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Bernadette Mayer Letters to Lewis Warsh
Thursday
Dear Lewis—
Sometimes I feel like I
ought to be a housewife—bake the bread, etc. I have an image of this lady
just handling the clean laundry. Nothing to stop you writing too. Except (I
like doing the laundry too) baking & washing aren’t that interesting.
They become chores, just something that has to be done. Boy, the baby sure
is acting weird. If she’s teething my nipples are in for it. How could you
ever suggest we get some formula? What am I eating all these chickens for?
Free chickens. Seriously though, I think it might really really be spring.
Hooray! Wonder how long she’ll sleep. Think I’ll sign some books
now.
Love, Wifey
Friday
Dear Lewis—
I’ve been thinking a lot about
what our future will be like & whether we’ll get to be famous. This
latter on account of the CCLM talk about power. I always figure all the good
things will happen if you don’t push it. I must’ve got this attitude from my
(humble) parents. How do you view your own talent? I go between thinking
I’ve duped everybody (which David says is common as "the artist imposter")
& that I’m, say, Goethe. Speaking of Goethe, those dishes are really
piling up.* I’ve decided to let the housework go, as Dr. Spock puts it. I’d
like to live in a house where we make big messes in our rooms & have a
really sparse living room & a hidden kitchen that could stay a mess.
Sometimes I spend a lot of time thinking about how to rearrange the
furniture in here. If it were up to me, I’d change it every week. Now I
think I’ll sign some books or write your mother. I tuned in Channel 7 &
it’s pretty good. Love,
A Jimmy Carter fan
*If you feel a cold coming on, I’ll do them.
Sunday
Dear Lewis—
Where’s the cider? It’s not in
the refrigerator. Yes it’s 22 in the middle of March. I feel like doing the
crossword. No matter how much we have no schedule, we always seem to spend
more time "together" on Sundays. Maybe it’s the basketball game. When Butch
& Sharon go down the road "out" they take the board away & when they
come home they close the road again. Have you noticed? People who don’t have
to figure out how to (I won’t finish—that was a boring thought). Motherhood
is just exhausting but you can have a good time. I think we could get a
little more organized if we wanted to be. Today I looked at a little muddy
clod of earth for a long time. I’m going to take a bath now.
Love,
Libidohub
Monday
Dear Lewis,
Why all this cleaning?
Sometimes I think I’ve just gone overboard. I get obsessed with "finishing."
Sometimes, though, I do this (cleaning) when I want to start working on
something. It’s like a little reflex. Don’t know what I think of my new desk
though. I’ll have to put Hawthorne’s picture up. I may go back to writing at
the table, where the view (you!) is good. Wide open spaces. Boy, the baby
sure fooled me today. When I think I’m not a good mother it’s cause I feel
I’m projecting so much that I can’t be sensible about what to "do with her."
Then I can see what nervous mothers must be like, jouncing the baby all over
trying to figure out what to do when actually you probably don’t have to do
anything. Does that make sense? I’m going to have to go over to another
page. My handwriting looks different cause there’s a big crack thru the
middle of this table so that’s why it’s not so good to write upon (on). The
Beano sign, though, is very inspiring. Maybe we talk so much together that
that’s why we find other people so odd. Sometimes, like today, I struggle
very hard with my fears. I realize that what I’m doing is like "vigilance."
It’s exhausting & that’s probably why I’m so tired. My vigilance—too bad
it cant keep it from snowing. Hope it doesn’t start before noon tomorrow, so
we can get to the store. But we’ve got plenty of supplies just in case.
Maybe I should write out the menu for being snowed in & post it in the
kitchen. Next year. Where shall we live next year? Jesus, another page. Can
you take it? Here are some of the reasons I love you:
Cause you never
forget anything
Cause you’re cute
Cause you think clearly
Cause you
have a nice ass
Cause of your writing
Cause you like to kiss
Cause
you can change
(I always think of things as some sort of progression; am
I mistaken?)
Cause I like your lips
Cause of the baby (that’s
backwards)
Anyway I dont wanna run on to yet another page. I think I’m
going to read for the rest of the night. I think we’re doing pretty well
considering how hard it is to have a new baby. We should go to Beano in the
spring. Love, The Detectionaire
If you stopped writing what would you wanna be?
Tuesday
Dear Lewis—
Just a quick note to say that
I really enjoyed having dinner with you, even tho you made some reference to
Mary Hartman. I think I regressed tonight, thinking some thing on T.V. would
be interesting when actually it all turned out to be just trash (this nib is
literally falling out of the pen). Tomorrow I’m not doing any cooking at
all. The guy in "The Attempt" is always getting dizzy as Peru changes
altitudes & gives him fevers, so I can identify with him though I think
John Hopkins must be some sort of sustained psychotic. Let me know how you
feel. It occurred to me while I was in the shower that I’m a good "nurser"
(I guess?) Remind me to give the baby her vitamins. I need a pen
tomorrow.
Love, Bumbles
Wednesday
Dear Lewis—
It seems awfully warm in
here. I’ll have to take my sweater off. We didn’t get to the dump today.
Also, I wanna go see who the new librarian is. Does your mother like exotic
cosmetics? Is "Exotic Cosmetics" a good title? Today I noticed I felt good
in the sense that I could do everything without getting dizzy & tired. I
was literally jumping around when I got up after Marie fell asleep. Then my
heart skipped a little beat because I noticed. It’s funny. It takes a long
time to have a baby I guess, but no one would ever guess. Other people just
look at you & think you’re the same right away. I guess that’s the good
of complaining— then you communicate you’re different. What am I talking
about? You are my true captive audience. Come & work on my archive. I’m
going to order exotic cosmetics.
Love, Missy B. No
Friday
Dear Lewis—
Would you like a
necklace?
I am thinking I would like a Carlton Fisk-type necklace for
myself. Yesterday I bought 2 special beads while you weren’t looking. That’s
why when you walked into the Grainery in Northampton I looked guilty—I was
trying to hide them, without stealing them. If you ask me I’ll show them to
you.
I have a hangover from civilization But I think it’s going away.
It’s snowing out. It snows now every day. Please pick out a game for us to
watch together tomorrow. A triple header is too much for me. During the game
I’ll bring you a campari made with Perrier. You could call a poem a Perrier
Campari. I don’t feel like writing to any of my girlfriends. I’m going to
check the snow, collate a few books, take a shower, find something to read
& roll in the hay, drooling & laughing. Marie’s pretty spectacular,
aint she? Do you like me? I feel funny today. See you in the bath at
midnight.
Love, Your Cutie
Monday
Dear Lewis—
I’ll bet I can write a
sentence that will make you sigh in a way I can picture. Here it is: "Sure
hope it doesn’t snow tomorrow." Did you sigh yet? Well, let’s forget that
& go on to exotic cosmetics. I’m having so much difficulty concentrating
today that I know (it must be spring) I must start writing what I have in
mind soon. But, what is it? A threatening letter to David?? No, well, you
see, it’s so many things, that, uh, I cant really, you know. Little
projects.
Now I just wrote you the Carlton Fisk poem so everything’s
changed. I really do like Carlton Fisk but not as much as I like you so I
know you wont mind Pudge’s wearing your sweater. I keep wanting to drink
beer when I think about baseball. Let’s go to a game. Will Marie like it?
Can I have another beer? Am I the younger of the two? I realize that I
choose the most intransigent thing of all, the weather, to be afraid
(a-feared?) of. I am beginning to "admire" you—is that bad? Is it
reminiscent? Sometimes I’m afraid of situations that seem like they might
have existed in the past being repeated (is it inevitable?) & (I realize
suddenly that I am being obtuse, what I mean is I dont wanna be like Anne
& I dont want you to be like my father, blame who you will) us never
speaking about it when it happens. As if there is a part of your secret life
I am (might not be) not a part of. Two writers, what a big situation. Two
lovers, trying to behave. I have so many thoughts I have to "get myself in
line" like you "do penance." Sometimes I feel like I’ve swallowed the top to
my pen. Now we have to go watch "The Legend of Lylah Clare"—I’ll finish
these thoughts some other time.
Certainly the top to my pen
is
missing
Love, Doris Kappelhoff
Monday
Dear Lewis—
Do you feel that you never
know what might happen tomorrow, like the UPS man might come with a package
full of, say, live animals for us, & he would get stuck in the mud &
have to call his grandfather to help him & when his grandfather came it
would turn out to be Harry Gallatin?
Now let’s go & take a nice long hot shower & then
I’ll have some milk & ice cream & finish reading Maigret Mystified.
I’ll bank the fire.
Love, the Bean
I used to be called "impy" by my parents, or "the
imp"
Wednesday, Beano Night
Dear Lewis—
Now spring is
really here. No more freezing. The growing season is 90 days. There are some
mice wreaking havoc in the kitchen. I saw a bird running today. I thought it
was a mouse. It was running & jumping. Or rather, leaping. My nap
disrupted my schedule so badly that I think I went to the town hall to play
beano. It’s strange to think that we’ll probably never spend such an
isolated winter again. I mean unless we really worked at it. This winter
certainly had its points. I don’t like New York in June. Soon we can go for
a walk on a balmy night. When will you finish Beyond the Bedroom Wall?
Bernadette of Lourdes was a big sucker (Sacrilege). I walked coolly (cooly,
cooley) down the gangplank (?) I must say I really enjoyed playing ball with
you today. I think I am a better catcher—can you believe it—than I used to
be. Now we can go play ball in bed. I’m your baby. I hope it doesn’t rain
till late tomorrow. It takes a long time to get laundry together.
Love,
The Bean (Bear?) Who Saw God
Holy Cow
Dear Lewie Wewie,
It’s amazing to wake
up (warm) out of winter & realize we’ve had a baby & spent the
winter & here we are, or, we’re here, or, we’re still here. And not only
that but we have to go on a diet. Anyway we have a very compact household, I
believe. I mean everything’s out in the open. I mean I think my mind is
somewhat spaced out tonight, my brain full of infusion of 90 degree air. I
mean yes the smell of it is very nostalgic. And it’s as if, well we’re back
here again now, just as it should be—so—what’s next? Do you know what I
mean? Adulthood is too much for me. Is that it? What do grownups do?
Calisthenics? Fishing? Waking up in the spring in NYC is nothin like this.
Anyway, I’m leaving Cheyenne. Whatever that means.
I started this letter
to you & I never? Hell, here it is anyway.
Yr lovin Bernadette
Tuesday
Dear dear Lewis,
I’ve still got a baby on
my knee since 6:30 it’s a too long day & I was even coloring for her
& she started crying. I must admit I’m engrossed in B’s life of J. Would
you like me to record your mottoes & hypochondrias? Boswell’s quite
different, I mean Johnson from Danny Dent (Deck?). I’m getting confused
because M’s (Johnny’s) crying makes my tooth ache. Pause. . . So now I’m
alone here thinking how beautiful the evenings are. When I think the baby’s
4 months old I think that’s not much time to not be writing much (eloquent,
eh?) but that’s a lot of time for her. I’m awful tired today but I think my
new schedule has to rule out "working" at night. If I’m gonna work I’ll have
to do it in daylight. But when? That’s why poems are good cause you can dash
em off & then you’ve got this object to return to, even polish it up.
What’s becoming of my experimental writing? And wasn’t Annabel strangely
dutiful? I like the sun.
Your one, Johnny’s Mother
May 17
Dear Lewis—
I havent written you in so
long I dont really know where to begin. I was going to tell you the violets
were out, that’s how long ago my last letter was planned—at least two weeks!
And then we were sick—ugh terrible. I have a feeling I hold the baby too
much & that she is ready for more independence, the playpen set-up
perhaps. Certainly she is very rambunctious to dandle all day. In my dream
this morning she grew up to be a stunning young woman BUT she bleached her
hair—I must admit her hair resembled Dyan Cannon’s though she (Marie) had a
much more beautiful face. Anyway, I am finally writing you today because I
think you should get a very good letter today not that this will make today
a red letter day but a good letter day, healing the rifts caused by a casual
but menacing world
Love, yr Wifey
June 29!
Dear Lewis,
I must’ve started this
letter again & again in my mind to you while we were in NY, while we
were in Vt. & now while we are outside our apartment camped under the
tree. Well you see where marriage & the family lead, what can I say? At
least now (we must think) (in the direction of) we will be able to really
control our own destinies—what can I possibly be talking about?! Yet I am a
true Marxist & of course never say die. You see, Lewis, that is why I am
articulate; it is because I am hopeful & will fight for the people’s
revolution with patience & dignity. Anyway, it’s about time we moved
into this joint I am camped outside of. So far two drunks (!Lenox!) have
stopped by here. Anyway it occurred to me that the difference between
Worthington & Lenox was analogous to the difference between WE PLOW THE
ROADS & WE MOW THE LAWNS. It also occurred to me that (re (as Clark
would say) the books) you are almost always right. But more interestingly,
(everybody smiles at me) I think I love you more than I did when we left
Worthington because, & now I really cant express myself, in all our hard
times—I think this is it: you remain sort of equal. What I mean is you dont
let us fall into just one of us being the lunatic. Is that what I mean? I’d
better not pursue this further, so, looking forward to sleeping with you
tonight in Hancock, I remain, your loving correspondent, B.
Dear Lewis,
This letter to you is the very first thing I
am writing in my new room. I cant tell you how good it feels to really be
down here with you at the east end of our new house, concentrating. Of
course, I could be concentrating more than I am but all that will come in
time. I’m just piling up things to do & as you can see I really need
pens! Now I’ve really gotten to the bottom of all my piles & I’ve found
paper. I really am sorry I havent written you sooner but I just couldnt find
any paper before. I even made a shop. list on a napkin. 759.4 is the number
of the Pontormo book. I’m so proud of my little shelves, mainly because it
took such extreme patience to put them up. I have a good feeling in my room
but it really is so white . . . (pause here, I’ve put up
Hawthorne, he’s very white too). I love you. Marie was very moody tonight.
Do you wanna fuck later? Of course we cant plan on it, that takes the
something away. In the future I will:
(1) Get up early
(2) Drink less
beer
(3) Smoke fewer cigarettes, if any
(4) Never lose my temper or
act ornery
(4 1/2) Reattain my status with nature
and
(5) Put first
things first
Now I’m going to go back to finish my piles & really get
organized but I hope this letter will help to move us both back to the
quieter regions where we used to hang out together. It’s odd having to deal
with people every day, isn’t it? I’m going to crawl over to your door &
leave this there,
With love, Bernadette
P.S. The town makes noises
Dear Lewis,
Please make sure (since you’re the man,
you’ve got to take care of this) that we make love quite often. Thank
you.
Love, Burning Debt
I’ve noticed from reading my part of our book that
love-making has a very good effect on me. I’ve begun to make my corrections,
going thru from page one, my emendations & also additions to say who
everyone is & also changes to get the really unintelligible gibberish
out. So that my version of "re-writing" will probably be finished by the
time yours is & then we can read the whole book thru. Godard is
certainly a petty tyrant. I hope you have a good afternoon though the
weather is lousy. And cold! I remain,
your honey, (don’t need
money)
Berenice a dette
Dear Lewis,
I think about death, about my parents, about
disease, about how if I’m going to live a short life I’d better work harder
& ultimately about how I’d better just get rid of my fears if I’m to do
anything. I read the wrong articles in the newspaper but I cant give up
reading the newspaper just for that. Sometimes I think my mind, on days like
today, works with this kind of logic: "If you die, I’ll kill you." Not the
meaning of that but that’s the kind of thing I’m saying to myself. Like,
almost, sometimes, I cant do this because I might die & that would be
bad for Marie. I don’t know where to go with all this crap, I dont wanna lay
it on you, who needs it. Besides you cant help but feel a little
responsible, because you’re here & you dont see anything bad happening
& nothing is & you are not responsible at all & if you could
only understand that my past really haunts me & it wont let go, it seems
no matter what I do, if you could see it has nothing to do with you, even
though we want everything to have to do only with each other, then I’m sure
you could help me get rid of it finally because it only comes now
infrequently. I have some thoughts: I find now when I have these bouts that
if I decide to settle on not living very long, I experience a moment of
relief. As if if I had a fatal disease I would have nothing to worry about
anymore. Strangely, all this has more to do with you & Marie than me, I
mean, I never worried about death like this before when I thought no one
& nothing but my work would really be affected by it. I’m sorry, when I
get this way, (I phrase it) that you are stuck with a person who would be an
invalid for fear of losing you. Now there’s that logic again, do you see
what I mean? It’s a question where people get their energy, for sure; people
like me, I’d like to meet some & take a good look, get a certain amount
from fear & anger in order to defend against a repeat of the
vulnerability that existed, willy-nilly (?) in the past. The only unique
thing about me is that it happened to me too many times & for a long
time in the wrong time (forgive me) of my life, adolescence, I lost
everybody I loved so that loving anybody made me feel tense & guilty.
Now that we’ve created one & we are all so much more interdependent, I
have all the more fear of repeating. And that’s what these bouts are about.
In the past I would work them out by being promiscuous or driven in other
ways, now they just build up to having to deal with what feels like a big
tree fallen on my soul. And then I feel helpless but truly only for a
moment. I almost had it conquered without even showing it today. I am too
proud, I know that, so I dont immediately come to you because I know our
life can be happy & not full of this shit & I hope I’ve succeeded in
telling you some things I couldnt have said out loud. It’s like an
occasional cure or catharsis that happens, dont worry about it, dont be
alarmed, that only gives me something real to feel guilty about, I can
sometimes write these things out, just say "dont worry so much" or pat me,
or anything ordinary like that, I just need to feel I have a right to love
you, that I havent sentenced you, & to have made Marie, whose name I
often think we should change.
Please give me your day to read. I will
take that as knowledge that these demons have gone away.
Love, bent da
tree
October 13
Dear Lewie,
Ultimately I have nothing
to say tonight. What should we do for our anniversary? I must admit all
night I’ve been thinking about sex, and, sex as a married person, or at
least, persons with a baby, colored (?) with thoughts of the queer guys
downstairs. Now that is only speculation, though I did smell perfume, but
what three heterosexual men would rent an apartment with rugs like that.
Though I dont know the customs of Lenox. Perhaps these men are on loan from
the men’s home—out-patients. If they smoke, I’ll be sure of it. Also I think
about Mr. Hatch relentlessly making money as a true capitalist entrepreneur.
I aways think people are going to be interesting & different individuals
until I see that they have made themselves the same. To put it another way:
I’m always ready for surprises to fill out my fantasies but . . . like these
people who drive up & down Main St. all night—where could they be going?
Are they inspired, do they even know their thoughts? Of course I dont really
mean that. How about my fever last night—odd, eh? Sometimes the burden of
proof is on me. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Marie was so nice
today. Nice night, isn’t it? All the while I was painting I was singing
"stormy weather." Last night I read that French grammar is so complex for
the literary that you can only seem educated if you’ve studied it all your
life, beginning as a child, whereas the analogous thing in English is just a
show of vocabulary. I guess we’ll never know. So,
See you in bed
soon,
Love,
teatre bend
or
red tent ban
or
bent da
tree
or
dr. neat beet
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