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

by Ron Padgett

  * * *

  This bus, I just found out, is an express to Springfield (gulp) and I had no breakfast!

  * * *

  Connecticut. So green after a rain. I always forget how green green can be. Each time, you have to see it to believe it. That’s nice.

  I’m starving!

  * * *

  Finally. Springfield. Ten minutes. Cherry pie and coffee.

  * * *

  Not much is more beautiful than birch trees. They seem somehow to have just shot up. (As opposed to trees that appear to have grunted their way up, inch by inch.) And so white. And so weightless. A beautiful “weed” of a tree. (Sorry, folks.) I’m getting carried away.

  As uncomfortable as it is to try to write all crunched up, I am getting a kick out of making the guy next to me nervous. He’s dying to ask me what I’m writing, but he’s too “polite” to ask.

  * * *

  Light pink clumps of wild roses growing alongside the road, don’t seem very wild, but I suppose they are.

  * * *

  Vermont!

  * * *

  Brattleboro. And the creep just got up and changed his seat! (To a window seat.) However, a lot of new people are waiting outside to get on. Well, I’ll spread my legs, madly smoke a cigarette, and try to look as crummy as possible.

  It didn’t work. A big fat French Canadian lady with two big shoulder bags, a “bulky” sweater over her arm, and an enormous thermos bottle just sat down beside me.

  (Some people do travel.)

  * * *

  The world’s largest basket store is coming up on our right.

  God damn it! I can hardly move.

  And the worst part of it is that she’s sitting on my left jacket coattail, which I don’t dare try to yank out from under her for fear it might start a conversation.

  And I was so hoping to get some “serious” writing done today. But evidently it’s not in the cards.

  * * *

  Bellows Falls. The French Canadian lady got off only to be replaced by a hairy man of 40 or so in a pink shirt. Some improvement (as he’s skinny) but——

  I forgot to get my coattail back when the lady left so still I am “trapped.”

  * * *

  For some reason we are not in Vermont anymore, but in New Hampshire. (?) I refuse to worry about it tho because I know I’m on the right bus.

  * * *

  Ah, Vermont again. Windsor. And lots of people are getting off. Alone, at last, with my coattail back. Now maybe I can do some writing. The only problem is that it’s 4:30 already, and I have a slight headache, and my butt hurts from so much sitting, and I’m just plain ol’ tired.

  Will try tho.

  Summer!

  First I’m going to try (again) to do an Orchid Stories cover that I like. Then I’m going to do the cover for the 70th-anniversary issue of ARTnews. (September issue.) And then I’m going to get all my recent journal pieces (including this piece, I hope) together to send to John Martin (Black Sparrow Press) for a book.

  And then nothing!

  No cigarettes.

  No pills.

  No painting.

  No writing.

  Etc.

  The “etc.” part I haven’t quite figured out yet. I just know that I need a total rest for awhile. To get into good shape physically. And to clean out my head a bit.

  And science. I’m going to read a lot of science books. (An area I am totally dumb in.)

  And I’m going to concentrate on making myself as good-looking as possible. (Gain weight.) (Build up arms.) (Etc.)

  (Sometimes I am afraid you won’t understand that, when I complain about my looks, what I want to look like is James Dean.)

  Which is to say that you’re going to be in for a lot more complaining, unless the continual repetition bores one of us to tears (as it is beginning to do me) and you stop reading, or I stop writing.

  * * *

  If my crushes are rarely as serious as I want them to be on paper, I am not lying, I am trying too hard.

  * * *

  You know, knowing that this is going to be the last journal entry in my book I feel I should make up somehow for being so “flat” all year. (A deliberate move on my part, as I was getting a bit suspicious of so much gush.) But now I’m not so sure that gush isn’t more fun. (To read.) And that, after all, is why I write.

  But (let’s face it, folks) I need you more than you need me.

  And I thank the stars for that.

  What I Did This Summer

  When people ask me what I did this summer I say, “Nothing,” but of course, this is not entirely true. What I mean by “nothing” is that I gave up smoking and pills and all work for the summer. Which didn’t leave me with too much to do. So I did a lot of reading. Sunning. Exercising. And T.V. So, it was a very relaxing summer. The result of which was that I gained 20 pounds. Built up my arms a bit. Got a good tan. And I got to where I could just relax and take things as they come more. However, I’ve been back in the city for a week now, and my 20 pounds, I can feel them going. And I’m just as nervous with people as before. And as for all that reading: my head seems to have no place for information. A bad case of “in one ear and out the other.” But I enjoyed the reading I did. And the being able to relax. And being with Kenward, I enjoyed that. So, for a “nothing” summer, it was a very good summer. And if I expected more permanent results (self-improvements) and I did, I had no right to. But, that I expect too much out of life is no big secret. And that I’ve done pretty well at getting “too much” is no big secret either. But, no satisfaction here.

  It seems to me that we just keep learning the same fucking things over and over again.

  I must say tho, that for a hopeless situation, we do pretty good at taking advantage of it.

  Washington D.C. Journal 1972

  Thursday, October 12th

  Ron just called to say that the trip to Washington is on. (Ron and Pat and Wayne Padgett.) In a borrowed Mercedes. Tomorrow night after dinner we leave.

  I remember reading somewhere that Washington has a higher crime rate than New York City.

  I really must find out what D.C. (as in Washington, D.C.) means.

  My only vision of Washington is lots of white marble.

  Friday, October 13th

  Got up early. Breakfast. Went to bank. Took raincoat to be cleaned. Picked up laundry. Bought small containers of shaving cream and tooth paste. (One word or two?) Postage stamps for postcards. And I got a hair cut. (One word or two?) So now I’m ready to go. I hope my bad toe nail (one word or two, I couldn’t care less actually) won’t give me trouble.

  Friday the 13th!

  Saturday, October 14th

  We drove straight down the New Jersey Turnpike to 95, and straight down 95 to Washington.

  Lots of trouble finding a motel, but we did. A “Quality Inn.” A “rip-off” as Pat said, but comfortable. Color T.V. Comfortable, that is, except that we were right next to a series of train tracks. But I was so tired I could have slept through anything, and did.

  Driving around Washington (eleven or so) last night: a bit spooky. Lots of very impressive “official”-looking buildings. No street trash. And few people. Except a few Negro pedestrians. And a few white cops. Actually quite a few cops. And I was right about the white marble: tons of it. All lit up with floodlights, some with a very slight pink tint.

  Right now I am sitting on the bed of our motel room, having just returned from breakfast, waiting for Pat and Ron and Wayne to get ready.

  This morning, zipping up my left boot, the zipper (fuck) broke.

  Ron says we are ready to go.

  The National Gallery!

  At the National Gallery now having a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. After having zipped through the Italian, Venetian, Spanish, Flemish, and German sections, we are going to split up now for closer examinations. Me, I plan to eyeball in on Titian, Goya, Rubens, and Van Dyck.

  Sitting in a sort of indoor garden with a fountain now. Can
’t see any more paintings today!

  As museums often do to me, I am reminded of my lack of patience. (As a painter.) My lack of focus. And perhaps even my lack of dedication. Although I work all the time, do I really work that hard?

  What I mean is that I feel I am more of an “artist” than a “painter,” which is O.K. except that, secretly, I want to be a painter.

  And although I feel the choice is mine to make whenever I feel like making it, I may be kidding myself. Not that I believe in “too late,” no, I don’t. But I do believe very much in “now.” (Which is to say that if you’re not doing it now, you’re not doing it.) ((Uh?))

  I think I am beginning to believe more and more in making definite decisions.

  At the Corcoran Gallery I was supposed to have 15 small works up, but we couldn’t find them. And I didn’t feel like asking about them. I just thought it would be fun to bump into them. But, like I said, no dice.

  Then lunch (a fish sandwich) at a drug store.

  Then a drive around Georgetown (pretty). And a nice relief from downtown (cold). And I don’t mean the weather. The weather, by the way, is being fantastic. Cool and crisp and very clear. “Indian Summer,” I believe, is what you would call it. Really nice. And you can see so much sky here.

  In Georgetown we had ice cream cones, and I got some new shoes.

  Now we are at the Roger Smith Hotel, in the downtown area, where we have a suite of two nice rooms. Not so “motel-y” as last night. And cheaper.

  Ordered two Bloody Marys for Patty and me half an hour ago but—still no Bloody Marys. Will try again.

  (The operator says that everything is very messed up “down here” but she’ll try again.)

  Guess I’ll write some postcards now. And then, soon, dinner.

  Throughout this entire day my toe nail has been killing me!

  Dinner at a nearby steak house where we got a bit drunk. (Well, “high.”) Then we went for a short walk, where, lying on top of a trash container I found a sack of gay porn magazines.

  I keep getting very sweet vibrations from Ron of an “I’m trying harder” nature, which I choose to take as a personal compliment. (I say “choose” because I realize I am assuming a lot.)

  Then, back at the hotel, we watched a movie on T.V.: Humphrey Bogart is a painter who gets “turned on” by death. As he is slowly poisoning his first wife with something in her nightly glass of milk he is secretly doing a painting of her as “the black angel of death.” Then he marries Barbara Stanwyck but she finds out everything, and is saved at the end. (All a bit more complicated than this, but I’m getting tired.)

  Then I thumbed through my porn.

  And now, bed.

  Sunday, October 15th

  Breakfast downstairs in the hotel restaurant found us discussing the decline and fall of the United States. All of which began with Pat being shocked over two eggs costing $1.70. (When ordered à la carte.) Pat is right to be mad, of course (it is a rip-off) but I’m surprised that she doesn’t expect to be ripped-off, as we are right in the middle of a national tourist attraction.

  At any rate—the restaurant, obviously rather grand at one time (high ceilings, mirrored columns, heavy drapes) even though now freshly painted, is obviously on its last leg.

  But I feel we are very little in control of things as they come and go. And I don’t find this too sad. Tho I suppose I should.

  Now—off to the National Gallery again. Today is 17th and 18th and 19th century French, and British, and American.

  A Raeburn painting of a colonel in a red jacket really impresses me: the way it is painted. Slick, and accurate, and minimal, and without the device of too much style. In my head, this is how I want to paint.

  Toulouse-Lautrec remains (tho I rarely think of him) one of my favorite drawers.

  I’m being cruised by a nice-looking guy in a maroon sweater, but it all seems too complicated. I can’t resist flirting back just a little tho.

  At the Museum of History and Technology, a cold hamburger in the cafeteria.

  One strange thing: a jukebox machine from the 40s. Somehow enormously impressive. As an object it literally glows with a positive presence. Isolated, and tough. As it had been chosen as the object most representative of our society, the weight of which it carries very well.

  At the Museum of Natural History now. (Stuffed animals.) Wayne is happy. A giant elephant makes me wonder if female elephants have tusks too. Pat and I think no. Ron thinks yes. But none of us, we admit, knows for sure.

  A little boy is crying because he wants to go see “the bones.” Which, evidently, is not in the cards.

  We try to see the Hope Diamond but (Sunday) too many people.

  This would be an interesting place to “trip.”

  At the National Gallery again. At the cafeteria again. Coffee, a Coke, and a fruit cup. And off to see the rest of what we didn’t see this morning.

  I’m beginning to get a clearer picture of Courbet’s “contribution,” though still, I’m not crazy about him. I expect one day to be though.

  Two big paintings by David (Napoleon in his Study) and Ingres (Madame Moitessier) leave me surprisingly cold. I like the postcards of them better. When a painting doesn’t “need” to be as big as it is, it sometimes bothers me.

  Manet.

  Manet has always been one of my favorite painters, and still is.

  Nobody, for me, is more realistic.

  To pinpoint why is hard, but, I think it may have something to do with a basic “black and white”-ness in his color: it hits home hard.

  Manet must have had somewhat the same impact on painting as Godard did on film.

  The seated woman on the left-hand side of Gare Saint-Lazare is not just looking out at me: her head was down, she looked up, now she is looking up at me. Or so one feels.

  As we walked out of the National Gallery, Washington was black, against a sky of rich hollow blue, blue to peach at the bottom. Quite a sight. (6:00 or so.) Dead tired, all four of us, we headed for the car, to go home.

  A half an hour or so out of Washington I, for some reason or another, have a vision of those fancy pink cookies, and green cookies, sprinkled with little silver balls.

  Wayne, in the back seat, is talking about Mexican jumping beans, and I remember how disappointing they always were. (Lazy.) A few flip-flops, and that was it.

  Washington, I’d like to say something conclusive about Washington. As conservatively decadent as 1972. (?) Or as decadently conservative as 1972? (I’m tired) and words lose me.

  After dinner in a very noisy and scary cafeteria (back on the road again) we have a “heart to heart” talk about all the people we know. Conclusion: nobody’s perfect, and that’s fine and dandy.

  Oh, and about “D.C.” (just in case I’m not the only dumb-bell in the world) it means “District of Columbia.”

  The Gay Way

  (A Play)

  The curtain rises to reveal a typical New York City “Village” bedroom of the mid-Fifties. Two young men (BOB and DICK) are in bed together, asleep. Arm in arm, their bodies are covered from the waists down with a white sheet. Morning sunlight is streaming through the window as BOB begins to stir.

  * * *

  BOB (Yawning): I guess I’d better be getting up.

  (As BOB begins to pull back the sheet the curtain quickly drops because, you see, male nudity was not allowed on stage in the mid-Fifties. And homosexual themes were heavily frowned upon.)

  As the indignant audience storms out of the theatre shouting “God damn pansies!” and “We want our money back!” the play continues behind the curtain as DICK gets out of bed and joins BOB on the floor for some very wild love making (use your imagination here) much to the amusement of the stagehands who, you see, are the real audience.

  * * *

  SOME NOTES ON “THE GAY WAY”:

  Unfortunately, only a limited number of “seats” will be available due to Union Laws pertaining to a “fixed” number of stagehands allowed on stage per
performance.

  * * *

  The author has nothing against a male and female production so long as a homosexual “audience” is used and the title be changed, appropriately, to “The Straight Way.”

  * * *

  Should your production be raided, the author recommends that you try to accept the raid as “part of the play.”

  “What a beautiful spring day this has been! I went to the cemetery where my mother is buried and the tiny squirrels were so thick I could hardly drive without hitting one.”

  “I have many memories of the old pump—some good, and some bad—but that is the way of life.”

  “Things we see from car windows are remembered for many years.”

  “When day is done one finds too frequently that not much else is.”

  “At times I’d get discouraged, but Dr. Comstock would poo-poo me with ‘You’re living today, aren’t you?’ He had a keen sense of humor.”

  “Our swordfish just had eleven babies and I’m not at all sure what to do with them.”