Tag Archives: avant garde

When We Caught Fish


He created his own Kool-aid reality and he was able to illuminate himself by it (10).

Well, that’s the trick, I guess. Trout Fishing in America is the seminal book of the American avant-garde,  circa 1960s, by Richard Brautigan. The title is the theme, heart, and soul of the book.

“Trout Fishing in America Shorty, Mon Amour” (63).

Brautigan references Resnais, of course, but his endearing character, Trout Fishing in America Shorty, is the perfect (quasi) hero of a dark age. For all of its humor, the  book is a lugubrious treatise on the psychic disconnect of a generation.  Any proper noun that is not removed (and demoted) by the article ‘the’ (i.e. ‘the’ woman I travel with, or, ‘the’ baby) is christened, ‘Trout Fishing in America.’ Hotels, people, locals….its all the same.

But I didn’t ruin my birthday by secretly thinking about it too hard (69).

No, no, don’t do that. Brautigan makes the Existentialists look downright cheery and some fifty years out, wanting. At a certain point, after all, the meaninglessness is meaningless.

After he graduated from college, he went to Paris and became an Existentialist. He had a photograph taken of Existentialism and himself sitting at a sidewalk cafe. Pard was wearing a beard and he looked as if he had a huge soul, with barely enough room in his body to contain it (92). 

Composed in a visually and intellectually arresting manner, Trout Fishing in America is a cry, a sob, for an innocence lost. The neurosis is a blinking eye, trying to resist the constraints of a world and society at odds with the simple pleasure of Trout Fishing in America.

We were all silent except for blink, blink, blink, blink, blink. Suddenly I could hear his God-damn eye blinking, It was very much like the sound of an insect laying the 1,000,000th egg of our disaster (39).

In the end, it is all sold off. Another commodity to sell. Aisle four, row whatever, doesn’t matter…the land of the for sale, home of the for hire…the only difference is, no one cares anymore.



Sense and Memorabilia

I remember, in the heart of passion once, trying to get a guy’s turtle-neck sweater off. But it turned out not to be a turtle-neck sweater. – Joe Brainard, I Remember (131). 


I remember not being able to get any dessert but prune crostata when I lived in Parma. But not minding, really.

“In the heart of passion” – that probably says it all. I Remember, written in 1975 by Joe Brainard, is one of the sweetest, funniest books I have ever read. In fact, I caused the  fellow commuter sitting in the seat ahead of me some alarm as I intermittently burst into spasms of laughter reading this on my way home the other night. She rather ostentatiously turned around to see what I was on about, and then I caught her peeping into the reflection of the window several times assessing my mental health.

I remember a little girl who had a white rabbit coat and hat and muff. Actually, I don’t remember the little girl. I remember the coat and the hat and the muff (32).

The book is brilliantly conceived. Ridiculously and poignantly simple. It reads as a sort of poem with each stanza beginning with the refrain: I remember.

I remember the only time I ever saw my mother cry. I was eating apricot pie (8).

There is something magical in it. Brainard, a child and adolescent of the 40s and 50s, relates  details that are lovely in their historicism, but it is the disarming simplicity of his raw memory data that connects the reader to this charming fellow.

I remember once my mother parading a bunch of women through the bathroom as I was taking a shit. Never have I been so embarrassed! (93)

I’m really glad I never did that. As a mother of (mostly) sons, my heart just about burst for this young boy and his beautiful, puriel, ernest mind.

I remember when I worked in a snack bar and how much I hated people who ordered malts (22).

As a human who endured adolescence and retains a frightening degree of it, my heart ached for our shared humiliations, tribulations, and confusions. It would seem that Mr. Brainard and I suffer from the same malady – our hearts stuck in the ‘on’ position.

I remember liver (16).

Me too.

I remember Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” (so sad) in Meet Me in St. Louis (49).

It was his tender use of parenthetical commentary that convinced me that this man must have been a lovely, kind soul.

I remember a girl in Dayton, Ohio, who “taught” me what to do with your tongue, which, it turns out, is definitely what not to do with your tongue. You could really hurt somebody that way. (Strangulation.) (133)

It is his innocence and crass adolescent mind, (which never seems to really leave us, eh?) his sexual forays, observations, reactions, and random thoughts that fill his memoir. This is the stuff we are made of.

I remember my mother cornering me into the corners to squeeze out blackheads. (Hurt like hell.) (141)

Okay – but in my defense, as a mother, that is really hard to resist.

I remember not finding pumpkin pie very visually appealing (113).

The sensual strength of our memories, whether it be vision, touch, sound, taste or smell is fascinating, revealing, and true. This is how we experience our lives – our world. It’s beautiful. Joe Brainard’s, mine, and yours. Simply beautiful.

I remember trying to figure out what it’s all about. (Life.) (46)


* I Remember – published by Granary Books