Estaban... Estavanico.. Esteban the Slave....
"this is dr. earning binky coming to you through the hypertext ether with the mighty prophecies of our god esteban, the first black american, patron saint of medicine men and travellers and all who flee slavery in thought and word and deed. estevanico, who with cowheadboy, was shirwrecked upon the mosquito sand of swampy texas, who fell further and further into misery until he became a god and journeyed ever west to the cities of gold. feathers locked in his hair and beads and shells spanning his mighty black chest. estaban, the god of birds and mermaids."
"the story goes that when cabeza de vaca was journeying through these parts he was ever true to his beloved wife who waited in spain like penelope (purebred) except one time he was smitten to the heart by the eyes of a beautiful princess and he found it impossible to leave her presence and while cowheadboy languished in siren song lingering, esteban concieved a mighty love for the lady immamia and he gave her 17... 34... 68 children. stories vary.
"and in the afternoon in the heat when it was the custom there to sleep estavanico walked into the hills and built the City of Dogs."
"the empire of dr. bienke i conceived to take advantage of the tulipomania dot.com years and to warn of the danger of texas. all that moot now (can i use 'moot' that way?) now it's one of de lesseps' panamanian steamshovels reverting to the jungle except i still tinker on it.
"when i first read heart of darkness, whenever that was, years before the movie, even then, it was of little use to me for it appeared to be a roadmap of how to avoid it. and i was already trying to get there.
"but it was short. i liked the shortness. bred on brautigan and vonnegut i always wanted to write concise books. like warning this world of the danger of texas that's nothing i can do anything about now. now we write pages. the gathering into books, i might do it, but i'd as soon let somebody else. books and songs are way too long
"now we write in sentences and phrases, in words and notes, in whispers and whimpers. you want to know who killed the great american novel? ('cos face it children, you know it's dead.) it was james brown. you can't hear how that works? adjust the tuning on your rabbit ears oh my bunnies.
"or put it another way: when you attenuate the stage over a mile or two and you put the audience in betwixt the performers (i.e. X SLIDE GUITARS IN A COWBOY ENVIRONMENT) 'western' harmony is not gonna make it. european harmony is concieved to the direction of God's ears. see Augustine. (converted by Ambrose. Ambroeus.) it's been boring ever since God died. God died long before i got here children. i didn't do it."
2:02:03 PM 
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