I Remember (selections) By: Joe Brainard
I remember summer naps
of no sleeping. And Kool-aid.
I remember daydreams of
being a dancer and being able to leap higher than anyone else.
I remember daydreams of
being a singer alone on a big stage with no scenery, just on spotlight on me,
signing my heart out, and moving my audience to total tears of love and
affection.
I remember the tiger
lilies alongside the house. I
found a dime among them once.
I remember a very little
doll I lost under the front porch and never found.
I remember the sound of
the ice cream man coming.
I remember once losing
my nickel in the grass before he made it to my house.
I remember a big black
rubber thing going over my mouth and nose just before I had my tonsils taken
out. After my tonsils were taken
out I remember how my throat felt eating vanilla ice cream.
I
remember a photograph in Life magazine of a woman jumping off a
building.
I
remember not understanding how the photographer could have just stood there and
taken that picture.
I
remember when one year in Tulsa by some freak of nature we were invaded by millions
of grasshoppers for about three or four days. I remember, downtown, whole sidewalk areas of solid
grasshoppers.
I
remember, out walking in the rain, people scurrying by with their faces all
crunched up.
I remember that a good way to catch a cold
is to walk around barefooted. To
not get enough sleep. And to go
outside with wet hair.
I remember the first time I heard water
swishing around in my stomach (while running) and thinking that maybe I had a
tumor.
I remember walking down the street, trying
not to step on cracks.
I remember “If you step on a crack, you
break your mother’s back.”
I remember a brief period of “bad breath”
concern: the product of a health class at school. I remember that “most bad
breath is caused by germs.”
I remember that germs are everywhere!
I remember trying to visualize germs
(physically) as they crawl around all over everything.
I remember that my vision of germs pretty
much resembled normal insects, only much smaller, of course.
I remember sneezing into my hand, out in
public, and then the problem of what to “do” with it.
I remember in very scary movies, and in
very sad movies, having to keep reminding myself that “it’s only a movie.
I
remember the shadows of feet under the cracks of doors. And close-ups of doorknobs turning.
I
remember one day in gym class when my name was called out I just couldn’t say
“here.” I stuttered so badly that
sometimes words just wouldn’t come out of my mouth at all. I had to run around the field many
times.
I
remember what a hard time I had memorizing Shakespeare and how nervous I got
when it was my turn to recite.
I remember trying to memorize Shakespeare
so that words that began with sounds I stuttered on (s, b, etc.)
would not begin with a new breath.
(Do you know what I mean?)
