Studying Hunger Journals

  STUDYING HUNGER

  JOURNALS

  Bernadette Mayer

  Copyright © 2011 Bernadette Mayer.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the publisher’s written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews.

  Published by Station Hill Press, Inc., 124 Station Hill Road, Barrytown, NY 12507 www.stationhill.org

  Station Hill of Barrytown literary publication is a project of The Institute for Publishing Arts, Inc., a not-for-profit, Federally tax-exempt organization (501(c)(3)) in Barrytown, New York.

  Cover design by Sherry Williams, Oxygen Design Group. Interior design by Kathryn Weinstein and Sherry Williams.

  Interior photograph of Bernadette Mayer (circa 1975) by Ed Bowes.

  Cover and interior artworks by Bernadette Mayer, copied from original manuscripts of Studying Hunger Journals at the University of California, San Diego. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.

  The author and publisher wish to thank the following whose generous efforts have made this book possible. Michael Ruby originated the idea of the project, worked with the author on the introduction, proofread and served as adviser on the book. David Brinks chose and scanned the images from the original journals. Miles Champion retyped the original typescript into digital form.

  The author wishes to thank Bill Berkson, the first publisher of the journals in the abridged version Studying Hunger (Adventures in Poetry/Big Sky: New York, New York and Bolinas, California: 1975).

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mayer, Bernadette.

  Studying hunger journals / Bernadette Mayer.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-58177-120-6

  I. Title.

  PS3563.A952S74 2011

  811’.54—dc22

  2010045286

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Book I

  Book II

  Book III

  Book IV

  Book V

  Book VI

  INTRODUCTION TO STUDYING HUNGER JOURNALS

  I kept these journals while seeing a psychiatrist. I’d gone to see him because I thought I might be crazy, after my work on memory, shooting 36 pictures a day & keeping a detailed journal having driven me to the brink. But I thought why not go over that brink & see what’s there. On the other hand I didn’t want to wind up in a mental hospital, tied to some bed or chair.

  In my experience people didn’t expect a woman to be intelligent so they thought I was weird and/or crazy. There were no female nerds then. One mistake I made was thinking linearly, that knowledge led somewhere from which you can go somewhere else, but you’ll have to forgive me, I grew up & lived in western society.

  David, the psychiatrist, gave me two journals to write in, so that he could always keep one to read, though he had said at the beginning of our work that he didn’t want to be inundated with written material. I wrote in the books with colored pens because I hoped I would hit upon a way to color-code emotions, which I never did, & in imitation of Hannah Weiner, a close friend. It was also a reflection of my own synaesthesia—I saw letters as colors; I was hoping the colors of the pens would help me see emotions.

  I was asked to do two readings during that time, at the Paula Cooper Gallery & at RISD. Wanting to read what I was currently working on, I made two works, which I considered to be lectures for the readings. These were published by Adventures In Poetry/Big Sky as STUDYING HUNGER. I loved gerunds because they signify the present. Bill Berkson, the editor, told me later that if he had known there was more he would have published all of it. But I wasn’t finished yet.

  Both MEMORY & STUDYING HUNGER were published in the same year, 1975. The latter began with this explanation:

  Listen

  I began all this in April, 1972. I wanted to try to record, like a diary, in writing, states of consciousness, my states of consciousness, as fully as I could, every day, for one month. A month always seems like a likely time-span, if there is one, for an experiment. A month gives you enough time to feel free to skip a day, but not so much time that you wind up fucking off completely.

  I had an idea before this that if a human, a writer, could come up with a workable code, or shorthand, for the transcription of every event, every motion, every transition of his or her own mind, & could perform this process of translation on himself, using the code, for a 24-hour period, he or we or someone could come up with a great piece of language/information.

  Anyway

  When I began to attempt the month-long experiment with states of consciousness, I wrote down a list of intentions. It went like this: First, to record special states of consciousness. Special: change, sudden change, high, low, food, levels of attention

  And, how intentions change

  And, to do this as an emotional science, as though: I have taken a month-drug, I work as observer of self in process

  And, to do the opposite of “accumulate data,” oppose MEMORIES, DIARIES, find structures

  And, a language should be used that stays on the observation/notes/leaps side of language border which seems to separate, just barely, observation & analysis. But if the language must resort to analysis to “keep going,” then let it be closer to that than to “accumulate data.” Keep going is a pose; accumulate data is a pose.

  Also, to use this to find a structure for MEMORY & you, you will find out what memory is, you already know what moving is

  And, to do this without remembering

  The “hunger” in the title comes from regular hunger which I felt in the extreme because my parents had died young (there was nobody to feed me) & from a concept delineated in a line from a poem I wrote then: eating the colors of a lineup of words. You know how people say they “devoured” a book? The synaesthesia I experienced made the letters & words seem as edible as paintings.

  One of the symptoms I experienced was that I couldn’t swallow, perhaps as in “I couldn’t swallow it.” For more about this phenomenon, read Freud’s case of Anna O. David & I did traditional analysis but he was not a traditional analyst. We went out together in his Mercedes-Benz, kissed & once we came close to making love. He had married one of his patients who was Elaine May. He had had a lot of ’famous’ patients including Alger Hiss whom I’d see in the waiting room where we’d discuss the way we read the New York Times. I didn’t pay David; in fact he would give me money because I traveled with so little. A friend of mine recently sued her psychiatrist & was able to buy a summer retreat.

  The journals include some drawings, some of which are used here. When I made the journals into a text, I changed all the names, so eventually David becomes Belial, one of the biblical devils. Unfortunately I threw the list of name changes away.

  It may seem odd that both books, MEMORY & STUDYING HUNGER, were published in the same year or that I embarked on STUDYING HUNGER right after doing MEMORY but I was in a great hurry. I figured I’d die like my father did, at age 49. I did have a cerebral hemorrhage at that age just like him but I didn’t die, I had brain surgery & lived to eat more oysters.

  February 2009

  Dear David,

  I’m having dinner in a restaurant, alone, before the poetry reading. It’s a restaurant where they know me, you know, in case anything happens. I’ve decided to keep this journal at least for tonight, maybe for our information, maybe as a companion. It’s not a letter though of course I was tempted to make it a love letter. In a way I’ll write as little as possible. I thought this afternoon at least I’m not an infant but it didn’t last. Tired, hungry and scared: it’s hard to chew leaves. I’ve taken a quarter of a valium and had a beer, the power of the imagination. What’s the
difference between a grownup and a child? First day of summer. I don’t have to eat this dinner. The salad appeals to me more, the real food seems forbidding. I ate an olive, that’s hopeful. Never eaten one before. I guess I’m refusing to eat. All of this seems very clear, I’m not at all confused about it, but I’m wondering what’s going to happen.

  I can see the helpless infant and all its fits, what I can’t see is this: how does this happen, this pattern or transference or whatever it is. I want to know how, neurologically and every other way. It seems a lot different from anything I know. I’m chewing just like a baby as though solid food’s too much for me. Something interesting happened before, I felt businesslike. I haven’t eaten much but I got some energy. She turned down the baby food and ate the salad without teeth. It’s interesting to know no matter how little you eat, the food serves you. Spend the night alone, o.k. I’ll try. And did I start writing as a companion to myself? Who cares? Well, right at this moment, everything’s urgent, everything’s new. I wanted to eat for energy, I knew I didn’t have to eat but I wanted to be able to drink without getting drunk so I eat. The secret is to eat in front of friends.

  How strange, from a baby’s point of view, my relationship with you is. Water, wine, tea and strength. And salad. I’m getting an enormous sense of humor like a hard-on. Tea weak tea Tetley tea my favorite kind of commercial tea. The work I did today, mimeographing posters, I did a terrific job and they’re being really terrific in my restaurant but will I have the energy, the walking legs, to go out to a bar later, say, at two or three a.m. Only in defense of a kernel of corn, I wish I were that. A soul can’t be hurt by tea. Today I saw the man I was supposed to marry when I was seventeen. I acted like a mother, I can guess, ought to act. Like a blotter, I didn’t get involved. I feel like the wife of the owner. No I don’t but she is getting spooked by my behavior, sitting before my expensive dinner and only writing in my book. Is behavior a puzzle with a solution or not?

  So I keep wanting to say I love you, please accept this as only an element in the pattern is complex. I don’t mean to give you a hard time. Laughter cures what I might say next, I’m so sorry. I’ll get a Guinness Stout for the reading, more support for a mother, sure not as brave, brave as Jack Kerouac, what do we do to ourselves? Do our best? I feel freer in this area of feeding than in the dreaded empty home. I love Max, I know you don’t believe me, I spent a lot of money today, I’m being very careful. I feel my way around like a baby, fear of adults. For David the myth of poetry exists like a canal.

  And now I’m exhausted, why don’t they feed me when I’m hungry, and the ink’s too black. I keep trying to feel the way I would feel if Max or who were here. The reading’s gone on too long, I panic but and I seem to be totally what. What I mean is these people don’t make me nervous they make me bored. I’m exhausted and it’s a struggle to concentrate. I’m home. Max called right away and I didn’t want to talk but I did and so I did and then I realized that I must assure you again that I do love him. I’ve laid out all the pills next to the bed and the t.v.’s on, now that sounds like it, but it’s valium and antibiotics. The window’s open but I haven’t crept out onto the fire escape yet. The walk out here, it is a long loft, wasn’t as bad as it sometimes is. I leave all my clothes on as it’s safer. I switch to a brown pen as black was too oppressive and thick-pointed. I’m alone here yes. I can only eat little bits again. This is very interesting, I mean that. Distance and the phone call are terrifying, ending, this is an ordeal, no reason for it either, my memory of the past, mother, father, what difference does it make, here I am in the act of my own conception, like a drug without the pre-selling acid of something you get, fear, I walked outside, there’s a certain point at which you get dizzy if you want to, I do and don’t. I’m too tired to weed out all these thoughts for you. I won’t be dramatic but this is traumatic, now if I say that I distance myself, I’ll have to pay or suffer. Max is so interesting I’m speeding. Proud of myself and afraid of dying. I’d call you on the phone but what I’d say wouldn’t be to the point, a big quiet laugh will do. I went outside to see if the door was locked. So I’ve drunk a small glass of Amontillado behind the bricks and I won’t take the antibiotic because I haven’t eaten. I still say to myself when I see I can be alone for a while, humans can adapt to anything. A moment of hopefulness. I feel like I’m risking my life. These notes are censored now. Once I wanted to do something whereby a person, by means of a complicated code, would record his every thought and mind movement for a short while. I wanted to set it up. I feel that these are all clues and you must solve the puzzle. Not abstractly but hesitatingly, I also feel ashamed. I have thought, the thought popped up, so many times of you being “inundated” with written material and of course I want to please you.

  And my next thought always is: Do I know you? Goddammit, it drives me crazy. I know I’m not crazy. Can I give this to you? And then I feel desire and then I feel cold. I’m leaving everything open.

  Thursday 5 p.m.

  I bought a lot of nuts, I can eat them without thinking. Teresa’s coming by, I tried to convince her not to, I dread talking about the past. I made the bed so things wouldn’t seem too grim to me. When I’m alone here the loft, which is actually very beautiful in the light, looks dark and grim and bare-bulbish. Since I first came to see you I’ve continued to be nervous in this house alone even for the shortest times, with only one exception, the times when the guys are outside playing ball. Billie Holiday and all black music. I’m working, I’m working well with, as usual, all the black music. Eating leaves cheese and nuts continuously. Max’s mother on the phone: “Are you eating?” And another call from Max, I was afraid then for fear if I felt optimistic, he’d die. If I’m suffering I’m sure he’ll survive (till he gets back). I’m alone here yes. An almond. Maybe I’m too good (to survive). A bottle, switch to coke. This rubber cement is making me high, have I eaten anything today? The noises seem barren here and I’m planning another excursion into the world tomorrow, all day and night. Packed a bag, it’s only 12:20. Called Andy, he’s not home. Now I’m continuously eating and drinking. Now I’ve typed the piece of writing addressed to my mother that begins, “You sleep…” I’ll try to concentrate on more work. My chest is tight and my nose is tense as if I’m pushing it down.

  2:40 a.m.

  I made a tape for Bartholomew, partly to explain all this. I owe him a letter and now I think I may have gone too far. Feel awful.

  4 a.m.

  I just got up and devoured a pretty old piece of cake and milk. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’d forgotten again. Another quarter valium makes you hungry. She saw she had been secretly hungry. The t.v. set just scared me out of my wits, it isn’t even on.

  Friday

  Woke up speeding, I’m in a cab to the church where I have work to do. Stayed in bed till the last minute so I’d have to rush out of the house out of my mind but it’s o.k. I keep thinking, don’t blow it, it’s almost over. I keep thinking perhaps people find me disgusting because I never eat. Just enough to stay alive till Max gets home. And then I think to add, to add a morsel extra to keep Max from standing for a mother until someone else comes along in my day I can relax with, what a word. I mean relax.

  Later

  Fern fixed me a dinner which I ate. So, David, I’m writing small. Now much later things have got really out of control and I don’t know what’s going to happen but in a way I’m in control, at least I’m driving. Someone had asked me to read at a benefit reading and tonight I certainly felt like it so I did and now I’m in a car with friend Grace and Francisco, a black poet who wants to stay… And at that point I’m interrupted by Francisco who gets back in the car and says he wants to sleep with me. I say no.

  Saturday 4 p.m.

  Max isn’t back yet, I feel pretty easy, now I laugh at you, he should be back today but I don’t know when yet. I slept with Francisco. I’ll try to just list my thoughts: I didn’t want to sleep with him unless he somehow knew all about me, or at
least about the last few days of my life. So, I’m in a daze. Maybe I found out something, maybe that guy was really you. Well I remember one specific Monet I saw with water lilies, I mean one specific moment when he was, all night I was concentrating hard, the reading four hours long, it’s a good thing I had food from Fern, and when I saw what was inevitably going to happen, I kept concentrating. We were in a bar for a while, I drank real slow. The meal I had, sleeping with Francisco, that was not a meal, I’m sure I really wanted to do all that, but with this reservation and this is only as far as I can say in my daze: the reservation: since I knew Grace was staying over too, I knew I had a choice or it would be easier to have a cohort’s choice about fucking. But, and there’s a big but, my instinct was not to do it, though I like Francisco and he turns me on and so on but it’s you I couldn’t resist. Showing off. Add this: everybody’s coming on to me lately even the fucking butcher’s coming on to me and they’re tormenting me about you. And when Francisco said “I want to sleep with you” I started laughing hysterically because I know he’s not the butcher and I can’t resist a friend, a real friend, not now. Add too that it seems to me to be a somehow dazzling and dazing climax to these four days alone and what I feel I found out is this: I felt this enormous tenderness for him and it was really for him and not him as you, though for a moment when I touched his face, I wished it was your face. So then so what I won’t go on with this but there’s a seemingly perfect parallel here to me and you: a person who is a symbol to a doctor who is a receptacle. You may think it’s much simpler than this and you may be right. Thank you very much.

  10 p.m.