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

by Ron Padgett

  There are so many different kinds of cigarettes that it is hard to know which kind to smoke. It is easier to decide If first you discard the possibility of menthol and then decide between filters and non-filters. It is mostly a matter of taste. I smoke filter cigarettes, but as I said, it is mostly a matter of taste.

  If there is one thing I can’t stand it is people who don’t smoke at all. There is no excuse. Some people say that it is too expensive but if someone really wants to smoke bad enough they can and will.

  Inhaling

  for Joe

  Dottie Flanagan taught me to inhale. It was one summer night at her house and she said, “You’re not inhaling!”

  Dottie was very luscious with long dark auburn hair -- a pageboy bob, I guess. I took her to the senior prom. She wore a strapless dress of electric blue satin and had gold dust brushed through her hair. Her mother was a hairdresser so Dottie knew all about corn-meal shampoos and setting hair with stale beer. She once helped her mother do the hair on a corpse at a local mortician’s. She said it didn’t faze her. I’m sure it didn’t.

  Funny, I can’t remember one song they played at that prom. But I can guess: “Deep Purple” and the one about “Am I the guy/who turned out a lover?” and something about “blue diamond rings....”

  Dottie was about the first girl in our class to get married. But that was in 1941 and with war in the air a lot of kids got married sooner than they otherwise might have.

  Actually I had tried to inhale once before that. It was up in the attic and I must have succeeded because I can still see the rough wood and window panes suddenly spin around. It was rather scary.

  That summer Clayton Nestle -- it was at his house, of course -- gave me a pipe to smoke. “Don’t inhale, “he said, “puff it.” I in-haled anyway and got good and sick. I still don’t like the smell of pipe tobacco, especially Snow Apple.

  One thing I forgot to mention: Dottie had an aunt, or a great aunt, who had an eccentricity. She saved all her used tea bags and dried them. When she had a good bundle she would send it to one of her relatives, since she considered each bag was good for a second cup.

  -- James Schuyler

  Calais, Vermont

  1969

  Congratulations -- Non-Smoker -- Joe!

  Not everyone is strong enough to fight

  Against the slogan “Have a light!”

  It takes will power and a strong desire --

  To keep yourself from puffing fire!

  You’ve given them up with no regrets --

  There’s no health nor wealth in cigarettes!

  Heart trouble and cancer in a pack --

  Causing your throat and lungs to hack --

  And if you contact the virus flu --

  It could be the end of you!

  You’ll be saving lots of dough --

  With greater pleasures for you -- Joe!

  Air Pollution is no joke --

  It’s good to clear your lungs from smoke!

  Your taste and smell will come back --

  Free at last -- from a cigarette pack!

  Congratulations -- “non-smoker” -- Joe --

  From a good friend whom you know --

  By Mrs. Jessie Bryington

  Route 2

  Canton, Penna, 17724

  Poem

  Sometimes

  everything

  seems

  so

  oh, I don’t know.

  No Story

  I hope you have enjoyed not reading this story as much as I have enjoyed not writing it.

  Journals

  Thursday, February 15th, 1973

  I (God am I tired of “I”) just called up to see if my new suit was ready, only instead I dialed my own number: a good example of where I’m “at.” (Only one more day till Paris!) But when I travel I’m half way there way before it’s time to leave: another good example of where I’m “at.”

  The Valentine’s Day reading at the church last night was a disaster. I read a few of those pornographic movie plot capsules, which went over like a lead balloon. As did everything in the first half hour of the reading, which was as much as I could take. (Something very “heavy” in the air) and I hate big group readings.

  At any rate, after re-dialing, my suit “yes” was ready, and so I went and picked it up.

  And now I’m waiting for Donald Evans (who’ll be staying here while I’m away) to pick up a set of keys.

  You know, I’m getting about as discouraged with writing as I was/am with painting. I just want——I just want to be clean-cut and direct. Now why that should be so hard is beyond me. But something happens——something happens somewhere in between my head and paper: a big gap that gets all ornate and twisted, and I fall right in.

  At any rate——tomorrow night I leave for Paris, where, as things stand now, you won’t be hearing a peep out of me.

  Tonight——tonight I just want to have a quiet dinner out alone, get drunk, and fall fast asleep. That truly sounds like heaven to me right now.

  Tuesday, March 13th, 1973

  Home! (And I’m glad.) Tho it was great. Paris. And especially the Louvre. And being with Maxine and Harry. Kenward. And strange Sicily. All in all a very neat “package” of a trip. (It snowed in Sicily!) Reading Father and Son by Edmund Gosse. Uptown tonight to a Lowell Nesbitt opening in hopes of bumping into somebody cute. (Horny as hell!)

  Wednesday, March 14th, 1973

  Finished today Father and Son and got well into Places to Go by Joanne Kyger. (Strange.) Strange to read her because I can only do so by somehow pretending to be her. (Otherwise I am driven up the wall in a thousand different directions.) Tonight is dinner with Anne. And then movies by Red Grooms and Rudy Burckhardt at the church.

  Sunday, March 18th, 1973

  Woke up this morning (noon) with a pretty boy and a white cat on the floor surrounded by Tibetan paintings with a slight hangover on the upper West Side snowing outside!

  Then breakfast at a nearby dairy restaurant (good) then downtown (home) and then back uptown to get some stuff from John’s pusher (who has the same birthday as I do) and we instantly hit it off (messed around a bit) and now I’m down back home again, waiting for our six o’clock “date” we made. And still it is snowing outside.

  My one dream last night was discovering that my recently purchased bottle of Listerine was all of a sudden almost empty. (?)

  Reading Ann Charters’ new Kerouac biography, which is not especially good, but I love biographies, and I’m a sucker for Jack Kerouac. So, I’m enjoying it.

  Pretty much all “set up” for oils now. Just waiting now for a clear day and a clear head.

  Giving a reading this Thursday with Ron at the Paula Cooper Gallery, with very mixed feelings. About readings in general. (Too many!) About my work. (Too messy!) And about reading with Ron: I fear we may somehow cancel each other out.

  Monday, March 26th, 1973

  Reading has been Put Out More Flags by Evelyn Waugh, I Am Elijah Thrush (tacky-tacky) by James Purdy, and now Kathleen and Frank by Christopher Isherwood (terrific) which is probably why I am bothering to write today: it’s restoring my faith that everything is interesting, sooner or later. And so that I have nothing in particular to say right now doesn’t seem to be the issue. The issue seems to be (today) to keep at it. And to be accurate, even if accurate is “nothing in particular to say.” (Or something like that.) And so——here I am. Gray day. Our reading (Ron and me) it went well I think. Kenward and I are somewhat on the rocks again: the “Z–Z–Z” rocks. Great interview with Allen Ginsberg in Gay Sunshine. More I Remember More proofs have been corrected and so it should be out in about two weeks, which means, of course, about four weeks. Funny stomach these days (queasy) and distant foggy head. Something, it seems, is “wrong” inside. Tomorrow, Franco, an Italian ex-soccer player friend of John Ashbery’s, is coming over to build me a long shelf for paints and brushes, and to store canvases under. (A not very necessary device, but——but it will c
ome in handy.) And besides, he’s cute, John said.

  I just looked up from my table and the sun is out.

  Tuesday, March 27th, 1973

  “The world of Nature for every man

  is the phantasy of himself.”

  —Carlyle

  Reading Isherwood——I am thinking about the difference——the possibility of the difference——of writing about yourself as “me” as opposed to “a human being.” And I suspect that yes, there is a difference. And that, tho I pretend to write about “me,” I am secretly more aware of myself (writing-wise) as “a human being.” And that this may well be my salvation!

  Did I tell you that I got robbed a week or so ago? They took Anne’s typewriter and at least two thousand dollars worth of my jewels. Plus three old francs I brought back from Paris for Larry Fagin to use in subway gate slots. They got in through the bathroom window rather mysteriously, as I do have permanent bars on the bathroom window. So it was a very small person. I feel rather lucky about it all tho: that they didn’t take everything. (Very valuable ancient rings were tossed aside.)

  Thursday, March 29th, 1973

  Well, I just wiped out my first oil painting attempt today. Which is not to say, however, that I am “finito” for the day, no, I’m just taking a breather. And you are it.

  My problems with oils at this point are so elementary that I won’t bore you (us) with them.

  Ted read well last night: heavy and sweet, and very “demanding.” And long. And so I just couldn’t face any more words, and so I didn’t stay for Dick’s half. (Why there is always something to prevent me from hearing Dick read is beyond me.) Or, rather, I have no special interest in giving the “why”s much thought. Too often, the fact is enough for me.

  What I already feel myself trying for (oil-wise) is something accurate and slick; as heavy as a glance. (As heavy as a heavy glance.)

  Tonight Ted reads again. At the 98 Greene Street Loft. And I’m going to read too: a train notes piece I wrote that inspired Ted to write one too, which he’s going to read tonight after I read mine.

  Well——back to asparagus. (My subject matter of the day.) A tied-up bunch.

  Friday, March 30th, 1973

  Our train notes went over very well, as did Memorial Day, a book which Anne and Ted wrote together, and last night read together. Very moving. (Watery eyes.)

  Things went a bit better today (painting) even tho the weather (dark) was very much against me.

  And now (with an ounce of satisfaction in me) I’m feeling as horny as hell! With no immediate prospects.

  So it’s more Kathleen and Frank for me.

  Saturday, March 31st, 1973

  Today was dashing off a red pepper with such amazing ease I tore it up: now is not the time to avoid problems. And reading some more Kathleen and Frank. But (back to the red pepper) I am pleased with such a dramatic exit from March. (The phone is ringing.) It was Ed Baynard, with a show opening this afternoon, with dinner in little Italy to follow. (“Yes.”) It’s a bit hard to believe but, it may be that Kenward and me are really through. (Hard hurt.) But not half so hard hurt, I imagine, as when (if) the actual reality of it becomes a reality. (Which is to say that, as I am writing this down, I don’t really believe it.) Kenward, and the securities of love, and money, are so much a part of my life by now that I’m just not sure I’m strong enough. (As tho one has a choice.) We do rise very well to occasions. But, damn it——today——today I’m bored with being strong.

  (Will you please pardon all these dashes I’ve gotten so heavily into using: it’s childish, I know, but I need them) and I——

  No, no more words for today.

  Tuesday, April 3rd, 1973

  The air today, the radio said, is “unsatisfactory.”

  (Aren’t we amazing!)

  I feel very perky today, not because I feel especially good, but because I don’t feel especially bad, which is how I’ve been feeling these past two days, which I suppose is why I haven’t written. Partly because of solid rain (dark and heavy) but mostly because of a bad tooth infection (better today) and so I’m on antibiotics until my 3:15 appointment with Dr. Swee tomorrow afternoon. And so I haven’t been painting either. Which means I’ve been doing a lot of reading. Finished (“alas” and “at last”) Kathleen and Frank and now reading Green Hell by Lucien Bodard: all about the massacre of the Brazilian Indians.

  Yesterday was Anne’s birthday and, primarily because of the meat strike, we (Anne and Michael and Kenward and me) went to a Chinese restaurant. (One of our dishes, however, was chicken.) Personally, I find it all very silly. We eat too much meat anyway. And I think there are much better causes to concern ourselves with. In fact, on T.V. last night I found it downright disgusting: all those women finally getting riled up about something: meat!

  Out the window it looks like more rain soon.

  Dinner tonight with Jack Brusca.

  Seeing Kenward again (last night) was “O.K.” It appears that we will keep on seeing each other, even if a bit “ho hum,” for lack of an alternative, if for no other reason. But of course, there are other reasons. Number one reason being that we are very close, regardless. And that’s a very hard thing to throw away, as I hope you know too.

  Wednesday, April 4th, 1973

  Three guesses who got fucked last night?

  Mr. Tight-Ass, yours truly, me!

  More rain.

  And dentist.

  Bob and Bobbie Creeley are in town and so tonight is dinner with them at Bill Katz’s place before their first reading together ever. (At the church.)

  Thursday, April 5th, 1973

  Lunch (lunch!) today with Anne and Bobbie at a nearby place I’ve often been curious about called The Old Chelsea House (“since 1805” it says on the sign): fried scallops, white wine, and apple pie and coffee. Conversation was mostly about Bob and Bobbie troubles. Which doesn’t leave one with much to say. Because Bob and Bobbie are Bob and Bobbie, and only an outsider can afford to realize that. (And marriage is marriage, etc.) All of which, of course, has nothing to do with that they are both terrific.

  After the reading went home with Craig, and, neither of us being in a very decisive mood (stoned) we just jerked each other off, which was fun (such beautiful light blue extroverted eyes I find pleasantly embarrassing to confront!). Strange boy. Sweet. But sweet as a nice snake, I suspect.

  In life——the people we just bump into——it is a thing I value very much, regardless.

  Working on an “I Believe” piece: a manifesto of sorts, which I think is going to be very good, and perhaps surprisingly profound. I feel my ability to cut right through the mustard very sharp these days. And with no smugness. (So far.) And with no (so far) infuriating simplifications. My only real problem (so far) is that once I have written down what I think I believe in I find that often I don’t anymore. And so there is no chance of its being a “toss-off” work (which is what I am best at) and so chances are it will never see the light of day. But I really am going to try to stick with it tho.

  Tonight Kenward reads from The Orchid Stories at the 98 Greene Street Loft (9:00) and so that is where I’ll be.

  Friday, April 6th, 1973

  Terrific insane mind-boggling beautiful reading Kenward gave last night from The Orchid Stories.

  Today was more Green Hell, and a very short hair cut.

  Tomorrow is a dope connection and a dentist appointment.

  Tonight is dinner out with Arlene Ladden and Kenward.

  And Sunday (I hope, I hope) is re-re-entering oils again!

  Sunday, April 8th, 1973

  Would you believe that it’s snowing?

  The other day at lunch with Anne and Bobbie I was saying how hard reading Gertrude Stein was for me, and Anne suggested that I try reading her out loud, and so this morning I started Everybody’s Autobiography again (out loud) and, yes, it’s much easier.

  Pablo Picasso died today of a heart attack on the French Riviera at 91.

  (And Debbie Reyn
olds was arrested for “illegal possession” of a gun!)

  My biggest problem with the “I Believe” piece (which I worked on some more today) is that words are just too definite, and so now I find myself getting too mushy with lots of “but”s and “however”s and “on the other hand”s, which, of course, is a bloody bore.

  I am sorry about Picasso but——my God, what a beautiful full life!——91!——And so, no, I am not too sorry. We should all be so lucky.

  Monday, April 9th, 1973

  This morning after breakfast I picked up two small plants to paint. One, with slightly “lacy” yellow and green and purple spotted leaves, and the other a pink geranium. And so after my daily few pages of Gertrude out loud, I gave the first one a try. And I do mean “a try.” (No luck.) Tho, of course, one always learns something. (I do believe that.) But the problem today——aside from “paint” problems——was that——well, a lack of inspiration. I have a very strong desire to paint right now, but I am lacking in any strong desire as to “what” to paint: a void I am hoping the beauties of Vermont will supply. (I mean like it’s very hard to get turned on to a potted plant plopped down on a white table indoors.) This sounds like a cop-out, I know, but if so, it is only about 50% so. (Inspiration “from” is just as important as inspiration “within.”) Well, almost as important. (Maybe.)

  D. D. Ryan called to invite me to a preview showing of two documentaries by those two guys who did Gimme Shelter: one on Christo (wrapping up a mountain) and the other, an interview with Marlon Brando. At three o’clock. And so yes, I’m going.

  And then at five o’clock is a book party at the Gotham Book Mart for Carter Ratcliff’s new Kulchur Foundation book, Fever Coast.

  And then, afterwards, dinner with Kenward.

  (And then sleep / morning / dentist / etc.)

  “Etc.” Everything, I feel, is going to be very much “etc.” until Vermont.

  Tuesday, April 10th, 1973

  Strange day so far. Semi-sun. A bit of painting. A bit of letter writing. And a bit of Gertrude. Followed by a very strong desire for some “Oreo” cookies and a glass of milk, so I went out and got some, which I ate with a banana I had previously bought for perhaps painting.