Biddily Bocoy Bing Bing Bing Bing Buckou

I just saw the Jeff Buckley film at the Seattle Film Festival and let me please tell you one thing: you are an artist and you create what iss in front of you.

You are never a victim. Not to time, not to your boss, not to the guy who hit your car, not to the meter maid. Especially not to time or money. Or your partner or kids for that matter. You create it. Negotiate it. It's this life or nothing. And you aren't going to change when you die so you may as well start being who you are right now.

Which I say not so you can blame yourself for everything. you are also blameless and forgiven permanently and constantly. Right now. Right now again.

So you can be and make what you want.

That parking ticket wasn't because you're parked in the wrong plac in your life. It's because you thought you were. And probably acted and reacted accordingly.

You're a god.

Which doesn't mean you can walk through walls (Robert). It doesn't mean nothing else exists. It means you can do what you want, which is play guitar, or write a play, or ask her out, or relax. You don't really care about walking through walls anyway, it's just a game for your mind to play. You want to think about that so you don't have to face what you're on th eplanet to do. You're afraid.

And you wrap the reasons in politics, stories your parents told you (but have long since been false), myths from hell (white people are evil), jokes from heaven (poor people are holy), and lots of stuff in between. There aren't any reasons. There's just yo uand what you want. And either your're being honest about it or you're not. And either you're being focussed about it (going for what you truly want most first) or you're not (one of my great opportunities for improvement).

Why the hell wouldn't we go straight for that which we want most? Don't we want to enjoy ourselves? Are we really such masochists as to ruthlessly and determinedly create what we don't want every day? Why don you think the world has so many things we don't wnat in it. We've been doing things we don't want to do for a long time. I'm no better than anyone else on this. And I wrote a book. So I didn't have to paint. I was probably thinking about paint because I felt it was safer than music, but I'm still asking god for clarity on that relationship.

I'm on the planet (at the moment) to fix the grout in the shower. And record some music. It's no big deal. I also get to play basketball and eat great food. I may even get laid. Almost everyone I know here in Seattle is doing the same thing. It's just that I've been afraid of it my whole life.

Amazing how we're the most afraid of the things we want the most. Plot that into the equasion above--that you create your own shit, and love, and everything in between--and see how it works.

A great book on this is Excuse Me Your Life is Waiting by Lynn Grabhorn. Another great one for those really ready for the far out is The Joy Book, by Prem Raj Baba. Neither of them are true--no non-fiction account of life is really accurate--but they're very, very valuable if you're interested in creating what you want in front of you. And getting rid of the non-sense behind you. I will say this: you can't never get nowhere you ain't heading.

You are in charge of your thoughts, feelings and actions. Everyone else is in charge of theirs. Don't let anyone else send you to their hell. Which means lift everyone up into your heaven. That's what we're doing right here. Every day, all day. You decide. When the guy cuts you off, when you're late for work (or yoga--ha, ha). When your wife wants sex and you don't and you do anyway. When you want to give money to the panhandler but don't (me today). When you're faced with more work than you know what to do with. When things seem hard. You create heaven or insist on hell. May I suggest the former. It's really more fun.

The title refers to an Eek-A-Mouse song. He's a genius. I loved him so much in high school, my nickname was Squeeks. Still is for a few folks. 6'6", probably stoned as hell. I tried to sneak into a bar when I was 17 to see him. It didn't work.

Jeff Buckley, god bless him and god rest his soul, was right there. He had his foot in it something fierce. Way before any white folk. In public. The most interesting and beautiful recordings of him were at Sin-e in NYC. Before he was shit. Before he forgot not to care. There were nights that 12 limos would be parked outside this hole in the wall cafe waiting for him to sing. Before he thought money and business was going to fuck him up. Well it did, but probably because he thought so rather than anything else. He could have moved the world around himself. That's love's (an artist's) job. To teach control (business) something. He probably also didn't know how. He didn't have anything to put above those record execs. He forgot he could take ten years off if necessary and god would still take care of him. And the suits are full of shit. It just dones't matter. That's why you don't let them into the studio. Either that or you learn just to listen and then ignore them. But you've got to decide beforehand. Gotta be a man (or a woman--I'll speak for myself, you translate on your own).

Luckily, now you can record your own shit and just hand it over. You can distribute my shit, but that's it. A CD's $36. Half of my job is to protect myself from you. Or be honest to your face. You have a soul, too. You just might be waiting for someone else to let your guard down. Which means you're one of the guards. And the music execs pushing for a hit are no different than the huge design client I used to have who always asked me to make another huge ad like the one I did one time. I did it the first time because I was out of my head. And experimenting. Didn't know and barely cared. Before the money got big enough to "cause concern". I was young too. A boy. And doing something I didn't want to do. Once everyone's livlihood depended on the thing I got just as tight as them. They squeezed it out of me. A whole well-paid boardroom against one.

But I wasn't a victim, I just thought I was. (And so became one). They became my god. And if you've ever made anyone your god, you'll know they'll kill you off for the sake of the story line. (And because having followers who don't really believe is tiring). And so it died off. And it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Even though I haven't ever wanted much much less.

The moral of the story--until we are willing to die for the gentle little voice that whispers constantly (and is at times ridiculed by others), we'll die knee deep in bullshit every day. I wasn't a victim to my client--what they gave me was a blessing--just not what I wanted. Could that be any surprise. I hadn't told anyone what I relly wanted. I could barely even admit it myself.

I want god. I want myself, I want relationships. I want to support myself by relaxed production of my soul's desire. I want to be a master of time and space. I want to be a musician.

That doesn't even sound right. I want to sing and play guitar. I want to transcend. And experience the divine. And then come back and eat Vietnamese (Vietnam House, in the mini-mall behind Viet Wah on 12th and Jackson if you're in Seattle). I want to paint.

Maybe I don't even want to paint. I want to read my book to large audiences. I want people to read it. I want to make a movie of it. I want to design some decent clothes to wear and for others. I want to make a better Whole Foods, I want to make a better Lexus, I wantt to help make a better church. I want to encourage white people to live a real fucking life. I want to make love to a beautiful woman. Often and extensively. I want my own dope house. With a full gut rehab to match my own. I want people to make music with. Who approach love and music in a similar manner that I do. And are relaxed. And are men.

Which brings me to the other day. I went Barneys and Mario's here in Seattle and couldn't find anything I'd buy even if I did have any money. At Barney's it was the final solution grunge/punk upscale nonsense. For children with an extra $2K for a silkscreened blazer (with ripped sleeves no less) and afraid to make one themselves. Pussies.

At Mario's, it was boring as hell. Tepid golf wear made in Italy by the most talented tailers in the world. Distressing leather by hand. Where once they used to create. What a waste of time. The Fred Perry shirts were nice. If a little retro. Ace Face, baby.

Which was Sting, who does tantric sex and tries to make modern mystical white music and comes close but not really and ends up in Jaguar commercials. The E Type is killer. And Jag is notorously poorly built. Lack of integrity. White Gold.

Please god, bring this into being. If not for me, then for others. If not by me, then by others. I want to live in a world where people are facing forward again. Where people believe not only the past but the future--and the present most of all.

Where a primary source of a flower in bloom trumps a week of newspapers and e-mails. All secondary sources, yo! Study ya history! A third hand story is almost worthless. So stop talking about each other. And start revealing yourselv.

Send me your e-mail (reveal yourself) and I'll send you a snippet of a song. First out the box from ALL*MIGHTY. Get 'em now before I tighten up with expectations of future wealth (Yarp). :oD While I'm still pure and poor (and if you believe that...)

Oh, and write a comment once and again. I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing.