The Love Artist--Ready or Not

Hi All. I'm tired of trying to describe this nonsense. What I'm basically saying is that non-fiction--description--is of little value anymore. I thought I was supposed to describe it because when I just went and did it I didn't make any money or get any love. Turns out trying to describe it isn't going to get me either anyway. So fuck it. I'm just going to live soul. And I'll give up on pimping it--describing to you what you should be doing instead of just doing myself what I am about. Pimping is appealing--but it's not essentially me. I give up on being in control, on being right. I'm going to court the unknown. All I want in life is to be a master of time and space--in this lifetime. And that doesn't look anything like a consultant, from what I can tell.

So no more talking about other people. There's plenty to create and share of my own. If it takes my whole life I'll connect my value to creation, I guarantee. Paint, play music, etc. I don't even write anymore (surprise) but I won't rule that out. After I wrote my book The Love Artist--which is both a discussion of all the things I've discussed here and the first example of the answer, the third way, what's next, what's past post-modernism, what's pre-futurism, what the fuck is now!--I went through a somewhat strange period that weaned me from from words. I don't feel like I have command over them like I once did. They don't feel as close to me--or me as close to them.

I realized at the time that I was messing up what I thought I was supposed to be doing (writing), but I also had to admit that I had less love for writinng than I did for painting, playing music, living, loving and the like. Before I thought words more real--more true--than real life. The process was a switch. Now I feel real life more real than words--more than anything. Much preferable--although not as immediately or easily valued perhaps in our current economy. But comprising most of the growth and value in the future--as you've heard me say repeatedly in this forum.

So, without further ado, here is the beginning of my novel: The Love Artist. I hve a copy with Spike Jonze (through his agent at CAA) and word has it that his producer (?) also has a copy. Please god, let them see it for what it is. As Urban Dance Squad said years ago: "say a little prayer for my demo". Tho this ain't no demo. This is the prototype. If they'd just option the movie rights I could go national. Or they could introduce me to an agent who still believes. I'd be happy to license the book to a major publisher as well. Just think guys--a paperback that costs $40! You didn't do any of the work so you ain't getting it like that, but there is plenty of gravy to go around. Let's make some money! Let's make some love!

The book is available from me (e-mail the address on my profile) for $40. If you buy before Valentine's Day I'll wave the shipping. After love day it's $44 with shipping in the US. I take Paypal. You can also see it up on Amazon. The money goes into the album that's another part of the answer, and towards showing the paintings that are yet another part of the answer--and will inspire even more, more, more of the answer. Once those drop, then White Gold (www.WhiteG.com--but it's not up yet), can start branding special "best of the best" products, services, and content. Imagine a Lexus GS 430 with a hybrid engine, environmentally tanned leather, and recycled plastic throughout. (And the kill system).

Imagine a White Gold special edition G5 Powerbook with Pro Tools and professional audio inputs pre-installed. With an Apple-designed midi keyboard and custom Timbaland, Neptunes and Swizz Beats samples. A gold keyboard and a tan leather Prada carrying case.

That doesn't spark your interest? What about a customized RSS feed from Google that is hand-sorted to contain only information from your favorite sites containing your specific keywords? What about a place to take your kids after dinner for a juice or dessert that feels like a cross between your favorite coffeehouse, church, a yoga studio, and your living room (with a back room and DJ for dancing)? What about K-Swiss that are built like the old ones--the thick leather with the better soles. Maybe with gold stripes. But with naturally tannned leather and recycled rubber soles. They'll look great under your Zegna khakis (modified for a bit younger cut and with organic cotton, of course). What about 400 new bands touring constantly that have nothing to do with smoky, spilled beer bars and are as comfortable talking about getting it on as they are about spiritual love? Who are optimistic but not deluded? Who are real, beautiful, honest, delicious and good for you!

And if I don't have you yet--what about The Love Artist--The Movie? Shot by Spike Jonze with beautiful colors and production values. A haunted and inspired story of what it takes to come alive among the machines. To get 100% juicy on the soda shelf. Of the beauty embedded in real life. Of the love that surrounds us all constantly--and with myriad tips, symbolism, and tricks to feel it all, lovingly, right the fuck now. And a great story--about a young man named Julius. Who can't do anything--although he feels compelled to start the greatest art movement that ever was. One that would never end. Who thinks he's a prophet even though he's involuntarily hospitalized after a motorcycle crash, after an exceptionally lame run-in with a woman he thinks he might love. Even though he's falling for one of the nurses.

He's organizing the other artistically-inclined patients to broadcast his vision, trying to figure out how to fix the hospital, working on the movement's principles, and sneaking out to get laid all at the same time. And he may just be smart enough to pull it off--everyone wants to see him succeed. If he doesn't kill himself first.

Ladies and gentlemen:

The Love Artist

A Story by Eben Carlson

Published under exclusive license by White Gold




To Be Read Aloud



00034:235:42

I will show you —by scream or explosion —that one heart does race like any other —and that all blood runs hot in the face of what, —of what? —a question mark? —lukewarm possibilities? —the sun? —I can caress solace from my own cheek no longer and will kiss the pure night itself before I bury myself in another celibate pillow. I refuse to chop at myself like school, or scrape my guts like so-called work. I refuse your plans for me—in fact, I refuse your plans yourself. —And they say god is love. Description, words, pamphlets, memos—lies to the one—only my chemicals, my chemicals, my chemicals,. . .. —There are no unwilling slaves in this land of grotesque plenty, only unhappy masters. —Believe me now and save yourself a week—I am nowhere near productive enough to keep myself alive. What I can’t believe is that beauty loves not even itself—and why is privilege miserable? Already we expect so little we’re dead—from expectation alone we’re dead. —Please find my grave a suitable neighbor —or my neighbor a suitable grave —or—better yet—erase this bullshit blasphemy and track me down and prove me wrong.

I know my sorrow is only inches from love but I am unable completely to get there. My hands are empty. The space between my fingers holds more promise than my palms—it’s available at least. I can’t get any better—produce faster—too much has been done already. I was born too late —I can’t even digest the past, let alone improve or move on. Art is stronger than am I. It mocks my pitiful life. I don’t ask to be free anymore, just more humanely caged.


But I ask for neither pity nor justice. If you can say I missed what you had, then fine, otherwise pity yourself—we’re all irrelevant to our ravenous creations —push and lube, pamper and fan —they are hard to ignore, and we, we are hard to believe. —While alive anyway, everyone believes the dead. Anyone alive—anyone who wants our attention—is insincere, a huckster. —Only our precious products treat us right.

—Just ask my boy Pierce, proudly announcing his latest heart attack to sell paintings and coughing a smoky smile:

“One foot in the grave! You know what that means!”

He winked and I knew what he meant —why not leverage your own mortality? —What else is there?

Women won’t let you come straight at them, we agreed, nor will life, nor money, nor food. So what we all lie? —Was a church ever built that could hold the truth? —We do less than most probably —it’s that old Woody Allen, male creation/false birth shit —the deepest con —or most pure perhaps. —Or the only place that allows even half the truth—we’re not distributing plastics anyway —but we’ve made ourselves men that women need but can’t want, or want but can’t need, I don’t know, shit —a conversation, that’s all—the most brilliantly honest way to treat life like itself —sit and fall in love for hours while the upwardly mobile—yeah I’m gonna use shit like that—while the upwardly mobile come and go like roaming charges. We spit off of overpasses and wrap our heads in the virus of pink dusk.

—So you be the judge! —you’ll do it anyway—collector, jury, lover, judge. —Acrylic on canvas—stretched for five grand—sell one book and try to still stand, —or do it to death, have something to say—after the models, the weekends, LA. —I digress but you know, or maybe because you do—anyone wanting your attention a liar —Threat! —commercial... —Cut! —A scam —and my profession for years —Cut!




to be continued...