Luynch Tyme

I watched Basquiat last night. It's still good, although the story is becoming more and more clilche as time goes on. Johnny Cash, Basquiat, Cobain--does every story about an artist have to deal essentially with drugging, boozing, and infidelity? It's so pat that that's what many think is required, or where they get their chops or something. It's not. Future artistes be mindful--to surpass us you will have to live a better life. Have more fun. Better sex. More intimacy. Deeper and more lasting relationships.

What I love about the movie is his inside-it-all-ness. He takes time as his own. With no fear. Spending the last $5 on flowers. Hailing a cab as a homeless guy scooping. Refusing to let his situation dictate who he is. Even if he ultimately fails (after he gets famous, by the way, not before). He sure could paint. I'm'n'a buy me a Basquiat once I get some scrilla. Lars' in Metallica's Some Kind of Monster was incredible. Hard to believe he sold it.

I completely relate to seeing the city with the waves above the buildings. I spent years doing walkabouts in Seattle grabbing for exactly the same frame of mind/state of being. Until I finally got it to stay overnight. Brought it indoors.

The Love Artist is basically the chronicle of this time in my life. I don't even feel like the same person but when I read the book it still pops. I'm glad I went for it. And thank god that I had the strength to put it all back together. That shit ain't promised. (Well actually it is, but when you don't believe--and I didn't necessarily while I was doing it--you can fall out or--more often--take yourself out way too easily. Thus the legions of artists dropping like flies.)

I got the same feeling watchin Speilbergs A.I. as well. The last part with the animation was bunk visually but it worked emotionally. I walked out of the theater and just saw. I was all the way inside. Everything looked good to me. The lights, the wet pavement, the couples walking past, the sound of the bus, the sky--everything. If you can get to that state--of just seeing what is--of realizing that this whole world is in glorious technicolor and rendered in unfadeable reality at the highest resolution in real time--you'll realize that Hi-Def ain't got nothing on the big G.

And I think that's ultimately why prophets say don't judge people--it's not to be nice, cause lord knows a lot of them brought the heat--it's so that you won't bust your flow. Judging others makes you, in a way, in charge of them. Responsible for them. Married to them and in constant relationship to them. Thinkging and caring about them. Pullin g them down. And ultimately we don't want that burden. Or even care. We want to be free. To fly.

I'm working on a radical with-holdall of judgement these days. The gym is my biggest workout. So many foibles and such humanity--and all of us trying. And our shoes are beat up, we wore that old sorority t-shirt with the sexual pun on it, are wearing a patch, haven't showered, and are trying to look cool. And all of us loveable and caring. But also wanting desparately to establish a heirarchy so that we can understand. Know. Stop the free-fall for aminute. Find a little security. . Kiss up. Get some. Order people around or be told what to do. It's the same thing essentially--wanting to stop this freedom for a second. Fear of flying. I've pretty much stopped my brain from doing it's thing, now I'm working on it on a physical/energetic level. My body is trained--energetically--to dominate or supplicate. Because my mind has told it to do so for so long. And my people have lived with that (often very helpful) structure for so long.

A beautiful thing happens when I get past that conditioning. I don't have to process anything. I don't think of the gym--or even some brutal exercise--after I'm gone. Or fear it before I go. As soon as the weight is put down it's straight back to breathing and being. And some day, assumming we're going to all be free and fully realized at some point, we're going to have to let ourselves go. Allow ourselves freedom and grant ourselves full license all day every day. Ain't no way to freedom but freedom.

I want to get even farther in. My stated goal is to be a master of time and space. Wouldn't a love artist have to be? I read an article in Vanity Fair about a screenwriter who won't even write when he doesn't feel like it. Am I that free yet? He even has a mortgage. And a wife. (See, we better do our shit--cause the next generation isn't gonna have half the trepidation that we do. Kids these days come out the box knowing how to ollie kickflip, start businesses, and make movies).

I can feel what it's going to feel like. Already I've made progress in areas I never dreamed existed. Already my life is so ridiculously better than it was that for a while I just sat down--gave up--thinking that it couldn't possibly get any better than this. (Then came the dreams that said if I was 3x better now--or was it to the third power?--that once I got my money together I'd be 5x--or to the fifth power). Now I don't see much reason to doubt that things can get just about as good as we want. And are willing to make ourselves vulnerable to. Right here. In real time. Feeling it. Doing exactly what we want.

And not just sober or at 11 at night alone creating the next great masterpiece jacked up on coffee or smack. Not just before we get on Oprah. Not just without money (or with). Not just Saturday morning before you go out.

Walking down the street at 9am. A little hungry even. With kids crying. Just because.

I could talk here about any number of world events and their ramifications for us vis a vis my worldview. But I think I may be done with that. If my calculations are correct, a few people (maybe even one), just doing exactly what they want--HOW they want to do it--should pretty much take care of things. And two hundred doing it? Four thousand? Seven million--don't even get me started! The tipping point in your world is one--put it that way. And we're all in each other's world. To do this those folks will have to be loving about keeping thier tap in the "flow" position. They will face all manner of tests. That's what this world is for, essentially. And their answer to each, will be yes. Okay. I get it. Will be love.

Not because they're nice. Not because Jesus told them to love their neighbor, or Buddha said have compassion, but because that's the feeling they want to have. And they are unwilling to stop for anyone. Because that's how they want to live every moment. Their birthright. And they've figured out how to main-to-the-tain. They choossile love. They get to live it. They live to get it. They get to feel it. They feel to get it. And you can do that at the gates of hell or you can do that reclined on a silk pillow. Except if you're afraid of either one, of course. But then again, that's why we're here.

Luynch tyme.

(Photo is a portion of the items cleared out of the basement and attic of my childhood house before we fixed it up and sold it last year.)

PS: One other great part of Basquiat--when his friend Benny details what you've got to do to be famous. And stay famous. Find a style and do that style even after you're tired of it. Blaah haa haa. Oh, lord help us.

Bottle Service

This, my friends, is what I''m talking about!

Bottle service at local clubs runs from $150 (for a $25 bottle of vodka) to $3000 (Crystal, I think). That's for one bottle of booze and a table to drink it at in a club full of others interested in semi-creative unconsciousness.

But all that happens is you get drunk! (For $3Gs, why not throw in some coke and a blowjob at least?)

My point is that as soon as there are a modicum of souls on the planet as hungry for either the creative unconscious or even plain old novelty (getting drunk in VIP sections gets as old as anything else--believe me, I know)--as soon as anything at all happens--there will be a huge and growing market for not only books like The Love Artist but also CDs like the upcoming ALL*MYTEE CD and DVDs like the forthcoming White G Documentary. Mass produced premium cultural products at price points of $120, $400, $2,400, $48,000. $1.2.

And people interested in a culture of consciousness (and fun and loving and what they really want) will realize that they are way behind those interested in unconsciousness (and being in control, being right and what they kind of want) in paying for the kind of things that they enjoy.

In creating an economy where they buy and sell goods, services, information and content that not only give true joy but also foster love as a means of doing business.

And at that time, those people will set about doggedly pursuing that which they really, really want. It has nothing to do with me (thank god), it's what people have been doing for eternity--avoiding pain and seeking pleasure. You might even say it's hardwired.

Get a Love Artist

I feel like I'm learning something deep. How to let go on a fundamental level. Second to second.

It's strange, to get to where I am, I feel like I had to digest/figure everything out. And now that I'm here, I feel like it's time to drop it all. A pattern that I've seen a few times.

This last year was about preparing for battle. I had dreams where I was at war, shooting people, fighting, ripping people apart. I had dreams that I was a football player and had to train all week for one day of concerted, focused effort. I had dreams that people I was working with were teaching me how to box.

And at the same time, I was moving my center from my head down. (And strengthening my left side and relaxing my right). And when I got to my backside, the anger was palpable. There was some old shit up in there. So I kicked and screamed and worked it on out.

Now I want to enjoy everything. I'm not interested in knowing that the counter-culture is dead and rotting and this or that is coming next. I'm not interested in knowing what people's certain jeans treatment implies. Or the fact that they wear gray and black most of the time.

(Can you smell it almost starting up?) Gotta drop it. I'm interested in being that which is next. Being that which is happening, lovingly, and lovely-ly, right now. Like a crazy guy who beamed onto the smoldering battlefield and had no idea everyone had been fighting--for good reason.

I'm glad that almost eveyone in society is expected to care about culture and express themselves with clothing, music and what they do and how they live. I'm glad that people feel free to get tattoos, crazed hair (how old do I sound now?), get macked, wear ripped jeans, make a million dollars, do anything. That's a first. And good old-fashioned progress.

My question to myself is why would anyone else doing anything they wanted to do--including not buying my book, yelling at me (not that many do), threatening me (ibid.), cutting me off in traffic, ignoring me at the gym (same)--let alone the more obtuse and gentle things that I routinely hold against people in my head--why would anyone doing anything they wanted to do ever cause me to become less of who I am? To do something that I didn't want to do? Even if it wasn't really, really what they wanted to do. Especially if it wasn't something they really, really wanted to do.

Why wouldn't I just be the motherfucker I am? And want to be? Ruthlessly, effortlessly, skippingly? Why wouldn't my response to everything be yes?

Not that the words coming out of my mouth would be yes. But it's easy enough to say yes to saying no. (Henry Miller had a great paragraph somewhere where he figured out the same thing. That the answer to everything is yes. I figure out the same thing writing The Love Artist, and have gotten there to differing degrees at various times in my life. What I'm talking about now is the permanent, unfadeable yes. Doesn't it have to eventually happen. That we believe? That we understand? That we say yes and thank you, thank you, thank you! Even if just because it's gotten us exactly here. AND WE"RE EXACTLY HERE?! Isn't it inevitable that all our pondering and thinking, our experimentation, lead us to that which we exactly want? How could it be otherwise? This is it! This is what we have. What we are. And it's permanent. Even if a bunch of it is superficially change--novelty.)

Is there ever a good reason for me to bust my own flow? Even if it could "save the world" in the future, or in five minutes? Do the ends justify the means like that? Do they ever? Isn't that what the Nazis were all about? Haven't we conclusively proven that it's all means?

My whole thing has been that if we really get into what we want that it works. On a fundamental, essential level. Not the I don't wan't to get out of bed level. (Although, if it's that strong, try it out. Especially if you feel afraid of it.) My theory, and experience, has always been that if you don't want to get out of bed, there's probably another, deeper, more engaged want that has already gone unloved. Been ignored. Like I want to make a movie (and don't think I can). I want to cut a record (I'm afraid/can't sing). I want to paint (don't have time or room). I want to start an internet company.

So, what do I want to do? I want to learn how to use this music studio that I've built and cut a record. I want to be happy in the face of shit like black people. I want to win results and handle my business like white people. I want to feel close and relaxed--playful--with family. I want to find true love and put everything I've learned into practice. I want intimacy.

I want to enjoy myself. I want to glide through transitions large and small. I want to continue growing at a rate that makes looking in the rearview mirror increasingly unappealing. And I want to feel like I feel right now through it all.

I can't believe how much I've grown in the last year. In the last three makes it incomprehensible. Five years ago I don't even know myself without overtly thinking about it. Beyond that I need pictures.

I'm coming to build an essential enjooyment of what's happening. (Could take out that extra o, but I'm enjoying that too.) And it's getting deeper. Rooted in my whole being. Something that I could take onstage and just let go. Take downtown and feel. Bring to the ghetto--white or black.

For a while it was a throat laugh. Then a chest laugh. Then a belly enjoyment. Now I'm working on the whole enchelada. Tip to toe real-time acceptance, love, encouragemen adn enjoymentt. Not necessarily in words, but physically, energetically, intention-ally.

Why is there ever a reason not to believe in someone? Can anyone ever truly threaten us beyond making us believe that they threaten us? It's all already happening, is it too much to expect us to be able to process, enjoy and love it all real-time?

I'm gonna find me a love artist. And then be one right beside her. It's gonna be dope.

[ ]

As many of you who have been following along for the last few months have likely gathered, I'm mad.

I'm mad about everything. And with everyone.

Mostly, I'm mad that my book hasn't sold a single copy since I re-released it. I'm mad that even though all the business gurus have number and charts pointing straight at the shit that I've been spouting into the void for years, none of them believe me.

I'm mad that people watch on the sidelines without a whisper. Going back to their routines without a comment or even a "fuck you, buddy".

I'm mad that I fought my way out to find the best of myself and had to fight people to even blink when I fought my way back in.

I'm mad that I had to advertise it to get people's attention. I'm mad that even that didn't work.

I'm mad that I did all this fucking work and that something sometime is supposed to happen and I'm still living at my mom's house $40K in debt. I'm mad.

I'm mad that I haven't gotten laid in years. Or even had the energy to do so.

I'm mad that I figured out a way to have double, triple, quadruple, the life we want on this earth and that I could spend everything I have three more times and seemingly nothing would happen. I'm mad that I've done it so many times already and very little outward has happened. (Luckily, as soon as this shit pops, corporations will be throwing money at even half-way decent artists. Whether they decide to lay down or man (or woman) up will be up to them. The tough part will be staying true to themselves and hungry.)

So what kind of a love artist am I? Mad as I am. Do I really believe that love works? Do I really believe that it gets through? Do I really believe in others as I wish the fuck they'd believe in me?

Good question.

I do know one thing, though, it's not worth it. Hanging on to this elemental seed of control. Being in control. Being white. Being cool. Smarter. Being above. I'd rather be poor and happy than rich and even worried. Let alone anxious, angry, scared.

Maybe I'm still mad that when I grew up there was no one around who believed that being an artist, that doing what you cared about or wanted, was any kind of way to live. Or make a living. Or raise a family. No one who thought it was safe, or even okay. But I'm grown now. And if I don't have that belief. If I don't feel that, it's on me. (And thanks to my friend Robert for helping me put this all together).

There is a part of me that just wants love to be the new black. So I can own it. So I can kill motherfuckers with their own hate. So I can be smarter, blah, blah, blah. And if I were you I'd watch me on it as I go big. People are going to ask me to talk about shit. And most likely I will. There'll probably be some gems in there. And there'll probably be some shit.

With luck, I'll have a more pure channel than the last guy. Because I got to see what he believed. And did some more math on top of that. I have to move forward with what I know. And from where I am.

With luck I'll shut up and let my work speak for itself.

But to be a leader you've got to have a vision of what is. Tested and proven. Concrete. And all do. And those that say they don't are the most slimy.

But I don't even want to be a leader. I'm just trying to sell my book. Maybe that's the whole thing. I don't have to apply what I know to a single other person. (It sure doesn't seem to go over very well when I do). If I really believed in inspiration as more powerful than motivation, isn't that what I'd do? Go slow enough and just chill? Answer questions if they arise and otherwise do what I want? Believe?

The sun is coming in the basement window as I write this. And I'm mad at that too.

I'm just tired. I'm so tired I'm not even physically tired anymore.

I'm existentially tired. Spiritually tired.

I'm tired of feeling that I can't tell anyone that I'm tired. Or that I have no idea what's going on. Or that I'm uncertain. Even though I've never been more sure in my life. And I feel fragile and weepy sometimes. Even though I've never been more strong or more fit. That I'm tired.

Is You Is or Is You Ain't...

I've said it before and I'll say it again--if you're not sick and tired of being sick and tired, then we probably don't have much to mess around with.

Jesus said the same thing, but of course if I mention this then I'm arrogant.

But it's true.

If you think everything's cool. Then go be cool with it. And tell me how to live. I've been looking for you my whole life.

If you think that all you need is that next promotion, that next pair of shoes, that bigger house, plasma TV, to fuck those two (or ten) women.

If that's gonna work for you then go do it. Tell me how it works and I'll buy your shit.

If you, like I was, were raised liberal and nice, then you've accepted from the start that the world was messed up. Why is it so threatening when I say that it's fucked up because we're fucked up?

I don't say it to make anyone wrong. Honestly. Anyone who's happy and content (or even or content), please continue on (the phrase my bike messengering dispatcher used to say when he didn't have anything for you. Could be a blessing, could be a slap in the face. Either way there was no chance I was happy--nor would I pretend I was).

If we don't admit we're broken, ain't no way we can get whole. That's the whole deal. I'm not trying to be in charge of shit, but I'm not going to give up on what I learned just because nice white society doesn't like it. God bless you, I love that you're doing what you want and how you want to do it--because I wanna do the exact same thing.

That doesn't mean I believe you, though. History will show us who's right and I look forward to being humbled either way if that's god's will.

In the meantime I don't see any other way that things are going to work for the 10 (12?) year-old boy on front of Newsweek wearing black, and a scull and cross-bones. I tried it all. And none of it worked for me. And I love him enough to respect his inteligence. He knows that he's being raised into bullshit, to do bullshit. That he's being taught largely bullshit. It doesn't mean it's wrong, Or that he couldn't surive and get by and find moments of joy in his life. It's just not going to work. He's not going to live like he could unless he has a whole different world to grow up into. That's what I know. Because that was me. And I wasn't even wearing black. Probably had more money and more access too.

-------------
WhiteG.com

Ask Her Out, Yo

We wrapped shooting on the documentary the other day. The last interview was Moms. Now editing and off to the races.

Not a peep from my press release. The American people may be spiritually and emotionally more dead than I anticipated. The mediators that guard their precious attention more crass and dilligent than imagined. I always assumed that once someone had the guts to bring the truth, that they wouldn't be able to ignore it. Would be forced to stop fronting. I may be wrong in this regard.

The current plan is to keep going. Full steam ahead. Maybe it's just the literary types that are moribund and monochromatic. Once the actual beat hits the streets, I am certain the kids will not be refused.

There was a great quote in the Trib. the other day about just this: "young people will pay whatever you charge. The jazz clients won't. You're forced to go in that direction as a business owner and it makes it harder to get jazz in."

That was Carolyn Albitton, who used to book Chicago's Cotton Club, where R. Kelly and Bernie Mac got their start.

She makes a pretty succinct case for why our culture always slides toward the lowest common denominator--sex, violence, teenaged drama--because adults won't pay for anything else. Not that there's anyone creating much else. The jazz she was trying to book is at best a middle-aged art form. 40 years old and hasn't had an originator in decades. I'm not surprised it can't compete. But we still expect to get over enjoyment, to surgically remove indulgence and giving a shit in public as part of what we call "being an adult". We expect to appreciate rather than enjoy art. (Which leaves us wide open to the multitude manipulations of the careerist artists and their accomplices in the art industry).

This is so boring Tom Wolfe wrote a book about it about 50 years ago. Luckily, I'm not a business owner but a child of god. And my missive is not to react fearfully to other people's fears, but to do what the fuck I'm here to do and make the shit I'd give my life to have exist. Regardless. I don't care if you pay for it, care about it, love it, leave it, get titilated, scared, verklempt or confused. I don't care if you never get over grunge, or admit you're still hungry after Sideways. I don't care if you insist that protest culture is where you want to hang your hat forever. I don't give a fuck. Or even a fuck that I dont' give a fuck. In fact I go to the gym 6 hours a week and do shit I don't want to just to forget how good you are at supressing your desires and controlling your emotions so I'll have half a chance at approaching you lovingly. But that doesn't mean I'm going to lie about it.

I'll be the crazy one. I don't care. I'll live at my mom's house with my sister and hang out with folks on the margin. (Not the white "margin"/cutting edge, which I've outgrown and now labor to indulge, mind you, the other, scary, one). You couldn't feed me anyway. So why would I do what you do? I tried your way. And it broke me. And bored me. And spit me out paralysed.

And it's not even your way. It's just what is. No one likes it enough to take responsibility for it, they just do it. That's one of the problems. The employee's not in charge, the manager is. The manager isn't in charge, the boss is. The boss isn't in charge, the board is. The board isn't in charge, the market is. The market isn't in charge, the shareholder is. White folks, for as fucking uptight and responsible as we are, have done a pretty good job at removing responsibility from the equasion. Well guess what? The shareholder is the employee. Is the manager is the boss. We are it!

I once wrote in a college manifesto (written with my friend Pierce), that our jobs will not support us, we will support them. Do the math. If you go back far enough, you'll find the only hand on the leash is your own.

I saw a great play the other night. It was based on Murakami's After the Quake--a book of short stories. If you don't know Murakami, he's a genius. One of the mo-fos that should be charging at least $60 for his shit. Maybe then people would appreciate what he's actually doing--making the absurd liveable (and meaningful). And training and charging into battle daily to do so.

The play was about just this. This battle going on. In the realm of imagination. In dreams. Around belief. And what it costs. And what we stand to lose if we lose. Or fail to face that which is real but which we can't see. I've read all of Murakami's stuff (except "After the Quake"). That's 9 or so books. And I'm not much of a reader. It's that good.

The nice thing about being alive at this point in time is that the battle is largely emotional.

In the old days, and still in many other countries, your path to true self-expression was one of the sword. And you risked being run through with sharpened stakes, or getting shot, tortured or worse.

All we've got to do is figure out what we want. Surprisingly, it seems just as hard or harder as winning our physical freedom was. But we're also turning the whole damn thing around--improvising. For generations after generation all people had to do was keep up the same old fight. Now half the deal is just figuring out what in the hell is going on. And what tools work and what tools don't work. We're not used to listening to our feelings. Taking care of ourselves. Resting when we're weary. Putting ourselves first. Getting real.

When you're a slave, or a serf, or an employee, there is a villain, a boss, a master. He's bad and you're good. Get free from him and you'll be better.

But in the realm of spiritual/creative freedom, it's just you and you. No one cares. You're the only one keeping yourself unhappy or preventing yourself from doing, saying or being whatever you want. You take responsibility.

And, After the Quake aside (a frog recruits the guy to go into battle with him), this battle you go into alone.

Utterly alone. Existentially alone. At the exact wrong time. Without the proper preparation.

AAAaaaaaaaaAAaaaaiiiiihhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

And it is a freefall. Just cut the rope.

And you don't know what to do. And worst of all, you don't know what the hell you SHOULD be doing. Or what's acceptable, what's right. What's okay. Because you're creating, from the ground up, a new acceptability. A new okay. A new safety. A new right.

And that's part of the fun. If you were reading off a script it wouldn't be any fun. If it didn't take everything you thought you had and a little you never knew was even in you, you wouldn't even care to do it. Or grow a more solid faith as a result. If it didn't transform you into the person you always had a notion you were but never actually believed you could be, what would be the point?

And to get from here to there, in the present, (or maybe it's more like getting from there to here(?)), why wouldn't you do anything? Do everything. Drop al lthe bs? Why wouldn't you commit time and time again to moving forward? Why wouldn't you let the parts of yourself that you don't love die off? Why wouldn't you exercise your best parts and shine light on your darkest tar?

There's nothing else to do.

Which brings me to what I'm up to next.

I've done the money dance for a few weeks and the good lord (and our beautiful market economy) has hooked me up. I'm paying rent now at Mom's so I need a little more scrilla to hole up, but I've got enough for a couple months.

That's how we do it.

So back to the studio. The mine. Tha lab. I've got all my demo technical glitches out of the way. I've got the system down and almost know the software.

But even more important. I've grown a new chamber somewhere. I'd say my heart, but y'all might hate on me like Kanye. I'd say my soul, but it will help my singing more than the etherialality of that implies. I've just stared down another whole layer of this shit stone cold sober. Processed every feeling.

There was a killer part in the play where the writer character sits down at the foot of the bed where the woman he loves (and has just allowed himself to love) and her daughter lie alseep. He speaks to the audience saying what he wants to write. It's beautiful.

Well I want to write songs about the people who stay. About the love that gets deeper and jucier as it goes along. That fucks like there's no tomorrow at 45, at 50. That still feels it like the first time every time. Or at least bats .850 even after the kids are born.

I want to write songs about the miracle of every second, about the first bird of the year to risk opening his beak. The first squirrel to stop collecting nuts and return to goofing around as spring breaks.

I want to write songs about raising children in belief instead of protecting them from and preparing them for a cold world through doubt, testing and plain old adult wierdness.

I want to write songs that speak wordlessly, through tones and times, just like love itself. I force myself just at the right moment and you fucking love it. Eat it up.

Living this life is like fucking. Being alive is like fucking the world. You can shoot your wad any time you like. But you'll miss a whole lot of fantastic beauty if you give up and nod off sated. And are tired the next day because you didn't work hard enough. Or rest long enough. Even more if you have to get drunk to find the mood and coffee to recover.

There is another way. If you get nothing else from me, get this. Just being alive is enough if you allow yourself to feel it all. You can keep it up. Love does work. You can do what you want. You can feel it all day every day. And it does pay.

It might take training. It might take courage. It might take ten years.

Or it might happen instantly. Effortlessly. Right when you walk up and ask her out.

You won't know until you try. [Now go look at the accompanying photo, taken in Katmandu, btw.]

Lord Have Mercy

April Hesik and I standing on the chairs in our US Government class to make a fashion statement. Circa 1985. Muggin'. And that bowl cut was fresh--I promise!