’t have to use my head too much.
And when you get right down to it, “want” isn’t very important anyway. What’s important is “need.”
And what’s really important is to make yourself need as little as possible.
Life can get pretty scary if you don’t watch out.
December 22, 1970
One o’clock at night
Drunk (well, a bit)
Horny
Lonely
Writing
Smoking
Drinking a beer
So as to get more so
(More drunk)
To get more sleepy
(To sleep)
* * *
Listening to the Supremes
* * *
Almost Christmas
Almost a New Year
A fresh year
An empty year
A possible year
A year with more room
I do look forward to that
(More room!)
1971
* * *
This poem doesn’t have much to do with “language.”
* * *
I wonder how much longer I can keep writing poems and pretend not to be a poet?
* * *
I wonder how much longer I can always be “a bit drunk”?
* * *
A song about Bill now
(“Don’t mess with Bill”)
(Miss you Bill!)
In California
In Bolinas
Too much inside your head
But who isn’t?
And so sweet about it
I do miss you Bill!
1970
1970
is a good year
if for no other reason
than just because
I’m tired of complaining.
Queer Bars
After an unsuccessful night, going around to queer bars, I come home, and say to myself, “Art.”
Art
Looking through a book of drawings by Holbein I realize several moments of truth. A nose (a line) so nose-like. So linelike. And then I think to myself “so what?” It’s not going to solve any of my problems. And then I realize that at the very moment of appreciation I had no problems. Then I decide that this is a pretty profound thought. And that I ought to write it down. This is what I have just done. But it doesn’t sound so profound anymore. That’s art for you.
Short Story
Ten years ago I left home to go to the city and strike it big. But the only thing that was striking was the clock as it quickly ticked away my life.
Life
When I stop and think about what it’s all about I do come up with some answers, but they don’t help very much.
I think it is safe to say that life is pretty mysterious. And hard.
Life is short. I know that much. That life is short. And that it’s important to keep reminding oneself of it. That life is short. Just because it is. I suspect that each of us is going to wake up some morning to suddenly find ourselves old men (or women) without knowing how we got that way. Wondering where it all went. Regretting all the things we didn’t do. So I think that the sooner we realize that life is short the better off we are.
Now, to get down to the basics. There are 24 hours a day. There is you and there are other people. The idea is to fill these 24 hours as best one can. With love and fun. Or things that are interesting. Or what have you. Other people are most important. Art is rewarding. Books and movies are good fillers, and the most reliable.
Now you know that life is not so simple as I am making it sound. We are all a bit fucked up, and here lies the problem. To try and get rid of the fucked up parts, so we can just relax and be ourselves. For what time we have left.
Rim of the Desert
“Did he see that, Portia?”
“No,” she said. “I waited until the door was closed, Cleve.”
“I’m awfully sorry.” He tried to smile. “How long since he came here? A week—a month? And the whole damned country’s changed. Mighty queer.”
“You’ve changed too, Cleve. You know, I never used to like you. I guess you hid what you really were.”
“Why,” he said, “I guess I’ve grown up.”
“That’s a hard thing to do.”
“Everything worth doing is hard.”
She gave him a prolonged, interested appraisal. “Aren’t you going down to Aurora’s?”
She wished she hadn’t said it, for she recognized the quick passage of hurt in his eyes, the rise of an old feeling and its dampening. “No, not tonight, Portia.” He turned away. “When I was a youngster and came in wet and bruised my mother used to put me by the fire and make up a dish of popcorn. Funny how a childh
ood memory sticks. Whenever I feel tough I think of that.”
“I’ll make you some popcorn, Cleve.”
How to Be Alone Again
Read
Drink
Don’t think too much
Or else think a lot
Write
(This isn’t a very good poem, I know, but it means a lot to me)
(Which, I guess, makes me think it might mean something to you too)
(Or why else would I be thinking I’ll give this to Larry Fagin for his magazine?)
(Believe me!)
I (we) know more than I (we) understand
or
If I’m a fool I don’t want to think about it.
* * *
This is not poetry.
This is prose.
* * *
This is me feeling sorry for myself.
This is me thinking I assume too much when I say “we.”
This is me loving myself and not loving myself both at the same time.
This is me truly not understanding this moment.
This is me trying to write a poem.
* * *
This is me alone
(a bit drunk)
Taking advantage of both.
On way to airport. Cab driver wants to talk. I don’t. Which seems to make no difference to him. Meter so far: $7.20.
* * *
At airport. Drinking a cup of coffee. Got ticket. This is the first time I’ve flown not first class.
For some reason I am an hour early. (Typical.) I hate rushing. However, I hate waiting too.
Similar types of people stare at each other in airports.
In my head I don’t really mind flying, but my stomach does. (Butterflies.) Like just before you give a reading.
* * *
Inside gate 17 area now. Two beautiful (well, pretty) girls make me wish I was “straight.” It’d be fun to flirt. And they deserve it.
Guess I’ll read some now. Keep the River on Your Right by Tobias Schneebaum.
* * *
Up in the air now. (Not drinking a Bloody Mary.) We get served last. Other disadvantages of not flying first class are: Not enough leg room, not enough arm room, and just not enough room.
So amazing, flying. I wonder why I don’t try to understand it. (The “how” of it.)
Like my own body. I don’t even know how my own body works.
Maybe what we don’t know somehow “means” as much as what we do know.
I doubt it.
For lunch, steak.
And it’s more bumpy back here too.
I think I’ll read some more.
* * *
Keep the River on Your Right is really great.
The steak, by the way, was cold.
The movie for this flight was supposed to be Cold Duck with Dick Van Dyke but it was just announced that the video machine broke down. No love lost.
* * *
“Looks like a lot of little squares” the girl behind me just said. Looking out the window I assume.
* * *
Over some snow-topped mountains now she says it looks like powdered sugar. And I must admit that it does.
California. You know, I’ve never been to California before. Not that things will be that much different, but—well—one can hope. Wish. Try.
* * *
Friday, May 28th. Bolinas. A motel room. “Smiley’s.” Just had breakfast across the street. Very good french toast and bacon.
When I arrived in San Francisco yesterday afternoon Bill and Lewis were there to meet me. A good sight.
We drove around San Francisco a bit. (Really beautiful.) Had lunch. Went to City Lights. And then to Lewis’s place. (Wine.) Where none of us knew exactly what we wanted to “do” so I suggested a drink in a bar.
Finding a parking place became a big ordeal but finally we did.
A Bloody Mary in a funny Hawaiian bar. (Right out of the movies.) With live music. With nobody in it except one drunk and us. Pretty weird.
Then we almost went to a movie until I realized that I was just in another big city and that what I really wanted was to be in the country. By the ocean. Bolinas. Where Bill lives.
Bill, by the way, is Bill Berkson. And Lewis is Lewis Warsh.
So Bill and I drove back to Bolinas where we had a few drinks at “Smiley’s,” the bar/motel I’m staying at now.
* * *
Bill. Bill seems in great shape. Eager. What a great thing to be. Eager.
* * *
Lewis. I don’t know. I love Lewis, but I just don’t understand the “way back in there” position he’s in. I don’t know if he’s stuck back there, or if that’s where he wants to be. And I don’t understand the “why” of either case.
* * *
Last night in the bar a girl Bill and I were talking to especially stands out in my head. A “hippie” type. (Sorry, but that’s what words are for.) Very sincere in what she believed in. But what she believed in was totally fucked up. But like I said, very sincere about it all.
It always bothers me, this combination. Of sincere and wrong. It doesn’t seem fair. Sincere should always be right.
Pictures on my motel room wall: a twin set of teeny-boppers twisting on the beach with giant heads and even more giant eyes.
The daisies really grow big around here. In big clumps. Like big bushes.
I can hear every sound the family in the next room is making.
* * *
Everyone said I was going to love Joanne Kyger and I do, I do!
* * *
Bolinas is more like I thought Jamaica would be than Jamaica was. (So lush.)
And fantastic flowers everywhere.
A lot of talk about things I don’t know much about. Like eastern religions. Ecology. And local problems. Sewer system problems in particular. And people I don’t know. Strange names continually pop up.
The Creeleys are great, Bob and Bobbie. I really do like them both a lot.
* * *
A love possibility appears. Gordon Baldwin. Afraid to let myself be too optimistic tho. One thing in my favor is that this seems a very “straight” community. (Which means not much competition.) However—I don’t even know if he’s interested yet. Vibrations tell me “yes.” But experience tells me not to expect anything until it happens. Always better to be surprised than disappointed. Which has nothing to do with anything because the truth of the matter is that I am going to be disappointed if nothing happens.
* * *
Lots of dogs.
Lots of dope.
Visions of falling madly in love with Gordon continue to grow in my head. Unrealistically, I know, but what can I do?
At the same time (now) I realize, tho, that I just want to fall in love with somebody. So I’m not sure, really, how much Gordon has to do with it. I mean—if it wasn’t Gordon it would probably be someone else.
But then, I sometimes wonder if wanting to fall in love isn’t just as important as who you fall in love with. (Just as important, I mean, towards helping it happen.) And perhaps even more so.
I don’t know. To tell you the truth—I’ll consider myself lucky just to get a little sex out of him.
Really especially crazy about Bob and Bobbie and Joanne. So nice how some people just turn you on instantly. And so nice to feel that you do them too.
* * *
Tom and Angelica Clark look great. And Juliet. Great and healthy and comfortable and satisfied. As tho they don’t need anything. Or anyone. (Why isn’t this more attractive to me than it is?) I certainly don’t resent it. Maybe it’s just that I don’t see how I can fit into all this. (?)
* * *
A lot of being inside your own head here. A lot of talk about it. And a lot of talk about inside other people’s heads too. And a lot of talk about houses.
It seems to me that there is a lot to be said for “finding” yourself in your head, as opposed to “being” there.
Does that make sense? (I think so.)
&
nbsp; * * *
I really do admire Bob Creeley. So much alive (“in” and digging) and really trying.
Trying is great. And knowing you are trying must be even greater. I think Bob does. (Know it.) And if so, I hope he’s proud of it. (Has the satisfaction of.)
* * *
I just rented a house for one month. Can’t believe it. $250. I believe the $250. It’s that I rented a house for a month I can’t believe. So much for “seeing” California. Well—I’m not a very good traveler anyway. I like a clean shirt every morning. And work. I really need to work a lot. And that’s hard to do when you’re moving around. (And then there’s Gordon.)