Revenge of the Lawn, the Abortion, So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away by Richard Brautigan Page A
Authors: Richard Brautigan
Tags: Literary, General, Literature & Fiction, Short Stories, Genre Fiction, Contemporary Fiction, Literary Fiction, Anthologies & Literary Collections, Anthologies, Anthologies & Collections
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"I just write the poetry," I said. "I'm not a shepherd of the pages. I can't look after them forever. It wouldn't make sense."
I was also a little drunk.
"Anyway," my friend said. "I would like to have those books again. Where can I get them?"
"One of them has been out of print for five years. The other one you can get at City Lights," I said, busy putting together and filming in my mind what went on after I left the kitchen and went home, glowing like a lantern in sweet vermouth.
What he said to her before he went and got the books of poetry and tore them up. What she said, what he said, which book went first, the way he tore it. Oh, a lovely act of healthy outrage and what was taken care of after that.
2
I was at City Lights a year ago and saw somebody looking at one of my books of poetry. He was pleased with the book, but there was a reluctance to his pleasure.
He looked at the cover again and turned the pages again. He stopped the pages as if they were the hands of a clock and he was pleased at what time it was. He read a poem at seven o'clock in the book. Then the reluctance came again and clouded up the time.
He put the book back on the shelf, then he took it off the shelf. His reluctance had become a form of nervous energy.
Finally he reached in his pocket and took out a penny. He placed the book in the crook of his arm. The book was now a nest and the poems were eggs. He threw the penny up in the air, caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand. He took his other hand away.
He put the book of poetry back on the shelf and left the bookstore. As he walked out he looked very relaxed. I walked over and found his reluctance lying there on the floor.
It was like clay but nervous and fidgeting. I put it in my pocket. I took it home with me and shaped it into this, having nothing better to do with my time.
Banners of My Own Choosing
D RUNK laid and drunk unlaid and drunk laid again, it makes no difference. I return to this story as one who has been away but one who was always destined to return and perhaps that's for the best.
I found no statues nor bouquets of flowers, no beloved to say: "Now we will fly new banners from the castle, and they will be of your own choosing," and to hold my hand again, to take my hand in yours.
None of that stuff for me.
My typewriter is fast enough as if it were a horse that's just escaped from the ether, plunging through silence, and the words gallop in order while outside the sun is shining.
Perhaps the words remember me.
It is the fourth day of March 1964. The birds are singing on the back porch, a bunch of them in an aviary, and I try to sing with them: Drunk laid and drunk unlaid and drunk laid again, I'm back in town.
Fame in California/1964
1
I T'S really something to have fame put its feathery crowbar under your rock and then upward to the light release you, along with seven grubs and a sow bug.
I'll show you what happens, then. A friend of mine came up to me a few months ago and said, "You're a character in the novel I just finished."
It really set me up when he said that. I had an immediate vision of myself as the romantic lead or the villain: "He put his hand on her breast and his hot breath fogged up her glasses," or "He laughed as she cried, then he kicked her down the stairs like a sack of dirty laundry."
"What do I do in your novel?" I said, waiting to hear great words.
"You open a door," he said.
"What else do I do?"
"That's all."
"Oh," I said, my fame diminishing. "Couldn't I have done
something else? Maybe opened two doors? Kissed somebody?"
"That one door was enough," he said. "You were perfect."
"Did I say anything when I opened the door?" still hoping a little.
"No."
2
I met a photographer friend of mine last week. We were making the rounds of the bars. He took some photographs. He is a careful young photographer and conceals his camera under his coat like a pistol.
He doesn't want people to know what he is doing. Wants to capture
"I just write the poetry," I said. "I'm not a shepherd of the pages. I can't look after them forever. It wouldn't make sense."
I was also a little drunk.
"Anyway," my friend said. "I would like to have those books again. Where can I get them?"
"One of them has been out of print for five years. The other one you can get at City Lights," I said, busy putting together and filming in my mind what went on after I left the kitchen and went home, glowing like a lantern in sweet vermouth.
What he said to her before he went and got the books of poetry and tore them up. What she said, what he said, which book went first, the way he tore it. Oh, a lovely act of healthy outrage and what was taken care of after that.
2
I was at City Lights a year ago and saw somebody looking at one of my books of poetry. He was pleased with the book, but there was a reluctance to his pleasure.
He looked at the cover again and turned the pages again. He stopped the pages as if they were the hands of a clock and he was pleased at what time it was. He read a poem at seven o'clock in the book. Then the reluctance came again and clouded up the time.
He put the book back on the shelf, then he took it off the shelf. His reluctance had become a form of nervous energy.
Finally he reached in his pocket and took out a penny. He placed the book in the crook of his arm. The book was now a nest and the poems were eggs. He threw the penny up in the air, caught it and slapped it on the back of his hand. He took his other hand away.
He put the book of poetry back on the shelf and left the bookstore. As he walked out he looked very relaxed. I walked over and found his reluctance lying there on the floor.
It was like clay but nervous and fidgeting. I put it in my pocket. I took it home with me and shaped it into this, having nothing better to do with my time.
Banners of My Own Choosing
D RUNK laid and drunk unlaid and drunk laid again, it makes no difference. I return to this story as one who has been away but one who was always destined to return and perhaps that's for the best.
I found no statues nor bouquets of flowers, no beloved to say: "Now we will fly new banners from the castle, and they will be of your own choosing," and to hold my hand again, to take my hand in yours.
None of that stuff for me.
My typewriter is fast enough as if it were a horse that's just escaped from the ether, plunging through silence, and the words gallop in order while outside the sun is shining.
Perhaps the words remember me.
It is the fourth day of March 1964. The birds are singing on the back porch, a bunch of them in an aviary, and I try to sing with them: Drunk laid and drunk unlaid and drunk laid again, I'm back in town.
Fame in California/1964
1
I T'S really something to have fame put its feathery crowbar under your rock and then upward to the light release you, along with seven grubs and a sow bug.
I'll show you what happens, then. A friend of mine came up to me a few months ago and said, "You're a character in the novel I just finished."
It really set me up when he said that. I had an immediate vision of myself as the romantic lead or the villain: "He put his hand on her breast and his hot breath fogged up her glasses," or "He laughed as she cried, then he kicked her down the stairs like a sack of dirty laundry."
"What do I do in your novel?" I said, waiting to hear great words.
"You open a door," he said.
"What else do I do?"
"That's all."
"Oh," I said, my fame diminishing. "Couldn't I have done
something else? Maybe opened two doors? Kissed somebody?"
"That one door was enough," he said. "You were perfect."
"Did I say anything when I opened the door?" still hoping a little.
"No."
2
I met a photographer friend of mine last week. We were making the rounds of the bars. He took some photographs. He is a careful young photographer and conceals his camera under his coat like a pistol.
He doesn't want people to know what he is doing. Wants to capture
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