embracing the darkside of chaos theory

Life goes on.

I do not know the fates of those I care about who lived in the path of destruction from Hurricane Katrina, and I cannot affect their fates, except in abstract. So, I will do what I can on that plane and trust that whatever their fates, they are content.

I am doing okay. I have had to accept that I can't save everyone from everything. Years ago a psychiatrist told me that Ann was going to die. She made it. She has always given me credit for her survival. I have credited her, for her willingness to survive. I can only teach, I do not compel, that is not my way. That once the lesson is taught I am to be discarded is a role I have always accepted, if sorrowfully. MY Mom always said I never had girlfriends, just projects. Abuse survivors, addicts, and the like, all needing someone willing to give them a shot at a sane life. My record is decent in that regard, my motives are of course, open to interpretation.

Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar (right, President Clinton?)

So, here we are, 1100 miles apart (probably less, as she probably fled North to relatives) and every mention of the disaster, every photo of the debris, wrenches at me like chords of some great funeral composition. We have always accepted the fact that I would outlive her, and certainly her conduct over the last few years has done little to endear her to me, but I made promises, and I have tried, to the best of the limits imposed by nature, society and even occasionally the lady herself, to live up to those oaths. The failings of others do not excuse my own.

I am, I know, capable of better than purely aping the conduct of others.

But, I am still aching to know how she, her mother, our dog and my other friends from the region fared in the storm. I will, in time. I accept I may not know for some time.

On to other topics...

Not feeling up to it.

Like what E.J. has done so far with the site, including his special little shift tonight to a more Spartan feel.

I am stronger than I was yesterday, but still not fully recovered.

I am going to donate a copy of "Art&Soul" from the AEI to Morgantown High School. I might even give them some of my books if they'd get over of this "someone pissed in our Wheaties" provincialism. Wake up, people.

Androne (the Actor) wrote earlier...first time I have had to let him off his leash in some time. Perhaps my weariness has opened an escape for him. I hope not. I posted the work on www.myspace.com...you'll find it under the Romantic and Erotic Poetry Group.

Closure is required. Perhaps I shall draw some comfort from this all, after all.

Reports of my demise are premature

Contrary to what some would indicate, I am not incapacitated. Distracted, yes. A bit "off my feed", sure. You would be/are too.

So far I am inclined to like what E.J. is doing to "The City"...a few tweaks are in order and I've emailed him, appropriately. One my new machine is up and running next week I shall probably dive in and edit his edits of me...

Well, that's it for me for today. No sermons, no lectures, no babbles.

Peace.

The City Goes On, The Poet Collapses

The poet is currently enduring (barely) intense anxiety attacks over the fate of his ex-wife and her family down in Southern Mississsippi, so I am going to do the posting until he uncoils. Can't let him die until he chooses an heir, though.

Got more edits up on the site revisions. His friend Anastacia made some cogent points about font size (I think she said a small font meant his dick was small, and we know the legends dispute that...a 72 point font seemed excessive, so I compromised up one step.)

I haven't seen him this worried in years. Poor guy. He said it best: "Memory is the curse of those who care."

My count shows about 250 works now up on the site...which means I am about half done in regards to links...

The Bulldozers are at Work on My City

Rough night...I had taken a brief nap in the afternoon and was not ready for bed when night came.

Began the physical set up for the new computer...I already have plans for it. I see where E.J. has already started the urban renewal in the City of Legends. Good for him. But, since he started it, he better finish phase one, at least, in a day or two. I hate incomplete things being visible...

Phase One is the connection and re-connection to the body of works I want available.
Phase Two is the reformatting of most of the individual poetry pages to the rose layout.
Phase Three is a paring down of the front page.

It was heart-wrenching watching and reading dispatches from Southern Mississippi, I know so many of those places that are now waterlogged kindling. I have decided to step back and not worry so much about loved ones down there (yes, loved ones, I try not to let other people's limits limit me).

Ah well.

Got a note from Karla about my comments of her having dumped me for Tomas. In actuality, she is right, she did reject me before taking up with him...but there's always that grey area between relationships when there's always a hope (however slim) of a negotiated settlement (I was open to moving, it just never got that far in the discussions) and his entry into the picture (plus the obvious fact that he is more her physical type, plus this blonde person's mad charge into my life, all happening at once) at that time always made it a mixed media collage. I'm not angry or unhappy at either of them, I think he's a damn decent poet (as is she) and I've never been one to tell someone they have to choose me or be a bad person (my issues with certain past lovers, believe it or not, have little or nothing to do with their philandering). I have naught but fond memories of my Mad Gypsy. Actually, fond is not the exact right word, but this is a family blog. :-)

Well, off to the salt mines.

um, dude? I'm making the website changes live...

Note to the Boss...

Congrats on your checkup. Always knew you were immortal, now we have more evidence.

Note, I am already starting to redesign and implement the changes on the website at www.cityoflegends.com

Hope you don't mind, I did put up a "pardon our dust" tag for the casual viewer....

I'm days from finishing, but at this point I think I've already blown out the site to about 250 works...

Hope all is well, I know what you must be going through worrying about Ann and Sydney, I know what they mean to you.

People can be so cruel without meaning to be, you know.

Had my physical today

I had my first physical in five years today, one of the deprivations of the former regime was I did not have health insurance for half a decade, forunately I never got really sick and continued my bulletproof ways (I've only been shot at once, and that's a story I'm not sharing, sorry). Won't know all the results of all the tests for a few days, but to my friends and readers, here's the straight dope so far:

For a man my age, I am in remarkable health.

I need to continue losing weight, to guard against future health risks (down about 30 pounds from when I was in Mississippi).

My blood pressure is normal, slightly elevated (but with what's going on down in Southern Mississippi, I am doing very well for a man who is going to pieces moment to moment with worry).

Heart and lungs, sound.

Barring something odd coming out of the bloodwork, I am cleared to start exercising more vigorously (I wanted a doctor's clearance before I really unleashed the lion)...I think this also means I don't have to worry about dying in the saddle during lovemaking. If I ever do that again (make love, not die).

Minor issues I presented he suggested zinc supplements, Vaseline and Neosporin (I am not kidding, and I leave this to your disgusting, perverted imaginations)

Oh yeah, prostate is fine.

It's always nice to have confirmation that you are in disgustingly robust health and have won the DNA lottery.

As the Doctor said, "Can't beat those genes."

Guess you guys are going to have to put up with me for a few more decades.

Katrina and the waves reunion tour?

Let's face it, the 70's pop rock band should reunite to tour with the name now so prominent!

Hold an all-star concert for disaster relief maybe? C'mon, I couldn't be the first person to think of this...

Anyway, I am still worn to a nub worrying about those I care about down there (I'd worry about everyone, but I'm not sure my stomache lining would last more than a few nanoseconds if I was that much the Mother Hen). I haven't felt this much stress in years. Probably when the counselor who was working with Ann told me there was nothing more to be done but prepare for a funeral.

I don't like being told I'm powerless. It amps me up, adrenaline at 250% as I look for a solution.

Spent a pleasant evening with a friend last night, talking about everything and nothing, just staying distracted (and she is distracting, I assure you). There was nothing on TV, so I tossed and turned for a while before forcing myself to shutdown.

Got a note from the guy Karla dumped me for, praising the blog...that was nice (he even said she'd pointed it out to him, which means she's seen it). She's one of the old guard who is still around in the periphery, I hear from her every so often (of course, she is one of those who voted for Ann, so I should NOT take her advice on women.)

On that topic, while I'm on it...let me see, who expressed an opinion back when?

In Favour of Ann: Peri, Karla, my Mom, Claibie.
Opposed to Ann: Anastacia, Sandy, Dar, Alisha.

Most of my male friends backed Ann, but out of a sense of vicariously living through me (guys will be guys)...so at least now I know who to listen to next time (will there be a next time? Barring a large asteroid getting past Bruce Willis and Robert Duvall to end life as we know it on this planet before I decide the time is right to re-engage, bet on it. In fact, someone should start laying bets on it at a betting parlour. Put me down for twenty on "Yes, 10-15 years younger, disaster"...and I'll get back up after that mess, as well.)

Although it would be nice to lose at least part of that bet (the disaster). My friend Scott says I shouldn't rule out even younger women, seeing as Morgantown has a substantial student body due to WVU. I don't think a 22 year old is off limits, but the cultural and maturity gap is huge at that distance...I grew tired of educating Ann...a women that young would have to be something superhuman to earn my affections, and most who go to WVU are just here for a beer buzz. But, I'll keep my options open...for now. We'll see what uncorks as the AEI and TCPC juggernauts penetrate more of the local subculture. Maybe a nice graduate lit major who actually understands something more complex than Stuart Woods (nothing against the guy, but Tom Clancy and I went a few round years back over the difference between literature and mass-market fiction).

Mary Tomasky, the only creative writing teaching I ever had, called my mom the other day to thank me for the essay about her in the "Art&Soul" book, she'd heard comments about it at a retired teachers' get-together. That felt good. Maybe this year I'll actually get an invite to speak to a school class (no, Robert, I am not scouting high school prom dates)...last year I was shut out...which was sooooooo stupid. In California and even Mississippi, all I have to do is say I have an open date and I get book to speak or read...here...nope...even though I'm a home town kid who made good.

Going to go now and watch the Hurricane coverage...the song "Walking on Sunshine" (by Katrina and the Waves) is stuck in my head now.

It must be tough to be a muse...

Fro writes: "Must not be easy being a muse; and probably that's the reason muses are almost never lasting companions."

I've thought on that before.

Yes, I guess being treated as a goddess and granted immortality by one who will contort, distort, divert and pervert himself in whatever way necessary to feed that legend is rough. Someone who places your comfort and pleasure even ahead of his own necessities. Someone who believes in you. Wow. Rough job, huh?

No, really.

You sooner or later have to look at yourself in an earnest mirror and doubt your worthiness. My old friend Jan Innes, who used to edit my books, once said that women see in me a chance at redemption, of being treated like the princess or goddess they would like to be, but once the world shows the slightest failure to follow through on my wishes and perception, they crash and burn and feel both unworthy and betrayed.

Tough being a Muse?

That's like tough being a goddess.

But imagine how the High Priest feels when the Goddess turns out to have dark roots, feet of clay, bad breath, poor manners and a tendency to treat you like dirt. I do have enough self esteem to sooner or later squirm when kicked. One day I wake up and realize being the whipping boy and scapegoat is not a costume I'd like to wear to Mardi Gras.

I've hung up my superman suits...yes, I'll still dash into traffic for the wounded puppy, but I'm going to stop advertising the fact. I've hung up my boy scout uniform, a long time ago, too many mistakes in a world that forgives evil in evil men but not error in those who are trying. everyday, to be more than just not bad. I've chopped up my crosses to make splints for the arms and legs and souls of those I've tried to help.

But after enough times getting burned carrying people from a burning building who just turn around and run back into the flames, you start wondering about the purpose.

A friend who later became a lover once asked what she would do when I found someone else, as she was going to need me for the rest of her life. She's gone now, alive but irrelevent. To quote Alanis Morisette: "But you're still alive."

I'm not angry or bitter, sometimes sad, but mostly I'm proud that I've walked more miles than most would. Not proud in that I think I'm better than everyone else, just pleased to have lived up to at least a part of a difficult ethos. I've counseled, mourned, healed, helped, carried, shielded, paid for, retrieved lost heirlooms and taken telishment in the name of love. I have laughed under the lash, as I like to say. I wear these scars with nobility and as reminders of lost hearts and those who would forget me forever if it wasn't the bragging rights to my inspiration.

On that topic: I plan to leave my estate, my intellectual property, to whatever muse most lives up to my ideal. Right now we have nobody really better than about a C- on a very liberal curve, so I hope I find someone worthy before I have to start consigning my rights to the furnace, or someone starts acting like they deserve the immortality I've given away. I've sowed my anagathic eloquences, let's see if anyone has a soul enough to want to have earned it. The line forms now.

On the question of whether muses damned to be comets, shooting stars, tears in the rain?

I'll let you know when I reach the other side. I'm not through yet. A little more patchwork is due, then I am roaring back like a stone dragon on meth ice. Or an Amomancer bent on theocricide. And this time, I will go until the flesh fails.

Yes. That's the key.

Sunday morning blather and the killing of God

Sunday morning...Sunday morning....Sunday morning...

Worried about Ann and her family, as they are dead in the path of Hurricane Katrina (now a Category 5 storm)...I hope they are safe. Sydney, be good. (Sydney is her dog (well she was OUR dog, but such is life), who does not like storms, she freaks at the sound of rushing wind or heavy rain or thunder...needless to say, she'll be a basket case for the next few days.)

Long hours take their toll...I've already worked out the redesign specs on the new City of Legends...going to give you guys what you've been asking for...a lot more works.

My friend Anastacia has been doing such a bang up job editing my websites and newsletters (if you don't get my newsletter, why the hell not? go to the City of Legends and sign up, schmuck!) that I am toying with having her edit my next book (most mortals would be afraid of that).

I need to call the boys today, not as an obligation but because there are days that they are the reason I stay standing.

I've been called upon to explain the title of the next book,
theocricide.

It's a six dollar word I coined a few years ago, meaning, literally "the killing of god". No, don't sic foreign tabloid billionaire Rupert Murdoch's talking head news prostitutes at Fox News on me (gee, they need something new to distract us from the bad economy, oil prices and the War in Iraq, what next?), note the small "g". It means a willful act that destroys a belief system or religious view.

I use it in reference to an emotional or intellectual crisis that turns into a spiritual crisis that causes a paradigm shift in one's thinking of God or god. It can be good or bad, depending on the cause and the result. A crisis that undermines you in such a way that you shed your false gods to embrace the one, true God is a good theocricide. A crisis that cause you to turn from God out of anger or bitterness or stupidity is a bad theocricide.

Get it? Got it? Good!

Karen tosses her...er...hat...in the ring

We got a comment yesterday from a reader named "Karen" who asked me to put in a good word for her with the big guy in his search for the next great muse.

Great to hear from you, Karen, but since your comments are routed as "anonymous"...all I can do is tell him "There's at least one worthy candidate out there. Her name is Karen, that's all I know...so, next woman named Karen that you meet must be her."

This could get interesting. If you read this Karen, write me at trojanhearse@cityoflegends.com and let me know some more.

Hurricane Katrina

Ann. Moo. Sydney. and everyone else whom I care about, in the path of the storm. get out.

follow my lead, when faced with losing my life or just surrendering things (and those things had been with me longer and meant more ot me than your house does) I got out.

I hope you guys are already well inland and buckled in for the weather. God bless.

Brian, hope all is well down there.

Take care, all..I have my own storms to face.

loose in the gallery of my mind

I thought, as a mind experiment, I'd just grab some famous paintings, toss them up on the screen, and then say which of my friends, lovers and/or muses they remind me of, I sometimes do that with music, to evoke memories, let's work from great art this time...

"The Scream" for instance, reminds me of Brigit...not for the figure in the foreground, but for the sky in the background. We stood on Venice Beach and watched the sun slide into the Pacific, shifting from bright yellow-white, through pink and orange and red, eventually distorting and being swallowed up by the horizon....

"Starry Night"...invokes Psyche, also known as the Electric Lady...early in our courtship we would, at the end of an evening together, stand on her porch and just hold each other as we talked, the night sky and the crickets (and her spying little sister) our main company. There's a strange beauty and comfort in this image, us alone in the universe...

Jan, my first wife, the muse known as "the Swallow" is invoked in "American Gothic"...she was and is, at heart, a farm girl, and her ro0ts are in the Oak Hill, West Virginia, farm where she grew up...no matter that the bad old city slicker from Morgantown took her off to the DC suburbs. The grimness of the picture is irrelevent to how I resonate to this work, it is the tableau, the milieu, that clicks with my memories, here.

Finally, we come to "Mona Lisa"...Da Vinci's enigmatically smiling beauty. That one is interesting to my memories, as it invoked many different women whose faces never gave away what was actually going on inside them. Certainly the Goldenheart, the Truth, even Aurora...but in the end I have to give it to Alabaster, my first muse...I never got close enough to her to really understand her (she would probably say there's nothing to understand, that she is, in course, a simple person, but we all think we are simple, in and of ourselves...)

Okay, all, and Flo, there's a start in the process...I am actually enjoying this.

Got an email the other day from a site that calls itself the "Poet's Hall of Fame"...E.J. has, over the past several years, sent them regular updates, new books, what have you...this time we got back a note saying that they were no longer going to allow poets to update their own listing, but would require documentation of all claims, references as it were. I understand that (I almost said "grok" there...how dated!) and responded that I did understand that and would instruct E.J. to cooperate. At the same time, I've seen so much self-promotion, it always gets me a little sick...I've said before, I may be a whore, but at least I am not a pimp.

There's a certain nobility in at least selling your own body (of work) but certainly not in getting rich off of selling other people's bodies (ask Hugh Hefner, the most commercially successful pimp in modern history...no one buys his magazine for him, but he's the rich one...is that "right"? No.)

Anyway, gotta run...ordered the new 'puter...should be in and up in about a week...and Monday marks my first physical in half a decade (I was always too busy seeing to others' wants over my needs...I need to at least get the oil changed and the tires rotated if I am to outlive my ennui.)

To Fro: equinox

I have an email from the visitor named Fro, who asks a straight forward question as to whom the poem "Equinox" is dedicated to. For those of you unfamiliar with the poem, here it is:

Equinox

There is a sweet evil in the innocent designs of passionate minds...
sliding past then around, then together, a death spiral of dreams....
touching at all points, even those we deny we would expose to the embrace
of the demons of our own passions...fashioned from the night you promised
but that never came, for you had caught me in the daylight...
and taken your fill in the killing light...and drinking deeply my prayers
of seduction as you took me in arms like the web of memory
and swallowed me like a shadow at equinox.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I had to ponder this question, as it came out of my exile in Venice Beach, where I wrote for hours, even days, without relent and without conscious thought. I had to retrace my steps in my mind to the moment of this work's first breath...

I can say clearly, and purely, without doubt in my mind, that this was written to Alisha, the totem muse known as "The Truth" and "The Wisp"

I found her utterly fascinating. But we never went beyond a few kisses...she hinted that there might be more down the road...but it never came...and she has not been present in my life now in about seven years.

I'll post some more pictures tomorrow, more thoughts...and a surprise...

W

Pictures in an Exhibition:

The mighty daffodil. It plays a role in two of my muses' mythologies.

Don't look so strangely at me, what were you expecting? A treatise on the history and technques behind the penetrating rose? That's coming later.

The daffodil appears several times in my poems about the original Panther. It came from a comment she made to me when our relationship was at a low point...she told me not to worry about the winter, spring was coming and with it, the daffodils. She would sometimes speak in these metaphoric manners (truth be told, I am not sure where her words ended and mine began, so I give her full credit for the entirety...) The daffodil became the symbol for hope.

It also is the flower that, for some reason, reminds me the most of the golden Panther, Ann. In part for the yellow colour, but also because it is a flower that, to me, represents youth. I also recall it being used in flower arrangements at the church I went to with her (I converted briefly to Episcopal, but since our divorce they (the church where I attended) don't return my calls and emails, so my decision to go Quaker was made very easy...) and thus another resonance.

Now, let's talk about black roses.

Aeons ago, when I worked briefly for a local florist, I noted the sprays they can use to recolour flowers, even to black. Always being a creature of intensity, I made a black rose for Nancy (Psyche) and gave it to her.

Years later, when her Mother passed away, I ordered an arrangement of black roses to be sent to her viewing. The black rose to me is a symbol, not of death, but of unwavering faith and intensity.

And now for the Goldenheart.

Inspired by my friend and protege, the totem of the Goldenheart, through my work "The Goldenheart Cycles", a golden heart became to me a symbol for pure love, hopeful and romantic. So much so that when I designed the cover for my 2002 book "101 Great Love Poems", even though none of the poems from that cycle of cycles was to be a part of the book, I still wanted to tip my hat to the sweet Kristina (we were never lovers, by the way...in the end she rejected me for reasons still not explained to me, and therefore, while a point of curiosity, I must accept them nonetheless...a gentleman accepts a lady's wishes).

iUniverse and I went a few rounds, as their artists wanted to tamper with the size of the heart on the cover, but I held firm and this became the first cover I did with them that was 100% of my own control.

pictures in an exhibition: the Panthers

The mysterious commentator, Fro, suggests that I post pictures that remind me of various people in my life...I accept the challenge and will do so intermittently over the next days...

let's start with the triumvirate of my modern muses...the three panthers.

The first one is easy in and of itself (herself), the original panther...

Here, seen in her self portrait, which appeared on the cover of my first book, PanthEon. It is a fair likeness, although slightly idealized by her fondness for the works of Patrick Nagel.

To me there was a darkness to her, better captured in the image of the model Jillian Ann, both on the cover of and contained in my book THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES.But even that is not a perfect image...if I find the one I need, I'll post it...I once, in the midst of our tempestuous relationship, had a waking dream where she was a dark elf, coiled around my heart, and my chest had been ripped open to expose her there, her dark eyes glowing faintly as she suffocated my very life from me.

She was never really that vicious or cruel, it was more of a fearful thing, caused by an unhappy childhood. I've always been attracted to broken people, or at least those badly bent by strife, abuse and even darker life events. It is in the nature of a dark panther to hide, to use the night for cover from which to strike, and to avoid troubles. There is more to this than the surface suggests.

Then we have the crimson panther, Brigit (not her real name, but her alternative muse name, as to me she is the avatar of the Celtic Goddess of Fire and Poetry)...this piece of art startled me when I first saw it, for it is a good likeness of her, and also suggests her roaring sensuality. Of the three she is easily the sexiest, the most dazzling creature. And brilliant, besides (although this picture does not show it, trust me) I wish I still had the picture of her flipping off the camera when she was in L.A. with me...it was a great shot...

A cimson panther does not, in any form, exist in nature. Perhaps I was merely projecting her red hair, or perhaps that mingled with many other aspects of red, including blood...I had been celibate for almost a year when this dream came, perhaps I was considering sleeping with her almost a loss of virginity, or surrendering to my blood...

I do apologize that she does not have a book cover of mine to represent her...perhaps sometime we can remedy that. She deserves it.

and finally, the golden panther, the Leopard, my second wife, Ann...

depicted here from the cover of "From an Unexpected Quarter", but that is merely a physical representation of her, to me she is more and more abstract as every day passes, less person and more something I imagined... She was and is, I believe still, strikingly pretty, but has never had to work at it, and thus can be a bit like a golden ornament, so certain of her desireability she feels it unnecessary to do anything more but exist to be loved.

Love is more than ornamentation, it is a state of surrender and of purpose. One must learn to love unconditionally, and then to act upon that love...I think she got to the first pillar...but the second pillar, at least for now, has defeated her...

Don't worry, love, most people never even reach the first marker...

Oh, an explanation of "The Three Panthers"...when I was living in Venice Beach, one night I had an extraordinarily vivid dream.

In it I was in a white room, with the sound of an old carousel loud upon me.
Circling me were three abstract leopards; one black, one blood red, one golden.
They had identical postures and expressions, sort of a sly laughing to them, as they circled me in time with the music. Suddenly the music stopped, and I was left with a sense that I had to make a choice, sort of like musical chairs...
I hesitated...
and the music started back up...
and the dream faded...
and I was filled with remorse...

I concluded that at the time the panthers were representations of the original Panther, Brigit (whom, at the time, I was planning to meet with) and Ann, who had begun hinting she may want to come out to visit me in Los Angeles...

Leisure unsuited

So, what's wrong with staying busy?

(I believe in the old adage "I can rest when I'm dead")

Leisure does not suit me. Let me clarify, before Anastacia and E.J. mug me over that.

It doesn't have to be "work" per se, but anything that keeps my mind and body engaged, ideally. I have always had a low threshold for boredom (what do I find boring? think "tedious"...wasteful things, stupid things, lies, destructive and meaningless activities. my hobbies have always been reflections of this...er, I have no hobbies...I use the internet as a research tool, I write, I use television solely as a drug to lull me to sleep or occupy my mind when forced into a static position in my environment (People will gripe if I spend an hour on the web, designing a new webpage or researching a political or scientific interest, saying I am wasting my time...while they are watching "Wheel of Fortune" and "Jeopardy"...huh?))

Lives are filled with debris. In the time you take to read this, people have died painfully and needlessly. Someone you need to talk to has not heard from you. A friend has gone wanting for something you could bring to their life. (Suddenly I am hearing Van Halen's "Right Now" in my head.)

Little things have purpose, but to fill your life with delaying tactics while waiting for the worms is a waste of air and space.

"I'd rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." - Shelby, "Steel Magnolias"

Don't get me wrong, there is great wonder in my life. I am staggered by how much I feel for my children (yes, even you, Peri)...everyday I meet new people whom I see possibilities in.

Most of the dumb things I've done in this life I've done out of boredom (actually, there are studies that indicate that boredom is a top cause of teen drug use and early sexual experimentation).

"And I am lost in the possibilities of your presence." - William F. DeVault, "The Patchwork Skirt of My Love"

Maybe the woman who smiled at me yesterday will be the next great muse, the great muse, or just a friend of a friend of a friend. Maybe I will save her life, maybe she will save mine. Maybe she'll find out who I am (I spend most of my day "undercover") and buy one of my books.

Maybe none of the above. My God, there are billions of people out there and nearly all of them wake up every day and walk through life and have thoughts and emotions and expereinces that add to the infinite tapestry of the univers.

Someone once asked me what my vision of heaven would be. For me, it would be the Almighty giving me my own quantum bubble and telling me to have fun. Wouldn't that be something? And then, even after death, I wouldn't rest.

Except, maybe every seventh day or so.

New Website Design and He's Working Day and Night

I'd go on strike but he'd probably sic God on me.

Just got the specs for the new website design.

Great. just great. It is the most ambitious re-thinking of his site ever...and guess who has to do all the heavy lifting? That's right...me.

Ladies, one of you PLEASE thow yourself on the grenade and snag him...when he's getting laid on a regular basis he's not so ambitious to remake the heavens and the earth.

I need a vacation. He needs a new muse. And there has to be some woman out there who needs a brilliant, passionate, legendary renaissance man to make mad love to her AND immortalize her.

Please?

And I see he leaked his working title for the new book earlier...great, more pressure. I suspect he's feeling his mortality and wants things to be in order...without the baggage of a parasitic lover (there are other kinds, you know, but he tends to attract broken people) he's rocket powered and racing the wind. And I'm his damn spear carrier.

Shuck that fit.

theocricide

I'm already ahead of myself, working on the works to be used in the next book...I am so fired up since the reaction that THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES is getting, I can't hardly wait to start on the next one...besides, work is the great spiritual anesthetic.

to be mined from "from an unexpected quarter"


From Out of the City (signature work, can't be left behind)
Ritornelle: for Silence (I adore this piece, if I am the only one who gets it)
Traveler to an Antique Land (my tribute to a faded friend)
The Darker Angels (I think I shall use this as the epilog)
The Trellis of Human Experience (something I need to be reminded of, every day, along the way)
Eclipse (watching a lover grieve...how intense the image)
In The Garden (This work was overlooked due to an iUniverse editing snafu...it will get proper treatment this time)
I Will Wake You Tonight (love this work, the notion of waking up your lover in the middle of the night yo make love)
Sight: An Eloquence (somehow I sense Alisha's hand in this one)
A Touch of Heather (I never get tired of telling the story of the nuns in Ireland who banned me from their convent school)
Cithara Song, Strummed Lightly as the Sun Leaps the Horizon (one of the most remarkable works I think I shall ever write)
The Goldenheart Cycles (Kristina, wherever you are, your legacy shall outlive most)
Damascus (1-9) (in the season when they came, they were true and pure and perfect, I can recall that beauty...)

Others may be added later. These 69 pieces are a good start.

"Love Gods of a Forgotten Religion" should yield up another fifty or so.


Including:

I Rained Poetry (can't live without it)
Love Gods of a Forgotten Religion (what a great read!)
feasting on memory (such an earnest statement)
The Shadows in the Shade (the final word on the Panther)
Monument (one of the first and greatest of my romantic works)
Long-Haired Star (I love the verbal density of this work, it practically generates its own gravity)
Soubrette (how lovely)
The Night of a Thousand Colours (a thousand colours, imagine names for each)
Flourish (nice expression of regret)
dram (had Alisha lingered, what might have been writ?)
TRANSCENDENCE (farewell...)
Gibbous (what a short and simple erotic statement)
The Patchwork Skirt of My Love (classic, I agree)
Reborn ("take the snake of William Blake...")
32 fpsps (Love it, just love it)
...just to begin with!

No poems from the Panther Cycles. None from the Morgantown Suite Poems...Invocato may be another matter, though...I may subsume it in the new book.

No more the consort, I shall be the Amomancer. I apologize to those amongst my readers who have been waiting for me to find seventh gear.

To quote Ani DiFranco "I got distracted..."

a quiet moment and a revelation

the names question

Interesting response to one of my posts yesterday, wherein I suggested I sometime post a list of all the names of all the people I have known as friend or lover.

the individual suggested I post just images. problem with that is, many I do not have images of...a strange thing, but my first wife demanded I destroy all my photos of my first love. my daughter destroyed much of my archives of photos during my divorce. my second wife destroyed just about all that is left.

I think, for my own amusement, I will post a few crops of pictures I do have, just to make everyone mental...but most of the people I'd really like to hear from, like Alisha, Kristina, et alia, I do not have pictures of.

except in my mind, where they are safest from both time and prying eyes.

I recall Alisha's flirtatiousness. The sheer energy that radiated from Elizabeth (I wish she had not been my boss' assistant, he had strict rules about fraternization). Kristina's gentle earnestness. Terri's laugh, so overpowering her face would contort and her shoulders shake. Sandy's non-nonsense approach to life and her love of experimenting with new restaurants. Susan's brazen self-doubt and clever essays. Avi's quiet intellect. Maurna's dignity. Chuck's kindness. Brigit's agile mind and mythic beauty. Nancy's laugh and love of knowledge. Jan's fierce loyalty. Dave's ironic wit. Tom's embrace of life. Dolores' smile. Dar's charm and grace under fire.

"I've...seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-Beams...glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All these moments will be lost...in time...like...tears in rain....time to die." - Roy Batty to Rick Deckard, "Blade Runner"

One of the great quotes of all time from a film, one of the great death scenes. I hope I get a good exit line. Like I haven't already had enough?

Searching in the City and a Kegger of Contempt

There's always a little thrill at seeing someone use the search function at the City of Legends website, especially when they use it to look for something few would know.

Last year, for instance, someone searched the site using Psyche's real name. Someone who must've known who she was...alas, to avoid any possible litigation from cowardly, snooty or ungrateful muses, I rarely use full names. So, they may have gone away, empty handed.

Someday I may just post a page on the site with just names. Names of people I have known as friends and lovers and inspiration, and then wait for the howling. A few years ago EJ asked me for such a list, and he posted it...within days a friend whom I had expressed gratitude to for her helping me adjust to Los Angeles when I first moved there angrily emailed him and demanded her name be removed.

I thought people liked to be thanked for their kindnesses...maybe there are still a few things I don't know about people.

The other day someone used the search for a poem title. An obscure work of mine, dedicated to one of my muses. I 'd like to believe it was her, checking on her legacy. I'd like to think so, but I will never know unless she comes forward.

I'm getting some heat over my words about drinking at West Virginia University. Guess what? I'm not backing down. I've had to counsel too many people who have screwed up their lives that way to have any sympathy for those who claim the rights to criminal conduct. yes, criminal conduct. Vandalism, supplying alcohol to underage kids, arson, date rape, assault, DUI: none of these are particularly mature or desirable conduct.

So, again, bite me.

Hijinks in low places

Living for now in a town with a university (WVU) known more for the destructive and anti-social behaviour of the children who attend there than any real accomplishments makes one take pause regarding the entire college system in the US.

At one time, University was a place for the elite and accomplished. Now it is an almost essential survival tool, as more and more employers consider a 4-year degree the equivalent of a high school diploma thirty years ago, and parents are forced to second-mortgage their house so junior, who really has no interest in 11th century European political movements, must now spend 4 years in a strange city competing for the right to come home and work as a trailer salesman.

C.S. Lewis was right about the democritization of society, including our educational institutions: They are no longer places of excellence, but strident mediocrity (look at our current political leaders if you want more proof of the Salieri Effect, the destruction of excellence and genius in the name of paranoid underachievement).

The first weekend with the students in town this year produced the usual rash of emergency calls (and probably, quite a few incidents that were quickly swept under the rug by the school, they seem particularly good at covering up rapes in colleges nowadays) but this latest fad of starting fires, which included last year's post-game burning of people's cars for no other reason than they just happened to be parked on a street where the morons with the Bic lighter happened to be, seems to be a throwback to almost primitive knuckle-dragging. Regardless of whether or not this violence and property destruction is fueled by the easy access to alcohol on campus (the majority of students are underage for drinking, but the local papers seem intent on focusing bar and beer ads on students as, after all, we are talking responsibility not to the community, but to advertising revenues as the defining force in modern Journalism) or just the fact that the notion of "best and brightest" does not seem to apply to admission standards at most universities anymore, which are run as for-profit corporations, where often the administration's #1 job is fundraising, not standards-raising, it is a sad commentary on the quality of people in general, not just the specific students who cannot seem to make the distinction between "party" and "vandalism".

Don't even get me started on the subculture that celebrates drunken date rape as a rite of male passage. You don't want to hear that. I hope the Daily Athenaeum (The DA is the student newspaper at West Virginia University) takes a stand in this area and at least shows an allegience to higher principles than revnues from bars and endless "editorials" about the upcoming football season. (Idea for new Coors ad: "I like...burning peoples' cars...thowin' up in bars...and twins!")

This endeth the sermon. (Yes, it is noted with no irony that I am an ordained minister.)

On a brighter note, sat with Tag at Books A Million yesterday and we discussed his upcoming book, his trip to New York, and the preliminary work I am doing towards my next book.

Also noted: No sound out of Maggie in several days, wonder how she's doing...I miss her.

Haven't checked email yet this morning, hope it is good stuff and not just the recent rash of spam.

Note to the poetgod hisself:

Okay, Boss,

I got your memoir from earlier regarding the distribution of the free copies of The Compleat Panther Cycles.

Not sure about the "discretionary" copies, unless you just want to leave that category open for special cases (celebrities, media, etc). Don't think we have to worry about either of your ex-wives asking for a copy (the first would burn it and the second missed her deadline for grace, your birthday, so now she is officially on your "who?" list)

The rest are slam-dunks:

The three who wrote the forewords:
*Barbara Homes (known to old Writers Club cronies on AOL as "TwisterB")
*Dan McTaggart (Mountain Poet)
*Brigit (both for having writ a foreword and, I suspect being someone you're trying to get things sparked with again)

The rear-cover text writer:
*Mari Laureano (poet, erotic poetry icon in and of her own write)

The model (YUM!):
*Jillian Ann

I also got yer note about the others:
*The Bookshelf in Bay St. Louis, Mississsippi
*The Panther, if she contacts and requests a copy
*The Truth a/k/a the Will-o-wisp, if she contacts and request a copy
*Psyche (the Electric Lady), if she contacts and requests a copy (or if a request is made by any of her sisters on her behalf?)

I have most of the copies in hand, the primary ones have either gone out or are going out in the next week or two

Oh, and how am I going to get the word out about the set asides for those who need to make contact for their free copies? I just did, through your blog.

Have a nice day. By the way, shipping weight on these mothers is about 5 pounds, did you know that? Five freaking pounds. Next time, make a smaller book.

E.J.

Pretty Blonde Girls in My Mother's Newspaper

My Mom contacted me to demand why they put "this kind of picture" (not the one I am showing) on the local newspaper's TV listings section from the Sunday paper (Dominion Post).

Was it a scene of war dead from Iraq? Nope.

Child prostitutes in Thailand? Nope.

Abused wives being paraded on TV for the pocketbooks of talk show hosts? Nope.

It was a picture of the new girl from "Charmed" - Kaley Cuoco. In a gold camisole-type top. When I saw it I barely blinked. Yes, she is pretty, in the OC and Real World sense that the networks think will get young viewers to watch. Having never seen her work, I don't know if she'll fare well in the mix with veteran performers like Rose McGowan, but we'll see.

But, if the WB and the show's producers wanted a stir, I am sure the same scene enacted in my Mother's living room, as she ripped the cover off of the TV section and threw it away, is being re-enacted in conservative living rooms around the nation.

I didn't find the picture offensive, I find the other items I mentioned above far more obscene and offensive, but people also have a right to draw the line when it comes to what comes into their homes, and I respect that.

So, I realize this is a silly little point next to all my other babblings, I just thought you'd like something light for once.

Surprises, Compromises and Asking for the Pitch

I got an email last night from an old friend who read my blog entry about looking for a goddess. She said I was lacking a willingness to "compromise"...

Interesting point, but I must disagree. All I've stated is what I'm looking for. Ask anyone walking into a strange restaurant what they're hungry for and I'll pretty much guarantee that they will NOT find exactly that on the menu. What we want is what we want, what we get is always some form of compromise, but also often a transcendent, or at least pleasant, surprise.

Heck, even in a familiar restaurant one probably would wish they did things a little differently (I'd like the chicken liver omelette with whole wheat toast, they never seem to have whole wheat toast...but their omelettes are still so good, I'll live with the biscuits).

I never said it was all about me. I was asking myself the question of what I was looking for. If we are truly honest, we know what we'd like to find at the end of the rainbow. The fact that what we find is sometimes surprising to us in some form or another (the "unexpected quarter") is one of the things that makes life exciting!

Last time around, I didn't order a blonde crossover lesbian eighteen years my junior, trust me. Indeed, it took a a certain amount of convincing on her part that this wasn't an episode of "Candd Camera" before I let her in as anything other than an eccentric friend (I've got witnesses on this, my entire conduct on the Southern Poets Tour was one of total befuddlement in regards to the lady in question). But we were together for several years, and had I made some better decisions regarding living arrangements, we might still be together (who ever knows for sure when speaking of speculative situations? I might be dead! She might be dead! I might be living in a commune in Antelope, Oregon, under the name of "Dashiki Mike"!)

So no, don't read my expression of preferences as ultimatum to the universe. Compromise is an essential part of it, but at the same time I would NEVER tell a lover that she was "a compromise". A surprise, yes. A compromise sounds like taking less than what was desired or needed, and I'm not about that. I've done that before out of a sense that I was helping the other person and I was somehow performing penance for past errors in my life (my Mom did a great job of giving me a relf-perpetuating guilt engine, thank you very much).

It wil be interesting to see what feedback I get from ex lovers (and prospective lovers) as they read the past few days on this and see where my head is. My expressions of desire to have a worthy partner is not something I am ashamed of, or would retract, I think we all need to have an open mind and heart, but also some standards. That I want a peer, who is honest and intelligent and passionate, I do not see as a personal failing.

Maybe I'm wrong, but if I'm going to build my life around a woman, shower her with all that I can summon, and make of her the greatest muse in my pantheon, I think I'm right to ask the fates for someone who is willing to work for and live up to an essence that we all expect from those we let so close to our souls. I've got two strikes against me (and a great many foul-balls) I am just asking the universe for one clean fastball, over the plate. I've got a desire to hit the ball that would make Roy Hobbs grin.

AuthorsDen and the next project...

Left a brief piece on AuthorsDen about my experiences blogging...

if you are a writer and just want a place to hang your spurs, it's a good site...fairly inexpensive and with good people. Nice features, and I usually keep about 100 works on there...

try http://www.authorsden.com
even if you don't write, but want to read some stuff by some up and coming scribes.

gotta go visit Robrt, he's still in the hospital (Ruby at WVU) but is due out in a day or two.

Doodled the cover design for the next book today, in my spare time. And you thought TCPC was ambitious. I thought I heard a faint shudder from the heavens when I set the parameters for this volume. This is the Apollo program to the Wright flyer.

T-minus just under seven months. be afraid. be very, very afraid.

Goals for the coming year from the Romantic Poet of the Internet

Some goals for the coming year (I count my years as starting, not on January 1st, but August 16th, my birthday) in no particular order:

*Keep writing.

*Get at least one significant chain bookstore to start carrying The Compleat Panther Cycles.

*Speak at at least one college or university.

*A new book in the Spring. On the scale of TCPC.

*At least one invite to be a Commencement Speaker (a school I actually attended, like Morgantown High, would be nice, but this is, after all, what it is and I may have to accept the fact that I am a pariah in the Mountain State)

*Tell no lies.

*New computer. A mac Mini. Give me old 'puter to the boys so Dante and Elric can finally play the games they want and use new software tools.

*Donate substantially to my daughter's wedding fund.

*Flirt when it feels right.

*Complete the redesign of The City of Legends. Goals: More features, greater accessibility and at least 1,000 poems on it.

*Visit the following towns/cities, even if not touring: San Diego, Long Island, Salinas, Mishawaka, Boston, Austin, Joshua Tree (although I may put that off until next September, when I can recharge my soul in the Santa Ana Winds)

*Move.

*Wait for DPSU to finally put out a Splenda version of Diet Dr. Pepper. The best tasting diet drink on the planet and it is the most toxic, as long as it keeps Aspartame.

*Grant three wishes to someone who asks in such a manner that it touches me.

*Skydive.

*Get a dog, a Pug. I'd been planning this for years with Ann, I didn't lose sight of it when she got homesick. Maybe a black Pekinese if I don't find a pug that there is chemistry with.

*Drop 30 pounds. Run a 5k.

*Name my heir.

*Revive "The Somewhat Strange Adventures of Skye Meadows". My concept, my words, just need a new model since the old one quit.

*Reconnect with at least one or two old friends. EJ keeps pushing me to contact some he's done some lookup on, but I'm not a big fan of stepping into someone's life who hasn't contacted you in the better part of a decade and expecting a warm welcome.

*Finish my novel and at least one of my screenplays.

*Edit at least two books for other writers (free of charge), I think I already have the projects lined up, Dan McTaggart's book of poetry and a fantasy novel by a former lover.

*Talk to an octopus.

*Do joint appearances with Mari Laureano, Larry Jaffe and Karla F. Sasser.

*Apologize to Nancy, in person.

*Do a fund raiser where I read the entirety of The Compleat Panther Cycles (all six hundred forty plus poems) in a single reading. Got a cause you want me to back? Call me!

*Place an interview in at least one major media magazine.

*Save one life.

*Visit Mary Lusebrink's grave.

*Help the Appalachian Education Initiative in any manner I can to spread their work.

*Keep open minded about the motices, purposes and emotional stamina of those women who cross my path.

*Tour coast to coast. Physically touch the Atlantic, the Pacific, the Great Lakes and the Gulf of Mexico along the way.

*Intensify. Focus. Accelerate. I have proven the impossible possible. I have proven the unlikely likely. I have proven the improbable doable. Time to change the world, one last time.

*Keep blogging, through this all. This may not be the most read blog, just as I don't sell as many books as the latest fad romance novelist, but my readers are amoung the most literate, earnest and worthy people I can imagine. So, I owe it to them.

ISO: a goddess

Having survived leopards, panthers, mad gypsies, angels, electric ladies, will-o-wisps and various other greater and lesser incarntions of passion and affection, I find myself on the great quest of Pellinore for Glatisant, the final quest, the path of dreams, the road of love.

I seek a queen worthy of my affections and all the lavishing of tender and eloquent emotions I can utter. Of course, I'm not just looking for someone to put on a pedestal, but a worthy helpmeet...a partner. A friend and lover, even a collaborator.

I'd like to find someone who has the soulfulness of the Panther, the empathy of the Mad Gypsy, the beauty of the Leopard, the intellect of the Swallow, the hunger of the Angel, the cleverness of the Truth, the open heart of the Goldenheart, the presence of Brigit and the sophistication (and legs) of Psyche. Transcendent to my tastes and desires. At one time or another, all of these have tried on the crown and either discarded it swiftly, or held to it for a few seasons. But, I am weary and will not give over this throne to a pretender, again.

Somewhere out there is my phoenix, my nemicorn, my Abstra...perhaps in the form of someone I already know or even have been involved with in the past, perhaps in the form of one still unknown to me, but I have not the heart for follies and foolscapery (don't bother looking it up, I coined it. bite me, I'm a poet)

I'd be more specific, but the greatest loves have been the unexpected ones. I await the surprises with hopeful anticipation and an open mind.

Don't think I am looking for perfection, a good fit is better than a perfect circle in my universe. I've loved the damaged, the deranged, the deceitful and the dull. Would rather not again, but who knows what comes with the next wind? I am tired of filling my belly with morsels and mould. I need a reason, an inspiration, a muse, a goddess. Okay, let's rule out the deceitful and the dull...the damaged and deranged, I'm practically their patron saint.

Is that so much to ask? Some say yes. But I have settled before and found the taste upon my tongue bitter and lingering. I would rather starve in a cold place than warm myself again upon a falsehood.

The Amomancer is back. He sings. And the world shall sigh for his goddess.

This I swear, this I swear.

provincialism and the prodigal sons and daughters

It was fascinating talking with artist Michael K. Paxton last night and finding out how powerful were the parallels between his story and mine, in terms of the tepidity of hs reception for many years in our home state. It seems that I am not unique in not feeling singed by the warmth as a returning champion.

We speculated on the cultural and sub-cultural forces that drive this, a sense almost that we are worse than carpetbaggers for having left the state to excel, then are suspected of returning to rub their noses in this success. Nothing could be further from the truth, and yet, it is based on a model of provincialism, of pride (which goeth before a fall) that is explicable if not desirable.

We are in the early stages, still, of the Digital Renaissance, a change in the way we communicate that transcends physical, cultural and geo-political borders. The talent and intellect of the people of this state matches any other group or peoples, and in many ways offers fresh fodder, for the thought and creativity engines of the world, the only thing holding us back is our insistence that we must stand apart. This creates a cultural inbreeding that is both undesirable and counterproductive.

The fact that there are those who do achieve after leaving the state is not an indictment of the state as a breeding ground for excellence, but as a market for that very excellence. I can not, to this day, find a market in corporate America within West Virginia for my talents and resume that I found in the consulting environments of Washington, DC, twenty years ago, so we have a brain drain, and all the hub zones and special pork-barrel projects can do little to stop this.

When I spent a year in Mississippi, I was honored for my accomplishments as a writer, playing Master of Ceremonies for the Mississippi Gathering of Poets, being invited to the state library convention, speaking in schools. Here, after a year since I returned "home" I have made aggressive overtures to several schools and been rejected by all, the local public library does not return my calls or emails, and the three reads I did for National Poetry Month were set up by myself with great difficulty and were ultimately only covered by the student newspaper at West Virginia University (The Daily Athenaeum) and the Fairmont newspaper, the Times-West Virginian (which is where one of the reads took place). The local Morgantown newspaper, even after I honored one of their photographers by using a shot he had taken of me, that had appeared in the paper previously, as the cover of a book has still not reacted to my presence, at all.

Having spoken with Mr. Paxton, I have come to realize how common this experience is, and why it may not have been that easy for the AEI (The Appalachian Education Intiative) to get their 50 outstanding creative artists to sign on...there are probably many out there, who unlike Michael and myself, are more bitter than challenged, and thus take away and keep away their presences, not wishing to be further rejected or ignored or criticized. Then, the "locals" who have managed to run off the success stories (perhaps out of a sense of envy or paranoia) strut like tom turkeys in the forest just before the gun's report, stupidly prideful.

Thus they manage to keep their home state "pristine" and condemn their sons and daughter, friends and lovers, to a cultural inbreeding that keeps the state's economic and cultural development on a slow track to extinction.

Wake up, West Virginia. "Montani Semper Liberi" is not a rallying cry for jingoism and isolationism, it is a statement of individual freedom and pride.

Rating the Soiree

Okay, rating the Malt on the Mon fundraising soiree held by the Appalachian Education Initiative this evening:

Food: Solid 8
Drinks: 7+ Well, I had all the Diet Cokes I could hold, for free. I hear the Scotch was excellent. No San Pellegrino, bastards.
Conversation: 8. Not a lot of galvanizing communicants, but a few, notably Michael K. Paxton and his significant other, whose name escapes me at the moment (sorry!) And a few others, will report names when I recall them.
Women: 4. By Morgantown standards, I guess a 7, but overall, few eligible women.
Accolades: 9 They sucked up well, and the autographed copy of THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES went in the silent auction for nearly double the cover price.

So, a success.

On the other front, they have decided to do follow up surgery on my brother Robert...should be pretty minor and routine, but it is still surgery.

I am near to selecting a final name for my new 'puter when it arives...am leaning toward something mythological.

The dark side of me is starting to press his list of demands...I think I shall need to take a lover, soon, to appease him.

to a muse

In your best thoughts, where shall I stand?
Off to the side or right close at hand?
Am I your champion or chum for the fish?
What are your thoughts? What is your wish?

I know what I want and I know what I need,
I have stood for the good and have swallowed the seed
of a ripe pomegranate, to bind me to hell,
that blinds me to omens that haunt the old well.

If you had your way, would I go, would I stay?
And where would I lay at the end of the day?
Would I be your comfort, your captain, your slave?
The prince of the prophets or a sinister knave?

I am asking for visions that I deserve to see,
what would you give and then take back from me
if you and I both were allowed to live free
on the cracked, salty path that winds up from the sea.

If you had but one kiss, but one path to walk,
would you give me your all or even stop, just to talk
of what might have been if we'd met down they way,
if we'd taken the time to confront yesterday?

I know not the answers, but I know how I feel
when I think of what is and what was and unseal
the shadowy rooms where you once stopped to play
in my castle of dreams that you passed, 'long the way.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

WVU reawakens

Living in a town that fundamentally doubles in population every August, then dwindles back down gradually until, after a final death spasm in the late Spring, it is back to its former size, I long ago became philosophical about the carnage of the new student invasion.

As West Virginia University has always had such a richly deserved reputation as a party school, we do get our share of students who see attending college not as an attempt at higher learning, but a ritual of dodging the weightier aspects of adulthood in favour of the MTV-version of adulthood: beer, pot, sex.

My biggest gripe? The traffic. Gridlock returns with a vengeance. I can avoid the majority of risk to self and property by just not driving into the bar district at night. I don't live in a dorm, so that's another way I avoid the stench of vomit and the sounds of unchaperoned eighteen year olds getting their first real beer buzz on.

The secondary effects of the sudden sense of freedom are mostly visited upon the newly free...the physical injuries, the rape (85% of all rapes occur under the influence of alcohol) and the mid term realizations that having spent more on Budweiser (at the encouragement of local businesses who do not give a damn about you beyond how much you will spend on whatever they sell) than books means you get to go home and work on Dad's farm after all.

I recall several years ago when WVU played Notre Dame for the national title in football. One statistic bandied about was the difference between Freshman and Sophomore classes at the respective schools. At the time a stat was offered up that 40% of the Freshman class at WVU did not return for their Sophomore year. I don't know about you, but if I ran a high school where almost half my students dropped out betwwen year one and year two, I'd be fired and the feds would launch a probe.

So much for higher learning.

But it is an annual ritual, the influx of Freshmen and the upperclassmen who have waited patiently to see someone lower on the food chain finally arrive. I learned long ago, when I was a student, to take it with a resigned grace and a faint smile, knowing that a few were here for valid reasons and woud transcend the rites of passage that makes an interesting double entendre of "higher education".

Welcome back, Mountaineers.

sex, words and rock'n'roll...and a new poem

Hey, I'm a lifelong teetotaler, you expected me to endorse drugs? My vice, (besides my planetary-sized ego) according to some people, is sex, which is what makes my now 18 month celibacy kick all the more remarkable. I had lunch with my friend Csaba today and he remarked that I seemed to be coming into my own (I got rave reviews for the reading i gave at the Arts Week gig Wednesday).

I think part of that is I am proving I have my demons under control. The conversion to the Quaker faith has re-established my own sense of integrity that was lost from all the compromise I felt forced to make over the last few years. My celibacy has told me I can control my hunger...not to eliminate it (God knows how quickly my pulse reacts at the sight of a pretty girl)...I am feeling in control of my life (now if I can just get rid of all these lingering financial issues, I can really get traction on the scrith of life).

My writings are as sharp as they have ever been, maybe even sharper...the work of getting back in shape, physically, is slow, but progress is occuring. I am healing the relationship with my sons, my problems with my daughter will have to wait for her to decide I am worth having in her life. If she never does, I mourn her absence, but I can't let her decision destroy me. We are guilty of our own mistakes, not those of others (something else I have learned).

And, somewhere out there, tonight, is my next great muse, perhaps even a former muse waiting to be the phoenix (perhaps, in the end, the Phoenix will be a muse...I can think of a few worthy candidates if they reasserted themselves in my life, and it would make a good capstone to my memoirs).

All in all, I am delighted at the outpouring of faith and support amongst friends and loved ones, and want to thank all of you for making this birthday a milestone, not a millstone. Now if I can get Csaba to introduce me to his friend who came by while we were having lunch....she was very intriguing.

A special note, my brother Robert was hospitalized yesterday...nothing life threatening, just for some tests, but keep him in your thoughts and prayers.

Okay, Amomancer out and off to bed (actually to chill with some light TV before seeking the embrace of dreams)...by the way, I look forward to seeing some of you tomorrow night at the Malt on The Mon fundraiser for the Appalachian Education Initiative. Note that one of the items in their silent auction will be an autographed copy of THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES.

EJ, thanks for the words about the Great Muse Controversy. I respect the work you've done.

Invoking a Phoenix

I love what you've done to your hair
and there is nothing about you I do not delight in.
Perhaps the silence when you sleep
that sweeps me away from you to distant sphere.
Where you are not. Not smiling soft
to draw aloft my spirits when I need your reassurance
that all is well and welcome in this time,
the prime of all my passion and my hopes fulfilled.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

of Greater and Lesser Goddesses

I was criticized not so long ago for a piece I did on the poet's website, analyzing and classifying his totem-muses, the ladies he has written works of or to.

The main criticism came from a taxonomic stance: How dare I classify this muse or that muse as a greater or lesser muse?

Well, it was an attempt to simplify the field, and I do apologize to any feet I tread upon.

I used a few unevenly-applied rules to determine the greater muses (from this point on, I will signify them with the term "MUSE" as opposed to "muse" for the lesser of the breed)

The easy ones came first: The Panthers. Not just the original Panther (aka the Black Panther or the Dark Panther) but also the Leopard or Golden Panther, and the Crimson Panther, also referred to as Brigit.

The Goldenheart, by virtue of "The Goldenheart Cycles" and "The Patchwork Skirt of My Love", she had to be considered a MUSE as well. Using that yardstick (yardstick? we had some kind of bias-neutral measurement? sort of. I decided that one major work or a volume of solid works made one a MUSE.)

With that concept in mind, we had some shoe-ins. The Swallow (his first wife) and Psyche (his first lover) all weighed in by virtue of such works as "Icarus" and "Monument" as MUSES. The Selke just missed the mark, as did Suede, The Angel, Arachne and Aurora.

The Wisp was problematic until I considered "Cithara Song, strummed lightly as the sun leaps the horizon"...slam dunk fot MUSE. The Mad Gypsy? Not so many works as some, but some of his most nakedly erotic works...had to be a major totem.

Let's not forget Pink Jade, but she had those damn beautiful romantic works reminiscent of his Goldenheart works, even though he has since reclassified them as belonging to his abstraction MUSE, Abstra.

In the end I realize that there will probably be shifts as time wears on, but we'll keep an eye on things...and who knows? Maybe there's another muse or two yet in his run (or some shifts in the levels of some as new works are written or discovered)...for more information and the table I wrought, check out The Muses of the Romantic Poet of the Internet

the doldrums are upon me: and a few words about the totem muses

Thursday morning...after the Arts Festival read, but before the Malt on the Mon soiree.

The doldrums. Too quiet.

Got a belated birthday wish from an old friend and prospective lover, the Selke. Seems she has an itch we never got around to scratching, another casualty of the paradigm shift that occurred when Ann made her move. Tempting, tempting.

The old "champion" element in me, in my ethos, still is there, I have found...I am finding the need to identify and fix myself in orbit around someone, a lover. I have managed to avoid this so far, but only by faking myself out...the deprivations of the last year or so in the name of keeping my intemperate promises have worn thin. When your queen asks a quest of you, then leaves you to the wolves, after a while it is the nature of men to question their logic, purpose and value. Was I ever more than a wallet to her? When the money ran thin, so did her affections, that is a certainty. My heroics of the early times had become "old bones" to quote from Kipling, and the fact I had not yet gotten back on my feet after al that was grist for her family and friends to make mock of (note, these are people who had not made such sacrifices themselves, or accomplished what I had managed, so critcism came easy and ignorantly to them).

This does not diminish my feelings for her, but it does make me question the sacrifices I made. She's not a bad person (or at least, I can't admit to myself she is) and considering where she has come from, emotionally, it is remarkable she is as healthy as she is.

But when you're bleeding from a thousand wounds and the person you're taking those wounds to guard turns and curses you for allowing blood to get on her, it's time to reconsider allegiances.

Let's talk about allegiances (a major theme in my memoir, by the way)...

The romantique, when he (or she) fixes on a lover, they often become blind to sideshow issues. If I look back upon my past lovers, I can see where I have, at times, sworn my faith and passion to the ocassional unworthy. In "The Patchwork Skirt of My Love" I refer to it as lovers who would have no memory or care for me were it not for my trinkets of words they wear to prove their worthiness. I am, or rather my love and expressions thereof are, a trophy.

There are those who can point to the poster on the wall or at the book on the shelf and announce "a famous poet wrote that about me". I remember the Goldenheart told me of having printed off "the Goldenheart Cycles" and putting them up in her dorm roon. I remember Ann mistakenly thinking that "PanthEon" was about her and telling people thus. I remember how many people I knew of who had speculated out loud that they might be "the Panther".

Let's set some records straight on some of my most debated works:

The Goldenheart Cycles: Kristina is, was, and will always be her name. She knows who she is. She attended the University of Pittsburgh in the mid-1990's. An excellent writer in her own write, I know not if she is alive or dead at this time.

Cithara Song, strummed lightly as the sun leaps the horizon: Alisha, attended a Christian college south of LA in 1997 on a basketball scholarship.

Soubrette: Her name was Susan. She lived in Ohio in 1997 and was an aspiring essayist.

The Patchwork Skirt of My Love: This was also for Kristina.

eyes of stained glass and fire: Brigit. She was an extraordinary beauty, an awesomely clever mind and served as my sidekick for The Romantic and Erotic Poetry Group on AOL at its inception. Lives in the Midwest still.

The Selke Cycles: The Selke is a remarkable woman with an extraordinary voice (she working on a career in voice over work in Southern California) and when she chooses to write, is quite good.

Sonnet: A Vintage Passion: Got big "wows" at my first public reading of it, just last night. Nancy (Psyche) this is of you, as are "Monument", "tread softly", "The Unicorns", ad infinitum (with my catalog, closer to the truth than hyperbole)

taking a risk: Jan, my first wife. There are some very good works to her, and I take full blame for the end of that marriage.

The Panther Cycles" In one of the later cycles I actually use her real first name, plus anyone with a gradeschool IQ and the internet can put together that name with the name of the illustrator of "PanthEon". Duh.

There are other question marks, but let's be real...not all mysteries are meant to be solved.

surviving the read and prospering

The reading/talk went well and solidifed me with both the local Visitors/Convention Bureau and AEI.

I had a good time and I actually learned a lot...some of these works were pieces I had not ever performed in public (The Reich of Self Discipline from The Compleat Panther Cycles, for instance) or were works that have taken on a new meaning in months recent (Damascus, Movement 3, now with added irony).

I did reveal when my next book is coming out. What? You want to know? Ask someone who was there.

Friday I am one of the guests fo the Malt on the Mon soiree, and told the AEI people that if any of the young women get too drunk to drive home, taste testing Scotch, they can depend on me to be the designated driver (don't fret, ask any of my ex lovers or former wives, I won't even sleep with my wife if she's been drinking...)

Anyway, that's all over...phew.

Jack Thompson at the Visitors Bureau and I are close to working out a deal for me to host ghost tours of Morgantown starting in September, through Halloween. It creates added stress on my schedule, but considering the woeful lack of respect most regular jobs in this area carry, I'm not too worried about the "career" implications...I'm already half doomed by the fact everyone I work for has less experience than I do...they don't like that, even if you keep your mouth shut.

I have considered applying for the Executive Director slots at AEI or Arts Mon, both of which have recently opened, but figure my lack of popularity with the local media would be a real minus.

Sigh.

Okay, I am ready to re-enter the dating pool...although there is one person whose opinion and permission I would like to ask on that. And no, it isn't a former wife. It's a former lover.

my email is down (scowl)

Interland is having a bit of a problem with some nodes under their webmail.registeredsite.com service, so I can't access my email (had this happened yesterday, the world may have ended)

I am at the proper moment for tonight...I am going to take a brief nap, grab a shower at about the smelting point of vandium steel, then begin my final voice prep. don't ask...it's ghastly.

If the people from the Morgantown Public Library show up(which I doubt) then they get their copy of TCPC for the library...if not, they can buy theirs like anyone else (snort). If Arts Mon sends a rep, I have their first month's royalties for The Morgantown Suite Poems ready for them. And I will be surrendering an autographed copy of TCPC to the AEI for their fundraiser this Friday.

The side effects of my mom's new spaghetti sauce were unpleasant...too acid, so it messed with my mouth. grumble...it hurts t talk and breathe. I know this sympotom, so I know it'll diminish over the next day or two...

I wish my last piece of prep had shown up...it still has a few hours...if it doesn't...ah well, I have my alternate plans already in place.

Checklist:

Minor stress related headache...standard.
Nervous tic of clenching and unclenching hands...present.
Totally black wardrobe down to the skin...laid out.
Read book...printed, prepped and set.
Final run through of works being presented...insane laughter...I don't rehearse, it steals the spontaneity.
Final prayers...now that would be telling, wouldn't it?

psyching myself up with other people's words

"Everything will be alright
tonight

Everything will be alright
tonight

No one moves
No one talks
No one thinks
No one walks
tonight"

- David Bowie, "Tonight"

It's time to, once again, step up. I think of the marvelous speech that Nicolas Cage gave to Cher in "Moonstruck":

"...love don't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and *die*. The storybooks are *bullshit*."

Believe it or not, that holds true for any real romantic. We write our own storybooks, we write the poems and embrace the Annabelle Lee and La Belle Dame Sans Merci and our totem beasts, irregardless of their ability to step up. I have spent my life crossing the river with a scorpion on my back, knowing it *is* a scorpion and unmindful of my fate, as long as I could reassure myself that I was doing the romantic thing, the charitable thing. The good thing.

I told the Panther years ago that she had brought me to my knees and that I would not again in this life go to my knees, that you would hear my thighbones splinter and snap before I would allow myself to go down again. I am content that I have defied, to this point, the harsher forces of fate. And, if you could see my face right now, you would see I am smiling. Life is good, just as a fine dinner is good, even with the moments that fail you, the brushstroke on the tree in the background of the painting that is less than a masterstroke, even when your lover moves the wrong way and you bump noses.

Without the nurturing illusions, my kata for emotional prep for a read is very different. Not even sure I have an unshackled kata yet. When I played host to the Mississippi Gathering of Poets, I was already pretty much on my own...the reads I did this Spring for National Poetry Month were zero-G reads (reads without an emotional anchor)...I need to either find how to go without an anchor, or find a new anchor.

I am glad the boys called last night. Elric didn't know how old I was, that was kind of cute, but also sad (for a son to not know how old his Dad is...what kind of world is this?)

I am sad for those I did not hear from. If you've ever read "A Thousand Deaths" by Orson Scott Card you probably can grasp the other side of it, as well...enough pain, long enough, and you become numb to it.

Some animals just don't housebreak, time to accept that and get on with things.

The read.

Final (?) Birthday Update

Final addendum (barring late returns from the West Coast)

My sons, Dante and Elric, as well as my first ex-wife, Jan.

My brother Dave

My sister Becky

(My brother Mark came by yesterday evening and dropped off his contribution to the new computer fund...)

Writer Karen Revolt. Nice lady, actually has read some of my works.

It's late enough that, aside from some late returns from the West Coast, I've probably seen what I am going to see...a little underwhelming from some, but I do thank those who did send their wishes, and am grateful for true friends. I apologize if, from time to time, I forget who my friends are; I am, after all, a creature of distraction and have often failed to show the faith, honor and gratitude that people deserve when they show kindness. And I refuse to give in to the malice of the world, it is a twisting and burning knot, this life, but you must learn to transcend disappointment, for that is what some people wish for you, to be punished for their sins, by their sins.

I'll try harder the next fifty years. No time for self pity or self doubt. Tomorrow looms. And, thanks to some of the oversights and insults of today and promises made, I'm going to save a small fortune over the next few months.

I'd still rather be the frog than the scorpion.
Shakin' the dust from my feet with style.

Birthday Update

New well-wishers:

The remarkable Nordette Adams (a fine poetess, that frilly dragon!).

Karla F. Sasser (known to my readers as the Mad Gypsy) sigh.

Jezz!

Matt (Surf Otter)

Avi Wrobel (a brilliant, brilliant man and a fine writer, as well)

Burg

Diana

The marvelous Marie Kennedy, author of "My Perfect Son has Cerebral Palsy"...check out her website at www.mariekennedy.com

Anastacia Washer, a fierce friend and friendly critic of my website and typing. She was the stalwart who all but dragged me physically away from Ann before my natural bull-headedness sealed the deal. I'll remember you tried to save me, but probably still won't listen, next time. Oh, and she suggested the title for the poem "sex cookies"...some recompense for introducing me to one of the most perfect women I've ever known (legs...) then taunting me with the fact the lady was unavailable...grrr

Birthday Update

Additional contacts wishing me happy birthday today:

Various dating services who have my birth date and are now telling me that now is the perfect time to find my one true soulmate.

And my brother, Robert, who did a great job of filling in for E.J. for a while last year and who is a pretty great guy. Thanks for the contribution to the computer fund, dude.

Reality Show Concept: American Cyrano

Actually, that (American Cyrano) was my name on a few dating boards (there was irony in that, as before I put myself on, I was ghost writing other peoples' love letters and profiles...I can be such a floozy when need be.) It's a clever merging of Cyrano's name with the title to "American Gigolo".

The idea for the reality show is something I've been tooling around with for some time, and the cancellation of cartoonist Chris Sperandio to be one of the guest speakers at Arts Week to be on a reality show made me think of the final stage. If you are someone who can make it happen...drop me a line.

A group of poets are assembled and placed in house 1. Let's say twelve poets.

In house 2 you place a single woman (I have other variations involving a group of women, and another with several women and one poet).

She interacts with other people, staff, etc...maybe even some trojan bachelors. All the while the poets are to compose works to her, seeking to sweep her off her feet. They are presented to her through the trojan bachelors, and she selects who moves on to the next round (the losing poet and trojan are eliminated). After the final compositions are unveiled and chosen, then the poet who won is revealed.

Now, variation II: Eleven poets. Twelve women. The woman (or women) who do not receive a poem are eliminated. They know they are being watched and written of, so they are encouraaged to express who they are, creatively, through contacts with other sin the house, through their activities. The y do not directly interact with the poets, although some intermediate awards may include a brief phone call or hand-written note...

Finally, variation three: One poet, who must write about the house full of women. A panel of judges review his works and based on the romantic and literary quality of the works, votes one of the women off each show. The women go through normal reality show activity, competitions, outings, etc...without meeting the poet.

The one with the trojan bachelors intrigues me, as his name could be "Chris" and he could be a professional actor whose job it is to interpret the works...at the final unveil, the young woman who wins has to choose between her Cyrano or her Christian. A pretty face or the man whose words melted her hearts (and, as in most reality shows, most likely her panties).

I know it's not "Survivor"...but in some ways I think it is as watchable as most reality shows, and certainly better than many.

Oh, word has just reached me that country musician Chester Lester will be unable to do his presentation tonight at the Morgantown Visitors and Convention Bureau...that means the Appalachian Education Initiative speakers are down to 2...myself (tomorrow) and Michael K. Paxton (Thursday). Oh great, more pressure...instead of carrying one fourth of the sky, I must carry half, and be the first bearer at that (and to think, they initally denied me this date for my reading (my birthday) which is now available).

Heard from my son, Elric this morning...but not about my birthday (he'll remember as the day goes on, I am reminded of the Muslim parable of the Sultan and the Devil)...

No new birthday wishes at this time. Going for my walk...I have to live another half-century, I better get in shape.

My Online Birthday Party: Part One

Since today is my birthday, I figured I'd post here, in the order in which they arrive, the "guests" (those who wish me birthday greetings)...let's see what surprises I get!

So far, the first guests to arrive are:

Larry Jaffe.
Unexpected, but not unwelcome. If you don't know this guy, he's the king of spoken word in LA, a damn fine poet on his good days (on his bad days he's still the king of spoken word in LA) and wrote the foreword to my 2002 volume "Love Gods of a Forgotten Religion". He's also the guy I wrote "words to a well meaning friend" in The Compleat Panther Cycles to. He tried to warn me away from the woman, but my heart and pants had other notions. LGJ, you were right, I was wrong. But I did get some good poetry out of it. When I hit the City of Angels on tour next spring, I'd like to do a reading with you. (hey man, what a surprise, long time no see! and I appreciated the resonance of the coffee....when Larry's online showcase for poets was called "THe Incognito Cafe" I was twice named Poet of the Month)

My parents.
Hey, they kinda had to, but it was nice anyway. They also contributed to my computer fund. Mom, Dad, meet Larry. Mom, you and Larry can have a nice chat on comparative theology (inside joke).

I think he's losing his mind

Actually I know the stress is getting to him. He's used to getting very wound up before a performance, then channelling that energy into his performance. This one is different, this is, in many ways, the most intimate perforamcne of his life, where the audience may include people who have known him since childhood.

Add to that the fact that here it is the eve of his birthday and no sign of his daughter, Peri, or from Ann, and I know the promises he has made to himself, the ultimatums he has made to himself, for those sins of omission...he has to be feeling pretty torn and deserted at this point. The problem is, I know him well enough to know that these tempering experiences do not ultimately harm him, but strengthen him...you want ego? cut him! You want will? Mock him! You want a centering? Desert him. He doubts it, but I know when his memoir comes out, when truths are spoken, he will be judged a better man than he has demanded his due for, than he would ever demand his due for, as he believes he owes his best to the world, not the other way around.

Maybe he deserves some of the crap he's gotten from some of the people he has loved the most in this life, maybe he hasn't. But I've seen him love, unconditionally, those whom he had no reason to even give the time of day to, because that's the kind of person he is, that's his character. If he ever grows bitter in time, it will not be because of commercial failures or literary ambitions unachieved, but because of the craven pettiness of those he has given himself for.

What others do, how others behave, after his sacrifices (and mistakes) - that is a statement of their character, that he recognizes and apologizes for his mistakes, that is a statement of his character.

Happy birthday eve, Poet God! As Prince said: May U Live 2 C the Dawn!

(and may a leggy, brilliant goddess show up at your performance Wednesday (or your gig Friday) and sweep you off your feet. You earned it, my friend.)