Wednesday, August 27, 2003

when i was last in austin my mother told me that she couldn't read music. quin: i have stood next to you and watched you read music my whole life. mom: i don't know what andante or any of those words mean. LATER beth: that's just a matter of buying a glossary. 11:10:37 AM    comment []

i would suspect momma of feeding me lines.... yesterday i talk to momma on the phone: momma: this most recent writing, the social theory stuff. i don't understand it. quin: it's all veblen. from the theory of the leisure class. momma: it's all veblen? not you? i didn't see quotation marks. quin (whiney): mom.?.!!.? LATER beth: " i didn't see quotation marks"? quin: i think the 'texas size book of junior college things to say calculated to piss off your pseudo-intelectual kin' must have been an oprah selection. 11:00:03 AM    comment []

quin speaks: i would suspect momma of feeding me lines... like my wife (as so many boys i married a girl just like mom - at the assertion either of them would momentarilly bristle and then quickly cover in large smile and effuse upon the 'compliment').... like my wife, momma's a witchy girl, a mermaid, intent on dissembling the deepness of her natural waters - dissembling mostly that they need not ponder it themselves. WYSIWYG - what you see is what you get - thusly beth characterises herself of late - and i can absolutely hear momma offerring the same sort of formulation. quin: yeah bitch but my eyes overdevelopded early to compensate for my black heart withering and in consequence i see a lot more than you can seem to ever fucking get. that's something i'd say to either of them. actually i think i have in fact said it to both of them. but you may have already noted that i talk a lot of shit... it's hard to keep track... anyway... new americans: welcome! i feel i owe you a debt for though i would acknowlege little responsibility for how fucked up my native country is yet it seems somehow i must be more responsible than you. to some small degree i shall try to discharge that debt with the following observation: there are many new american men whose wives and mothers and daughters are at the supermarket right now buying reading material that will suggest to them that 'opening your heart' and 'sharing your feelings' is a good, health invigorating thing. truly, i think it maybe mostly is. but i think, new american men, you'll likely find that your ladyloves' response to your opening of your heart is going to be "yeeech". in the more literate magazines there might be some treatment of this stage of the process, but if your girl is working from redbook or cosmo there's not necessarily going to be a "yeeech" place on the map before them. so let me tell you how this goes: you open your heart. the girl/girls respond "yeeech". you say, as lightly as you can: fuck you bitch. and maybe you actually do, or maybe you talk some more, or maybe you take a walk. but listen carefully: over many, many generations men have been programmed to respond to womens' scorn with some stupid, violent action. a dumb exploit. a lot, maybe millions, of men have perished, and caused others to perish, to wipe out, through the accumulation of silly certificates of merit, the greasy memory of their women-folks' "yeeech". one summer evening their momma/ sister/ wife/ daughter discovered them in the shed at the bottom of the garden with their meat in their tight wanking fist and six months, a year, eighteen months, twenty years later they are dead in their murder medals and mud and blood... in the north of france, in indochina, in that desert the turks used to run. time and again. place after place. "yeeech" 10:09:39 AM    comment []

playlet (dramaette?) interior footnote to the 'topless girls read veblen' section of the blog of the empire of dr.bienke which was formally for my momma virginia paget but is at present for my wife elizabeth clayton withey {in which we develop mrs. montoya}. {y'all, we're coming up on some fine veblen quotes pretty soon. stay tuned.} setting: quin's apartment. an impossibly ramshackle space of little discernable order. curiosities like plaster tigers and globes and chinese hats vie with paintings and the haphazard piles of books for the attention of the more general debris, which sometimes might actually of be some category of pseudo-importance but is just as often simply trash: ikea catalogues, things the beagle has chewed past recognition. quin does morning stuff. smokes weed. makes coffee. sets ablaze the tangled cord beastie of umbilical interaction with our evolving borg. for a moment beth wakes: beth (sleepy voice): i dreamed you were shaving my pussy with an electric razor. quin: yeah? was it good? beth: i don't know. you woke me up. i wasn't looking forward to it. i told you i had already trimmed down there. but you said: nooo. beth shakes her head to indicate quin's shaking of his head in her dream. she goes back to sleep. quin pokes at the computer. shuffles himself while waiting. pokes some more. cayenne moves up to begin the process of waking beth. he puts his irritable hungry pissed off kitty nose directly to beth's and they stay that way awhile. then, in failure, he flounces back to the floor. the beagle, in resonse, it would seem, but without waking, stretches into a new sleeping position. quin goes to make more coffee. when he returns a thunderous offstage voice ( but one actually belonging to a rather small androgynous fellow - look, he's there by the curtain...) will announce: //\/ this is the empire of dr. bienke //\//\ and quin will begin to speak: 8:29:24 AM    comment []