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

by Ron Padgett

  GRAVITY

  A man gazing at the stars is secretly at the mercy of his own two feet, silently gripping the earth, in homage to that which most vividly recalls to mind a lovely red apple.

  LIFE

  If you snooze, you lose.

  DEATH

  Que sera, sera.

  Religion

  I think I genuinely try to keep an open mind about religion. Not, however, so much because of religion as because of keeping an open mind.

  Knowing very little about Tibetan Buddhism, I’ll grant you that it’s a lot more interesting than Protestantism.

  But “interesting” (let’s face it, folks) is a slightly dubious compliment.

  And so, to tell you the truth, I just can’t quite buy it.

  As a way of life, I believe a more truly accurate source (or means) can be found totally, if somewhat abstractly, from within each of us as individuals.

  Religion as a “device” towards this discovery I can certainly understand, but, like psychology, not especially admire.

  I guess you might say that I believe in the wind, as I believe in the stomach, as I believe in you. As I believe in me. As I believe, period. And (taking advantage of feeling so “up” ((pill)) today) I shall venture to say that I believe in a perhaps almost nonexistent form of believing: as pure as gold, without people.

  All of which (believe it or not) has something to do with total cancellations!

  And I believe in the fullness of the/this resulting void.

  Out in the Hamptons

  Red and green and yellow

  orange and purple

  rust

  and the silvers of gray:

  the late colors of autumn

  subdued into subtle combinations

  too intricate and transitory to pin down

  unless perhaps with paint

  all mixed up together

  into one long streak

  from a car window seen

  passing a pair of young lovers

  (cute as buttons)

  out for a walk

  hand in hand

  as the sound of dry leaves underfoot

  rustles through my head

  from out of the past

  like a stab in the heart

  quick and blue with envy

  for a possibility lost

  to the age of 36

  in its utter simplicity:

  as stupid and beautiful as a movie

  I thought might really “happen” someday

  but evidently not

  as these words on paper erase

  that it hardly matters anymore

  into the presence of this poem

  I don’t know how I’m going to get out of

  as (thank you) the secret formation of birds in flight

  flows across the sky

  (wide and white)

  towards the out-of-sight

  of never to know

  what might have been

  a different tomorrow today

  in this dream of being awake

  (past and present)

  and silly with being alive

  Nothing to Write Home About

  ART NOTE

  Painting a pear today, it occurs to me that what painting is really all about for me (at its best) is discovery. The discovery of that third slight “bump” alongside the disappearing edge of the pear, which I had originally assumed to be an almost straight line. However, the work itself eventually involved a sacrifice. And so what I ended up with was an almost straight line again. An almost straight line again, but with a very particular difference.

  ON BEING A GAY PAINTER

  Actually—I can’t see that being a gay painter makes any difference whatsoever, except that every now and then my work seems shockingly “sissy” to me.

  MONEY

  My idea about money is similar to the gypsy idea about money: that a man’s wealth is based not so much upon how much money he has, as upon how much money he has spent.

  A SIGN OF THE TIMES

  “A sign of the times” are posters plastered up all over West Broadway announcing a new magazine called No Magazine. (Can hardly wait for the first issue!) Seriously though—and aside from finding it all a bit silly—it’s kind of sweet too—don’t you think?—that we care so much, as to try so hard, irregardless of . . . but then why bother?

  BREAKFAST OUT

  Out having breakfast this morning, over coffee, in somewhat of a slump, I was thinking to myself: “Holy shit, Joe—you’d better do something (anything!) to shape up your life a bit, or else.” And so I decided that—for starters—I’d try to be more outgoing with my waitress: (other than just giving my usual order, and saying “Thank you” as it arrives): and so—as she was standing right in front of me, cleaning out a large white plastic container of some abstract sort—I opened up my mouth to issue forth “What’s that?” But—(silence)—I guess she didn’t hear me. Nevertheless, I gave myself a pat on the back on my way home. Just a tiny “E” for a tiny effort. But with total faith that any step in the right direction is secretly a giant one.

  ROACHES

  Let me tell you how I feel about roaches. I’m not crazy about roaches (!) Of course I’m not crazy about roaches. But I don’t hate roaches either. Just so long, that is, as they do what they’re supposed to do. I mean like—it really doesn’t bother me much to find them scurrying around when I come home and turn the lights on. But when I come home and turn the lights on and they don’t scurry around, that really pisses me off!

  NEW PLANT

  I like it. I can’t say I love it. But I do rather like it. It’s quite large. I mean tall. Almost as tall as I am. Shooting straight up out of a dark green plastic pot is a thin brown trunk that goes up and up until it finally “pineapples out” into many seemingly random directions. “Decidedly tropical” is the impression it gives. (One can easily visualize it living a comfortable existence in the corner of a not too fancy restaurant or hotel lobby.) But as I was saying—(though not a plant person myself)—I do like it. Just the idea of having a plant around—(another living thing!)—I like that. And then too, they’re supposed to be good for the air. Though I’ve heard tell that too many plants in a room can eat up too much oxygen: hardly a pertinent problem as yet, however. And although it doesn’t exactly fit in with the bachelor image I seem to have of myself, it’s certainly well worth dropping at this point anyway. How I came by it (just in case you’re wondering) was as a gift from a friend who decided to try the gypsy life for a change; though more or less not by choice, to hear him tell it. At any rate—one particularly nice thing about it is that—having chosen Sunday as its watering day—I now have something in particular to do every Sunday. Which is a slight improvement over Sundays past. (Ugh!) Easter Sundays were great though, as a kid. The whole Easter egg bit. Chocolate Easter bunnies. Usually a new suit. And from up in the balcony, a whole congregation full of flowery pastel hats that made the sermon go a whole lot faster. None of which—alas—has much to do with my new plant, but . . .

  SUNDAY

  This particular rainy Sunday (since you know how I feel about Sundays, you can imagine how I feel about rainy Sundays) finds me torn: torn between wishing I was spending the day in bed with someone cute and cuddly, and probably blond, or—then again—some horny hot butch piece of meat. However, what I am in bed with is Daniel Deronda by George Eliot, which is awfully good really. And I didn’t forget to water my plant today. And that tomorrow is Monday is reminding me of how lucky I am that my time is my own (no job) and so tomorrow morning (thank God) won’t find me wishing it was Friday again. And so now I can go back to Daniel Deronda with fewer complaints. Gee—how nice of you to be in my head to write to is!

  MINOR FREAK-OUT

  During Chapter 37 of Daniel Deronda my mind abstractly swerved onto (and bumped right into) the first time I distinctly remember hearing myself referred to as a man. I was “fishing.” And Frederick did it. He said “Well, I think you’re a ve
ry handsome man.” (Gasp!) Let me tell you—if it weren’t for that we were in bed—I would have fallen on my face.

  THANKSGIVING

  It seems to be that Thanksgiving Day is nearly upon us. And I am wondering (and curious) as to what (if anything) Thanksgiving Day really “means” to me. Or, rather, what it makes me think of. Recalls to mind. And so now—(emptying out my head)—let’s see what pops up. Well, first is turkey. Second is cranberry sauce. And third is pilgrims.

  IMAGINARY SEXUAL FANTASY

  I’m looking out my back window, into the window across the way, a bachelor man in his late thirties is standing in the middle of the room—legs slightly spread apart—feet flatly on the floor—wearing a pair of white jockey shorts. His back is to me. And as his weight shifts over to one side, ripples or wrinkles run up the crack of his ass, deliciously defining a pair of fine full buns. Though he just left the room, he is already returning. With a can of beer in one hand, his crotch in the other: “scratching” his balls with casual enthusiasm. Now—giving the enlarged bulge in his shorts a friendly flip, he sinks down into a low stuffed chair, right in front of the T.V. set. I can see him on the screen: a vague and exotic reflection, which when focused upon, becomes as vividly demanding as a movie: a movie of some real humpy number, with his shorts down around his ankles, playing with his meat: big and hard and hot. And all shiny with spit, as he glides a tight fist up and down his shaft—real slow like—with an extra tight squeeze at the base, so the veins bulge and throb—with a little shiver of a shudder every time his fist encompasses his dark pink head—the piss hole glistening with a tiny drop of sticky stuff: that of more to come. Really getting into himself now, his strokes are more regular and speeded up. (His breathing increasing into rhythmic pants.) As, tossing his left leg up over the arm of his chair, he reveals a dark hairy asshole, just begging for the finger-fuck it’s soon to get, all juicy with spit from just out of his mouth. (Such big full lips, and he hasn’t shaved for days!) Gliding it in and all the way up now, he arches his body out straight, flopping his head back upside-down at me with a big grin on his face, as a volcanic shudder darts through his body, and he shoots his heavy load. As ivory streaks of cum fly through the air, I leak all over my feet—a trembling mass of rubber—as I suddenly awake to crumpled sticky sheets, and white morning light.

  QUAALUDE

  Beauty and sadness and “landscape.” The flow of time is so jerky, except in retrospect. Outside the window I fall on my face in the snow: this is what I saw. And—suddenly—the whole sky goes blue: this is what I see. Beauty and sadness “as” landscape: this is how I feel.

  INSOMNIA

  Now I lay me down to sleep . . . or so I thought. Until my head began to open out into everything and nothing in particular. Re-living random moments of this busy and evasive past, I feel cheated somehow. What it all adds up to is . . . not very much. These and those—(“those” I’ll kindly spare you)—were my thoughts, until I zeroed in on the inadequacies of this my particular pillow: too soft or too hard? And now neither my left nor my right side seems quite “right” to lie upon. At least not for long. And arms—what to “do” with arms? And so now—(Fuck it!)—I’m up and out of bed. Walking back and forth. Up and down. Gliding my hands over random surfaces from time to time. Like the cold hard wood of a table top, in passing. And I like being naked, inside the large dark space of my loft. (Like a cave man!) I like my bare feet on the bare floor, as they spread out to grip, step by step, with contact. And I like the way my balls feel swinging back and forth so freely, as I pace my space. Why—out in the woods—I feel as though I could squat for a shit as gracefully as any wild animal! But back in bed now, under cooler sheets, my eyes have found a place to rest. Upon the view outside my big front window: so silent and otherworldly out there tonight. And the sky . . . it’s so oddly colored: all greenish and lavender, with maybe—yes—a touch of orange. The color is “mud,” but reassuringly translucent somehow. And so now—having somehow found some comfort in all this—I feel more myself again. “Available” to recall how mysteriously the “soon” of tomorrow will erase the “now” of tonight. Like a silent “zap.” And a rather kind one at that, it being far too elusive to fall into. All of which is going to sound pretty corny in the morning, I suspect. But well worth buying tonight, if but for the price of a good night’s rest.

  RIGHT ON!

  Today I made a “patience” sign to hang up on my wall. And tomorrow I plan to do a “confidence” one. Because these are the two things I want and need most in my life right now. And if I can’t come by them honestly—(Fuck it)—I’ll learn to fake it. As in “Right on!”

  OH MY GOSH!

  Oh my gosh . . . the gray hairs . . . they are streaming in at a most alarming rate. Though by the light of the bathroom mirror, they gleam like silver. (Now how’s that for trying to grow old gracefully?) Seriously though, I do have rather mixed feelings about this aging process. (That range mostly from horror to total despair.) But—help!—is nothing to be taken seriously anymore? Like would you believe I can’t even confront myself in the mirror for a good bawling out session these days without a foreign grin slipping into my face? Which perhaps ought to be funny, except that it’s just too creepy. I mean like—just who is that person? And so yes, another birthday has just come (37) and went. And yes, I am milking it. (Subject matter!) And so I do plead guilty, if but to jump the gun on being accused of it.

  But let me tell you what is really freaking me out these days: that the person I always thought I was simply isn’t anymore: does not exist!

  And the rug I have pulled out from under myself is . . . (gulp). . . a sentence I can’t quite complete just yet.

  But for sure the sky is no longer the limit. There is time and integrity and fate to deal with: a heavy load to shoulder from underneath. Where the temptation to wallow in one’s own muck—to simply surrender—to give up—is far too appealing. And far too realistic a possibility for comfort. (And I don’t want to lose!)

  And I can see myself all too clearly now as a finished product I don’t want to feel that responsible for, because I don’t. And so I resent it. And I have no patience with spoiled brats. I think we ought to feel lucky—be grateful—simply for being alive.

  (And yet—just how seriously can I take myself when I still secretly believe—well, sometimes—that if I just had a big dick everything would be . . . er . . . real fine?)

  But—(sob)—courage, and motivation, and stamina—where are they to come from? Where do they come from?

  Evidently, tonight, from you, as I sit here at my desk, fishing for approval and support and empathy:

  the green light I need. For acknowledging together the fact that—indeed—life is full of humps and bumps. As predictably so as . . . whatever. As ultimately important as . . . absolutely nothing. And as full of contradictions as that I—actually—rather like my gray hairs sometimes too.

  (Whew!)

  New York City

  * * *

  Vermont

  THE 4TH OF JULY

  Pat and Ron and Wayne are coming up for dinner tonight: salmon with sorrel sauce, the first peas of the summer, and strawberry shortcake: my “job.” And one I plan to enjoy, thanks to recent Colette reading: i.e. finding pleasure in the doing of little domestic chores (of an eventually oral nature!). However—though not in particular to change the subject—the shortbread part is just going to be biscuits. And supermarket biscuits at that. You know—the kind you bang across the edge of the counter top, and out pop the biscuits. The strawberries, however, are homegrown. And just as delicious as that implies. Especially when picked right off the plant, and popped into the mouth—so warm and juicy—after a day out in the hot sun of (thank you!) today.

  EVELYN WAUGH

  What’s so funny about reading Evelyn Waugh today is not really laughing out loud until page 249. And then over a line so out in left field as “They said Captain Marino was no gentleman in the hospital tent.”

  MINUTE OBSE
RVATION

  Out sunning on the lounge chair in a black bathing suit, with one leg up on the knee of the other—through the triangle of space in between my legs—I spy a butterfly in the process of eating up some invisible specks of God only knows what, right down there by my foot. Now let me fill you in on the details: a long black tongue, as thin as a thread, emerges out of what I assume to be a mouth, and rapidly scans the woven plastic strips of this “Grand Union” lounge chair, in the dart-like motions of anteaters in cartoons. His wings are brown and black with lesser specks of orange and white, though by no means at random of course ( . . . Z-Z-Z . . . ). Well all I can think of to say is that we probably learn something new every day, even if we can’t always put our fingers on it.

  WORRY-WART

  Let me tell you about my mother and car doors. Well, with my mother in the car—(“Now are you sure the door is locked?”)—it didn’t really matter if the door was locked or not, because you couldn’t lean up against it anyway, because “you never know.” A total lack of faith in car door locks is what it would all seem to amount to, except that—believe me—it didn’t stop with car door locks. My mother, she had a real nose for danger in many other areas of life’s activities as well. Such as petting stray dogs. Getting pneumonia from catching colds. (From various combinations of wet hair, drafts, bare feet, not enough sleep, and so on and so forth.) None of which is by any means meant to knock my mother. (Sweet as a button. And wouldn’t hurt a fly.) And you can hardly blame a person for being how they are. And besides—by the time you’re my age, you can only blame yourself for any kinks you’ve yet to iron out in yourself, is the way I see it. Like take for example—balls: which I still have an instinctive fear of. Especially when they are flying through the air right at me at a rapid rate of speed. Due in part, I suspect, to this very vivid vision I seem to have of ball making contact with face, the gory details of which I’ll kindly spare you. Except for—(I can’t resist)—shiny slivers of glass flying into your eyeballs from out of smashed spectacle frames, dangling down from what used to be a nose. And so—optimistically speaking—I still have “ball” to look forward to someday, should my interest ever warrant the minor effort it would require. At any rate—and to get back to car door locks—let me assure you that I now love leaning up against unlocked car doors immensely: gee thanks, Mom!