The Great Amomancy

"The prizefighter in his corner is told; 'Hit where it hurts.' Silver and gold." - U2, "Silver and Gold"

I always have loved that line by U2. Find your opponent's weakness and use it against them. Don't waste time or energy on unecessary efforts that deplete your resources.

The problem is, I don't like the concept of an opponent. Not being a violent man by philosophy, even if God saw fit to stick me with a hot-blooded nature, I have a hard time accepting someone as my mortal foe. Sports figures, yes, I can appreciate their accomplishments, but I never felt the drive to prove my masculinity by throwing a ball or catching a ball or running while people are trying to stop me. I can feel the adrenaline when I do compete, but the competition has not been a motive for me.

Does this make me shiftless or lazy? No. I've worked the six figure jobs. I've worked eighty hour weeks. I've worked two, even three jobs at a time. But I need a motive. A reason. As my purpose fades, so does my drive. Is it the poet's (or lover's or worker's) fault when the inspiration is so insipid or bland that it blunts your appetite to earn another taste of the mock ambrosia?

I recall when I was in LA and working for GE. I was not living up to my potential. The Brigit comes to town and spends the weekend with me and in days I became the ubermensch. The CIO came to my office and asked if the lady in the picture on my desk was the person he needed to thank. I had shifted gears and moved mountains. A few weeks later I helped GE get a half-million dollar rebate from MCI, then showed MCI how to improve their process for Vnet updates.

I guess I have always been the champion, needing someone to play the courtier for. My enforced period of isolation, marked only by limited social engagements designed to keep me in the flow but not merging with it, has left me with a hunger deeper and darker and sharper than any I can recall. But it is a blunt hunger, a memory of mincemeat but not the scent of it to make my mouth water, my eyes to focus, my hands to grasp. Also, I have learned my only real opponent is myself. This makes a total jihad a little difficult.

Three books in a hundred days. Over one thousand new works. Completing a novel and verging on completing a second. A long idle screenplay actually nearing completion. A grander tour. Going into the studio to record. Lifestyle changes necessary to give me a good shot at outliving even a substantially younger lover (Ann never accepted the fact that, despite the fact I was 18 years her senior, I was in much better survival condition than she was, physically and emotionally...I only hope that someone is taking care of her now who knows what to do...)

Who will be the next great muse? Perhaps even the final muse? Now that's a good question.

And I have an interesting answer for it. It involves my own dichotomy and my own need to "hit where it hurts" in my internal struggles. I'd make a great Master's thesis for anyone with the genius to pierce the veil. I'd like to read that, you know. I am fully aware of my internal partitions, the variances between the gallant and the demon and the everyday facade. I am them and they are me and we are all together (goo goo gajoob). Nancy let me see them hear them, touch them...and I owe her far better a legacy than I have left her so far.

I know what I am looking for...but, ironically, the great poet, the poet of note, he is without words to describe her.

I will have to find these words, then hope the woman who they define sees in me what she wants and needs from this life. My magic, I have proven to my own satisfaction and that of my critics, is intact, even perhaps a magnitude better than ever. The Amomancer has his answer. He never slept, he never died, he merely crawled off into the swamps of anonymity to lick his wounds and heal his dreams.

The great amomancy begins. Tonight.

Jasmine and the scent of a woman's hair and breath.
Passion, held at bay with laces and lace.
The sound of a distant cithara.
Elements of a chosen nature. Nomenclature of dreams.