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

by Ron Padgett

  Sometimes I do wish I could get that drunk. Just to not always know exactly what you are doing. What a relief that must be.

  Well, I did get pretty drunk. And stoned. And walked down to the beach. (The blue just before night.) Down to the ocean. To see the fireworks. And to try to sober up a bit.

  The fireworks were nothing more than you expect fireworks to be. And perhaps not even that.

  At any rate—it was very dark by then. The tide was very high. I was wearing my baroque pearl and emerald pendant from the Italian renaissance. And still not too sure on my feet.

  There is one place on the beach where you either have to jump down or push yourself up, depending on which direction you’re going. (Me, up.) But I slipped, and slid down, crushing my pearl against the rock. Which fell off as the tide came in and swept it away.

  Funny tho, instead of reacting to the loss, I somehow got outside of myself, waiting and watching to see how I would react.

  Which I didn’t.

  I mean—I just more or less said to myself “Well, it’s gone.”

  Let me tell you that it really was a beautiful pearl. Very valuable too. And my most favorite thing.

  At any rate—So I walked back to Gordon’s wearing an empty chain and a bloody spot where the pearl had been.

  (Secretly realizing all the way that I couldn’t have asked for a more dramatic ending to this journal.)

  Well, a good lesson in “having.”

  Gordon, in compensation (tho he said he was going to give it to me anyway) gave me an oval lapis pin from Italy. (Thank you in writing too.) It’s very pretty.

  Of course, maybe I don’t really realize that it’s gone yet. (The story of my life.) I mean—I sometimes think I’m not very realistic. (Unless that’s being very realistic.)

  I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  Lewis MacAdams comes to sit at eleven. Really doubt that I can get into drawing a person my last day here, but I’ll try.

  And I have a flyer to do today too. For Bob and Ted. Reading at “Intersection” July 20th.

  And tonight—I suppose tonight will be saying goodbye to a lot of people I don’t want to say goodbye to.

  I’m going to miss Spot, the Creeley dog, who picks me up everytime I pass their house and walks me to where I’m going.

  And that little boy who’s dropped the “Lewis” and just says “Hi, Jerry!” now.

  And very sweet Bob. And very mysterious Bobbie.

  And Joanne.

  And I’m going to miss people not knowing me so well. And vice versa. (More room.)

  And all the things we didn’t get done, Bill.

  I keep telling everyone I want to come back in October (partly to convince myself of it) and I do.

  But I know that it’s partly just an excuse too. An excuse to say “See you in October” instead of “Goodbye.”

  My idea of how to leave a place gracefully is to “disappear.”

  * * *

  Wednesday, July 7th, 1971

  (A Greyhound Bus Trip)

  Long legs do come in useful. Trying to make yourself look like you need a whole seat on a bus. (Greyhound.) Pulling out of the New York City bus terminal at this very moment.

  I’m on my way to Montpelier, Vermont. Then to Calais. To Kenward Elmslie. To beautiful country. To work.

  Just had a Bloody Mary at “The Coach House Bar,” I think it was called, with Bill Elliot (slurp), a boy (a composer) staying at my place while I’m away.

  12:30 now. I arrive in Montpelier at 10:30. Hope I can keep this whole seat to myself all the way.

  It sure does feel good to be going someplace I know I’ll “be” for awhile. (Rest of July and all of August.) And to see Kenward again. That’ll be great. (I hope.)

  Cut the shit, Joe. It will be great. (Two months since we’ve seen each other.)

  Dinner last night with J. J. Mitchell. (Very “J. J. Mitchell.”)

  Going up 10th Avenue. Which somehow just turned into Broadway. Amsterdam Avenue now.

  A totally insane city. (Just got back from six weeks in California.) It scares me. (N.Y.C.) But I suppose I love it too.

  I should have had coffee instead of a Bloody Mary.

  I want to really write good today.

  Thinking about Jimmy Schuyler, who just had a breakdown, I’m sorry.

  Harlem.

  The Flying Red Horse.

  Sexy construction worker.

  I wonder if “too much” has anything to do with it. (?) That I can almost understand.

  So strange, always, to be reminded how tentative everything is. (You are.) ((I am.))

  I think I will take that pill. I want to really write. Get carried away. I want to think I’m great. And I want you to think I’m great.

  I want—

  (A real beauty with no shirt on driving a truck)

  —I want (as usual) too much.

  The ashtray says “ashtray” on it.

  Factories.

  Houses.

  Rocks.

  Cars.

  Trees.

  Lots of sky.

  “CONSTRUCTION NEXT 11 MILES.”

  Traveling makes me want to try to figure out what everything is “doing” here. Houses. Cats. Cars. Trees. Me.

  Just think—hundreds of people are living in that apartment building. Surviving. (Good luck.)

  That’s a very long Tropicana orange juice truck.

  Chocolate donuts just came into my head.

  Ted Berrigan.

  “NO U TURNS.”

  I hope Kenward got my message of arrival.

  I hope Joanne won’t think too much about the pearl I lost in the ocean.

  I hope we won’t drive by any hospitals.

  I hope people know I don’t want to glance away, or down, sometimes, when we are talking.

  A lot of those red dunce cap looking things on the road people going the other way are going on.

  Yes, I am going to take that pill. At the first coffee shop.

  “Forge Antiques.” Not a very good name for an antique shop I would think. (——ry.)

  I’m never totally convinced, riding a bus, that I’m on the right bus.

  A sign just said “WRONG WAY.” (White on red / WRONG over WAY.) For people on the other side of the road. If they were going this way.

  The guy in front of me just pushed his seat way back. (Too way back.)

  If that first coffee stop doesn’t come soon I’m going to just take it anyway.

  You know, I’m not really dumb. Just a bit scatterbrained. Smart enough to know it. And smart enough to take advantage of it.

  Do you think this is cheating?

  Or is this just “style,” capitalizing on what you are?

  I don’t know. (I suspect I’d better be careful tho.) I don’t want to turn into a parody of myself. A caricature. (I’m referring to my writing.)

  I know what I ought to do. I ought to learn to type. And increase my vocabulary.

  I think my limitations have worked in my favor so far, but—

  Six guys in a car seem to think there’s something funny about this bus.

  You know I really don’t understand this thing about life being so tough. Here I am, a very lucky person, and still life is tough.

  I hope life isn’t proportionately tougher for those not so lucky.

  We’re so amazing: people. Before long we’ll probably figure out a way to live without air.

  Maybe even without hurt.

  (A vision of turning into vegetables being our fate.)

  You know, I really have no idea what time it is.

  No coffee break yet so I’m just going to take it.

  Did.

  Oh, a bank clock just said 4:04.

  That makes me a little less than one third there.

  We must be entering Hartford. Yes. I think he just said so on his speaker, the bus driver, which totally destroys words. (The speaker.) And something about “Springfield.” And something about “15 minutes.” (A 15-m
inute coffee stop in Springfield?)

  It seems that there are at least six German kids (18 to 20 years of age I would say) on this bus. And one older couple, also German.

  A bowling alley. (Well, I haven’t seen a bowling alley in a long time.)

  I find myself picking out the nice things I hope the Germans are seeing. Like that big brown barn we just passed.

  Springfield. Plain donut and coffee. Pee. Face wash. Clean glasses. Just informed that I have to change buses at White River Junction.

  I’ve been playing “the truth game” with myself for several years now (in my writing) but there are several areas I avoid talking about. (That I know of.) And no doubt some I don’t know of yet.

  They are:

  Kenward’s money

  speed

  exaggeration

  Kenward’s money. I like it too much. And have gotten to need it too much. And am still embarrassed to admit to taking it.

  Taking it doesn’t embarrass me at all. Seems only natural, as he has lots and I have little. What embarrasses me is admitting to others I take it. I like for people to think I’m totally on my own. (And with no strings.) And, in most ways, I am.

  Speed. I don’t really approve of speed but I need it to do all I want to do. And that’s a lot. So I take it.

  Luckily, I’m vain enough tho that I don’t let myself take too much. And I only take it for work.

  I don’t feel one bit guilty about this. But it does embarrass me to admit it. I guess I like the idea that people think I do all I do just on natural energy. I guess I like to impress people. I guess I want people to think I’m a genius.

  I suppose this is a fault, this need to please. This need to impress. But at the same time I realize that, if I’m to be an extraordinary artist, it’s this very need that will make it possible.

  Exaggeration. I have a tendency to exaggerate. To make things sound better than they are. Once again, I suppose, to please and impress. There’s nothing constructive about this, however, and I don’t like it. (I am improving tho.)

  Now this is something really embarrassing: not being able to make it with pick-ups, one-night stands, and people for the first time. (A recent development.) Just this past year.

  I think I know where the trouble lies tho. Getting too drunk and too stoned. And feeling too self-conscious about my body. (Too insecure.)

  I mean—I really don’t think I’m very sexy. (Too skinny. Bad posture. And cock nothing to rave about.) Which makes me feel awkward. Self-conscious. Which makes me feel “outside” the situation.

  Once I can relax with someone I have no trouble at all tho. (Once I know they like me too.)

  This really drives me up the wall tho.

  I want to be able to have more fun. Without having to worry about things like that.

  This spring I went so far as to hire a very sexy hustler several times. (Four times.) (($25 a night.)) But, no dice.

  But that, I think, is another story. Having to do with not being able to enjoy sex unless the other person is enjoying it too.

  (Well, maybe it’s not another story.)

  It’s a great system tho. (If only it worked.) A phone call and a little money instead of being lonely and horny. That’s a bargain, in my book. (If only it worked.)

  So now I’m leveling a bit, and now I’m wondering if maybe leveling, for you, isn’t maybe a total bore.

  I don’t know.

  I don’t wonder why I’m telling you all of this. I wonder if you’re wondering why I’m telling you all of this. (?)

  I’m just not convinced that my problems are going to be all that interesting to a stranger. (And I do write for publication.) Except that I do feel like writing about my problems and I do believe in writing about what I feel like writing about.

  That’s my only hope.

  That’s the only thing about writing that I really believe in. (For me.)

  Editing. I used to really edit a lot. Slashing details that might possibly be boring. Rewriting for clarity. Trying to pinpoint things. Trying to make the truth much simpler (clearer) than it is. But with this I’m not going to do this.

  If this book is going to be about what’s going through my head during a nine-hour bus ride—that’s what it’s going to be.

  The funny thing about most “gems of truth” that instantly ring a bell is that they’re total nonsense when you stop and think about them.

  And—“the truth” —why is the truth so narrow-minded?

  Like old people who get a sort of wise air about them. They drive me up the wall.

  People are getting together behind me. (Lively talk.)

  The countryside is improving. (More lush.)

  Big red clay rocks.

  Black-eyed Susans.

  A blue State Police car.

  I like it when those dead elm trees get covered with vines.

  Little houses.

  If the secret of life is not stopping I’m a winner. (But it’s not that simple I’m sure.)

  That time of day now when the shadows are really long. And sharp. Relaxing. And beautiful.

  Ass getting a bit sore.

  Another small town.

  Sure would like a cup of coffee: right now!

  That old German man across from me wants to know what I’m writing.

  “A sort of notebook” I think is what I said.

  “Oh.”

  Been writing like a madman ever since Springfield. Probably thinks I’m a genius of some sort. (As opposed to the dope fiend I am.)

  You’re not going to believe this but the German man just pulled out of a bag a cap with a miniature straw basket sitting on top bubbling over with miniature fruit. What’s more—it’s on his head, wobbling along with the movements of the bus. And nobody is even noticing it. Or perhaps trying not to.

  The sun is in my eyes.

  I do look forward to seeing Kenward a lot.

  (You might be glad to know that he just took it off.)

  And the comforts of sleeping with a body all night you know so well.

  The same comforts that drive me up the wall when we see too much of each other.

  The same comforts I’m afraid of. Because comforts do get boring.

  And boring is dangerous. (And boring.)

  My God—this is Vermont already. (Brattleboro.) And the Germans are getting off. More of them than I thought. (Half the bus.)

  Brattleboro. Must be a ski place.

  I wonder what time it is.

  The blond boy behind me wonders if he’s on the right bus. (Nice to know it’s a common fear.)

  “Gee, I don’t know. You’d better go ask the driver. I would if I were you.” (Don’t know why I said that unnecessary, and false, last sentence.)

  “Yeah, I think I will.”

  This bus is number 3087. (You’ll be glad to know.)

  Anne! I love you and miss you.

  And you too, Michael, in a funny way.

  (Funny = abstract)

  (Abstract = less understandably)

  (Less understandably = ?)

  So much for that game.

  Where did I get this voice from? (Bratty.)

  Reminds me of Anne. (Who is not bratty, and yet—) ((Beautiful elements of.))

  And Pat and Ron. And Joe. And J. J. (Tho God only knows why.) And—

  No, I won’t bore you with a whole list. (Of people I especially love.)

  And besides, I wouldn’t want to leave anybody out. And I wouldn’t want to lie either. So—

  (So now you know just how honest I really am.)

  Hope you don’t think I’m just playing games with myself. I’m not. I’m being silly. I’m trying too hard to say “something.” I’m being self-indulgent. But I’m not playing games with myself.

  First Vermont cheese sign I’ve seen so far.

  That big red barn gift shop I’m sure I’ve seen before.

  This may be a total fantasy but, if I could just spend one week all alone with Joanne Kyger—

  * * *


  Bellows Falls now.

  Waterloo playing across the street.

  A policeman.

  A family of six eating ice cream cones in a black car. (Why don’t they get out?)

  “Tuttle Street.” You can be sure a lot has gone on (happened) on Tuttle Street and is. At this very moment. Inside each house. Inside each head. At this very moment.

  Entering another town. I bet it’s White River Junction. (My transfer town.)

  No.

  It really is beautiful, Vermont. Makes so much sense to live here. (If only life made so much sense.) But it doesn’t.

  Really fantastic sunsets really do make you feel small. For a moment.

  I must say I’ve done a very good job filling up this “ashtray” ashtray. (So obviously an ashtray it’s almost embarrassing.) ((To say nothing of then labeling it “ashtray.”))

  Corn.

  Cigarette butts. I bet I’m one of the few people in the world who appreciate cigarette butts. (Do works with them sometimes.)

  Another town. (Now surely—)

  “Odd Fellows Block” a sign on that building said.

  Claremont. I can’t believe it.

  8:05.

  Well, if I’m going to be in Montpelier at 10:05 and I still have a transfer to make it’s got to be soon.

  You know that in the back of my mind the fear is arising that maybe I missed it. (My transfer stop.) But I refuse to let myself turn into an old lady.

  And, even if I did miss it, it wouldn’t really matter.

  And if I missed it, I already have, so thinking about it won’t help any.

  A picnic table.

  Outdoor chairs.

  A planter.

  Bicycles.

  Toys.

  The way things seem “sprinkled” around a yard (even tho probably neatly placed) is somehow very moving.

  The sun is a bright pink-orange now, and beautiful. And more amazing, I sense, than I am able to realize.

  That’s not fair!

  Now if this isn’t White River Junction—

  Portland.

  If the next stop isn’t White River Junction I’m going to ask the bus driver about it.

  Cute boy sitting all alone on “The Windsor House” lawn across the street.