Tuesday, August 19, 2003

here endeth that portion of the blog of the empire of dr. bienke dedicated to my momma virginia. y'all who pray y'all can pray for that poor girl she get her self stuck with such a viper child. fuck it. (testing, testing, penny rich she need a hat... need a hat... need a hat...) momma, the reason i left that italian place was cos there was this boy and he was seeing this girl (she near twenty) and her father i hear is physically beating her with a fucking belt for seeing this boy and all of them threatening to rat each other out and it's a terrible mess all wrapped in issues of family face-saving. and i'm like: 'none of y'all need to be making this so hard. sex, fucking, it ain't that big a deal.' hell, you'd have thought they were christians the way they were carrying on. finally in exasperation i say: "son, i don't have much respect in me, but if there is any it's for my granny and my granny a slut who told her family to fuck themselves and ran off with a married man." and i look in his eyes and i realize he is unable to deconstruct my words for he has been so brainfucked by traditions of respect. i was unable to communicate to the boy the knowlege i think necessary to his survival as a nigger on my native blood drenched slavery stained dirt. fuck it. money's nice cos you can use it to buy drugs and you can use it to stay alive. i do too many drugs and even so i'm lots of times ambivalent about this living shit ( i blame tim whipple in part. we were in that bungalow in coventry and that silly whipple boy thought me reading ecclesiastes would zestfully christianize me. dumb motherfuckers without a clue should not push dangerously depressing reading material on sensitive children. i'd have found it myself soon enough. i can see now that my busting his martin d28 was my righteous unconcious paying the dick back.) it's been years since i thought of my customers as anything but beasties for milking. i mean i sorta liked watching leo castelli but he's still just another fucking cow. the only thing i thought i might be able to do in my laboring was something in the way of easing the path of my colleagues. but if so it became clear to me that that would not be achieved by my physical presence. so i walked. momma, selling pictures is where it's at. i only painted the motherfuckers so you'd have pictures to sell. momma, i do love you true but you sometimes display the most worrisome symptoms of having been brainfucked by traditions of respect. selling pictures is where it's at. for you. for anne. for ora. for anna and cleo and sage, for that matter. (mostly they ain't gonna be my pictures cos i'm not gonna turn out that many). what happens is is you glimmer the truth - that was exactly what that harper's magazine pages attempt was about - and then if it don't work out immediately you run off from it fearful you're gonna pick up an 'f' on your permanent record. you got skooled to be weak. @@ i got started studying social theory when my momma went to get her m.s.w. at the university of houston. that's about the same time julian schnabel was studying there for his m.f.a. i studied social theory through the medium of momma. momma, she worried about her report card. @@ selling pictures is where it's at because words are fucked. i mean we gotta hang something in the wittengenstinian (sp?) silence. when i was down in austin anne had sent that french art critic's porn book to momma and her assessment was: "it's nothing. it's just like the stories you used to hand copy in school." " it's like what ? ! ?" " you know: those stories they pass around and you hand copy them out so you'll have your own version. i guess so you can take it home to masturbate with." ?!?!?! //\//\ this is the empire of dr. bienke. mom i love you. //\//\ 5:54:45 PM    comment []

koo he liberty valance cept he woke up all of a sudden and realized that being a murderous mercenary is no life for a cowboy. {little chinese children twenty years from now - and here i shall note that unlike most of you motherfuckers when i speak of chinese children i have specific faces and names in my mind - little chinese children i offer the only comfort i know: every one of you entitled by birth with the right to be a cowboy or a cowgirl or indeed both simultaneously or howsoever your tumbleweed spirit might move you. y'all pay attention here:} when koo realized that being a mercenary was no life for a cowboy he went down to texas the font of dying. [cabeza da vaca got to texas and - check it out - there weren't no cabeza da vacas other than him. only after the cows come to lay down in the desert and make of themselves shrines to his medicine man chattaqua (sp?) pilgimmage. smoke that in your geogia o'keefe pipe.] koo went down to texas the font of dying and he found the witchy woman and the witchy woman made up for koo a mojo bag {weed seeds off of jimmie rodgers, sweat off of scott joplin's balls, other stuff..} and the witchy woman, knowing her man, said: "honey, whatever you do, don't you eat this." and thus did koo eat up his mojo bag and wander to the desert. little chinese child, there's still an open range. them ravaging ivy league capitalists forced it out into the ether but it's still there. it's your birthright to ride it. your daddy try to stop you you spit on the toadyass motherfucker. your mother try to stop you you spit on the bitch whore. they make some noise about how they did you any kind of favor bringing you into this world you laugh at their junior-college cultureless asses and you suggest they might try reading a book sometime. the thing is, my baby, my own, my little chinese brother, i don't know that riding's any less of a misery than not. but when you're ready to ride, you're gonna be ready to play some blues. 2:45:45 PM    comment []

of course i live with the evidence that musical pedagoguey (? sp? sic sp?) is poisonous. beth is fucked up by her education right into the tissues of her flesh. the stuff david jones taught her, he might as well have been injecting her and all his other poor students with mercurey (? sp? sic sp?) {i swear to god once you've read that william james quote on nekkid words they none of them look right again. the astute among you will have realized that i could, with the merest of mouse moves, summon the electronic opinion of some automated correctionalist. i'd as soon cut my fingers off.} one time i went to houston with beaty where he was judging a piano competition. about half-way through he turns to me: "you know, quin, none of these kids will ever do anything with this. they all of them quit." then what the fuck are we doing here dan? i say in my head because i was quiet still then in my utter and paralysing confusion. i caught wynton marsalis doing some graduation speech on c-span one time and wynton gets on my nerves usually cos he couches everything in that cornell westian nigger christian spiritual shit, but on this particular occasion he was on form and he absolutely trashed the methodology of the institution whereat he was guesting with this sweetly sly little parable: "when i was a boy daddy decided i needed to play with some other kids my age and he took me down to this old man in new orleans who ran a street band for children. i'd already blown some but most of these kids hadn't til that day and the old man handed out their instruments to them: 'you a skinny child. we gonna call you slim and you gonna play this stick here." he hands that boy a clarinet. he comes up to another boy: 'my, someone likes his dessert, i can tell. that's good. that fat'll help you push that air out and you can blow it though this tuba here and we gonna call you tubby.' that old man, i don't know that he had ever read music or even seen it. after the instruments were apportioned he scored us thusly: 'snare drum, i need a beat like this.' and the old man would clap it. "tubby, get down there and give me some oompah like this.' and the old man sang a bass line. ' now slim, give me twitters.' the old man whistled the clarinet part. none of us could play worth a damn. it was a terrible lame sound. we all knew it. but that old man stood there smiling as we played and afterwards he said: 'damn that sound good. y'all play it for me again.' we knew it was horrible and that the old man was crazy but we played it again. and he stood there smiling and smiling. i know now that old man could hear things we couldn't hear. his ears were in a whole different place. 'that sounds good,' he says. "the thing is: every boy there that afternoon. every single one, they're still playing." sometimes i worry i killed dan beaty. beth's momma was selling up her house and there was the old piano beth and janey learned on. i call dan: "we gotta do something with the motherfucker. i figure we give it to s.f.a. after you mess with it some. we'll call it: 'the prepared piano of our fathers'. i figure they'll choke on daddy but they won't dare slight clayton." i thought dan would find this an amusing project. but he was cool and i didn't push it, i just left it that beth would call him when she got to town. actually she didn't, but he died the morning she arrived. i fear that piano was heavier than he could handle. fuck it. koo is liberty valance except he woke up one day over that short story about taking bullets by dashiell hammett in a whorehouse in centralia, washinton (where the i.w.w. takes a thirty percent rake) (and where my daddy will die in the spring of 94). 1:11:24 PM    comment []