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So long, Andy.

See you again,

for sure.

Right, now one of you throw the other!
That's it!

That's it, John!

That's it, now roll over!

Right, now Anthony, you roll with him.
Right, roll!

Roll, Anthony!
Get him! Get him!

I walked into St. Patrick's Cathedral.

It was full of Andy's friends.

April 16, 1977

In a sense, George's stance

is of one who is
totally disillusioned,

of one who has resigned to the fact

that he has no longer
a firm place on this earth,

neither in body nor in geography.

His country has been
sacrificed on the altar of Yalta.

His body is here only
by the grace of cortisone,

an artificial - by now - frame
held together only by his willpower.

The only thing left to him
is his laugh.

So he became a king
in his own kingdom,

a court jester presiding
over the games of life,

jokes, insignificances,
the light and the subtle.

The heavy importances
he leaves to the rest of the world.

July 6, 1977

Hollis remarked today,

while we were walking down Wooster
street and talking about George,

"Après moi le déluge," that's George.

Which is another perfect
description of George,

one of one hundred such descriptions.

No wonder his favorite
historical character is Louis XIV,

including Rosselini's film
of that name.

He cares nothing about what
people say, do, or possess today:

it's all worthless, in his eyes.

And the way people behave,

they are still on the level
of elephants.

"You'll see," he has told me
at least a dozen times,

"After I leave 80 Wooster

it will collapse in ten years,
you want to bet?"

Everything that he makes,
all his architectural structures,

are made fragile enough
to last only that long.

"People are elephants," he says.

"They break whatever they touch:
doorknobs, chairs, light switches."

He would like to transfer
the Japanese architecture,

the architecture of bare feet,
mats, fragile sliding doors, etc.,

to New York, "to civilize Americans."

November 17, 1977

George is in town,

stopped to eat with us,
with a friend, Billie.

Hollis thought she was his girlfriend.

They were so nice together.

And George was really happy.

Most of the time he is happy anyway,
no matter what.

But he said he's taking morphine
every day, by prescription.

Can't stand the pain.
Stomach.

It has been like that for four months.

Doesn't know what else to do,
tried everything.

The pain is like, he says,

"pulling tooth without anesthesia
all day long.

How could I stand it
without morphine?" he says.

He says, he can't sleep either.

And eats only very little.

But he ate a lot of tongue
and sheep cheese.

Said, he has four goats on his farm,
is making a lot of goat cheese.

Billie milks the goats.

Twenty people live now up there,
some he never sees.

None of them smoke,
he said, he saw to that.

Complained that I seldom go
to Fluxus events.

He said, I have seen only one quarter
of Fluxus events, I must hate them.

No, I said, I really like them,

but I have always so much to do.

George then said, yes,

but we are of opposite tastes.

He likes, for example,
Vanderbeek, and hates Brakhage.

Anyway, he had a good time,
was very happy,

ate a lot of tongue,
even tried some ice cream.

It was good to see him in such a good
mood despite his stomach trouble.

When Hollis remarked that morphine
may not be good for him, he said,

if not morphine,
the pain would be unbearable

and he would have to shoot himself.

January 28, 1978

Barbara Moore called.
Said, George is getting married.

She said, he finally collected
his courage, he said,

and proposed to Billie
and she said O.K.

Called George.
He says "I have some news."

I said "New York is talking already.
So it's true."

He said he's coming to NY on Tuesday
or Wednesday to Sloan Institute.

Barrington doctors give him
only 2% chance,

which is not much, he says...

Sloan is better equipped.

He said, he feels much better,
with chemo treatment.

Later I called Susan Sontag.

Asked how she was,
if she has any advice for George.

She said she's still
on treatment, at Sloan,

and that's the best place now.

She said, she'll give the name
of a doctor in Paris, to George

in case he can go there,
he is very good.

The mistake is, she said, to stay
too long in provincial hospitals,

they don't know much.

Susan's cancer started with breast,

and then some other
complications came.

But now it's sort of stabilized.

February 3, 1978

George called.

He planned to come to Sloan Institute
on Wednesday and stay with us.

He said, Sloan Institute told
him there is a waiting line,

a long waiting line,

they don't want him to come.

He said, "I'm nobody there,
they don't want me there."

Meanwhile, he said,
the pain has come back,

he's taking maximum dose of
morphine, and it's getting worse.

I promised to get Susan to call
Sloan Institute, try to get him in.

He suddenly sounded very, very sad.

I have never heard
that kind of note in his voice.

He said, I can't eat,
the pain is unbearable.

I called Susan and gave her the name

of the chemotherapy guy
George spoke to.

Susan said she'll call him
first thing in the morning.

February 4, 1978

Almus came and brought
some Lithuanian bread.

He said, he called George
and offered to bring some bread.

It used to be George's favorite bread.

George told him not to come.

"I can't eat it, I can't digest bread
anymore," he said to Almus.

This depressed all of us
very much.

Poor George,

he must be really bad not to be
able to eat Lithuanian bread anymore.

Almus said, he spoke with him
about his marriage,

asked him why he wants to do it now.

George told him that he "wants
to live, nothing else is left."

February 11, 1978

To be aware of approaching
death is one thing,

to accept death is another thing.

But George has accepted
living with death,

in a perfect Fluxus spirit.

Ah, he has been
used to death all his life.

He says, he's so full of medicine
and drugs and cortisone

that the bugs do not bite him,

and those bugs that bite him
drop dead immediately.

Already in 1960 doctors gave him
only a few months to live.

But he's sill around,
George, doing his art.

George is not using
his body to make art.

There isn't much of it left.

There never was.

He's using his life to do,
to make his art.

February 20, 1978

George: "They have
to do it every month,

this damned needle, through the back,

both sides of the spine,
and very slow,

because everything is in the way,
muscles, not safe.

And I say to them,
"It's hitting the bone,"

and they say,
"No, no, no, it's something else."

So, I used to say, at first,

"You know, I'm not
too tolerant to pain."

But they said, George laughs,

"Sorry, you'll have to cope with it."

"I told you
about the appendix operation,

"with no anesthesia?

After that,
I can't take any operation."

George: "Yeah, I was screaming
and the pain, I remember,

the pain was the same...

Maybe I will scream really high,
remembering the appendix,

because that was the worst
I could imagine.

I still remember.

I was screaming consistently
during the whole operation.

It was during the war,
and the appendix was about to break,

so they said there was no time
to go to hospital,

and they just cut it.

And they had no penicillin.

They were afraid
it would burst any minute.

You know, for a little kid,
cutting your stomach.

They tied me to the table
with belts and they cut it out.

And I never passed out.
That was the worst of it."

Me: "When did you go to Arizona,
your asthma trip?

I don't remember the year."

George: "I went there
in 1962 for two months.

And then again in 1967, for a month.

I remember, in 1962,
I went there with two suitcases,

you know, like a man from New York,

and there were only
cowboys and Indians

in that town, and I get
into this rooming house

and they talk only about the horses,
and they say,

'What the hell this guy
is doing here?'

And I stayed there,
whole two months there...

and it was cheap, cheap, cheap,
like one dollar a day,

and all those cowboys,
coming and eating there

and talking only about cows and no
interest at all in anything else.

And they all look at me:

What the hell this guy is doing here?"

"Ah this medicine
makes me very sleepy.

It takes ten times longer
to do anything!"

Hollis: "Then you fall asleep?"

George: "I sleep,
but not really asleep."

He laughs.

March 1, 1978

We were walking to the subway.
I was carrying the bags.

George refused at first,
but then he gave in.

He just couldn't carry them, he said.

"I wonder what I will be
in my next life.

I am really curious," he said.

"I believe in reincarnation."

So I said:

"Give me some kind of signal or sign,
like in Dovzhenko's Earth, remember!"

The train just pulled in,
as we approached the token window.

"It would be silly to rush now,"
he said, and we took our time.

I helped him through the gate,
handed the bags,

and we said goodbye, in Lithuanian.

He came home from Sloan
Kettering today, Hollis said.

He was so low, so tired and depressed.

The visit wasn't
what he had expected it to be.

"They gave me maximum
of six months to live, that's all.

They refuse to operate,
they say it can't be done.

The cancers are too progressed."

He said, he has to decide now

how he wants to spend
the six months best.

An hour later,
he had collected himself.

When I came home, he was
in a good mood and ate a lot

and he said he felt much better.

George is an idealist
if there ever was one.

And he has the chief vice
of a total idealist: fanaticism.

No Date.

George's humor
is self-referential, Brechtian.

The awareness of every detail,

of every daily act we perform,
of every daily object around us,

and the critique of it all
by means of humor.

Pop art took a look at
the daily banality around us also,

but it seemed to embrace it,
to approve of it.

Fluxus brought it into a critical
awareness by means of humor.

In that sense Fluxus
is a political art.

No date.

George's basement, full of boxes
of every kind, containers, cans.

He keeps every container of everything
he eats, everything, every wrapper.

And, like Joseph Cornell,
uses it all in his art.

Also, like Cornell, George is working
on hundreds of pieces simultaneously,

collecting bits of things
to fit this one and that one,

and many of his boxes and things

are in various stages of growth,
of progress.

Waste is one thing
George cannot stand.

All his texts, all his memos,
postcards, manifestos, letters

are filled from edge to edge
single spaced,

with same tight IBM type.

His postcards, I need a magnifying
glass to read his handwriting.

No Date.

George said his favorite writers
are Dostoevsky and Thomas Mann.

George always insisted,
at least to me,

that Fluxus was not an art movement:
it was a way of life.

It has a touch of religion, I think...

George says he's really
looking towards listening

to all 38 lost operas
of Monteverdi after he dies...

He says, it's worth dying
just for that.

Monteverdi is his favorite
composer, he says.

Nothing of great interest
has been composed after him.

George was talking about
his immense appetite.

Even now, sick as he is,
he eats a lot.

He said, during our wedding,
me and Hollis,

he sat next to Francine because
he noticed she was a good eater.

To get to eat more, you have to sit
next to another good eater, he said.

He said in his will he may ask
that his ashes be placed

in a miniature sculpture,
statue of himself.

He thought it would be
very funny if everybody,

all his friends would sit around it,
during the wake ceremony.

He says, he's a sucker
for wide spaces and fields.

He dreams of raindrops

on blades of grass, he said.

Romantic George.

March 15, 1978

And there is Seymour Stern,

xeroxing newspaper clippings,

materials for his monumental
biography of D. W. Griffith,

three days before his death,

fully knowing that he's going
to die soon,

any day now...

What was he thinking that day,

when I saw him sitting
by the Xerox machine and resting?

"Yes, I have to sit down," he said.

"I think you should go home, Seymour,
you don't look well," I said.

He said nothing,
just looked at the floor.

I didn't know he had a cancer.

I never had that...

fall upon me, not yet,
to really know death.

Death always walked around me,
sparing me,

sparing me
the experience of the death.

My father, I found out about his death
five years or six years later.

And my brother Povilas died far away.

I found out, the letter
reached me already

with photographs of the burial,

and with the distance
of time and space.

What was George thinking then,
walking across the snow, upstate

with his eyes deep into himself,
in some unfathomable space,

silently,

as we walked across the snow

towards the parked car, and he got in.

And I came to the window and said,
"See you soon,"

but he didn't look up, he was still
in that very deep distance.

August 1, 1989

Warhol and George, Warhol and Fluxus.

Somewhere there, very deep,
they were the same.

They were both Fluxus.

Both dealt essentially
with nothingness.

Both dismissed the current life,
civilization,

everything that is being practiced
today as "everything is the same,"

didn't take any of it seriously.

Both took life as a game and laughed
at it, each in his own way,

untouched by it themselves,

looking at it all from the side,
or from high above...

and creating their own realities

that didn't really fit into it.

Andy, standing at the Studio 54
in the lobby,

standing on the side,

never in the middle of it,
never really embracing it,

and George, laughing, laughing
at it all, including Warhol,

and creating in its place
his own fragile life,

totally inconsequential,
unimportant world.

A world of games,

little boxes, puzzles, jokes,
all in praise of nothingness.

April 3, 1978

Billie stopped to tell
that George is doing much better

under the enzyme treatment in Jamaica.

He's cutting down on morphine
and feels much better.

He'll be coming
to New York on Thursday.

We were talking
about George's eating habits.

On one hand, his perfect Bourguignon,

when we visited him
last time in Barrington;

his passionate and deep interest
in the foods of various countries

and various historical periods;

on the other hand,
total carelessness about what he eats.

During the last stay at our home

he brought bags and bags
of canned food.

Hollis later had to throw out
empty cans from his room

and placed a drinking glass
on the table.

George was using empty
juice cans to drink water.

All that canned junk he was eating
and drinking on 80 Wooster Street!

And our arguments
about microwave cooking

which he thought was so great.

He has no interest in gradations,
subtleties of real cooked foods.

He would eat and drink milk
made out of milk powder,

anything made out of any powder,
or distilled, or whatever...

but not real milk or real eggs

or real fresh squeezed juice
or... etc.

And he has always been
so proud of his dumplings.

All those dumpling parties!
I tried to eat them too,

but I always told him

they were about the most terrible
dumplings I ever ate,

or rather tried to eat.

They were terrible, made out
of prepared, packaged dough,

heavy, half-cooked, and tasteless.

But George sat there, in the chair,
leaning back,

holding his stomach full of them,
hiccupping, and ecstatic.

May 5, 1978

Visited George at the University
Hospital, in Boston.

He looked so thin, sitting on his cot.

When I came in, the nurses
were preparing to wheel him out

to the surgery room.

He asked them to wait five minutes
so he could talk with me.

"I thought they'll wheel me out

and then you'll come
and I'll be in surgery."

We spoke for a few minutes.

His voice was so weak
that several times

I had to ask him to repeat
what he said, his voice was so weak.

"They are very amazed
that I am still around," he said.

"All I can hope is
that they'll keep me going

until the miracle drug arrives,"
he laughed.

He said, he's putting his hopes
into a drug

they are working on in Texas,
or somewhere.

"They are very serious scientists,
I spoke with them," he said.

He couldn't get on
the surgery bed by himself,

so I lifted first one foot, then
another, and helped him to get in.

He hadn't shaved for several days,
since he arrived in hospital,

and he was an image of
sickness and weakness.

He said he had to move
to the hospital,

because "they were all
panicking about me there."

He couldn't eat anything.

When he arrived in hospital,

his legs were all swollen.

"Look," he said, "film them."

"There will be a lot
of pictures of me sick.

I have always been sick," he said.

"Doctors said I was dying of hunger,

I lacked protein, so now
they are feeding me protein."

We sat silently for a minute or two.

George: "So you have
to catch the train?"

Me: "At three o'clock. I have time."

Doctor (to the nurse): "Roll it."

George: "Shigeko has gone back?"

Me: "No. She is in New York.
She is still here."

George: "Anthology
should get more money..."

Me: "I am working on it..."

George: "This may take long time"
(referring to his surgery)

Me: "As they say,
it's not easy to kill a man..."

George: "Nothing
to hurry now..." (laughs).

The nurse began pushing the bed
towards the surgery room.

So he stretched his hand and I said,
"Tai laikykies"

in Lithuanian,
"hang on," more or less,

and he gave me a weak smile

and they wheeled him away.

May 9, 1978

A note I found on the table
when I came home to eat.

Dear Jonas,
George died this afternoon.

Nijole will probably call you.

We are on the 10th floor.

Love, Hollis & Oona

May 11, 1978

Shigeko, Carla,
Francine, Hollis, Oona,

we drove to the Fresh Ponds
crematorium in Queens

where George's relatives had arranged
a small wake ceremony,

just before cremation.

His mother came, his sister,
cousin, and a few other relatives

and a good thirty-forty
Fluxus community friends,

Moores, Hendricks brothers,
Dick Higgins, Yoshi, Allison,

Almus with Nijole, La Monte Young,
Miller, etc.

George's mother was there,
and I came to her, and she said:

"I saw him, he is so serious,
so calm."

Billie brought the Purcell
and Monteverdi tapes

that George himself had
selected for this occasion.

I set up the tape recorder
in the chapel

and we played 25 minutes
of George's favorite music.

It was very sad
to listen now to this music.

George's coffin was right there,
and some flowers,

dahlias and others, on top of it,

and George's mother said to us,
"Come and take one,

take home with you, from George,"

so we took each a flower
and later we stood outside

and nobody wanted to part,
and George was still here, near us.

"Oh," said George's mother to me,
she spoke in Lithuanian,

"I kept telling him to get married,
and he always said no.

Then, when you got married,
he used to say

"See, mother, if Jonas got
married at fifty so why not I?

I'll wait till I am fifty,
then I'll marry."

And now, see, it's too late,
he waited too long."

"He always used to say
Jonas this and Jonas that,

ever since he was a child.
He was always counting on your support

even if sometimes you disagreed.

It was very important to him
to have a friend.

Later you sometimes disagreed,
but he was always talking about you."

Later we all drove home and had
wine and cheese and bread,

Shigeko, Carla, Francene...
and we spoke about George,

how everything that we have, that we
see here, is connected with George,

there simply wouldn't be
SoHo without George,

we wouldn't be in this building,
in this home,

now sitting around this table
without George.

Shigeko said George
brought her from Japan

and she is here
only because of George.

Later we decided to have
a walk through SoHo, to relax.

We just had to walk it out.

He was so good, and even
when he was suffering,

he tried not to impose
his suffering on the others,

he used to retreat to our backroom,

curl on the bed,
and suffer by himself.

He said, it hurt less when he curled
into the baby-in-the-womb position.

I made them about four years ago,

when I first started hearing

about these so-called
"underground films," you know.

People like Bruce Conner
were sending us films,

they'd use our Beatle music
for the background, things like that.

And...

Well we'd been messing around with
8-mm films for a long time, you know.

Not...

Making silly films, like comedies;

trying to make funny films on 8mm,
like home movies.

But then after the sort of
psychedelic underground age,

I just started filming everything
on slow-motion

and just superimposing
things on it all the time.

So it's all self-edited, each
four-minute film is a film itself.

Some of them I stuck together,

and one time I edited a few together,

but it was such a bore
and it wasn't as good.

It's becoming more and more
editing during the shooting.

Yeah, right. After I shot a few and
edited them while I was shooting them,

I thought, well, let's try and edit it

and see if I can do something.

But it was always better just
to shoot it and make that the editing.

Because otherwise one goes through
a completely different process.

Anyway, there's always things
like just filming water,

like the swimming pool water,

and then winding it back and then
filming something else on it,

so that it had all this...
- Superimposition?

Superimposition all the time.

But once they went into Super 8...

it took me about a year to learn
how to handle the 8mm Canon camera,

and then all the cameras were changed,

and I could never learn again to do
another one, so I stopped doing it.

Come on cameraman!

Wait a minute!
Wait a minute!

You've got the whole... George,
and the guy with the microphone.

He's got the whole world in his hands

He's got the whole world in his hands

God bless them all

One more! One more...

Everybody!

Oh boy. Can you help me?

Anthony?

I told you not to wear
my wetsuit, didn't I?

So why do you wear it?

You can go in now.

Will you take my suit back
and hang it up?

Anthony?

Let go!

Good thing the matches
didn't get washed away.

If I were you Tina
I'd get in the water.

Okay, I'll come with you.

Do you know...

Jonas Mekas, do you know
four-move checkmate?

What kind?

A checkmate in four moves.

Do you know how to do it?
- Yes, four moves.

You stretch your hand forward,
that's one move.

You grab the...
- Not quite.

- You don't know how to.
- No, I guess I don't know.

Oh, okay.

Tomorrow's match is going to be
in tomorrow's match.

That's all I have to say.

I don't know.

Let's go! Let's go!

Peter, where did you get
that elephant...

May I just say a few words
about Tina Weener in the corner,

picking her legs away.

Well, I can think Lithuanian.

What's Lithuanian?

I know it's a language,
but where's it from?

Of course it's a language.

You gotta get off the chair.

How come you never pick me
to go waterskiing?

This is John Kennedy here,
speaking from NBC news.

Shut up, Caroline!

What's going to happen?

I'm going waterskiing every day...

What do you mean, waterskiing
every day? You never asked me...

Tell a joke.

Okay, a Helen Keller joke.
Okay.

What is Helen Keller's newest book?

Newest what?

What is Helen Keller's newest book?

What is it?

Around The Block In 80 Days.

What did her parents
do for discipline?

Two ways: move the furniture

or put her in a round room
and tell her to sit in the corner.

What does the Italian
Statue of Liberty look like?

The Italian Statue of Liberty...

What, um... let me see,
what's the other one?

Like a macaroni.

This is John Kennedy, here,
providing amusement for you.

We will be back with
our guest host, Peter Beard,

for one more... for a few more jokes.

We are waiting for Peter Beard
at the moment.

Pig.

Snorty pig, snorty pig!

Anthony, I told you not to wear
my wetsuit, didn't I?

So why do you wear it?

You can go in now.

Will you take my suit back
and hang it up?

Anthony?

Great, John, that'd be really nice.

No, I don't want you to show off...
that's one thing I don't want.

Adaptation: Nathaniel Draper