The Love Artist—7

00034:527:27

There’s a boy who lives outside a bun shop in Katmandu. His name is Ahmrit and he sleeps in the doorway with five other boys. They share everything—which isn’t much—begging turf, food scraps, the policeman’s boot, an occasional piece of candy. If someone doesn’t want to share, the others usually make him.

Each night after dark, after they’ve divvied up their take for the day—after they’ve stopped using the crazy death voice they save for tourists coming back from dinner and have burned all the garbage and thrown every rock they can find—they settle into their doorway to find some sleep.

Kicking and pushing like a human pillow trying to fluff itself, with heads on stomachs and knees, and hands under armpits, the boys get as comfortable as they can given the circumstances. Ahmrit is usually one of the last to fall asleep, but he pretends otherwise by breathing loudly and deeply, as he hears the others do. If there is any trouble—like a cop or a mean rickshaw driver, or a drunk cop or a drunk mean rickshaw driver—he’d rather get kicked and keep pretending he’s asleep than try to run away. Anything but be the only one awake.

One night—a night similar to this one—Ahmrit was giving his usual performance when he heard his name.

“am-Mhit. . . am-Mit!”

His heart filled with dread.

Behind his shut eyes a pale and gaunt head attached itself to his mispronounced name. He closed his eyes harder. And held his breath.

A long second passed and then the moan came again.

“Aaaa-mit, Aaaa-mit?” Surely he was dying and the spirit had come to take something back.

He felt some of his brothers come to life and heard them inquiring of the ghost and his apprehension mixed with pride—they would obviously tell the monster that he was still breathing quite loudly, thank you, and get rid of it, just like they would a shopkeeper or anyone else. They weren’t afraid.

“What? What? Yes, I’m Ahmrit.”

But why were they excited instead of scared? And why were they pretending to be him?

How much they must hate me, Ahmrit thought. His stomach churned. They could be mean but he never knew they hated him this much. His chin started to quiver and the bottom of his eyes filled with tears. He pulled his knees into his chest and waited for the horrible thing that always happened.

“Please spirit, please don’t hurt me!” Ahmrit invoked what he remembered of his mother’s face as protection.

And he listened again. Everything had gotten loud so quickly—his friends, the ghost—even the screaming auto-rickshaws seemed quiet to the turmoil that had engulfed his head.

“I’m Ahmrit, I’m Ahmrit. I’m Ahmrit, I’m Ahmrit!” his friends were promising the ghost—almost yelling now. They shrieked and climbed over each other in their apparent rush to see him gone. Someone stepped on Ahmrit’s head.

‘Where’s A-mit?’ The dream invader demanded again—this time revealing his accent—it was one of them, one of the people from the planes and hotels—the soft ones.

Ahmrit stopped crying and moved his blanket away from his face.

“Oh, there you are!”

The group became quiet.

“I brought these for you.” The man said, holding out something wrapped in black cloth. “I didn’t know you’d have company.”

Ahmrit was smiling now and reached across his traitorous friends’ heads to receive his parcel. The man resisted for a second, trying to emphasize with his elbows and head that it wasn’t stable, but regulation proved impossible and the contents of the loose package escaped over Ahmrit’s small hands.
“Shit!” the man blurted—grabbing at the air where things had just been—or, more accurately, what they had just become—a pear and two apples—partially obscured by the now floating black cloth —and bouncing off of curious foreheads and surprised knees—and then watched in amazement as the fruit was recovered and distributed without a word.

He laughed, and as the boys smacked their lips he picked up the forgotten piece of cloth and unfolded it to reveal the head of an enormous cat on a T-shirt. He meowed to animate the scene and the boys watching—the ones not engrossed in their chewing—laughed and made cat noises of their own.

Ahmrit palmed his half-eaten pear and put the new shirt on immediately. It fit like a dress and his hands were completely hidden until the sleeves were rolled into thick cuffs. On the back, repeating around the cat’s head and also on the left chest, which fell around his navel, were the mysterious words “Lib” and “Tech”.

Ahmrit grabbed his old sweater off the sidewalk to the elated cheers of his friends. The man looked on puzzled, as if he had expected the shirt to augment—rather than replace—the filthy garment, but Ahmrit and company let it be known that they had no such conflict and the sweater was flung into the street: “Yhaah!” “Noowooooh!” “Meooow!” “Rawr!” they yelled.

“No good!” Ahmrit snapped, noticing the stranger’s concern. The other boys pulled on his new shirt and messed up his hair.

After the stranger left and everyone had relaxed into the doorway again, Ahmrit revealed that he and Goat had eaten with the foreigner and his family earlier—lots of food, good food—and that they’d let him pick out his own bun, and insisted that he sit down and eat with them. The owner of the bun shop had gotten so mad he tried to kick Ahmrit out twice—but the man’s mother was tough—like a tiger, Ahmrit said—and she put him next to her and yelled at him—something in Hindi.

“He doesn’t mind if we buy his food but we can’t sit on his chairs—what a bastard!”

And Goat wouldn’t even go in—he stood stomping out front like a crazy person until Ahmrit brought him a bun—a cheese one —with meat too—and that’s when this one—the stranger—had asked where he lived. And who would’ve thought he’d come back? And now tomorrow too? What would he do tomorrow?

No one slept very well.

—Or found it very easy to believe the black shirt when they woke up—but eventually it was true, and as the ghost reappeared to collect Ahmrit he was humming.

The rest of the boys followed excitedly.

The man was taking Ahmrit to buy shoes.


It was December and cold but the group warmed as they walked through the smoke from the morning’s fires and the sun rose.

“No shoe, no shoe!” one of the boys insisted, pointing to his foot, “No shoe!” Their pace was excited and it took the boy almost a block to remove his sandal, catch back up, show the stranger that it was torn and held together only by staples, put it back on hopping, and catch up again. He looked desperately at the stranger for signs that his need had been properly conveyed.

The foreigner smiled uncomfortably—and responded with words that exceeded those the boys had learned to ply their trade. Maybe he’d expect something dirty, or make Ahmrit do something. There was much speculation.

And as they walked out of the empty main drag and into the narrow maze of shops and vendors, the group’s elaborate dance—of shoes being thrown into garbage cans and recovered, boys kneeling to enhance a rip in a pair of jeans or shirt, and everyone bouncing along in general—attracted much attention before eventually settling around a shoe seller.

Ahmrit was first and in just minutes he was wearing a pair of white sneakers with purple trim—shoes for a girl really—but no one cared, and the small crowd that had gathered was much more interested in the stranger, and what was going on, and, of course, how much the vendor would get.

After being so perfectly ignored, the boys could hardly contain such attention, and as it became apparent that not just Ahmrit but maybe two or three of the boys would get shoes, the others made it their duty to show even more pathetic feet. A few going so far as to develop a limp.

A second boy was fitted, and then a third, and then the second—the boy of stapled sandal fame—took off his new shoes and put the small plastic bags they had come in on as socks. He puffed out his chest and screwed up his face like a soldier, crinkling up and down beside the vendor’s blanket to test his invention.

Ahmrit was now transformed. He spun small circles inside the amoebic mass of his merry men like wind. His bright white shoes with pink stripes and purple socks poked out below his huge cat-shirt like slippers below a moo-moo in suburban Detroit. Had anyone ever jumped any higher, run any faster? —He looked great just standing still—like a new person as long as you ignored the matted hair and dirt on his face and hands.

Ahmrit took the man’s hand and started walking, looking up every few seconds to better believe his new life. His gaze cut through the crowd.

In the tailor shop, the boy who had had ripped jeans—and not the one who had ripped his—threw his old pants in the street and did a little dance in his underwear to the riotous approval of his friends outside. The offensive jeans were quickly shredded and put in the garbage, the new pair had embroidered writing on the back pocket—just like the autorickshaw drivers.

And now as they marched they were different. Instead of stray dogs they imagined themselves natty wolves, returning to their den with a new leader—proven not by his ability to hunt or kill but to provide—and to supercede the doubts of even the most crass among them.

Out front he marched—this leader—guiding the stranger by one hand out of the market and trying to brush off the new and fantastic demands of his pack:

“Buy him a bicycle. To go see his mom—1500 rupees so he can go home!” —The late arrival of a boy who could translate had strengthened the boys’ bargaining stance. And was working away at the heart of the stranger.

“He hasn’t seen his mom for two years! She couldn’t afford him.”

“She lives close. Go with him. Tomorrow! Buy him a bike.”

The stranger was becoming harried. In contrast, the boys—one on each hand and the rest close beside—seemed to be just coming alive. They skipped and stole bananas gleefully.

“You, me—friends!” the boys demanded of the stranger, fighting for the hand not occupied by Ahmrit and dreaming furiously about what would obviously happen next.

And then, for a few minutes, no one said anything. The bananas were finished and the peels tossed looping at garbage cans and fences and birds and through the thick crowd the group cut a wake of silent joy—through the dusty road of shops and spice vendors and bicycles loaded with hundred-pound bags of onions and rice—beautiful for the confusion it provoked. It appeared that Palace Road’s street urchins had kidnapped a tourist, one who instead of fighting or calling for help simply apologized sheepishly with his eyes.

“Come tomorrow!”

“Yes, take us. Come take us tomorrow!”

“Take him with you. Take him home!” The translator was doing triple duty now and almost hoarse—speaking for not only the boys present but also the two who had broken off to throw rocks at a dog.

“You’re his father now! Give him rupees! Give him 1500 rupees so he can go home.”

“Yes, yes, yes!!” The boys chanted.

They were approaching the man’s hotel and most of the boys scattered at the sight of an oncoming guard. He shouted and feigned with his baton toward the remaining two.

“You are his father now, take him with you.”

The stranger retrieved his hand and waved off the guard but he looked weak, as if the small arm had been propping him up.

“Take him home. You can go there tomorrow. It is not far.”

The stranger began to protest —and the translator to respond, and the guard motioned to the guardhouse for some help —and Ahmrit shut his eyes.

—And wished—as hard as he had the night before for the voice to go away—for everything to be quiet now —for the guard and the boy and the descending rickshaw drivers and the traffic and the dog yelping its way off the road... —Why couldn’t everything be quiet? For one minute—? Who knew what the stranger wanted to do? Maybe introduce him to the guards so they wouldn’t get hit —or let him live in the hotel —pay the bun shop owner to give them the old bread he gave the dogs —buy him a bike or find the bus that went to his village —to see his mother. It couldn’t be much—not as much as these clothes and lunch and staying in this hotel—just don’t bug him! He’s figuring out what to do— be quiet!

Ahmrit couldn’t hear the yelling now, he was thinking of the presents he would send from his new home. How he would bring food from what must be the stranger’s enormous farm. How he would have a hat and a book bag like the kids he saw on the back of their father’s bicycles every day—a red monkey hat with a visor and a hole for your face when there wasn’t any sun and how he would ride on the man’s handlebars and watch those thin fingers ring the bell—“Get out of the way! Get out of the way!”—and make sure he didn’t fall off at the same time.

And pencils, and pens—and a blanket that was only his, and a beautiful mom to pat him on the head when he went outside. He imagined what all his friends from the village were doing, and how he’d have to catch up with them in school and what games they knew. Or maybe he’d live far away, where the kids wouldn’t know where he’d been, and wouldn’t tease him because he wouldn’t ever tell. He’d say he had lived with his aunt and worked in the fields—by Nagacourt maybe—and played with goats and they swam in a river with a huge tree hanging over it and a rope you could jump in with.

They went there after school, he’d say—after their chores were done—and if their clothes got wet they got in trouble, which always happened if you really splashed around, or a lot of friends went with you and you got thrown in —and then swam until supper.

—Which was rice with dal. With some chicken during festivals. And on your birthday.

That’s what he’d tell the new kids he met—when his hair was clean and soft and his skin was pale like the man’s hands and he’d had time to figure things out. That’s where he’d tell them he’d been.

I'll Be There

Hi everyone,

I know there're a lot of agents cruising the page at the moment, trying to discern if my book is worth the paper it would be printed upon. Lots of love to each and every one of you.

I know I can't really say it without making myself less valuable in your eyes but the book is good. I say that because I fought the bullshit that my fearful mind put in front of my fearless and loving heart at every step of the way possible. I say that because I was just channeling whatever source I have access to and I took enough naps to do it properly. Now the task is to find an agent who believes. (Or wants to get crazy rich without much work).

Since 9/11 (remember 9/11), people have been wondering what's next. What will replace our cool, ironic, jaded, youth culture. Well this is it. Warmth, honesty, desire, work and grown-ups. And it'll flower into a million blooms all over the world. I wrote it specifically to be and do that. And I believe that American literature—and maybe even world culture—can't really go anywhere without first going through The Love Artist. And if it does, they'll come back for it. Cause it's first. Deeper. More essential. Just like Led Zepplin and Eric Clapton sent everyone running for the Mississippi Delta (and our lovely city of Chi-Town).

God bless Kanye West, by the way. Do your thing, dog. Fuck 'em up. They can't touch you. I loved the song with Ms. Staples, too. The South Side's been feeling it for a minute for real, baby. Put god straight up in it! "Next time I'm in the club.... everybody's screaming out..."

My record—which is coming as soon as some of these book (or movie) folks bless me (I need money, my brothers and sisters—a loving culture requires start up capital—and then is more valuable than anything on the planet)—my record is more like mo-fo's getting up in a tight-ass church and screaming out. Where Kanye took the lower, get down energy, and put god up on top, I'm gonna take the upper, hold me Jesus, I'm afraid, energy and shovel the fucky-fucky shit up towards it. Toward the same end, but from a perspective that is sadly lacking. Cause we white folks haven't paid the dues that even the South Bronx did, that even The Marcy projects did, that even Chicago's South Side has. We haven't made ourselves vulnerable for what we really, really want. Except for van Gogh and a few standouts. Most of the rest of us are too cool. Anyway, if you've got money, I've got a way. $5 million would be perfect, but $50K would get the ball rolling. I know y'all have the scrilla, and I definitly know you want the love.

And you'll make your money back many times. We've gotta go through White Gold to get anywhere. And the chickens always come home to roost. We've got white people all over the world studying beats, clothing styles, fabric design, cultural habits, social interaction, ethnography, cooking, tool use, hunting techniques, mating rituals, beauty, dance styles, hair care and courtship—eventually we'll want it for ourself. We'll want to translate and apply what we've learned. Eventually, we'll want ourselves. We'll want to feel alive every day instead of just on trips to India.

And White Gold'll be there. So high, they can't go over it. So low they can't go under it. So wide they can't go around it. And so beautiful, lovely, warm, forgiving, vital, fun and real they wouldn't want to. It's fun people. Real life is fun.

Lots of love..


ps: My neice told my I looked like Eminem in 8 MIle on Sunday--can you smell the symbolism? I should have a business plan done in a week or two. E-mail me if you'd like a copy.

Dre sells 70 million, finds Eminem, who sells umpteen million, who finds 50 cent, who sells 11 million on his first record, who brings the G Unit--4 or 5 who have all gone platinum. This doesn't even mention D-12, NWA or Dre's other protoges (like Snoop), the clothing lines, the ringtones, the shoes. And White G is upscale—so we'll be doing Lexuses and Powerbooks as well. Rolex, Zegna, Google, Sprint, Patagonia—only the best. There is stupid money to be made. I'm looking for love artists who want to have fun and don't mind making a few milllion along the way..

Let's do this, baby!

T-LA—6

00034:409:51

By now I was slumped over with my arms tightly crossed against my stomach. The Coff-EE PL+S I had used for inspiration had dropped me off by the side of the road. —Unceremoniously I might add. I leaned forward with shortened breaths and waited for the knife of my hatred to turn outward. Surely there were enough objects passing by on which to turn my scorn: the woman across the street disabled by her eating habits, the teenagers smoking on the corner dressed like sad clowns—they were practicing styles of shooting they had seen on translator—a black guy walked by with a flesh-colored Band-Aid where his moustache would’ve been... —but it wouldn’t work. —Why the fuck did they want me dead?

—No one would smile until I had proven myself, until I had better shoes. I needed money. —To sleep —to shuttle between the meaninglessness of what I was and the nothingness of what they were —So they would mistake my movement for progress. So they could —and would —and love me, —For a day anyway, —No—fuck that—I needed a hand, a kiss —a light breath on my cheek—someone to cover me up when I rolled over —something.

I looked down, my pants were dirty from lying on the bench. I sat up and a torn envelope came halfway with me. “Jerry Ongle,” it said, “State Cost Insurance.” If I was able to cry I would have. I felt like a piece of shit—the ‘amount to nothing’ my dad’s stockbroking bitch of a girlfriend had predicted —who was she? —Barrotine?, Barovich? —yeah, that’s right —the Barowitch.. —And my hatred came down pure —like rain, —fertilizer. What joy these monsters must get when they’re right.

—And then I doubled up—and I’m sure you know this—self-hatred is nothing these days —you’ve got to hate the hate, the cliché of your own death—that no one understands but everyone knows —that the sorry-assed sap next to you had the same condition and got over it —through a series of workshops —that every bookstore has forty titles under seven bucks on it —that all the evidence is right—and it’s been figured out so well it’s on bumper stickers and you’re the one who’s fucked-up... —And not even that makes you special.

‘—Welcome to the human race, Julius.’

It smiled as it got these last digs in—this alien, this nedotykomka did—and I responded involuntarily —my face squeezing from the inside and tearing where the muscles hit the bone. I opened the notebook I had used as a pillow and found one line like a time capsule: “mouth frozen like rusted train parts”. —Not much for 24 hours —and pretty much useless in terms of money. I turned the book sideways and read my headline —and remembered copying it excitedly from the box by the Federal Building even though the same issue awaited me at home: ‘Do Cultural Factors Affect Plane Crashes?’ It meant a lot to me. And nothing to anyone else. The article had been about foreign pilots and how and if people asked questions in different places in the world, —and of course the notion of planes—the frontier of technology —millions of dollars —being crashed —people being killed —by something so arcane —Well you get the idea, —oh, and I needed a nap.

And after my nap I’d have to eat and then most of my day would be shot. —what the fuck was I doing anyway? I watched an A-couple walk laughing from their parking quad. They knew about The Little Thai Express too —So what exactly was it that I had? —Semi-gloss pants? —no. —Freedom? —Well if you count lying incapacitated on a bench instead of walking with a woman —yeah. Watching instead of being a part of, yeah —what was it—Time? Joy? integrity? the lame-ass truth? god? angels? demons? art? —how could it hurt to be poor in a town so wretched? —so crammed, —so full of absolute nothing? I swear if that woman—a sorority girl probably—grown up but barely—she probably had an annoying laugh and was bad in bed —I swear if she had stepped up right then I would have gone —would have stopped everything. —Moved, sold, washed, cologned, anything —you can see I feel better —and so must have a story somewhere —but maybe I’m still willing...

—Let it never be said that I didn’t try.

A car swung down and the door opened. I contemplated rolling off the bench or trying to make it to a wall somewhere but the absurdity of that killed me too. It’s stupid and everyone knows it: for every invisible service of our privilege—for every concierged can opener—we are indebted twice —once to the new procedure and once to disable it—“Do I lock the door?” “No they lock themselves, —put up the window and get the light.”

—There Ms. Shoe, —now you got me—corny and predictable —and half-written, too —Turned too far towards audience.., —Tone disrupted, confusing! [Underline! Underline!] Rewrite! —Probably with a Really? in there somewhere, too. —No wonder we drank all the time.


00034:517:32

Dixon was waiting for me in the alley when I got home, —oblivious to the dumpsters that slapped my olfactory nerves constantly. —Do I need to say that the landlord hated it when we used the front entrance after dark? —Dixon’s specialty was spray painting —well used to be—he was known everywhere as E-Go —but recently it seems he’s more about visibility —or hunger. —To me anyway —and he doesn’t have much control over either. Not like you’d expect from an expert. —I think the propellants exacerbated his condition —one sneeze and something sends him running —something vital to his new chemicals but in stark violation to several laws of normal physics. —With no means of regulation thus his appetite has taken over his entire nervous system.

“Hey Julius.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, just around.” He paused a corny pause. “Hey, do you have a cigarette, I mean, could I have a cigarette please?”

He rocked back and forth.

“I’m over here E-Go.”

His eyes stayed on the ground. They were opened wide.

“E-Go, I’m over here.” I put my face under his and looked up.

He looked up for a second but quickly returned his gaze to around his knees. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

“Julius, can I have a cigarette?”

“Yeah, but listen to me. —Can you listen to me?” I hate it when I say shit like that.

“Yeah. I can.” His voice got small.

“Well listen, you can’t wait for me in here—so close.” I motioned with my hands meaning the alley. “I’ve told you this a million times —it’s getting kind of old. You can’t stand in here and wait for me and you can’t bug people coming in here. If you come to see me and I’m not here you have to go and come back later. Or wait around the block. —D’you understand?”

He gave a slight indication.

“Alright, —come on. —Have you been taking your medication?”

“Sure. —Oh, I was Julius. But my doctor told me not to for a while.” I turned around and he showed his small teeth. “He said it was fogging up my head. He said that when he went to the hospital there was a horse behind the curtain, and they had to give it medication because it was dying…”

“—Hm...”

“—And he told me not to come back, my doctor told me not to come back for a while. —That’s what horses do, Julius, they give them a shot when they’re gonna die —just like people when they’re gonna live.” He rocked on his heels and seemed pleased with his answer. I smiled toward his chest—amused but not wanting to agree to his face. “And sometimes the same needle is on the tray —and sometimes...”

“—Okay Eegs, okay. I know, just remember what I told you.”

“What?”

“What’d I just tell you?”

“—Whad’you just tell me?”

I tried not to laugh. “I told you, that if you come here—and wait for me —if you stay for very long —well, even if you stay for a short time—the cops’ll come and they won’t like us. Remember?”

“The cops don’t like us...”

“Well, when they have to come here and talk to us they don’t —and if they do, I might have to move. —Do you understand?”

“I never stay here for a long time, Julius. I never will, —or do —I guess. —I never do that.”

We stood silent for a moment—me to let it sink in and him because he knew he had to to get a cigarette. He rocked gently and bit his lower lip —he was a mess really —wearing high-water pants with a ridiculous number of shirts tucked in. He seemed to quiver—and the whole mess was covered by a v-neck sweater with no sleeves and a long loose-knit scarf. —Light blue primarily.

He was wearing socks as shoes —tube socks covered with the type of footies you’d get in a hospital or on a long JAL flight. The right one, on his left foot, was holed to uselessness, —it looked like a spat, spats? —a spat?

“—Damn, E-Go, you don’t have any shoes!?”

He looked down consciously as if he had not already been staring at his feet. There was a plastic bag of wet clothes next to the dumpster, —and unmentionable stains.

“I don’t know.” —He tried half-heartedly to make it a question.

“—Where are your shoes?”

“I don’t have them. They didn’t fit.”

They did fit “—They did fit E-Go —what’d you do with them?” —little of my fondness for him was left.

“Can I have a cigarette, Julius?” He moved his feet up and down.

“Yeah, —let me go get one. I’ve got a pack upstairs.” I opened the door and went in and closed it deliberately behind me. —Every time E-Go opens his mouth people like him less. I guess it’s no surprise he doesn’t talk much.

—I ate dinner with him once and crazy shit came out of his mouth. He talked about his father and kings coming from other planets on chariots and shit. —It all wove together into one thing for me.

I made it back downstairs and he was still there, his nose pecking forward like a pigeon. “Here you go. You can smoke it in the loading dock but don’t smoke it in the alley, okay? And smile if you want. —It wouldn’t kill you.” —I hate it when I say shit like that, too.

“I will.”

“And what size are your feet Eegs?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“They’re pretty big.” He bit a tiny portion of his lip between his eyeteeth.

“They’re pretty big,” I repeated.

He walked over and leaned against the edge of the loading dock. It was a yellow piece of metal dented and scratched by years of long-gone trucks. E-Go lit his cigarette and stood smoking with one arm across his stomach holding his other elbow. The other hand held the prized cigarette, —his snorkel to a world of relief beyond.

“What’re you doing now E?” —He had frustrated me so much I had forgot I had nothing to do.

“I don’t know. —Nothing?” His last word was small. But then he smiled, “—smoking a cigarette?” —and laughed what was for him a big laugh. “Oh, and I have something for you.” He checked a few pockets and pulled out a piece of folded paper.

“What is it?”

“Just something I found. I know you’re into that weird shit.”

—Schizophrenia, I just heard on the radio, is a solid evolutionary fact, —not a mistake. —Nothing survives without biologic approval. E-Go is the one, who five-thousand years ago, would have heard voices —and wandered off alone. One in a thousand E-Gos would find a new grassland—or valley —or the sea —well, assuming he was the right race he would have—and the rest of him would have died. —A thousand years ago he would have been entrusted with visions and medicine. Back a hundred and he’s burning at the stake. —And today? —shit, —today he’s just another piece of shit that can’t be fit. —Or won’t be fixed—I swear without salt peter we’d all be animals—this shit’s too fast for genetics —So now everyone talks medication. And lives without knowing.

I unfolded what he had given me. It was legal sized—Xeroxed on one side and had been stapled to something exposed to at least two rainstorms. The yellow paper was headlined “A TRUE WRITTEN STATEMENT by MOHAMMED AL-BEIN” and was illustrated by copies of the author’s antiquated INS and Social Security cards. Underneath was a photo booth picture of Mohammed standing with his arms crossed. The statement detailed Mohammed’s travails. It seems he had been incarcerated against his will in Massachusetts where he had been forced a truth serum that the FBI used to make him disclose the details of his knowledge: baseball bats, monkeys in aluminum hats, wildfires, —a Secret Service agent in brown shoes punched him as he was approached by the President and his penis had been injected with germs to change his gender. His face was placed on the translator as a sign of impending havoc; armies of rats were being trained to deliver single words of a scrambled code through the sewers; he was being chased for an expired sexual harassment case for which he was entitled $40,000; the trainer at a marina in Florida had hidden certain films in a fish fed to a whale who was then released into the wild and now desperately tracked by Mohammed—in his cigarette boat (built from a kit to resemble a Scarab)—by the FBI, and by several monkeys—all because Mohammed had refused to send a handbag to his mother overseas that had had its lining replaced with boiled cocaine. And they had tapes of him fighting with the mayor.

It ended with the following paragraph:

“I arrived in [city] in July, [year] where Community Standards Agents took my image and made an animal of it. They took all my other images and turned them into gay people and food. They took my soul away from me, the light out of me, the brain cells out of my head and stopped my normal brain functions, trapping me in a doll. The Messiah wanted me to be his son and ordered me to be King of this country. The U.S. Government burned some of the Messiah’s and the Father’s people. Others they turned into half-men, half-women and chopped off their legs and their tongues. They have put people inside translators, turned people into audio tapes and wild animals and people have been reborn from their asses. People have been buried on the moon and hooked into a space satellite. They have taken people of graves [sic], burned them and treated them like guinea pigs. I am in this world from another world that has been burned... and I am the only one who can save this world before it is too late.

“DISCOVER IT”

“—This guy’s crazy!” E-go smiled.


[sung] It seems so long ago, none of us were very strong/Nancy wore green stockings and slept with everyone—


I breathe the land of my city. The scrapers that darken as they rocket skyward conduct telluric currents that appeal to the modern gaps between my nerves. A sunbeam tucked between two monoliths grows more somehow —instead of an unfolding over years and across plains clutched by mountain ranges every day offers a full spectrum of potential. Days and weeks then, and seasons and years. And with the anonymity of a crowd even the love we crave is hidden deliciously in plain sight. We see, we see we see but are forever thwarted—delicious confusion multiplies into its own reason; feedback, then distortion —becomes more pure and golden than AM radio. Living among so many lost souls—every one a silent prophet, a missionary angel bound and gagged... —just as concrete is too many tiny sharp rocks to cut our feet, the city is too many tiny jabs to hurt. —To uncover the broken fingers, the bleeding ulcers and chronic inflammations that keep us comfortable and quiet, to expose them all at once is to go insane. To feel the relinquished potential of even one mature heart breaks the mind. I was not floating mid-room at all, but had deliberately chosen a life below the floorboards, protected from all those careless feet of eyes.

—But to learn this is nothing either, nor to say it. My heart cares little for the appetite of my busy ears and eyes. They will follow anything that moves—they ascribe meaning to certain pens and public transportation —only silence appeals to my salvation—the explosion that will rocket these floorboards into at least a peephole. I still love my fetishes—the slow flipping of my city’s magazined pages—I just want to taste their lasting root, that’s all.

“—When thought is closed in caves, then love will show its root in darkest hell.” —Where Blake may have meant a warning I see opportunity—to a people trapped at the top—backwards perfectly —monochrome and safely getting paler, who can think on anything... —I can imagine nothing better. —So close off my impotent words and let me realize the scrape of violence they have mediated…

I asked E-Go if he wanted to hear a story.

He did.

T-LA 5, Baby! More Proof that There's Love All Around Us

00034:321:53

“Heeey, that’s my cigarette!”

A dirty man I hadn’t noticed had been following the man just in front of me, waiting for him to finish his cigarette and drop it.

“What?”

“You just stepped on my cigarette!” He was angry—but resigned—and pushed his fists into the arms of his wheelchair.

“Sorry, man—just walking.”

“Eh, now it’s all flat and. . . eaoaohh, shit!” He picked up the cigarette and rolled it between his fingers to bring it back to life.

“I wouldn’t smoke that if I were you.”

“Why, d’you got any?” He looked up hungrily.

“Uh, sure..., —here.”

“Thanks, could I have two?”

The man smiled.

I handed him another. “Merry Christmas.”

“And could you spare any Rats, man? Me and my partner are tryna make it happen til the 15th. —We’r...” He looked over his shoulder towards his partner —playing bongos on coffee cans in front of the Grinchy Mart. I gave him a small coin and immediately he broke into an unsuppressed grin and started to beat box for my amusement —Lee Dorsey it sounded like.

The look of these men for one cigarette, like a shattered mirror waiting —poised for its next grin. —A forty—Country Club probably—will find the business end of that face, and where they’ll end up I’ve heard from my dad. He almost killed one of them one night. —After they’ve gotten everything they can from the flats they head for the neighborhoods with hills. —Bent forward, with clown-sized bottles between their knees—sloshing like ballast, I imagine—they push themselves up. —Slowly, aching. Achingly. —Up the neighborhood streets past the cemetery—past the school, past the people inside watching TV and the basketball courts that are useless to them—past everything in eleven-inch grunts. —And I understand I think —it’s not that it’s fun—or even what they want… —but an imperative of more amoral origin.

Up top they pant —and before anything can settle—or form troubling thoughts—they take one last pull from their warm, flat beers and throw them up—towards the air —to be acted upon by the exact laws of physics that—should she choose to use them—would apply to an Ann Taylor housewife. —Each one would be smiling by now—and a slight whistle coming off the bottle’s mouth —and they’d push—coasting toward the buttered windows that line their route—routes?—route. —And just as they look as if they’ll come to rest, or are in slow motion, the torpedoes hit and the sound of breaking glass animates two drunken grins. Their bodies go straight and their hands push—always pushing—the huge wheels forward—with both comradery and fear dispelled by the nagging pump of intent. Intent. Intent.

As the hill picks up, the chairs swing wide to make the corners —and the men are invisible —if anyone could get to the window fast enough, they would see nothing; —and any noise would be blocked by the wind, or a radio set to the game. —And the men start to fill again —with their stumped hands and withered, useless legs and horrible faces —with tears erasing dirt down the stubble-filled ruts in their cheek... —And they jockey for position:

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you!!”

“No, fuck you!” they both laugh—swerving with abandon and cutting each other off. —They’ve given up for the far side of belief —for stupidity and recklessness —and fear and loathing —where all direction is one, and motion is feeling —everything’s the same —and position is velocity and matter is spirit and God is dead —and you thank him you’re alive, —or it doesn’t matter, or unless, —or until... —and then maybe you remember —or you do—and then the Fall, Christianity, Islam, —Yahweh —deserts and famines—desserts—and spears and blunt clubs, fires —or if not —and not —or if nothing —and you stick the landing —then buddha, nothingness, green paddies and jungle—sharpened bamboo stakes —sweet rice—dessert again —Everything —with a smile and it’s gone —yesterday, and...

—It depends on cars, of course, and my dad behind the wheel, and the landing—well, everything—but belief mostly. —And for a minute everything stops shaking.

And there’re more galaxies than humans in the world.


If I had more courage I’d still do it too. Not the wheelchair—I’d do that anyway—but the fucked up, the trying to kill.. —on the hill —or to die—to make something happen. —I know why every drunk—every junkie and abusive father does it. —Does what destroys. In a way they have higher standards than the rest of us: they refuse to budge and eventually break themselves for an incompatible world. —The wrong way, of course —the strip club is the monastery is the water is the smack —yeah, of course, —but you do have a soul. And it is nice to be alive to enjoy it.

Like these men, I spent years hammering my world. For every inch my gut dropped—every inch I was betrayed—I would kill off another block —burn another newspaper, ruin another life. The planet I’d been born to was all wrong. —I held truths! —glorious truths, otherworldly truths—and ones I quickly learned no one else believed. I was determined, though, —was —to show my parents, my teachers—my books—how wrong they were. And as they tried to beat this tender flame I fought back with a persistent campaign of my own —and when I ran out of world, I hammered myself. —I didn’t want to be alone; and if I was to be ruined at least it would be by my own hand. To this day doing the wrong thing still feels right to me. Where I see graffiti it means kids are settling a corner that didn’t want them born. —‘Everything owned, —sorry.’ My eyes search impulsively for marks on handrails and dark, stained, and slick-waxed curbs —marks of secret life, —secret lives. The world and your heart are incompatible; this is not a cliché. And just as life demands death, so is freedom a sacrifice. The sacrifice. —But those who cannot swallow such lumps must pulverize first —the drunk breaking his world, the monk breaking himself —and the busyman, —like most citizens, doing a little of everything —a little desire, a little progress, a little medication or ’tation—whatever’s convienient—trying to moderate whatever feels worst. —But for those who break nothing, and who past the age of twelve attempt to build a world of reconciled wholes, we have few words, the most descriptive being lunatic.


00034:344:17

I have a painful zit to the left of my navel. It is the pinprick of her disbelief I’m sure. Just before she discarded me she tried to crush my wings, giggling twice that she couldn’t say it, couldn’t say it, and then dropped the shit once I left my relative shelter to assure her it was okay: “—I think you like the idea of writing,” she said, wriggling, and stuck it in deep where it splintered —like little corkscrews of syphilis invading. I should’ve left right there. Or maybe two months before. —That I didn’t, that I didn’t kill—or move, or budge or fuck her even—but waited a few dumb minutes and rolled over on top of her and kissed her was proof —proof that I had made her my god. —And the horsemen were coming.

I believed her even—kind of—I knew from the start, but what could I do, tell her my plan? That things fall apart? Admit that I liked the idea of her, the idea of life? That I’ve been raised on a TV set to porn? —That I’d give it up if I could? She has a child and every right to disbelieve. Shit, I was starting to disbelieve at the time myself —I wanted her—a family, sweatshops, Wal-Mart, —weekends, newspapers, two cars, a lawn —I didn’t fucking care. —I knew what I didn’t want: to be alone, —in the woods, fawning over moss and chilled epiphany—bivouacked at 26,000 feet for the fucking view. Yeah, I know it’s a mountaintop—but I want the shit it’s supposed to be about —to reflect and inspire —to define! I want the real shit —to leave and explore —to come back—the golden shit —the haaa-tcha —the bling-to-the-motherfucking-back-that-ass-up-bling, bling —all of it! I... —well, —more than anything —I, —ahh, fuck, my chemicals are off. I can’t see —I inhabit a dream of naked possibility, of comfortable choices —deadly —and dreadfully. Which is why I’ve done what I’ve done —to make something real —I need a philosophy—a great religion maybe—written—no spoken—by mothers, passed down through daughters, translated by grandmas. Enough of the death cult shit —all this shit about men. —How much theory—how much freedom —how many books about loneliness can a baby take? —How much fear and expectation would I erase from my darling mom? —(Hi Mom) —What about the fucking life we have?!

—what was I...? Oh, —The, pinprick? yeah, —disbelief, fear—whatever—injected at exactly the spot reserved for the sacred self, where women and god overlap transparently and into everything—or anything—and is held up only by my ability to keep my mind. To stay separate. To ignore the sweetest fruit—my sweet—and, of course, exactly where I come to live —to write.

> > >

The phone just rang. Fuck, —god, go away. She can’t call me now. Aren’t there conventions about this shit? Please god,

Please.

Don’t let her call me now.


00034:348:19

—And I wish there were anything else to redeem my failure. I wish there was anything but empty or full. I’ve gotten it a few times, —Once maybe, but not so it’d pay the bills. My heart aches for leaves as they wither and plunge from the branch, for cars as they pass and songs as they end. I feel as though I’ve never been touched —and only by admitting this cringe of a fact does some small wave of relief creep down my back. And this, my friends, is why I’m here—to see off this half-truth that infects my walls —the hideous irony that I cannot be—and to place it tenderly at your feet—an offering, stillborn —of what I don’t know—so that empty I could never fill the same up; so that full I’d never empty again —this is my hope and pretentious desire.


00034:427:41

But I should tell you a bit about myself first. —My name is Julius and I’m thirty-three years old.

Like all post-modern creations (—how it kills me to be after —always after) —Like all post-post whatevers, I am unremarkable without explanation. I don’t pretend to have done anything radically different and I can’t claim to be effective or prolific. What I do possess, however, is an explanation—one that surpasses life itself —one that turns my barren past into future possibility —a reason for life itself —and one worth my death. —I tell myself that this is the mark of humanity, but you’ll be the judge, I’m afraid. —As for myself, I feel nothing—all I’ve ever wanted was to create more than I consumed —to find one important thing —and like any sane man I would trade it all for a love that lasts overnight. —At these lofty goals I have failed miserably, but on my way out can see perhaps a glimpse of light.

I was raised to get over but have an absolute negative inclination to do so. My people got land grants and ran shit with whipped slaves. They hooked up wagons and set off for Shangri La —West. They kept moving—kept chopping—kept shooting their way —West toward the rising sun —towards land, water, and freedom or death —The Best Coast, Manifest Destiny in a bottle—freedom, fresh air and fun—it hurts to be inside —my corpuscles thirst for dreams, uncertain air, hate what lies before them. I am purebred for dissatisfaction and thirst.

But three thousand years is a lot of control, and these valves are worn clear through. Only a thin plaster—even parts cowardice and faith—keeps my still blood blue —and standing on the shore looking at waves. And everything may crumble on my watch. —I’m tired. —Live tired. And barely understand why.

With my extravagant youth I imagined I would spin a more beautiful bureaucracy—that I would craft more exuberant tools and forge better genes and memes for the people, but eventually found in myself no sympathy for the future, and even less for what they called help. Help? Help!? —I needed them! I wanted a world more Sugar Hill—more PE and Eric B., more Bollywood and bangra. —More Dogtown —downhill—siesta —Bomb the fucking Suburbs, Yo! I wanted something to wear and my own food and a town square where I could ask old men questions and even more I wanted to admit—a place to admit —to stand up and scream even—to be able to stand up and scream—or talk even—among the deafening silence of sewn mouths: ‘I don’t want to be dirty or depressed or dead! I refuse the options provided! I don’t want a punk or a pig! I want life—something besides paved corpses and shit behind auto glass—shatter-proof, non-collar —A place to sit and first-person people first!’ —But no one was listening. —Or we pretended we weren’t but actually everyone was and we all had another and woke up the next morning. —Or I said okay and marched slightly slower and forgot how to cry and made my jokes more crass and less jokes. —I’m condensing months and months and painful years of course—high school, the cult of college, old Greek gods misappropriated, a million starts, vacant gropes of sex, etc.—but I know you understand. —I know. Only if it weren’t true would it need explanation.

—It was upon this gradually glaring realization, or possibly despite it, that I perfected the black arts that have brought me my slight notoriety: light conversation, creative medication, busywork, poshlust, exotic product relocation. I did and excelled at them all. At one point, in fact, I thought I could string enough of them together to make it work—but this, to my peril, was false.

—Anything that could push me an hour closer to my relaxing death I chased like a lover. And here may lie the only reason you can stand me now: I am not the truth but its cartooned pimp—a cock-smiled salesman.

Remember that.

> > >

In my darkest hour, upon the complete collapse of my first expectations, believe me when I say I did it all and I’ll spare you the American drunk story. —I absorbed pain for others so they could better ignore mine. I turned myself inside out with bottle caps and tabs—promising that if I could not live the truth of my birth, then I would cleanse the world with the fire of its own brutal horror. —At the time I thought it would be my salvation, too—that by broadcasting my own bile—my own hatred—I could find some peace —or get a piece at least—but just as Satan believes in Jesus, so must a dropout worship success. Upside-down and backwards I tried to erase my stain from this planet, I couldn’t out-bad myself. It doesn’t work. I tried consumption, I tried hate, I tried mutilation and denial. —All the costumes and labels and scripts in the world left me nothing but more deeply fucked—precipitating the longest and quietest scream of my life—a complete chemical collapse of a five-year plan. I tried to ignore it as I had the rest—as I mentioned I have no real ambition—but I was weak—too much of a coward—and unable to erase either—either myself or the world around me. And so I backed. And backed. And backed and backed and backed and backed and backed. For five years I pushed away, and for five years I was alone. And every time I mustered the courage to look the dirt was closer around my neck. And closer, and closer—until the shadow of my handgun in the bottom drawer cast a dark pain over the whole flat. It became not a question of why—everyone knows why—but one of how and when. My whole life boiled down to a few final promises I had made before the crash. (If you ever get to it, promise to go out as radically as you-naked-in-a-surgeon’s-rubber-gloves came in: with a squirt gun in a bank or on a camel in Yemen—anything but worship the boredom that did you in).


[00034:352:19 to 00034:358:30 missing]

00034:358:31

And what is love if not sorrow exposed? Both are empty and transparent like a hand in natural repose. When the first reveals its scars and missing fingers, the second cannot help but grasp—to help —to hide it —to love its wrinkles so deep and dry that even the birds have flown on.

The distance between the two is not far today, but today is a good one —an inclination, a belief—this distance—the most meaningful sliver in history... —If only the ground itself would move, —so we could have again the second without the first —and would find eggs finally—and nests—in the green, green eruptions of wealth held aloft for so long. We could grow while alive instead of hatching full-formed and dying like babies. We could wrestle sorrow and stomp upon our victories. —But it would be lonely.


00034:359:28

I dropped down to each station to buzz the waiters and hangers-out, —to see if I knew anyone. It’s pretty common —well, you know —if you grew up on this side of the bridge you do—eventually the computer hooks up everyone with the same destination. —You get unhooked for stops, of course, but the hope is that the power of the pattern brings like-minded riders together. It ’s the Tao T’ching meets Egyptian astrology or something. —solar boats, Sun Ra—shit like that. —Some kids race but I just like the travel —It’s comfortable —being nowhere and somewhere at once. Sometimes you’ll see a friend sitting at a stop or hear them on the intercom and get off and hang out or take a ride together, but the best is just motion —being gone —leaving and going someplace. Transportation is about possibilities after all—a fact which doesn’t change just because you’re locked in a rusting forty mile grid.

While travelling is when I cultivate my most modern mindset—and usually do my best work. As I mentioned my span is damaged so a little motion turns me on like a rocking cradle. Even now I can hear the worn rubber wheel pla-aping from side to side in the track, —turning corners and straightening back out. —And it wakes me like my mother on the first day of school:

‘Juuu—lius, ...Juu-lius,’ (—always my first name twice). ‘Get up honey, it’s time to go to school.’

—And most importantly, it provides enough fear —you’ve got to admit they are always just about to break —just enough fear to clear away the knot of my long-term condition and aim me back towards my skin. You can’t feel as much while you’re moving and it gives the brain plenty of cud to chew—plus the illusion of progress. —The scientists say that since Liberation we’ve become a class of emotionally hyper wrecks. It may be true but I think I do a little to keep from jelling out altogether —a little action keeps my brain clear.


00034:403:12

Sometimes I think I may go off the grid like them. Every major religious figure has done the same. Gautama, —Jesus did, Mohammed did —and they were just three of millions, —who traded tales of bare feet for a bowl of rice and some company. For seeing. —And now they’re.. . [tape damaged]

—But I’m willing to admit that my purification may have limits as long as I’m dependent on the state, and in some sense my family’s historical largesse. Still, you must understand the attitude towards these people. No one wants to contribute to someone who has taken themself off the knob of the state.

—Would you cross the street to thwart a suicide attempt? can anyone. . [garbled] .? I [garbled] that is why I do my job.

> > >

I had jobs and excelled at them. I had women and made them love me. I did what I was told and brought it all back home to nothing until my considerable efforts at isolation and hatred blossomed into the wormhole I inhabit today: a circus of honest losers and already broken lives held back together with silvery webs—beautiful like my empty hands. This I prefer.

As a disturbed dropout at the start of my downward career, I considered the enlightenment of those on the other side of the wall my duty. I would make them see what I had been forced to by virtue of my birth, by overtuned antennae—make them see—no, feel —Crush their superficial optimism and pride. —But more often than not, my work—and much of it was good—was informed more by loneliness and depression’s burnt ladder than any muse or higher source. —What, after all, has half a man to say? So I disguised my questions as proclamations, —and got loud —everyone does —and more and more violent until I feared I would kill myself to be heard.

—And then it hit—the idea that would end all ideas, the one that would certainly lead to something concrete: I would love—no more, no less. Like the modern masters I would be undiscovered in life and my death would send historians scrambling to reconstruct the story of my corpse. Like Vincent, —like Fernando...

All the time I had tried to inflict my ego’d view of the world on the unfortunate victims of my abuse they had gone away with nothing but entertainment—a prettier hatred. A song about dictatorship is never about love, in fact, love rarely wants a song at all—in stark contrast to all the blather you hear on translator these days. —My sick people I would inject with a slow-acting, ineffective, and instead-of-asking-for-it-myself care and attention.

I would go first.

I had found the perfect medium, unco-optable and in massive synchrony with all spheres, material; rings, crystal; and ethers.., —ethers. I had fused secular biology and divine physics. —The grand unification theory. Once I was dead and my transmission complete, a million imitators, my army of proof —all hungry for lovely recognition—would replicate my chemical combination into a virtual health. The fact that I had given up my life and said nothing would convince even my deepest detractors. —I had lived!

“I tried!” I would yell from my will, for all those with authentic axes to see. All I needed was a device, a mechanism to catch a few sympathetic ears on my way out —a way to explain what I had done and why —to point people in the right direction.

“—Oh, I remember that guy.”

“—Yeah, I found a drawing on the bus once,” they would say, or “—There was a stick of gum...,” and thus they’d know it all went together, that it was conscious and constructed ahead of time instead of random and listing. —And then would the carpenters of crap see that this pathetic unshaven mope with the pom-pom hat and fake shades was taking up space for a reason; —that I carried my own sun! —that I did need to see! —that I wasn’t after their precious spare change at all but wore old shoes specifically —for them! —So they’d have something left if they tired of superhighway. —that I pioneered! —that I gave it all up to pan for soul! —White soul—white hot soul! —Maybe they’d even sell jeans with my picture on them—knee deep, of course—nothing but skin and bones —before I’d struck it rich! —Of course! —once I was dead —once I had made it back to the East Coast with my bullion and new suits—oh, what parties we’d have —and people could once again take credit for raising their kids, they’d have pages and pages encouraging them to drop the career and keep the marriage —let mom live out her final years at home. —Oh, that they’d find my trunk like Pessoa. —A hidden martyr to the cause, underground, like a rabbit warren of real life—I was alive the whole time! —Behind these eyes, this not yet ready for prime-time brow, and lip... —and then a living room with no translator would be a symbol of culture —radical chic! —Boom for motherfucking real, motherfucker! And then, —and then hundreds of thousands of aspirational tweests would shun logo T’s for bumpy suits and garlands —anything else —Anything! —and be secure in the knowledge —that only mood matters. —And I would be reacquainted with the knowledge I had lost on my birth —and could see once and for all if this was really all a joke as they said. —And the street kids and punks would pose as bible students door-to-door to tell parents everywhere that all we wanted was a half an hour. —Go tell Aunt Rhody! —Ahhh, and thus would the anti-Warhol spread like a dream cancer…

So for years I toiled underground. Dressed like a Mormon I put make-up on ladies in old folks’ homes. I did math so kids could play in the street. I ran errands and cooked meals. —I’d skateboard loud downtown to let loose the tight-faced yellers, I washed motorboats and carried packages of crack, —I hid guns for gangs, meowed outside windows and stayed off private property, joyrode with drunk teenagers —got hit by cars. —Anything I could do to flip the script I’d do —anything for you —anything to make you happy, —anything to lift even one eyebrow or peek under the brimstone of consternation in this city of perpetual constipation —wave at babies of frightened mothers, leave candy on the bus so people’d wonder for a second—if they should eat it —mind my own business, go out of my way, do nothing —neurotic, angry, happy, sad—anything I could think of I did. —Whatever you wanted.

I bought and threw out everything I could.

And for a time it worked, people seemed content and my job gave me joy. As long as I was formulating new theory or getting in deeper or more clever hooks, I was fine. But once I exhausted myself to routine—as my pipes and tubules stiffened -—as my chemicals diluted—once I realized I could never make a chair and sit at the same time—a familiar certainty returned to my head —familiar and disgustingly comfortable..

“–Show ’em, don’t tell ’em!”

—That’s Ms. Shoe, my 11th grade English teacher. The one who thought I copied that paper on Faulkner. —Well fuck you Ms. Shoe—if you’re still alive that is. Fuck Faulkner too, although he’d probably have the courage to ask at least —to look me in the eye instead of snipping and in-sin-u-a-ting —and giving me the “D” —withholding while still holding, and shooting me those fucking looks —and planning on using anyway... —‘But I tolerate many forms of di-vers…’ —Well, fuck that! —Fuck that shit! —I didn’t copy it! —I didn’t read it either, —but I didn’t fucking copy it.

—And bullshit for bullshit for bullshit for bull...

—Another victory for modernism!

The Love Artist—4

00034:307:13

But I didn’t mean to show you both sides right away. It’s immature, I know, the sign of a shortened span —and’ve no real right to be heard. But what else? —What else my dear recovering modernists? my little pre-presentists? —my post-person, post, post —post office modernians? —Überlectuals of the Left Coast. —What my sweet and lovely Intimists? Who else has the courage to cut his own throat—out of love and not hate? —to die every day in the same shit? —With no knowledge of rebirth? —Nowhere even. Where are the monks combusting over raped and pillaged dreams? —disturbed feathers of humanity’s spoiled intentions? Eyeballs? Dirt even! Where are my fucking people? My fuckin peeps! —The Political Action Committee Pioneers!? I know you’re ready for the technicians to be gone, for everything to take a backseat—for the experts to die of their own disease —but who’s ready to incubate the new germ!? —To stop killing and let wilt from inattention? To plow under and ignore for nitrogen alone? You didn’t think we’d live in space did you? —Sneaky liberals! I breathe on my fingers for time, I don’t know what it is—correct sequence, right combination—I only know what I had, what I have, —that I’m homesick as fuck, and fuck... —and movement’s a must. —My muscles and weak heart protest of course, —flailing wildly to keep up —I want slow, I want slow myself: rest, —stop —Fuck —but there is but one life—and that, my dear, is one of action—flailing, sloppy, corny action.

> > >

And so I remember—and disserve my heart to go on—my love has left me, my father dead, and I, —I walked the streets alone. But tonight I can’t, —am confused, couldn’t—the grief was for me! I remembered, yes, thank god, I remembered —I remembered I can scratch Post-it notes if she must kill me off in her —withdraw from me her geometric thighs and diamond smile —thwart my tongue and reflected guts. That I can plaster fire hydrants with the graffiti that litters India: ‘Children are my god’! —That I can erupt into the pure night itself if there is no love nor knowledge to pass down. Listen to Orpheuss: ‘Throw it out like you did for her, open your arms to the wind’ —my loop is not closed now—is more abstract and grand—my chemicals leap and spill without cause like blood released from the censorship of a loving vein.. —I remember her tongue held a dent and I pulled without mercy kisses from her face—hard, copious, greedy; greedy in covering each breast and her glorious stomach, ears and shaped cheeks like Polynesian water, Wine. —and what gave me joy—and what gives it now—was that I could! Not how she felt! Not that I was! —That I could! That I could! —O, that I can! That I can. I can. —And will, —my pail has been withdrawn, yes, become larger, yes, —more ugly and rusted—yes and yes—but no one arrests this torrent save me. My target is frustrated, my loop more abstract—of course!, yes! —to keep me human —to keep me pure —yes —it’s not as warm when I bathe—yes, lovely —everything, yes —Yes!—but I don’t have to shut it down! —Let her cry and wonder what right we had to stop such lovely singing—it’s bask or freeze up in this motherfucker!:

I remember, too, the first time I realized it might take my whole life. A different woman, of course—all the vowel my consonant—my constant—ass needed —she was gorgeous, soothing, whip-smart; Fly.

—Okay, she wasn’t soothing, but that’s the price you pay for alive these days —which soothes me —it’s not right I know—but her laugh was the kind you believe in a photograph, the kind with rounded edges and wrinkled eyes that you look over one day at and realize that everything turned out okay. —Which I seem to vastly prefer to the stillborn, the underwater—the like me—and learning how to walk and indefinitely, maybe, —well, whatever —shit.

Watching her I winced—frozen—I had to shut one eye to operate. For less movement she got more—further. And her grace gave nothing to the desire and envy she was forced to live within—that surrounded her in hearts and with loaded eyes. —Effect was none her business —so pure was her cause.

I met her before I knew any of this, though, and in retrospect it’s easy to see —what to see —She liked me, and every tale I told touched her more deeply and elicited a slight purr. I thought it would be all I could do to step up —to meet demand; but here, Dear Reader, I will bear your scorn I’m afraid, for it is here that I admit that she, the woman with whom I start—well almost start—my greatest effort neither left nor wronged me. —She never even kissed me back. My lips touched her cheek once—like a goodbye kiss in black and white after a stumbling attempt on my part to say goodnight like I meant it.

I had asked her—a huge mistake in my business—but it was after what had been a great ride —She had been the one flirting, and grabbing at stop lights —who put her hands in my pockets, talking into my helmet—what’s a man supposed to do?

I screwed up my courage and asked her: “D’yu wanna kiss?” —“Do you want to kiss?” “Do you want a kiss?” I later understood I could’ve asked better, or that if you have to ask...

But shit, if I was an asshole we could have at least gotten drunk and wrung some hurt out rough —this shit means nothing to me, though—living like a pedestrian dreaming of cars. —I know exactly what I’d do tonight, though —and it is nice to have someone there sometimes, just to hold your hand —even if it is just another Friday night. I don’t do Friday nights usually, Saturday night either really, I like the day to day stuff, —Sunday morning —now there’s a construct.

—“D’yu want’a kiss?” I was trying to ask her if she wanted to kiss. —Trying to be straight—she was the one who had called back and asked if I wanted to get dinner too! —but she shrugged, —blushingly, unknowingly —got caught and pointed to her cheek. Oh, humiliation, —is this why no one’s sober?, why we’re all alone? —“Do you want a kiss?” —I realized too late she had heard that. “Do you want a kiss?” —and she did, kinda, maybe —later —undecided, whatever —but I was wrecked. I reached my dry and sorry lips over to where her finger had touched, had pointed —the joy of our ride—all of my pride —the world of open possibilities gone now, the excitement of spring rotting in gutters like leaves. —Time to get out the ladder.

So I pecked her cheek at the ordained spot and took off. —First; second; third; uhhhhg —I knew what she’d wanted and what she’d had, —what lays burning and latent on every riverbank under the fucking sun—but what was I to do?! I’m human, too, —too human.

> > >

She inquired later of my neighbor about me —like a sleepwalker inquires about the night. Called and hung up. I don’t know, she’s fine—but I believed—believe!—and this is my problem —am blind. —Willingly, —and willfully. She caught me so open she may not even remember herself—and any single other who pretends to be a man would never cop to such nothingness—such blatant stupidity—let alone immortalize it—but I can do nothing else—have nothing else —no car, no promotion, no raise, no vacation—vocation—no woman, no child, no property, no book, IPO, no story, no time —if you tell me one lie I believe it to death. And when I learn it’s a lie I believe you still—your mouth and your teeth and your air anyway —that you said it —that you were there, and alive —with me and no one else.. —every day is real to me now, and every minute—every breath of thought—my entire life. Everything gets figured from scratch —chucked and reinvented, day after exhausting, empty, stupid day —and still I’m wrong! —Not one nagging inclination brought on by a soup commercial or missed meal gets left aside, and not one pined for breast—behind cashmere, under collarbones —around corners or getting into cars —not one soft cheek can be luxuriously ignored. To believe it all—from dandruff to the Department of Transportation—to be one minute closer with the hopes of reflecting back—anything —before the apocalypse—the Rapture—anything before now —this is the job I hold and lose twice a day, look for under rocks, am on call for between meals—get out of bed at four in the morning for —seven long-ass days a week; or one ripe second only —This!


00034:314:22

My city was treating me well and I slowed to work my sorrow into an enjoyable fetish. —That elusive keyhole. —I once longed for it—I ate for it, smoked for it, drank for it, and fucked for it. The city wants its pain over fast, there’s no place for it, it’s like being with an audience —or part of an audience—an unforgiving one—all the time. Mistakes are not treated kindly. The countryside (it still exists, right?)—like most monks I imagine—lays its shit bare—to rot on the side of the road. It’s got the land and doesn’t have the money. I’m beginning to realize it’s all about land. —About ghosts and chemicals and talk of merit and grain. I’m city born and bred but am getting buried by the sun. I’ve never needed happiness or even necessarily fun and maybe this’ll be my escape but contentment is what I will not do without. I know why people settle for glamour —it’s too thin for me, though, I’m methodical and ugly and too hungry to make a good run at it —plus, no one’s got the time—If I weren’t I’d be calling from Paris—at least there they’d let me confess.

I wanted to stop, to get a bearing —I wanted to figure the composition of this rare mood, to hold on somehow—I wanted to include lust or make something useful—but was afraid to break my flow. My attention has a particular fondness for motion and when it’s firing I let it, well, bees.

[Bang, Bang]

“Come in.”


00034:316:23

I never know when to eat so I go by tradition: breakfast when I get up then lunch as fast as I can to get it out of the way so I can get something —or nothing—as my chemicals allow—done for the day. —Dinner I’m always ready for as on a good day the afternoon’s efforts can last until midnight.

I was going to find lunch but it seemed dark already, a 40-watt afternoon. As I hunted I surveyed my city. What was it? Monday? Buildings up, people down. An unusually warm gust of air injected my lungs and turned my body hair sideways. I’d never noticed the barber shop here: California Love, it said, barber & beauty. Is that what it is? —chlorophyll!? —They were out of business but it seemed possible —and just the sign was enough for me. I made a note to take a picture before they removed it. —I looked around. No rush for real estate out here.

—I believe in signs. Names and signs are the purest words —transparent like the word “I”. Graphic design lets us swallow the undigestible —even if it is just propaganda. —The appeal of a stripe is undeniable —the most primitive and guttural mark of progress, —and everyone wants to believe they’re getting somewhere—“I have improved!” the shit screams—to any sympathetic eye that will listen. I must work on a germ to believe people like advertising, or make them advertise people. —“More than a mother™” —Turn nappy hair and no socks into the latest thing. Make the radical more chic than Chic and let the caps of Mad Ave play shit until all but one lith is shot. Ahh, the evening held us like a blanket. The next day had started already, with a keyhole for anything you wanted to stick in and turn—like a cat in a bowl of soup, —forty feet high —with neon. The exact one which beckoned me to lunch.

The windows were steamed like etched glass. Blue vinyl lettering on the windows stood out but I couldn’t understand any of the words. The cat seemed fine with her transformation into soup siren, which had required the installation of a soup bowl underneath her, but all that remained of her former life was the neon “The” from ‘The Puss Puss Cafe’ between her triangle ears and that made some people sad. Only the older residents, though. Everyone else called it ‘The’ Cat Bowl.

The room was crowded for a Monday and I stood for a table. There was no foliage to duck behind nor convenient corner in which to hide so I felt stupid standing in the middle of a room—like a ringing phone—until finally I was seated.

I scanned the room for a place to latch my attention. I hate writing or sketching in public, especially before I eat—it’s a sure sign of an immature span. The woman next to me had her head softly cocked to the left—more from weariness than empathy—and as she turned her head to look away from her companion I saw her profile. Her eyes were slow—kinda shot—or steady, as if she had gotten tired of looking all over the place and decided just to study a few things well. She turned back towards her partner. Her skin was bloated from years of filtering alcohol.

On her head was a turquoise leather hat stitched with a thick leather thong. It complemented her magenta shirt, and she probably didn’t know it (she seemed to be having a bad day), but her outfit combined with her hair contained three-fourths of the additive color wheel—cyan, magenta, and black. With a dab of yellow she could’ve reproduced any photograph in the world. She ate carefully as if she might hurt the food.

Her white-haired companion was eager to eat and leave. His eyes bounced continuously off her slow gaze —eager perhaps to get back to the bottle —but she had no place better to be—she could’ve stayed all night. And I could think of several eastern religions that agreed with her. —I agreed too, shit —the room was warm and humid from the bowls of soup and the conversations were animated. It wasn’t our family but the day was nearly half over anyway. Even the canned Vietmusic and the door’s alert chime added to the sensation. —A spontaneous reunion where the food appears magically —out of a hole in the kitchen wall—just as you walk in the door.

—There’s a restaurant in Cairo with no menu. —Something teen it’s called, or teen something—it’s in the guidebooks —So it’s possible to eat silently —walk in, stake a seat on the bench —a cramped table in the corner —smile at the boy who will re-wipe your metal tabletop with a grimy rag and wait to be delivered a bowl of noodles mixed with rice and caramelized onions and egg. No menu, no decisions—it makes breast-feeding look hard—plus you feel so smart, —if only you could arrive the first time and know to do nothing with confidence instead of a look of hungry confusion. And when the kitchere arrived you’d choose from the red or white sauce right there on the table and stretch your stomach to glorious perfection. —Plus, you’re in Cairo so you get a siesta!

But The Cat was the aftermath, like everyone sitting in the living room and forgetting to fight on Thanksgiving because they were too well-fed and soft from booze. —We’ve got to work on a food-based salvation—the chemistry anyway —of what to eat and when —The fifty secrets of magic craftsmanship.

Eating in a room speaking the wrong language is very relaxing, —until, of course, a woman you don’t know creates a familiar pain through your chest, —dividing head from groin and dumping chemicals —writing sit-coms with couches center-stage and comparing social systems worldwide. —Is this the absurdity Camus talked about? —or was it the opposite? —And what’d he do? —Not kill himself?

She walked away from my table and I contemplated for a moment the back pockets on her pants. —I wanted that shit.

—Fuck!!

—The angle of her nose and the width of her jaw seemed impossibly delicious. The only shading of her light was the unfortunate uniform they had plowed her into for the sake of harvest. It ran completely counter to what she was born to wear and what the lines of her vibrant body hoped to hold tight—something with flow —something that ran —up and down —maybe tied in the front. The black jeans and turquoise golf shirt chopped her in half and made her beautiful black hair seem forced and too long —Imagine! —hair too long! —the manager seemed to be begging for baseball hats.

The woman wasn’t actually my waitress but I hoped she’d be the one to feed me so I could thank her and have her smile leveled at my chest. She didn’t.

But I got my food and consoled myself with the slurps and swipps from tables around me. —The light was coming in through the huge front window and it made the room look like an old train station—with every thought washed by a rising cloud of steam and great potential for power.

Eating I gradually forgot about the waitress, and although she continued to buzz the tables around me, she meant less to me now. The slowness I had cultivated on the walk over was gone—its contrived nature able to withstand no human contact —no wonder monks never talk. —We’ll need a slightly more robust god if we’re to get anywhere significant, —or maybe they could lower the truth for a second...

The Love Artist—Installment 3

00034:237:21


Dark crumpled against my brow. From where I walked the details of my city washed over me like a bad coat of paint—leftover construction supplies, architectural decisions made in haste, vinyl signs hung to cover years of neglect. Like a field of corn viewed from above everything resolved into a somewhat natural distortion, though: the blocks were rock—cliffs with windows—the street a river worn glassy and deep by years—by the years—of gurgling—no, —pulses—of traffic.

The freeway hummed and as I crossed the street the illuminated plastic letters describing every shop, the circling wires overhead, and the perfect new windows bisected by hundreds of municipal poles formed a composition so ghastly it resembled a mudslide. I fought like a relief worker to see a landscape. —Put on fatigues and an armband.

—I rubbed my stomach—not hungry, but it was after six and I could find no reason not to eat. My decision helped and finally the warm-gray buildings, rusting overhead tracks, and freeway and blued-out sky flattened out before me. Only by changing competition to composition —by arranging shit my own way—could I encourage in my heart a value to counteract the scraping pity my city almost always holds. I was going to be alone anyway, I told myself, there’s no reason not to make shit. —In most neighborhoods the people seem condemned to live just below their architecture: their leases and loan statements, their impossible two-dollar-a-pop visits with the fucking teller at the bank. —Shit they aren’t even gruff anymore, there’s no reason to hate them. —It takes a lot of work of course —to boil shit down like that —to reduce institutions and ideas—garbage and maimed pigeons and scraps of paper—to the human ether they must—by definition—contain —but what else could I do? —Give up my ass for the heat of their brand? Kill myself? Suffer my loneliness alone? —Fuck that.


My cheeks were warm in the late summer night, and I strung my thoughts on passersby—not their dress, which tended toward the juvenile, nor their poise, which was markedly slumped, but the unfuckable-with fact of their existence—that they were there at all. I slowed again and let the graffitied obelisks and advertising linghams tune my attention to the needs of our time. More than anything I needed a simple clue, an indication that I was alive—a fight. —If the laws of economics have proven right so far then the answer is clear for all who crack the code: for if —if and only if —for if and only if supply opposes demand—if E does in fact equal mc2—then without a single stretch we are a starving people.

—And I’m one of us —So starving is my thing you could say, or hunger my medium at least. Does this make me twice as hungry? —To admit? Do you have to believe to get full? —I have nothing with which to compare. I believe, though —and if hunger becomes scarce enough it could happen, somehow —that I get knighted —saved from irrelevance by the thing itself. —Do you understand? —There are many instances of a product becoming valuable without marketing—rocketing in price because the demand was so heavy and invisibly black.

—And this is the future, I’m sure —the market of anti-matter, the goods and services that prop up our actual GNP: nursing mothers, poets watching ponds, girlfriends that demand the talk —and here are traded our thinning real natural resources: youth and appetite, lust—well not that thin—potable airwaves, personality —or something like that. And this shadow—this sustenance—this shadow—mirrors our current ledgers so closely that many believe them the same thing. —That dinner is the table —a roast and mashed potatoes. I’m ahead of myself a bit but this is where the killings will be made I’m sure. —And then I’ll own the Dow Jones! (Dinner table? —what a fucking Romantic!) —I mean NASDAQ. And if you thought Small Product’ation was hot, wait ’til.... uh, —oh, fuck, uh… —oh! —They’re inverse! —That they’re inverse! —Inversely proportionate! —At least with the one we’ve put first first—so no matter how old your armed forces.. —and if you’re claiming Brooklyn —but the stock market’s up and test scores’re down…. —Shit, I don’t know, just check the suicide rate of black kids in the suburbs.

> > >


An old Town Car drove by. The two men walking ahead of me and the mother with child and groceries joined me in staring. The two passengers seemed a bit tarnished but they still deserved the awe in which inspiration always lives. —The aristocracy of our time, I guess,… —and no matter how fucked up they are running a cherry orchard’s never been easy..

—The matron, the older one, seemed connected vitally to the huge car. She had one end of a plastic tube up her nose—the other disappearing somewhere below the dash —and I thought immediately of a painting—or a poem—I should do —to describe —or just show somehow —you know, —machines keeping us alive? —letting us live on their exhaust, —that kind of shit.

—But the pair looked straight ahead—through the unemployed gauntlet in which they lived a whole life. I thought of my family—and the years I had spent being driven places without a care in the world. My eyes fell and came to rest on my shoes—a gift from my mother, like my socks, —and my underwear, —designer, —Polo —and I couldn’t stop my head from hanging. I felt like a child. Softened by a hundred punches. Only the certainty of my gut’s wall; —pride —mixed with shame probably —or reinforced… —by a paste, maybe —or only.. —kept me upright.


00034:249:58

My pedestrians matched —which was odd for South Freeway, where individuality is usually a direct factor of low socialization. They were charged that day but for their eyes, their walk was direct and choreographed. Unbroken by the pleas for love that littered every intersection.


00034:252:42

It was a rare occasion that the city provided such hypnotic warmth and I let it possess me completely. That’s the secret to good living I think—to slow down intelligently enough to turn pain into a slight fetish —to create that keyhole of perspective that makes even the gruesome worth watching —because it is—or was anyway—whatever it is —because it’s true—or already happened as you watched it and so you might as well...

And I almost stopped to get a bearing, I wanted to figure out the components of my rare mood—to hold on—I wanted to include lust or build something useful —or to elaborate, but the idea found no support immediately. I walked on. —Without slowing or changing my pace, mind you —nothing had happened —just trying to hold on.

Some P’s balding tire squeaked along dutifully overhead. Swarming covered wagons they were—are. —And false images of saloons curdled in my mind, —and women in ruffles, men off-loading grain and huddled in storefronts discussing politics —something happening —anything happening —everything happening —at once, without the time or separation to jump from participant to bleary watcher but also getting it all in—from the corner of one’s eye —or just smelling it —as a record, and knowing, therefore, that it was real—and nearby. I jumped on the P—pretty common for me back then—and set out to abandon what I knew —looking for some beacons —of trees —or spotlights. —And I usually found something—or something was moving by—but once I get there—and have a good look—I’m often ashamed at the loneliness and sorrow that drove me to glorify such nothingness, such infertility, —such training at the hands of the unfortunate, —negative reinforcement. —But was also glad to have a few hours down.

...[tape garbled] turn tail and [tape garbled] , wrapping my city in paths of fascination and regret like a train that departs and returns, —or its track —and with freeways choked one way and clear the other, —airline routes, busses, the P; wires, fences —and whatever straight rivers shoot off those antennas, —off tracks —off, —off people like myself —missing just enough to go out and search but too lonely and scared to press on —worn down like the best paths —And so it is for me and my city. —And not unconsciously, or even unnecessarily I fear. —At home I yearn for the theatre of a businessman’s can-do handshake: “—Right Earl,” “—What’s a good time?” “4:30? —Monday?,” “Right, —okay,” —or the bottomless quiet of the office mouse who runs for the P but wants nothing more than to go unnoticed —or be noticed—is dying to do either, actually—anything, —but instead is downtown running from work to her stop, and wore sweatpants because she was late —and got in trouble because of it —with backpack bobbing, —and can feel your eyes.

—But I’d love to take home my favorites, those who have unhinged their jaw and taken the city whole like a snake, those who without reason (for the odds are enormous) still believed their own existence, those who have become —perfectly—purely—distorted. —If the city is knowledge in every form, molecules in every combination—raw data—then shouldn’t it follow logically that one or two pop out perfectly balanced. Having died and come back? Getting off on it even? —Sounded good.

I cast my gill net of a theory and was floored for a moment by my catch—lab coats and brown leather broke the surface of muscle Ts and talking tennis shoes, briefcases became clipboards and everyone seemed to be wearing glasses with black frames. I caught and held and turned away before the street’s oxygen could threaten my flame.

The Love Artist—Installment 2

Pierce couldn’t believe the women he got on his living room floor by scratching his phone number on the back of some card or receipt he found in his pocket: “3-2”—whatever—his number—it would say, and then “Painter”, and just under that “Pierce”. —Just by asking! And my brother’s getting up there in years. White hair, dentures—he’s handsome but shit! —you see what happens when you sell a few paintings?

But I haven’t sold shit—and as I begin this self-portrait, I admit affection for almost nothing: not my face nor my talent nor chemistry nor pillow—and this from the most powerful man in the history of the world. —From a Mason of a conspiracy theorist of a blue-blooded WASP—neither ambition nor confidence nor confidence but only the tiresome stare of this black mirror. Can you imagine the demand for such bile?

What I long to hold is the book you would write, the silence you hear, or note—the space between these vulgar thoughts. —Where are you Miles? Egon? —Where are you Bird and Dizzy? Bely? Camile? —Was it Socrates or Plato who said the best king would be reluctant? Well, I am as ugly and reluctant as you can imagine—and will be remembered for both. I will be perfectly ugly in this age of horrid beauty. Horrible in this age of perfection —Perfect in gruesome mistake. —This shit’s too easy—with everyone staring at each other’s feet —this high school nation —of T-shirt readers —monkey jobs and newspaper masturbators —there’s nothing else to do! —and there’s nothing to do—so Improve! —so what the welfare mom’s got Frigidaire and the ladies who lunch rock Zeros? —Everyone’s shit’s still cold! —and watching —and stuck in traffic invoking that same old tired curse. I’ll tell you what. Here it is up front —easy, pre-digested —pull-quote fashion. —Pure —impotent and stripped like you like it, beaten and subdued —mystery-free, with the heart ripped out so it won’t fuck with your schedule —So you can make it to the gym on time —gym, yoga —whatever —I don’t care... Here: —so you can feel guilty about calling in sick for work—so you continue to complain about the view from the peak of recorded time, so you can continue to ignore those midnight tears and save the children for 30¢ a day —here: —just for you, for love, for you, for you and love—because I fucking love you: —Your power is in watching. And care is zero-sum. —And you give it up by the day. —Because you won’t give it up.

—So there —it’s premature—I know —blatant and crass, I know —not wound around any tease of a plot or made-up shit, I know, but isn’t that how you want? —cut and stretched and preserved under glass—dabbed dry and laid out on Styrofoam—HDPE, ABS, TIAA-Cref —EPS, GM, NSA—isn’t that how you want it? —Laid out on bleached pine—with the hardware visible? —Handmade paper—recycle code two —union bug, cruelty-free? —Isn’t this what you want? —Your attention is love and care is zero-sum. —There —Everything I know. —One sentence —and my thanks —for everything —for the silver spoon —having been born with everything, for everything! —No, really..

(—oOoo, can you hear it? —The slap —the slap —the slap of white? —demanding to be let, —demanding —demanding —even as it pretends to give! —Demanding to be let in!…

—Come back, come back!

—The trophy wives are in! —Your birthright!!’)

Fuck.

Don’t try to be white. It’s a long way back.

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...

You Can't Fake Soul

Maybe I’m putting too much into this. Basically my only point is that we’d be much better served by variable prices for mass-market cultural goods like books, movies, cds, magazines and the like. In my opinion $40 books and $24 movies would just about save the world.

What this differentiation would do is allow niche development and the emergence of a more robust adult culture. As most artistic pursuits take years and years to develop, most artists take advantage of their youth to “pay their dues”. And as it’s quite difficult to change your stripes once you’ve “branded” yourself, most of our most powerful art is youth-oriented. And I’d include bands like the Rolling Stones and even writers like Tom Wolfe and painters like Warhol and Pollock here as well—that were young and mostly tried not to age. Without cds that sell for $40 (and an audience happy to pay that for meaningful culture), what we get is Sting, past his prime, still noodling (and doing alright); Norah Jones, quite competently crooning in a much older style; and can’t-quite-grow-up movies like Sideways, Sunshine of the Eternal Mind (which was fairly good—but still grunge), and whatever French pap has happened to cross the pond (nothing wrong with French pap, but if you think intellectual and dark or unrequited and love go together you are mistaken and will be so sadly).

Even these established bands make most of their money touring. And literature just plain doesn’t pay. Movies, the price of entry is coming way down, but the distribution and marketing is a bear. Plus, it’s not like adults interested in the best (or adults interested in playing the best) are going to schlep to a beer-soaked dingy club or drive 45 minutes to a weathered art-house theatre. The industry thinks that cultural content is an added freebie—and for what we get currently it basically is; but if we want a mature, vital, enthusiastic, fun culture, we’re going to have to pay a whole lot more.

The problem is how’re we gonna get Puritans to pay more for what they want? When we’ve been told for our whole lives that we should be saving and scrimping for that time in everyone’s life when the whole country starves and that we’re not wor