VerySmallKitchen writes: Ron Padgett has edited a beautiful edition of THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF JOE BRAINARD, recently published by Library of America. It includes the full text of I Remember as well as facsimiles of several small press chapbooks, including Bolinas Journal and The Cigarette Book (his work as visual artist was the subject of Joe Brainard: A Retrospective at the Berkeley Art Museum in 2001).

The Collected Writings  begins with I Remember, which, for a long time – courtesy of Granary Books - has been the only text of Brainard’s in print. Poet Tim Dlugos could joke – as early as 1977, in one of two interviews included here- “You’re remembered for I Remember… (Both Laugh).” Its 138 pages start off:

 

 

I remember the first time I got a letter that said “After Five Days Return To” on the envelope, and I thought that after I had kept the letter for five days I was supposed to return it to the sender.

I remember the kick I used to get going through my parents’ drawers looking for rubbers. (Peacock.)

I remember when polio was the worst thing in the world.

I remember pink dress shirts. And bola ties.(5)

 

 

I Remember combines two types of writing found throughout this book: the diaries, written for publication and often arranged by place or time – as in Bolinas Journal, “Washington D.C. Journal 1972″ and “Diary 1969″ – alongside short prose pieces on a particular subject or object.

These later pieces are not necessarily removed from the ongoing process of diary-making-for-publication, showing Brainard’s intelligence and humour moving through various minimal forms of writing and sequencing, such as the constraint and consequences of writing sentences that begin “I remember…” As Brainard tells Dlugos, this invokes a particular sort of “I” and memoir:

 

Well, I have a terrible memory, for one thing. I can’t remember anything. But then I began to realize that beyond that point there is another level of knowledge that could be triggered off. It wasn’t really useful knowledge unless it was triggered off; then I sort of used up that and there kept being more and different layers of things that were hidden. It isn’t really there spontaneously. So I got into that. I  was unaware of it, for one thing, that all that was retained.  (499)

 

See also: “Twenty-three Mini-Essays” and “Towards a Better Life (Eleven Exercises)” alongside often less than a page length works on “Thirty” or “Sex,” “Ron Padgett” or “A Depressing Thought.”

 

 

 

 

If there is a dominant stylistic element connecting both of these modes, it is Brainard’s sentiment that “Writing, for me, is a way of “talking” the way I wish I could talk.” The various forms and styles in The Collected Writings can be seen as an exposition of this statement, mostly through a kind of talking-prose-style, but also texts foregrounding line breaks and lyricism as structural devices, or, as in The Cigarette Book, through hand writing, annotation, illustration and collage…

This writing-talking relationship gets most concentrated in numerous short works in proximity to the demands of aphorism, koan, epigram and witticism, such as “30 One-Liners,” which mines a playful shared ground of profundity and the mundane. To quote four from the middle of this collection:

 

A SEXY THOUGHT

Male early in the day.

 

POTATOES

One can only go so far without potatoes in the kitchen.

 

MOTHER

A mother is something we have all had.

 

MODERN TIMES

Every four minutes a car comes off the assembly line they say. (415)

 

 

Throughout The Collected Writings, a crucial dynamic is an intimate self that is also a self-conscious literary creation, connected to a chronicle of a particular social and artistic scene, through what Brainard calls “this “trying to be honest” kind of writing.” (313)

 

 

 

 

This is a practical matter of names, places, emotions, conversations, events that become notated in published writing, but Brainard expresses it on a grander scale in a letter to Anne Waldman:

 

 

I am way, way up these days over a piece I am still writing called I Remember. I feel very much like God writing the Bible. I mean, I feel like I am not really writing it but that it is because of me that it is being written. I also feel that it is about everybody else as much as it is about me. And that pleases me. I mean, I feel like I am everybody. And it’s a nice feeling. It won’t last. But I am enjoying it while I can. (xviii)

 

 

Aged thirty seven, Brainard ceases both exhibition of his visual work and writing for publication. As Paul Auster observes in his introduction here, there are many theories around Brainard’s withdrawal from publication and exhibition, including burn out, a sense of personal failure, and an  unwillingness or inability to engage with an increasingly competitive art world, when, for Brainard, writing and art making was principally linked to (Ann Lauterbach’s words) “devoted camaraderie and generative collaboration.”

I wondered, separate from this biographical information, what story emerges from the work itself. I skipped around in my reading of this book and when skipping from beginning to end I was struck by the change in Nothing to Write About Home, a final collection of prose pieces, published by Little Ceasar Press in 1981.

Here a text like “My Friend” seems to extend and fulfill an earlier mode of writing, taking it to near collapse under its own realised attributes. A writing that prepares the ground for something new, which, as far as published writing goes, was a not-doing:

 

 

MY FRIEND

There’s this one little bug – so tiny really – say an eighth of an inch long, and as thin as a sliver – with a very simple and symmetrical design finely enameled upon the shell of his body in red and green – as sophisticated as a zinnia bud, or an Art Deco cigarette case – that is just so beautiful – so worthy in my enthusiasm of being glorified into a central window of a major European cathedral – that has been living on a particularly large sunflower leaf for over a week now. I check him out daily. Never really expecting him to still be there, as with each day more so, it does seem to be a lot to expect. But there he still is – (or was this morning) – : my friend. And like a rock by chance encountered, all mine. To microscopically indulge in. To romanticize. (To write about!) Passing on to you what I find to be so very special – a snapshot – to make life more realistic and rememberable, for me too. (481)

 

 

For Auster any theory has to take into account how much the subject of Brainard’s writing was youth itself:

 

Brainard disarms us with the seemingly tossed-off, spontaneous nature of his writing and his stubborn refusal to accede to the pieties of self-importance. We must remember that he was very young when the wildest pieces in this collection were written – still in his twenties – and what these little works capture most fully, it seems to me, is precisely a sense of youth, the laughter of youth, the energy of youth, for in the end they are not really about anything so much as what it means to be young, that hopeful, anarchic time when all horizons are open to us and the future appears to be without limits. (xxv)

 

Or as Brainard himself had earlier commented of the perceived unfolding of his writing trajectory:

 

      You know, it’s really funny this kind of writing. This “trying to be honest” kind of writing. For several years now I’ve been doing it, and getting better and better at it. Getting closer and closer to a point (a place) in my head I call the truth.
      But now I’m beginning to doubt that very point (That very place).
      I mean, what I’ve been working towards just isn’t there anymore (Zap.)
      Do you know what I mean?
      I mean, the closer I get to the truth the less I know what the truth is.
      Wish I could make myself more clear but ——– right now I can’t.” (313)

 

 

This ambition and, as Auster proposes, non-tragic crisis, are amongst the reasons why Brainard seems so connected to many contemporary practices. Such a list could continue by thinking about the humor of his work; its concern with everyday sociality become publication and performance; the focus on situations of “camaraderie and generative collaboration”; the hopeful, pleasurable mixture of conceptual and conversational tonalities…

 

 

Those who come most immediately to mind here are Jon Cotner and Andy Fitch’s  Ten Walks/ Two Talks ( Pop Poetics: Reframing Joe Brainard by Fitch is forthcoming from Dalkey Archive) and, for all the reasons above, the performances and texts of Patrick Coyle and Tamarin Norwood. Perhaps, though, Brainard as legacy in 2012 inhabits the same paradoxical condition Brainard proposed and inhabited when he wrote the short text “No Story”, which reads in its entirety:

 

 

I hope you have enjoyed not reading this story as much as I have enjoyed not writing it. (436)

 

 

*

 

 

VerySmallKitchen is delighted to re-print Joe Brainard’s “Wednesday July 7th, 1971 (A Greyhound Bus Trip)”, published for the first time in The Collected Writings.

Thanks to Max Rubin and Library of America for permission to reprint. The text will be available here until 28/05/12.

 

 

*

 

 

 

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-minute 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 think 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.

      I’m hungry.

      I want to see Kenward.

      My ass hurts.

      Very opal-like now, the sky.

      A lumber yard.

      Portland. I didn’t know there was a Portland in Vermont. (Don’t think about it.)

      This bus is supposed to turn off into New Hampshire at some point.

      “White River Junction” a big sign just said.

      Bad case of dandruff the guy in front of me has.

      A cemetery.

      A trailer court.

      (Right next to each other.)

      Looking surprisingly similar.

 

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

 

      New bus. New driver.

      Great. Only a 15-minute wait between buses. Just time for a donut and coffee. Not even time to pee. Wash my face. Etc. Or what have you.

      Two giddy French girls on the bus. (Heavy giddy.) Laughing and talking a mile a minute. (In French.) With, I think, a radio. Or—somebody back there has a radio.

      Really night now. Dark. Blue dark. That kind of blue dark that makes white houses glow. “Arabian blue” I think of it as. But I think I may have made that up. (Cornell blue.) Starry night blue.

      Looking out the window is a bit confusing now as mostly all I can see is myself. My reflection.

      Very little ashtrays on this bus. And very well hidden.

      This little spotlight on me is making me feel conspicuous. (Can “they” read what I’m writing?)

      Just heard someone say “sauna bath.”

      “Insurance.”

      Fuck. Just missed being able to read a sign saying how many miles to Montpelier.

      Wish I didn’t have so many books to do so soon. (Covers and drawings for.) But I do want to do them. And I do want to have done them.

      I really can’t see outside at all now. Think I’ll turn out the light and see if I can still see to write.

      I think if I write big enough I can figure it out later. (What I’m writing.) In other words—no, I can’t see to write very well.

      Actually, there’s not much to see outside right now except endless black trees.

      No stars out tonight.

      I could sure do with a bath.

      The French girls have quieted down.

      “REST AREA 1 MILE.”

      Little modern house all alone.

      Birch trees.

      The moon tonight is either full or so close to full it looks full.

      I want to do some big birch tree cut-outs this summer.

      The French girls are up and at it again.

      Don’t know why I don’t like radios but I don’t. (“September Song” with 100 strings.) For some reason they remind me of the past. (Radios do.) Which, I guess, is why I don’t like them.

      Well, it’s something to write about.

      You know, I think the moon is full. And through these tinted windows, a bright chartreuse.

      A man gets up to go to the bathroom.

      The bathroom! What a dumb fuck I am. There’s a bathroom right here on this bus.

 

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

 

      As usual it took me awhile to figure out how to open it. (In, not out.) Peed. But no water to freshen face with.

      Barre!

      Well, it won’t be long now.

      This has really been a good bus ride. (With a little help from my friend.)

      Whoever owns that radio is really a genius. (Roller skating music now.)

      I remember those two big weeping willow trees.

      One more bus cigarette.

      “Anne’s Motel” has expanded. New sign too.

      People in houses at night. Always such a shock. Don’t know why. I’ll be doing it soon too. When I get off the bus. Such a real situation. Like a hammer on the head. When you’re outside looking in. People in houses at night.

      How’s that for an ending?

      But, no—we are now sitting at a gas station just a few minutes from Kenward while the bus driver is cleaning his (very dirty I must admit) windows.

      They give “S & H Green Stamps.”

      Off again.

      The sweater store. (A store that sells nothing but sweaters.)

      Radio interference. (Good.)

      The reindeer statues in front of “Howard Johnson’s” which have been slowly sinking into the earth for two years (up to their knees last year) are now on top again.

      House trailers for sale.

      Lots of cars watching a movie.

      More trailers for sale.

      Hey, you know—I’m nervous!

      A new restaurant.

      A new car wash.

      A new furniture store.

      The same old river.

      I guess this is it!

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

More about Joe Brainard here and THE COLLECTED WRITINGS OF JOE BRAINARD here.