Richard
Brautigan (1935-1984) in conversation with Stan Rogal
The
time is right to mix sentences
sentences
with dirt and the sun
with
punctuation and the rain with
verbs,
and for worms to pass
through
question marks, and the
stars
to shine down on budding
nouns,
and the dew to form on
paragraphs.
— from:
Please Plant This Book, Squash
Unusual to
receive an actual email, even more unusual to receive a request from an actual
magazine, The Urban Digger, to
interview a poet. Well, I’ve rarely been fussy as to who requires my literary efforts
— in fact, I’m generally damned grateful — and I can always use the cash. As
the message conveyed, their normal staff writer felt a tad out of their comfort
zone, that is, the writer normally produces articles focussed directly on the
subject of gardens and gardening within the greater Toronto area, full stop.
This latest assignment seemed an odd and excessive stretch. After some
not-lengthy discussion my name was suggested as someone more apropos, given
that an unknown-to-them poet was involved and what might be the connection
between the flights-of-angels world of said poet and the earthy-earth world of
agriculture? Hm. As if a poet never slipped into a pair of heavy-duty cotton gloves
and rubber work boots in order to dig a vegetable garden or plant a stand of
rose bushes. Whatever. Not being one to argue such limited perceptions or look
a gift horse in the mouth, I replied in the affirmative: when and where? The
response was immediate: Album Studio Rentals, 92 Geary street, today, three in
the afternoon, I’ll be expected.
Cool, I thought. It was just past lunch, a lovely April spring day, and
the address was within easy walking distance of where I lived.
Oh, and the name of the unknown-to-them poet? Richard Brautigan. Yes,
the seriously dead Richard Brautigan who ended his stay on Earth with a
self-inflicted .44 Magnum gunshot wound to the head Sunday September 16, 1984,
age 49. He lived alone in Bolinas, California and his badly decomposed body was
only discovered by a friend a month later. Nasty. Neighbours thought they heard
the crack of gunfire on the fatal day but were caught up watching the NFL on
the tube and let the incident pass.
Et ita abscedit: and so it goes.
I recalled toodling down the west coast when I lived in Vancouver with
my first wife. She picked up a copy of Brautigan’s The Pill Versus the
Springfield Mine Disaster in City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco. She was
never a poetry fan but found these pieces drolly amusing. She read them out
loud to me in the car as we cruised toward San Diego. One of her favourites
went: “I feel horrible. She doesn’t / love me and I wander around / the house
like a sewing machine / that’s just finished sewing / a turd to a garbage can
lid.” It tickled her. That was her sense of humour. After we split company and
possessions, she kept the book.
When I went to Simon Fraser University to obtain a BA English, a creative
writing prof of mine was a huge fan of Brautigan and taught his poetry in
class. I was more into writing fiction than poetry. The prof informed me that
Brautigan had been the same, claiming that his prime reason for experimenting
with metre and image was because he wanted to perfect writing sharp, concise sentences
so he could write novels. The prof suggested that this practice might be
beneficial to me as well. As it stands, I’m still practicing.
All this to say
I was familiar with the man and his work. I knew that he was born in Tacoma,
Washington; that his early life was marked by hardship and poverty; that he was
raised in a broken family where there was considerable abuse, both from his
stepfathers and his alcoholic mother; that he spent much of his youth in foster
homes; that his personal experiences were filled with isolation and emotional
complexity; that he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and depression
and went to a mental institute for a time where he underwent electroconvulsive
therapy; that he himself was (became) an alcoholic. Despite these hardships, he
somehow managed to graduate with honours from Eugene High School in Oregon.
Wrap your head around that all you budding sociologists out there. Anyway, these
“formative” years (as some folks like to describe them), would later influence
the themes of his poetry, which often explore feelings of alienation, loss, and
the search for meaning in a seemingly indifferent and/or harsh world, most
often in a whimsical or absurdly comical manner.
Speaking of the search for meaning, something suddenly struck me as
curious. That being the magazine title: The
Urban Digger. Brautigan had been a member or a participant of a group known
as the Diggers (later known as the Free City Collective), a radical
community-action group of activists, poets, musicians and street theatre actors
operating from 1966-68 based in the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood of San
Francisco. Summer of love, baby! The group held happenings, poetry readings,
and free parties with music provided by the Grateful Dead, Janis Joplin,
Jefferson Airplane and others. They set up free food services for the hungry
and a free medical clinic for the poor and destitute, serviced by volunteers
from the surrounding community as well as the University of California medical
school. Not bad for a bunch of left-wing, drug-addled, sex-crazed twenty- and
thirty-somethings.
Further to this perhaps
marginal connection of Brautigan to the magazine name, the address of Album Studio
Rentals was 92 Geary street. Brautigan had an apartment for several years on
Geary street in San Francisco. No shit.
The kicker? Well, the fact I’d been commissioned (once again) to
interview a dead poet, of course.
Coincidence? I think not. As Carl Jung famously stated, “There’s no such
thing as coincidence.” Instead, he postulated synchronicity, that is,
meaningful chance or meaningful connections between seemingly unrelated events.
Meaning that my being summoned for
this particular event was more than mere chance or coincidence, and that other
forces (other powers?) were definitely in play.
“God does not play dice with the universe,” to quote Albert Einstein.
And so, I looked forward to meeting the man up close and personal, warts
and all.
I arrived at
the appointed hour and entered Album, a photography studio and multi-use rental
space, often used for food production shoots or as a catering space for events,
according to the sign on the door. The large rear room had been set up with
tables and chairs and checkered tablecloths to resemble a bar restaurant. The
place was busy with mostly young people eating, drinking, talking or hunched
over lap tops scrolling whatever. Richard sat alone at a middle table, a half-glass
of red wine in front of him, easily recognizable: blue jeans, hobnail boots,
vest, beaded necklace, thick moustache, wire-rim granny glasses, long unkempt Buffalo
Bill hair under a broad-brimmed hat.
I walked over, introduced myself, sat down and placed my recorder
between us. I noticed he held a pen and was stabbing at a paper napkin that
contained a smudged blue mess of printed words and scratch marks.
Stan Rogal: I hope I’m not interrupting.
Richard Brautigan: No, no problem. I was given the heads up. (He pocketed the pen in his vest and turned
the napkin over. He knocked back his wine just as a youthful female server
arrived and dropped two full glasses in front of us, as if on schedule. Richard
placed his palms flat on the table, straightened his back, and gazed absently
around the room).
SR: Is everything okay? (I wondered
if he was suffering jet lag or shell shock after his abrupt transition from one
plane of existence to another).
RB: What do you mean?
SR: (He didn’t make eye contact with
me). You seem preoccupied. Is something on your mind; bothering you, or…
RB: It’s this place; the set up. It reminds me of the Minimal Daily
Requirement, a restaurant where I sometimes used to go for my morning coffee. (Richard spoke softly, precisely, with a
hint of a speech impediment resembling a lisp).
SR: It brings back memories?
RB: Yes. One in particular. The owner, Rand Kendrick, told me that Leonard
Cohen had been asking for me the past several days; had read some of my work,
enjoyed it — don’t ask me how or where he stumbled upon it — was anxious to
meet me; was, in fact, practically stalking me. He went so far as to volunteer
to serve tables while he waited for me to turn up. Who does that? It was the
last thing I needed or wanted. (He took a
hit of wine; I did likewise).
SR: Why was that?
RB: Kendrick described him as handsome and personable. It was 1966. He was
a well-published and respected poet. He’d just released the songs Suzanne and Bird on a Wire to great acclaim. His novel, Beautiful Losers, was
published that same year along with another book of poems, Parasites of Heaven.
You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting something that had the name Leonard
Cohen on it. He was a major star and personality.
SR: You were jealous?
RB: Damn straight I was jealous. I mean, what was I? An unattractive nobody
still handing out Gestetnered copies of my poems free in the street. My one
novel, A Confederate General in Big Sur, had been universally panned by critics
and ignored by the public at large. Why would he have any interest in me or my
work? How could we even compare? We couldn’t. I sit here now in what appears to
be familiar surroundings and I feel his presence, like a goddamed ghost, still
haunting me.
SR: In your poem, Hey! This is What
it’s All About, you wrote: No publication / No money / No star / No fuck.”
RB: Yeah, that sentiment pretty much summed up where I was at, at the time.
SR: So, what’d you do?
RB: Made myself scarce. (He shook his
head). Took the determined bastard two weeks serving tables gratis before he finally got the hint
and vacated the premises. (Richard smiled,
walked his fingers through the air, obviously pleased with himself. He sipped
his wine).
SR: Things changed for you the following year with the publication of Trout
Fishing in America, yes? It became an underground classic and was often
described as a very poetic novel with its minimalist style and frequent use of
imagery and metaphor. Also became a best seller, especially over time. Then, in
1968, you had your first “real” book of poems published, The Pill Versus the
Springhill Mine Disaster. One of my favourite poems in the book is titled Man: “With his hat on / he’s about five
inches taller / than a taxicab.” That’s it. That’s all there is to it. And I
know that your poetry has often been criticized, even attacked, as being naïve
and simplistic, but I find this poem to be the exact opposite, sophisticated
and complex. In a few lines you manage to reduce the status of “man” by showing
how he’s dependent upon an inanimate object in order simply to be — not more
intelligent or more powerful or morally superior — but “taller” than a
mechanical object. Very funny. It’s also been said by some that your best poems
resemble haiku, and many have a Zen Buddhist quality to them. The Zen Buddhist
quality I think I’ve just mentioned. Formally — and I know that you’re very
familiar with haiku so I’m sure you were fully aware and this was done on
purpose — you subvert the traditional three-line, 5-7-5 syllable form by
dropping the word “he’s” from the first to the second line, causing a small,
but effective, disruption. I mean, you could just as easily have placed the
word “he’s” on the first line and completed the expected 5-7-5 form.
RB: Well, thank you. And thank you for noticing. I wondered if anyone would
notice, or care, for that matter. When I was writing that poem I had to ask
myself if I wasn’t trying to be too clever or cute by half.
SR: No, I think it works. In fact, Leonard Cohen did a similar small tweak
with Suzanne. For the song, he ends
with “she’s touched your perfect body
with her mind” closing the perfect romantic circle, while in the poem he says
“she’s touched her perfect body with
her mind,” which presents a very different type of relationship and meaning
altogether. This, for him, was one of the differences between writing a popular
love song and a poem.
RB: I suppose that could be considered an interesting coincidence. I wasn’t
aware he did that. As I said, we were never close.
SR: Uh-huh. Though you did dedicate your book to a certain Marcia Pacaud of
Montreal, Canada.
RB: Yes, so?
SR: Well… (I shrug my shoulders and
waggle my fingers in the air).
RB: Are we really going there?
SR: I’m just curious.
RB: I met Marcia while she worked at a bookstore in San Francisco. She dug
poets. We hit it off and started seeing each other. It was only later I
discovered that she was friends with Leonard Cohen. “Friends,” (he performed the air quotes gesture with
his fingers) meaning they likely fucked. If that’s what you mean by
coincidence and being close. Anyway, it didn’t last between me and Marcia. My
fault entirely. I fully admit, I was often a mean and jealous drunk, and an
asshole of the first degree. Finally, Marcia had enough. I was devastated, but
it served me right, I know. I drove her away. She left me and returned to
Montreal. Maybe she went back to fucking Leonard Cohen, I don’t know. (He guzzled the remainder of his wine).
SR: That side of you, the dark side, your broken relationships, your
troubled family history, the associated grief, doesn’t come out in your poetry.
RB: There’s enough misery in the world already, don’t you think, without
adding to it? Besides, it’s too easy to write about your own suffering. Beating
of chest, gnashing of teeth, crying ‘woe is me’ and so on and so forth. It’s pathetic.
Moreover, it’s boring.
SR: I agree, though there are many writers these days who are cashing in big
time on the public’s interest in all things personal and pitiable, especially
grief. Worse, these people, as a rule, have no sense of humour whatsoever.
RB: My usual response to that kind of writing is: you want to cry in your
beer, fine, just don’t cry in mine. (He
stretched his lips and squinted his eyes). So. Satisfied? And about Leonard
Cohen, can we please change the subject? (The
server arrived with a bottle of red and topped up our glasses. Maybe she
figured it’d be easier, more efficient and less work for the dishwasher in the
long run).
SR: (I didn’t say to Richard that it
was him that brought the subject of Leonard Cohen up in the first place and I had
merely followed the cues, though obviously I’d hit a nerve). Sure. Sorry. I
didn’t mean to upset you. And look, I wasn’t recording. Let’s start again. (I hit record). Okay. I’ve been asked to
write an article for a gardening magazine and I suppose the big question is,
why have you, a poet, been called upon to appear at this particular time and
place and how might your involvement relate to such commonplace items as fruits,
vegetables and flowers?
RB: (He took another look around the
room, perhaps still unsure or uneasy as to the reality of his present
situation, or (perhaps) still wary of seeing the ghost of Leonard Cohen. He
smoothed the tablecloth with his hands). Yes, it might seem odd. As it was
explained to me, various local groups of business people, shop keepers,
musicians, actors and such, have planned a celebration of spring, to be held in
the area, including the new park being completed across the street from this
building. Someone in the organizing group somehow knew that I had put together
a book of poems called Please Plant This Book back in 1968. The more my earlier
project was discussed, the more my name was mentioned, the more everyone wished
I could be here in person to take part. Next thing you knew, voila, I appeared.
SR: Uh-huh. As I recall, for the book, you wrote a different short poem on
the fronts of eight different seed packets, then had volunteers package the
packets into glued folders. The opening poem said something like, “…it is time
to plant books, to pass them into the ground, so that flowers and vegetables
may grow from these pages.”
RB: That’s right. The book was printed by ComCo, the outlaw publishing side
of the Diggers. We assembled 6,000 copies and distributed them free of charge
to anyone who wanted one. A teacher gathered 200 primary school kids to take
part, creating a garden, planting the seeds, then writing their own poem about
the experience. Apparently, the same process has been planned for this event.
Local schools have already been chosen to participate. Also — as with the
original — the books will include a statement that reads: THIS BOOK IS FREE!
Permission is granted to reprint this book by anyone as long as it is not sold.
I was adamant, and the organizers agreed.
SR: (I thought to myself that this
was a nice left-wing socialist effort on Richard’s part, even though I was
aware that unused original 1968 copies were currently being sold on the
free-market over the internet for thousands of dollars each. Just goes to show,
Capitalism has a way of making its presence felt, no matter one’s best
intentions to avoid it). Well,
sounds like an exciting and worthwhile venture. (I raised my glass to Richard and he pulled a face). You don’t look
so sure.
RB: They told me they hoped to replicate the feeling of those fun,
carefree, party times of my hippie days. (He
picked up his glass and wobbled it in the air. We both drank). They seemed
so pleased with themselves. I didn’t know if I should tell them that I never
considered myself a hippie and that the scene was hardly idyllic. Everyone
preached Flower Power and Free Love. No one — except maybe Joan Didion, who was
dead-on in her fine article “Slouching Toward Bethlehem” — talked about the
abject poverty of these young people, the alienation, the violence, the hunger,
the unwanted pregnancies, the rampant VD, the deaths by drug overdose. In fact,
the Diggers held a celebration at the end of the so-called Summer of Love to
commemorate the death of the hippie movement, where masked participants carried
a coffin around the Haight-Ashbury neighbourhood with the words “Hippie — Son
of Media” on the side. Our message was that the typical young, hip, spiritual
and beautiful Hippie image was mainly a media invention that was very far from
the truth.
SR: Did you set the organizers here straight?
RB: I bit my tongue and nodded, terrific! People need their illusions, yes?
And who am I to burst their bubble. Besides, in this case, it’s all theatre,
right? Painted faces, puppets, food and music. Done for a good cause and no one
gets hurt.
SR: Sounds fair. What do they need from you?
RB: Eight new poems to coincide with seeds native to the area.
SR: Do you have a deadline?
RB: Midnight tonight.
SR: Ouch! What do you think? Is that doable? Or even reasonable. I mean,
have they chained your ankle to the table? (I
gave a mock glance to the floor). Is there some muscle-bound ape somewhere
in the shadows holding a baseball bat?
RB: Nothing so dramatic. About the only pressure are three members of the
planning committee keeping an eye on me from a corner table. (He gave a chin motion). I have noticed
that whenever I put my pen down they tend to clench their fists and appear
rather anxious. They relax, smile and nod to me when I return to writing.
SR: Reminds me of one of your poems: “Loading mercury with a pitchfork /
your truck is almost full. The neighbours / take a certain pride in you. They /
stand around watching.”
RB: Not so much pride, in this case, I think, as concern, even terror, that
I won’t come through for them in the clutch. (He grinned and drank. Our server glided over and replenished our
glasses. We both smiled and thanked her). Anyway, so long as the wine keeps
flowing there shouldn’t be a problem.
SR: (I had read somewhere that
Richard always wrote his poems on scraps of paper and paper napkins and cardboard
bar coasters while under the influence of alcohol whereas he wrote his prose at
the typewriter while sober. I’m not sure what that says about the man or his
writing, but at least in this case, he was in his comfort zone). You’re not
worried that you might be out of practice? Or that the muse might not show?
RB: Huh! If I ever sat back and waited for the muse to arrive and kick my
ass in gear, I’d never have written anything. Besides, it’s a few poems, not
rocket science or a cure for cancer.
SR: Point taken. I guess, as you’re on a tight deadline, I should let you
get back to work while I go and gather more information and details from your
friends in the corner about the upcoming festival. The magazine expects a full
article with a main focus on the garden aspect — trees and flowers, naturally —
complete with hi-res colour photographs. You understand. It was lovely meeting
and talking with you. Thanks for your time. Do you mind if I take this with me?
(I wrapped my fingers around my glass,
Richard shrugged and took a breath).
RB: You know, I tried my hand at writing songs one time. Janis Joplin
knocked about with the Diggers, we partied together, and she said she might be
interested in looking at any of my poems I thought might be suitable for her to
sing. I came up with two, “She Sleeps This Very Evening in Greenbrook Castle”
and “The Horse That Had a Flat Tire.” I told her they were surrealist fairy
tales. She took them, but never got back to me. Then, of course, sadly,
tragically, she died. So much for my ambitions as a song writer. (He tilted his glass toward me and drank.
There was a pained look on his face).
SR: Yeah, it was a shame all right. (I
got to my feet and tucked the recorder in my bag). Best of luck with the
poems and the project.
RB: Right. Oh, one quick question for you. (He leaned toward me and spoke in a hushed tone). Our waitress is
very attractive, yes? I’m wondering, do you think she’d have any interest in me
whatsoever? Physically, I mean; romantically.
SR: Um… I can’t answer that. I think you’d have to ask her yourself.
RB: That would leave me wide open to all manner of embarrassment, ridicule,
and rejection, wouldn’t it?
SR: I suppose, yeah. It’s a tough call.
RB: Yeah, it is. Maybe I’m better off sticking with the poems. Where I feel
I have more control of the situation. Let whatever else happens just happen.
SR: That’s probably the best plan. Take care.
Richard gave
the area another slow, deliberate scan. I wasn’t sure if he was searching for
the attractive server or the ghost of Leonard Cohen. Done, he retrieved his pen
and tapped the nib on his napkin. I eased my way through the tables, across the
floor. I didn’t tell him that the two song titles he mentioned didn’t exactly
jump out at me as Janis Joplin material. Of course, the thought did flash
through my mind (how could it not?) that Janis Joplin had at least one sexual
encounter with Leonard Cohen which he wrote about in his song “Chelsea Hotel No.
2” that came out in 1974. He never identified the woman in the song until many
years later so I don’t know if Richard was aware or not. I thought it best not
to broach the subject with him, nor did I mention the fact I had the
opportunity (privilege?) to interview Leonard Cohen at the Chelsea Hotel,
Toronto, and the name Richard Brautigan never surfaced. No. Best to let
sleeping dogs lie. Especially as he seemed content at the moment to bury
himself in more pleasant mental surroundings: a poetry project wherein the
individual poems are meant to decompose and transform to create a garden of
fabulous flora.
What could be more suitable to his disposition?
As some scholars and critics have noted (I’m paraphrasing here), Brautigan’s
poetry tended to avoid direct political engagement. Instead, he blended
surrealism, magic realism, fabulation, horror and humour to focus on the
absurdities of modern life, the quirks of human nature, and the often comical
and tragic contradictions inherent in the world.
As he himself once put it: “All of us have a place in history. Mine is
clouds.”
Et ita abscedit: and so it goes.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist
partner Jacquie Jacobs. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous
magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of
chapbooks, a 13th poetry collection was published in March 2025 with ecw press.
Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub
Reading Series.
