Luke Seventeen

“The kingdom of God is not coming with signs to be observed, nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you.”

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WhiteG.com

Sanctified

There's a great article in today's Tribune (off the NYTimes News Sercvice) by Guy Trebay about the upper end of the fashion market. WIth a number of people revealing that (duh!) price is no longer an issue for them.

The Creative Director for Barneys (!!) even says "I'm shocked there's no price resistance anymore." (Interesting that the gatekeepers don't even necessarily believe).

Now if those folks could just find what they're really interested in: a mature culture; meaning; someone who gives a shit and is ruthlessly committed; a book, movie or album that speaks TO (not down at, not up to) them. Even the journalist brings his tired old class politics to the piece. How 1930 Socialst-Realism. How Adbusters, yo.

YAWN!

We're rich people. This is what's happening. And we're getting richer. I know at least 16 millionaires my own age. A lot more my parent's.

We're also getting more creative. A bunch of these folks made their scrilla off culture. By singing. Or software. (Or they inherited it and are artists).

To ignore it is to asinine. To hide it is bullshit. Especially when we're all doing yoga to find/be ourselves. If your art ain't got money (and probably the color of your ass) up front, then what is it? Reallly? Is it something that shares or tries to hide and be cool? Is it warm or cool? Does it want to be with or alone?

I, for one, am going to make culture for us. For me. I ain't got nothing to hide. I'm not pissing in people's fireplaces like Pollock or screwing their wives like Krishnamurti.

And I"m not going to pretend that I've got some blue-collar roots. (I already grew out that dye-job). Bruce "The Boss" already has that nailed anyway. And if you think that gives me less access to the truth, to god, to being real--well, come spend a day with me. Write a book more revealing than mine. Have more fun than me without drinking booze or coffee. Make a better song than me. Make more money more enjoyably. Do more of what you want more often and interestingly. And I'll pay you to know what's happening.

The one part of the article that rankled me is where he says "For most Americans, the idea of buying a $500 pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes is so far outside the realm of the possible that it is not so much an aspiration as a delusion." That's bullshit. Absolute Bullshit. I own a pair of $500 shoes and I haven't had a job in 8 years. College kids get credit cards as a matter of course. Where does this notion of the richest, most powerful country in the history of the world, with the richest, most powerful citizens in the history of the world, who are all impoverished come from? Any house on our block would sell for at least $600,000. And we're 5 miles from downtown in one city. Who the hell do we think we are? raggety Anne and Andy? I was even surprised at the number of houses shown on the Katrina footage that had been recently remodled. We're like the guy on Oprah the other day, who despite being quite handsome, believed himself horribly ugly and disfigured. (Interestingly, he was a repressed artist: a dancer who didn't dance).

In his own article he describes the daughter of a former hippy who doesn't look at price tags (and seems to be worth a couple hundred million). Her father invented Celestial Seasonings herbal teas. Her husband is the heir to some cable TV fortune.

He also talks to Simmon Doonan, the Barney's CD, who grew up working class in England. If those aren't two people who have gone from probably walking (or on the bus) to driving and flying whatever and wherever they want in one lifetime, then who is? And they both did it in America. We seem to have this perpetual idea of ourselves as poor and helpless. In my town there are scores of Mexican families who don't even speak fluent english but drive $30,000 trucks. If a pair of $500 shoes was a priority to them, they could easily find a way to buy them. I love that. And I'm not going to let my liberal leanings, past, present or future front on that truth.

The irony of course, is that us liberals want to stop sweatshops, unfair working conditions, and provide decent wages perhaps more than anything. But do we spare a dime to do so? We may donate to a non-profit to stop whatever we're against, but buy the shoes that have enough labor and care--enough love--to provide it? Not without ridicule, guilt, shame and much fear.

Anyways. The good news is that the market is ready and waiting. With nothing much else to do. And I've got product. I've just got to order the books and find out which one of my wonderful star friends in NY knows Simon Doonan well enough to arrange a sit-down. In five years we can have the foundation of a real culture completely laid. It's gonna be like filet mignon, oysters and a nice salad after surviving off of Bubble Yum for ten years.

ps: I'll sell two more books at the $40 price. The rest I'm keeping to sell to collectors after they go big. After these two it'll be $120 and up. Same with T-shirts. I'll try to post a pic of them soon. I already yanked my book from Quimby's. No brand synergy there.

What the World Needs Now

The hurricane has been a great reminder that all this shit is real--and getting realer. It's also been a blessing to help me focus and get committed. There is no way to create an economy where everyone is employed without radically expanding the top.

If you create a job a the bottom of the economy you create one job for one person. If you create one at the top, everyone moves up. We've been so afraid of succes, growth and prosperity, and felt so guilty about it for so long that we've had a very difficult time seeing it's loving benifits. I do. And I'm creating the most loving economy I can as fast as possible. If someone would love me $7-10 million dollars it would be a lot easier, but I'm learning from this as well.

Once we expand and enlighten the top (imagine a pyramid with a huge sphere on top), hurricane relief, debt relief, and war will cease to be significant problems. Because we'll erase most of the global downward pressure that's the root of our biggest challenges. Once the folks in charge quit pretending they're fulfilled managing the regional bureau, the national line, the third-best brand. Driving the best car to the worst job. And once they quit pretending they're victims. As I see it we've accomplished just about every thing that has ever mattered to us. From putting a man on the moon (and a rover on Mars) to finishing that report before Monday. It may take a little longer, and require a little more faith, to do what they've always wanted, but as Katrina shows us, growth happens whether we want it or not. Stasis doesn't exist. We've grown as much as we can materially, if we refuse to grow spiritually, we just won't last. As individuals or a society.

Enough pontificating. You should have seen the diatribe I wrote and erased before that. Phew. What about the truth?

I finally made it into the house across the street yesterday. It's beautiful. I took video and the footage will be in the upcoming White Gold documentary ($160/episode). For those of you who pay attention to such things I was lying in bed the night before imagining what it would feel like to be going to sleep surrounded by that house. God willing, I'll live there. It's $1.6 Million currently I believe, but I bet I can negotiate $1.2. You gotta hurt 'em with the first offer (and explain why).

I'm almost done with my third song. I'm still waiting for some mixing and mastering tools so it'll be a minute before I post anything. I can't believe how patient people are. If I knew someone like me who was doing something like this, and I had $20K in the bank, I'd give him the damn money just to hear the shit. Hell--just to be a part of what was going on. So I could tell my golf buddies I was down from the start.

Oh, but I haven't even asked for it. And we're not to the gift economy yet (I haven't even had time to describe it because I'm spending four days trying to save $200 on a computer.)

Wait, instead of me pretending I'm a victim, I'll just ask for what I want.

I want $4400 to upgrade my computer to mix and master the ALL*MYTEE album (and edit the documentary). For $4400, White Gold will sell you a pre-mastered copy of the ALL*MYTEE cd, a regular version when it comes out, a signed copy of $40 The Love Artist (a run of 100, certain to be a collectors item once the $120 version hits it big), and one painting.

I also want $8000 to print the second version of my book. For $8000 you will get an original laser-printer, galley copy of The Love Artist, a copy of my book of poetry The Failure of Poetry, a galley copy of my novella November, and a galley copy of the collected works N::teb::::ks. All signed.

I also want $25,000 to advance production on my documentary. Right now it's creeping along because the cameraman isn't getting paid. He can't work weekdays and I don't believe in working weekends. You don't get enlightened art by straining on the sabbath, after work, or when you're hungry, tired or lonely. It's also going to be visually compromised because I have to choose between eating, recording music and a $3000 video camera (and as much again for lights and sound). The real shit costs more. You can't just chug a beer or cup of coffee and fake it. You can't play it on a kid's Casio keyboard (contrary to what punk rockers and the electroclash movement will tell you). If you ain't got butterfly wings, if you're not tanned, rested and ready, if you don't have decent gear in front of you, it doesn't exist. I'll do it with whatever gear I can get, but I guarantee a lot of people are going to be annoyed to have to watch video shot on a $100 video camera. For the want of a nail, millions were annoyed. For $25,000 I will explain to you in writing the gift economy. If what I write now inspires you, you ain't seen shit. The future is more beautiful and loving than almost anyone alive can fathom. Radically beautiful. For another $15K, I'll put what I write up on the blog for at least 6 months.

I also want $125,000 so I can pay off White Gold debts and live hassle-free for at least eight months to finish the ALL*MYTEE record, put out The Love Artist at a more magnetized price-point, connect with more magnetic consumers, and negotiate some exclusives. I'd also like a few weeks to work on the business plan and screenplay. For $125,000 White Gold will sell you a copy of the ALL*MYTEE master cd, a signed copy of either the $40 or $120 Love Artist, and put your name in the thank you credits in the White G documentary.

I should note that purchases not donations. I tried the donation route before and a some people had problems giving unconditionally. Ouch. So I don't give with strings and I don't take with strings--financially or emotionally. Sales tax will apply inside Illinois. This is a business--based on simple self-interest. If you want to see more of what I create, buy what I have for sale. If not you can be confident that I'll get to pretty much all of it in the next 20 years or so. As god and the current economic climate allow. I believe, but I can also believe more privately and be very happy.

I don't know if I'll keep giving it away for free on the internet or not. Y'all don't even comment on my shit. Just lap it up and bounce. Take the love and go put it into other uses--ones that probably get you laid or paid, too. I guess I should expect that coming from such a low-energy delivery system as the internet. This is exactly why our culture isn't ready for the gift economy. And doesn't properly value love. You think something is worth-less when it's free. And you think you're too poor to give. And as artist we create what we feel and think--what we believe. As a result, people spend a lot of extra time kissing your ass and marketing to you (this blog included). Trying to get you to believe. But then again you get what you pay for. I think I'll sell a hell of a lot more books more efficiently at Barney's for $120 a pop than I do here and at hipster Quimby's for $40. And I guarantee you I put more energy into avenues that support what I'm doing more energetically.

Once we value love above the products it produces, being happy, paid, in love, real, feeling every minute of it, and ad free will be as natural as breathing.

White Gold is now taking pre-orders for the 2nd printing of The Love Artist. Sure to be a collectors item. $120 plus $4 shipping (and tax in IL).

PS: A big shout-out to the Mighty, MIghty Bulldogs! Seattle's Garfield High School Class of 1985, of which I am a proud member, is re-unioning this weekend. Have fun everyone!

The Doghouse was a pretty special place. We silkscreened our own t-shirts (and counterfeited our own Van Halen tickets), took trips to Hawaii to study the physics of body surfing, had pictures of Eek-A-Mouse on our lockers, and oteable alumni: Quincy Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Lee. Ernestine Anderson, Yasser Seirawan (Chess Grand Master), Debbie Armstrong (Olympic Gold Medalist), Minoru Yamasaki (World Trade Center Architect).

Magnetized for Success

When I was younger I had a vision of how I wanted to live.

I had plenty of time. I did what I wanted every day.

I was strong, I had strong and rewarding, relaxed relationships. I was connected to the feeling I had when I was feeling my best all the time. Constantly.

I had a business that ran with a little help from me, but not too much. It made ridiculous amounts of money.

And it saved the world at the same time. Every dollar it made was a step in the right direction, an inspiration, the cure.

And every dollar it made allowed me to create even larger and more radical forms.

Which were larger and even more radical in their transmission of love and belief. In their ability to be the active solution.

When I got to about age 23, I had chucked these dreams. I had done the initial math and found it unworkable.

Then an amazing thing happened. I started to move on without them.

Moving on without them, I became overwhelmingly depressed. And quite successful.

The more successful I became, the harder it was to feel what I had. (Although I never really felt the blessings I was constantly being given).

And then came the crash. Pillow yanked out, exhausted but couldn't sleep. When I did, it didn't help. I'd wake up just as tired. It was an existentialist's wet dream.

Then I said fuck it.

No really fuck it.

Not fuck it like I'm going to kill myself. Fuck it like if they want they can fucking try to kill me.

Because that's what I thought they were going to try to do.

(And they have in their own liittle ways. But none of 'em have had the guts to take it violent.)

And little by little, I started back down the long path of what the hell I wanted to do.

At first I was scared to write a poem. Then I wrote a bunch.

I had the idea for the title of a book but was sure I couldn't write one. Then I did.

I was sure if it took over a year and a half I wouldn't make it. I was broke and out of sorts.

It took five.

I was sure that if the book should be given away. Then that it was worth $120. (Or was it the other way around?)

Trying to moderate, I ended on $40.

I was sure that it would be obvious to anyone who wrote it what it was.

It wasn't.

I was sure that once I promoted it, I would be inundated, stressed and famous.

I wasn't.

I was sure once I got it out I'd have other things to write.

I didn't.

In fact, as soon as I got it out I wanted to stop writing. Everyone who knew me was just starting to pat my back at being a writer. I was more interested in drawing and the promise of the company I had dreamed up, White Gold.

Then I started painting.

By this time I was $40,000 in debt.

I had been broke for years. I hadn't gotten laid in way too long. I hadn't been in love for even longer.

I thought I was too old to be fucking around. I had friends who had had artistic careers run their coursee and were already back at regular old work. With a house and a wife.

I longed for a house and a wife. I longed for a woman at all. I longed for the money to pay my rent. I longed for the money to buy groceries. I longed for my stomach to stop feeling wierd and to stop losing weight. At 5' 11", I weighed 135.

I longed for clarity. I was confused about everything. Should I apologize to my friend who was mad at me? Was I in love with the friend who had always been there for me? Was I gay? Did I want to move to Hawaii? What did my dreams about sharks mean? What about the ones of people inappropriately touching me? What the fuck was going on? Could the reason I felt so bad be the fillings in my teeth poisining me?

Should I respond to my worst fears or my greatest inspirations? What was addiction and what was the truth? Could we do anyting we wanted--be happy all the time?--or was that childish bs and the route to anything worth doing difficult? Labor, toil, work?

Was genius really 99% perspiration? Was Bertrand Russel right when he said his youthful unhappiness kind of just lifted as he grew up and stopped thinking so much about himself? Should I think less about myself?

And what was Ayn Rand up to? If she knew so much why did she smoke? And not respect her husband? Why did Krishnamurti fight over money with the business partner who's wife he had been screwing for 20 years?

Why was New Age art so obviously and blatantly corny and horrible if they really knew so much? Why was worshipping a Goddess any different than worshipping a male god. or a white or a black one?

I changed my diet, my routine, my supplements, my therapist, my housing arrangement, the city I lived in, my thougts, my books, my art. I tried meditation, yoga, writing exercises, walking, getting more sunlight, getting more sleep, getting less sleep, being chipper, being honest. And wrote about it all. I put myself on the cover of my book with my shirt off.

I listened to people tell me my ego was out of control and wondered if they were right. I sought out men who were happy and in good relationships and asked them what they knew.

I changed from writing to painting and was scared out of my mind. I painted by myself in the basement every day for a summer. It felt like going 9 rounds. Was it really going to be this hard or did that mean it was the wrong thing?

By this time I was living with my mother. 37, wrote a book that didn't sell shit. 150 rejections from publishers. Family members that didn't buy it. Friends that didn't buy it or come to free readings.

Then I started looking for a job. (Actually I had been looking for close to 2 years). I'll go help someone else. Wait tables. Be an art director. Do graphic design. Teach people nutrition. Manage apartment buildings. Paint houses (which I did). Manual labor (check). Run a non-profit (nope). For some reason, the only labor the good lord was throwing my way was the labor I liked least--manual labor. It fucking sucked. I would share what I learned in a manner that business could understand, I would become a marketing consultant. I met with one of the top brand guy in the country. he said that everything in my Powerpoint was going to come true. And that he didn't know of anyone who'd want to talk with me.

I had dreams that I had been bitten by dogs and collapsed through a door. On the other side, laying with puncture wounds, my mom told me that I was going to go on. In the dream I couldn't imagine anything worse. I had no idea even how to get up.

I could barely stay awake all day. I slept on the couch hoping my mom wouldn't see me.

But a very strange thing was happening. Every step of the way, from what seemed like continual defeat and roadblocks, some part of me was happier. Much happier. In fact I felt like I was actually a man. Living at home with my mom.

I started going to the gym. Looking for a better haircut. Better clothes. (I had already dropped a couple thousand on very nice clothes before I moved, so I no longer believed it was just a matter of "believing"/spending my way to success.) So what was it a matter of then? I started getting up every day and doing what had to be done. Making calls I didn't want to make. When I got a little money I'd paint or try to get something going with my book, but I wasn't working anything like 8 hours a day. With the manual labor, sometimes all I could muster was 3 or 4. How was I ever going to even have a job and apartment, let alone make art, have an international business, a relationship, kids and my own house. This I would think while shoveling snow.

But I kept doing things. I got tired of eating broccoli and ground beef for breakfast (and Quinoa) and I had a dream that said I'd be feeding myself every day for 15 years. I got tired of doing sit ups and stretching and someone at the gym said we were going to do it out whole lives.

I was pretty happy, but there was something missing. A faith. A radical, every minute, what me worry faith. I had ridden as far as I could on white knuckles, I was doing the work, but I still didn't feel safe or really believe. When my mom sent me a job announcement, it took me days to get back to feeling like an artist. Just get a job motherfucker. To be supported on this planet, you have to do something that people recognize as valuable. And are willing to pay you for.

I had a dream that I would feel much better once I had my own place. I agreed.

Then I read a book that said you have to feel the way you want to live first. Then it follows. I believed this but wasn't sure god wanted me living the way I was. Why on earth should I believe more when seven (eight?) years of all the belief I could muster had garnered me exactly nothing (well in earthly terms it had cost me $40K--and probably $750K in lost earnings--in spiritual terms I was happier than I'd ever been). Still, did god want me living at my mom's house for 3 years chasing a pipe dream?

Yes he did.

He not only wanted me chasing it, he switched it up. You're late for a meeting at a record label one dream suggested. What? You're at a cocktail party and no one will listen to you until the letter on your t-shirt chest start stretching and you chant like a Muslim calling folks to prayer. Fuck, this was it. The thing I had been zvoiding. The thing I knew I was unable to do. Play music.

"You play like a retarded cowboy" my friend Mike Dill said. "I like everything but the vocals" the guy I was trying to recruit to play bass said. Our family didn't do music. I was a DJ, sure, but I hated to practice and just kinda threw stuff out there.

Put together a studio, my dream said. With what money? But I charged the computer and then found it. Bought the mixer with part of a birthday present and made the rest fixing up my mom's house in Seattle. Monitors, mics, hard drive, cables, keyboard. I was almost back to broke (and $8 grand in debt after I promised myself--and told god--that I didn't want to live that way any more). Then I got a gift that paid it off.

Shook, I had nothing else to do but go into my new basement studio and see what the hell happened. I wasn't exactly a musician, not like the guys you see who look like musicians and can play 1/2 the songs ever written, but I knew what I liked and could almost fake the rest. If I believed in the unlikely, the I guess this was the ultimate unlikely ending. I remembered that I had put "rap star" on a card during a game played to match people to their ultimate dream jobs. I was sriting at the time. It felt so safe precisely because it was so unlikely. I couldn't do it.

Somewhere along the way. Alone and unhappy----probably a couple hundred times--I had decided to not care. Decided to care about myself and ignore my situation or predicament no matter what the results. To believe for no reason. And tie myself to that ludacris, impossible, unseaworthy idea as tightly as I could. I started going to church as well. I was already praying. I bought a bible.

And somewhere along the way it started working. I didn't have a single thing I wanted physically, but I didn't really care. I gave up on the woman I was trying to chase down in Chicago. I gave up on everything that wasn't feeding me.

My belief got stronger. It wasn't as big of a deal to do what I wanted first thing. Even though money might be low in the bank and my bills coming due (I had been doing just that for years--but had been dreading it as well). And just like the sometimes corny people say, when I stopped worrying about it, it stopped. Once I stopped caring, once I was determined to do what I wanted no matter how often that flipped, how big it got or how far off it seemed, I started having fun.

I was relaxed. Even large things stopped ruffling my feathers. Public speaking. Telling people what I really did when they asked (instead of how I made money). I started being honest and assertive with business associates. Telling people the truth. Talking (amazing how infrequent that one is).

And then shit started coming. A call from Spike Jonze. A way to make a movie without Spike. Ridiculous deals on the tools and equipment I needed. Inspiration.

I still don't have shit. From a material perspective. None of the materail conditions described above have changed. But they're not me. And that's what I've always wanted.

Phew!

I feel like I just saved myself 10 years of struggle. I read the other day about the Hustle and Flow guy who made a movie to get hustle and Flow (with his wife dancing for $$) and probably won't get properly paid until his next movie. And then he gets what--a couple million. He did bunt on the story (Hustle and Flow was about him, a white guy in a loving, committed relationship, but he listened when people said it had to be about a black guy (with wack relationships from what I can tell). So much for making money by appealing to the lowest common denominator. He's probably exausted, broke and doesn't even know why. He just made his bones.

Peace!

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www.ebencarlson.com

Thinking Small?

Hi all. I know this may sound strange, but I think I've been thinking too small.

I have been doing some research in writing my business plan and looking at case studies of premium brands. Absolut, for instance, created the whole notion of a premium vodka only to end up stodgily mid-market when Ketel and whatever other fancy vokdas came out. (Ketel doesn't even have good ads--just their logo in black and white. See how easy it is once you make up your mind.) Absolut made the whole thing and then got trumped. Just like Jay Adams--who all but invented the modern skateboarding culture and got squat. My brothers and sisters, charge what you're worth and demand your due.

Then I looked at it from a psychological perspective. If I fight and cry and labor to bring an understanding of a premium popular culture to market and DON'T charge for it, then I'm basically enabling the bullshit I loathe in the first place. Nothing I'd let slide in a personal relationship, why should I in a social or economic? If I'm not expressing what I believe I'm worth, how would I not grow to resent the people I was working with? I've been wondering why so many successful artists and directors and actors don't seem happy. As Oprah and Billie Holiday will tell you, the power's in the distribution.

Then I remembered a discussion with some friends. They said if you're trying to say something with the price of your book make it more than $40. I couldn't help but remember that I thought it was worth $120 when I wrote it but that people would only pay $40. I forgot my own advice that price is one of the primary communicators about value. Being a nice, white, sensitive guy I was sure that the more I gave away, the more I would be appreciated. HA!! If you think women want "nicer" guys at this point in the game, then you must hang out with some tough broads. Be a man, do your thing. Give compassion and understanding where it is deserved (and a little extra here and there just to make sure you're leading the charge emotionally), but make up the difference at your peril. There are plenty of people around who can take all you've got (without feeling it at all!).

So anyway, buy now before I raise the prices. This printing is almost up and I'm praying on it right now. $120 a shot. It's gonna be radical when it says that on the back cover. I've seen the future and it's larger than I could ever imagine. After years of working and talking smack, it turns out I still have low self-esteem. (Lord release me from all but your will). Could the good lord have been holding my ass at the starting gate until I got strong enough to charge what it's worth?! Could he really be so gracious as to protect me like that? You my friends have a front row seat. But be forewarned, the day is coming when I stop inspiring you for free.

Lots of love.