With permission and with deep respect, I offer to you, for review and download, the opening 01:13 of the poet's new piece "Darfur / Jesus Wept".
Something is happening. I am waiting to see what we all get to see tomorrow. Nice to see his guitarist is along for the ride. Initial reports were it was going to be a purely percussive backing.
There's a palpable rage, a distinct outrage, to his tone. A dragon turns political, perhaps?
Below, in bold, is the text of the intro I have recorded, the opening words to the new piece, being released tomorrow, October 1. Thought you'd want to see just how serious, as serious as genocide, I am about this.
The image to the left is of a malnourished child in Darfur, probably dead by now, purely because she is in an area of the world where the savagery of man is unchecked by the world's superpowers, so sure of their moral superiority of the world that they rain fire on their enemies.
And we let children starve to death.
"Half a million dead in Darfur, in the Sudan.
100 times the innocents who died on 9/11.
Children. Women. Men. Genocide.
Wake up. And see.
Wake up and see.
Wake up and see why
Jesus wept."
I'm not pulling any punches in the lyric, either. Wake up and see.
Been working, intensely and attentively, on the Darfur work. It is not that there is nothing coming, on the contrary, there is a great deal. I am merely editing, directing and refining it to a point. I don't want to be one more shallow, hollow citizen who fires one bullet then declares the war is over.
I am selecting a time on Sunday, October 1, to release the poem and the work and the podcast, all within a window so tiny as to seem instantaneous. The work will go up on City of Legends Radio, Apple's iTunes Music Store, Authors' Den, www.archive.org and MySpace all at once.
I'm posting for the poet this morning, as he is so intent on his Darfur-themed work that he sees little else. He gets this way, being the obsessive-compulsive genius that he is. I haven't seen him this taken with a cause not in a denim skirt in years. While I approve of his cause and back him 12,000%, I hope this doesn't signify a change in priorities. It's fun being the intellectual wingman to the god of love and sex. He sent me some clips of some of the music. Provocative and he is obviously either putting in much time, or is very inspired. Or both.
He sent me some statistics on the conflict in the Sudan. Staggering. Placed in context next to other "tragedies" (some hijacked planes hitting the World Trade Center, a missing photogenic teenager in Alabama, I have to think badly of the media outlets in this country. Intellectual cowards with the agendae of pimps. They have no true sense of right or wrong, and no gravitas.
He shared with me an email his friend Nordette Adams sent him yesterday, pointing out a blog that quoted him. The title was his famous quote that "A quote is just a tattoo on the tongue." Funny blog, written by two ladies that, if I read this right, live just about an hour from him.
Must be something in the water.
The work continues on "Darfur: Jesus Wept".
I have laid the percussion tracks and begun to assemble the lyrics. I am pleased and impressed with the result. I am considering adding it to the Nemicorn CD...or perhaps soliciting other cyber artists to put together a CD to raise money (and, perhaps more importantly, awareness) so that we can really, really empower the juggernaut.
I am considering this.
But first, the work of the creation of the singular work. A work that communicates the horror, the power, the sorrow, the evil and the complacency of the Western world in all of this. If you hear noises from the house next door indicating someone is breaking in, and do nothing, you must accept some complicity in what happens to your neighbors.
I will not remain silent while this violent and perverse fate befalls so many. We are surrendering our claims of political and moral superiority. We are too busy to do the real work of the Christian faith, caring for our neighbors.
"When did we ignore your suffering and death, My Lord?" "When you turned a blind eye to others' suffering."
I am heartsick at the hypocrisy.
I have been assailed for raising the bar so high for my release this weekend of my Darfur-themed work. Sorry, I can't accept that lament.
In politics it is a good idea to set the bar low, as most politicians are mediocre human beings, capable of only a fraction of what they promise and hamstrung by the inherent flaws in a contention-ruled system where consensus is more often than not the tool of the hack. Excellence makes you a target. Ask Bill Clinton.
In the arts, I don't believe in promising little. I need a goal lofty enough that forces me to engage all cylinders, and even find new ways to wrest energy from new sources. You don't get a date with the prom queen by saying "You will probably find me boring and we'll have a so-so time". You get it by promising an evening she'll look back on with fond memories from the nursing home, then meeting or exceeding that vow.
Guys who show up for first dates in idiot shorts and t-shirts with ballcaps on are examples of this tepid stagnation of the human drive for accomplishment. No wonder so many women turn lesbian (joking...a little) when guys spray themselves with bad cologne or "body sprays" rather than bathe.
I am a creature who demands much from himself, because I know what I am capable of. God did not want me to be a failed experiment. And, in the end, I seek more to show gratitude for the gifts I have received, including my life and my talent, than the pleasure of anyone person or cluster of persons, lacking in insight and perception.
Otherwise, I would've curled into a ball and died the first time someone, reacting to a misinterpretation of my works or a rumour of my words or actions, spat at me.
The money is still running even as to whether or not I am ever going to die.
(Laughing) I won't tell you what my wager is.
I have been working, almost constantly today, on the essence of the work I am assembling to reflect the nature and emotion of the genocide of Darfur, and have selected my keystone:
John 11:35
Anyone familiar as I am with the scriptures of The Holy Bible, on which the entirety of the Christian faith is built, will know that passage. The shortest one in The Bible:
"Jesus wept".
I know no more perfect exprssion of sorrow and rage and pain than that, that our actions can lead the incarnation of God himself to cry. The most arrogant of hypocrites must accept the purity of that gesture.
Now, the Amomancy begins. Let us see if my magic is undiminished by my own tears, shed in selfish sorrow in these past few years. Let us see if I am up to a task worthy of my inception.
Getting confused about E.J.'s blog, Amomancer, yet? Me, too.
Simply put, he is being given pretty much total latitude to post, with minimal comment, any pieces from my catalog of works that he chooses. The rules are simple: No more than one poem a day, no long-winded analyses or soliloquies (sp?).
Sort of a blog poem of the day.
So far, I've no quibble with his selections.
Got the best hug I have received in months yesterday. No names. It is someone I've had my eye on, and she just spontaneously (as we had not seen each other in a few weeks) ran up to me and gave me a hug that I've had sex that wasn't as good. It was nourishing and nurturing and not just a little sexy.
I'll be writing from that corner.
I am getting some static over my announcement yesterday about my upcoming podcast about Darfur. People seem surprised when I write about a topic they can pigeon-hole as political. They forget I have blistered the current Pretendent with my pieces regarding this murder of thousands of our young men and women in the name of avenging an insult to his Dad.
I am stepping back from the passion of romanticism and romance to address a major topic in my next podcast, building it around a piece I am constructing to address the tragedy of Darfur.
Call it genocide, ethnic cleansing, or just madness, it is terror on a scale beyond some well-financed religious fanatics hitting an office building or two. Certainly, it is death on a scale one hundred times greater than the World Trade Center attacks of 9/11/2001.
I guess poor black lives in Africa are not as important to some people as middle-class white American lives. Not in God's eyes. And not in mine. It is evil. A greater evil than some political namecalling. That the United States, that the world, has not addressed this with a vigor and a clarity of thought that burns the skies is a shame and an insult to anyone who would call themselves Christian. That would call themselves human.
So I will speak. Because I cannot be silent. Please listen this Sunday, September 29th, when From Out of the City brings the power of poetry to a purpose greater than a kiss, a dream, a single life or love lost or found.
A call to local writers' groups and high schools in the Morgantown area: Be on the bus when it pulls out, or run to catch up.
I'm taking over the open microphone at Barnes & Noble in the area, I want bodies. Not just bodies. Poets. People who know how to write, who feel how to write. Who can and do write, and write right and well. I want to build it into a terrific venue.
Morgantown High School? You want the poets from University High School to upstage you and have more control over the microphone, the flow and the feel of the sessions? What about St. Francis? Clay-Battelle? I pretty much am writing off the creative writing department at WVU, since after two years I can't even get them to return my calls (must be pissed that the Morgantown Public Library carries more of my books).
I want academic poets, street poets, young, old, male and female, two of each unclean animal, seven of the clean ones. I want to have to cut off the list after twenty sign ups then have to worry about the logistics of requiring in-advance sign-ups (we are going to, for the time, have a sign up sheet at the information desk at B&N).
If I get a lot of people, I may not even have to read. If I get no one, I'll treat the sessions as open dates for me to work new material. Tag will be there, usually, and so will a deranged rag-tag crew of locals I've already met, shuttling in and out, looking for a place to call home.
But, no matter how it plays, I'm driving. The door is open. For now. I want poets and collaborators. Now.
By the way, E.J.'s new blog. Not bad.
Welcome a new blog into the cyberworld.
The Amomancer is a new blog, administered by E.J., where he will just, with minimal comments, post poetry from my catalog.
Some of it you know, some of it you've never seen, some of it will startle you.
Let's see what he does with this chance.
It is a well-traveled saying that "Man plans, God laughs"...and I would never argue with such a supposition, except perhaps the sense that God takes pleasure in our misfortunes.
Last night, I hopped in my car to head over to Barnes and Noble to meet with Tag regarding the open microphone strategies, and as soon as I backed out, the gear shift stopped cooperating. At least it didn't pull this stunt prior to my daughter's wedding, or at speed on the freeway. But it is frustrating nevertheless.
It occurred late enough in the evening that I had not enough remaining light to take a look at the problem and perhaps resolve it, myself, in a timely fashion. It took me a good ten minutes of grappling with it to be able to return the car (a 1996 Ford Escort) into its parking place. And, of course, this took place a few days after payday, with all my monies already committed to various creditors.
Sigh.
No one said it would be sunshine and lollipops everyday.
The new podcast is up, a Celebration of my Daughter's Wedding, with a new cycle of works.
Check it out, here and join me in the celebration.
I am releasing a copy of the Herman Melville classic novel "Moby Dick" back into the wild this morning, on my way to church, at the Books A Million at Glenmark Center. I'm just going to leave it in the Cafe. It is a hardbound green volume, very handsome...but I'm not likely to re-read it (I am busy writing two novels...and the writing workshop BS that says to write you have to read applies only to those who have not read much in their lives...that's like saying you have to be a passenger to know how to fly a plane).
Anyway, anyone in need of a great white whale might have a shot at it...and do remember to report it to Bookcrossing.com.
Namaste.
My brain hurts.
I am back, full-tilt, in the whirlwind. I was up late last night and early this morning, working on some new tracks for the CDs and polishing the podcast. I was I had Alan to help me with making some tough decisions regarding the CD...but I suspect he's up to his eyebrows in projects as well.
I am very pleased with a short new track entitled "Damascus 3"...as it is a clean, complex rendering of one of my favourite works (you know, the one that starts out "Aphrodite does not barter her beauty for hollow promise"...and ends with an ironic pronouncement as to the durability of my second marriage "Rome was no illusion...this time")
Third time's the charm.
The podcast is shaping up nicely, as a celebration and tribute to my daughter's wedding. I'm still running off of some stored emotional charge from that (the wonderful patchwork of joy, love, peace, glee and hostility I encountered...and that was before the ceremony).
Chanda, from Barnes and Noble, has asked me to take over their open microphone event, starting in October, I have agreed. We have a meeting this week to work out terms and conditions. I think I'll see how far I can have TOTAL CREATIVE CONTROL. Yes, unlikely, but you know me, I hate inheriting a project without the authority to fulfill my responsibilities.
I am also scouting for a cover for THE NAKED READS, my other CD. I am considering using a woman's nude back. Tasteful, and an opportunity for a model to get herself on a CD cover. The pay is non-existent, but there would be a free copy of the CD (of course) and the ability to add that to one's modeling resume.
If you are a model or a photographer with the right pic or back, let me know. I am dubious about backs with tattoos, as they lack the classic cleanness we need. Defacing a beautiful woman's body is no way to celebrate it. I'd approach the model who is going to do the cover for my book RONIN IN THE TEMPLE OF APHRODITE, but she has a back tattoo.
Nice face. Excellent figure. Ink.
A peek, I seek, a peek to share with you, of the cover of one of my upcoming CDs, the chaotic but very satisfying, creatively, Nemicorn.
I am right now working absurd hours to finalize the tracks and the edits...but I can tell you that several works are in it, including:
*Strange, but Beautiful (The Faerie):
My God, every time I listen to this piece I am blown away. I have had to fight the temptation to rename the CD for this work.
*Theocricide:
We had so much fun putting this piece together, a patchwork of musical styles.
*Thunder Out of Valhalla:
How could I resist this driving, driven show stopper? We cranked it up and the drums took over.
*Right Set of Lips:
This introspective, blues-tinged work is so minimalist it is seductive. And so very true.
*The Nosferatu's Quandry:
The words and thoughts are mind, but I have to admit a major influence from Prince in the music. I was very pleased with the result.
*Falling and Fallen Angels:
Another emotional patchwork, musically, but a powerful call to rise from the ashes. An anthem to madness.
*Brisant Revelations:
A bit of a musical tip of the hat to 60's keyboard-driven rock. Includes some of the most curious vocal stylings I've ever summoned. I wonder what I was doing? I almost don't recognize my voice.
*Joining the Machine:
Techno fury. A brutal piece of defiance and madness.
*Texture of Your Tongue:
Shall we be a bit erotic to a synthesizer and bongo tapestry? Why not?
*Love Gods (Multivox):
I hear something new everytime I listen to this damn thing. A psychiatric litmus test dwelling on the essence of the romantic.
These are not all the tracks, just the definite inclusions. The rest will be apparent soon enough. I am so tired. Gratified at the beauty of my daughter's wedding and the realization she has a life that fulfills her. In the end, this was one of the most important purposes I could work towards in this life.
Another piece of the sabot falls away and, in time, I will be left to myself, with no purpose but my own momentum.
"Strange but beautiful" does this to me every time I listen to it, strips me to the raw ends of my nerves. Now that is art.
I just, about an hour ago, joined Bookcrossing (click here to open the site in a new window. This marvelous site and organization allows you to send books "traveling" so that others can enjoy them. No cost, some adventure, and a chance to mix with the hundreds of thousands of other members in this social-networking site for book lovers.
I released my first book "to the wild" today. A copy of my 1997 book "PanthEon". I left it in the magazine rack at the Sheetz gas station and convenience store on Route 705 in Morgantown, West Virginia. Let's see where it surfaces next!
I recommend you check them out and join!
I was approached today about becoming the permanent host of record for the open microphone events at the local Barnes & Noble. I have a meeting set with them next week to discuss this notion. I am not adverse to it, I just want to see what my authorities versus my responsibilities will be.
I do not think all open mic poetry events are bad. I have heard some talented authors and some good poems presented. I have just seen far too many be little, inbred performance art venues where shrillness of voice and histrionics take the place of real poetry. And I'm all about the legitimacy of the artform.
I want to put together a strategy for making it a major event and bringing in as much talent as possible, also empowering the juggernaut...giving poets, and their poetry, a means to evolve and transcend their current states, perhaps assisting poets in finding additional performance and publication venues.
Sell a man a fish and he gets e. coli. Teach a man to fish and he is arrested for violation of state game laws.
That's an important distinction.
Here's a shot, not a great one, but a shot nonetheless, from my trip to LA and Peri's wedding.
It is of my new son-in-law, Brian Harris, my daughter, Peri, and my sons (l to r) Elric and Dante as we had dinner at Jerry's Deli on Ventura Boulevard. I have some more pics, but I like this one, it's the whole party (my ex, Jan, was out of sight to the side...).
This was the first time that I'd seen Peri in over two years. It was, for me, very emotional.
As usual, the food was yum.
It's been a crazy last few days, getting back in the swing of things (such as they are)...anybody else read "Dave's" comments to an earlier post, whilst I was in Los Angeles? I think the gentleman is not a respector of Morgantown's rich cultural heritage (well, he called it a "rural sh*thole"). I think there is potential here, or I would've not lingered as long as I have...
Is my move inevitable. Probably. I have said that only love or money will change my decision. Those are transparent motives.
My bigger issue is "Venice or Joshua Tree"?
I went to the open mic at the local Barnes & Noble last night. Small turnout, but some new faces. I just do not want to see us end up like most of these venues, incestuous in our little family that sits and applauds everything, no matter how bad, out of fear that when it is their turn at the microphone, no one will sustain the lie.
Scans later, political commentary this weekend and a new podcast, themed around my daughter's wedding.
The targeted release dates for my new CDs is November 1st.
The first CD will be "NEMICORN", and feature several of the poetic-music fusions I and the band (The Gods of Love) have been featuring on my podcast "From Out of the City" (available both at Radio City of Legends and Apple's iTunes Music Store, as well as some unreleased material. From rock to trance to pop to folk, we cover all the bases and even make up a few, converting those base metals into a metal that, while not gold, is not from around this corner of the universe usually.
The second CD will be "The Naked Reads" and will feature an hour of my adorned readings of some of my most popular poems. For poetry fans, its as pure as you can get. If you're looking for performance artists over-acting, I'd suggest going to your nearest open-mic.
I'll be finally getting around to posting some of my pictures from my road trip tonight or tomorrow.
Rave on!
Some changes are underway.
Yes, I have pulled
*101 GREAT EROTIC POEMS
from distribution. I have some issues with the production and want it right. Those of you who have already bought the book, don't worry. Your copy is now worth a lot more, owing to the fact it is a collectiors item. If you don't want your copy, drop me an email and we'll substitute one of the new editions, in exchange. Then I'll have the more valuable copy. :-)
I am working on a site redesign for
CityOfLegends.com.
It will take a few days, but I am very pleased and excited by the new layout.
The two CD projects previously announced for this fall,
*NEMICORN
and
*The Naked Sessions
will go forward, as will the book projects
*Ronin in the Temple of Aphrodite
and
*Psalms of the Monster River Cult (in collaboration with Daniel S. McTaggart)
I am adding an additional book project, to be announced later, but I think you will find this very exciting. And of course,
*101 GREAT EROTIC POEMS
will rise from the ashes.
In accordance with the wishes of the poet (William F. DeVault, in case you aren't paying very good attention)...I have stripped "101 GREAT EROTIC POEMS" from his store and placed the brakes on this freshly minted book. I don't know the full story, but I understand he has made some pretty grave decisions regarding some of his projects.
Expect, in his words (from the poem "Brisant Revelations", which I understand was written in a cafe in Pasadena, just one of the memory graveyards he visited on his recent West Coast swing...I sense an exorcism of sorts), the apocalypse.
The Romantic Poet of the Internet is signalling a major turn as regards to his poetry and his books.
I'll be posting tonight some big changes to the website, www.cityoflegends.com and some previously announced plans, please, make sure you're ready.
The trip to Peri's wedding in Los Angeles was an eye opener. But, beyond that, the more important impact may be in subtle epiphanies fanned and formented by the peripheral visions. I was reinforced in some of my notions concerning my life and the people in it. My friend, St. Thomas, tells me I am the most fearless man he's ever met. Time I earned that stripe.
Some good poetry came of the trip, as well. I'm sifting through it as we speak and hope to have it up and available in a few days.
I have made yet another change at the band's site at MySpace (William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love) to add the rather chaotic piece "Falling and Fallen Angels". It is a mind-scrambler, changing directions and tones multiple times, but we had fun putting it together, almost like a musical patchwork quilt over the very meaningful lyrics.
Wow. Jet lag. I increased my fluid intake and ate as much lean protein as I could and snapped out of it after several hours. I hate feeling that toxic. Bleah.
Before I go, if you are, like me, a fan of the show LOST and have not yet checked out the Hanso video derived from this summer's web game, here is a link to the full 70 fragment work Hanso Foundation Video. Enjoy. If you don't enjoy spoilers, avoid it...it not only explains "the numbers", it also gives away many major and minor mysteries.
Gotta go. Love to all.
Back in Morgantown, gotta grab a shower and some shuteye.
Thank you to everyone who made this past week possible and pleasurable.
I just received an unexpected, but not unwelcome, phone call.
LA-based poet and publisher Lupi Basil, editor of EMOTIONS magazine, had found that I was in LA and gave me a call (see, there is an advantage to publishing your cellphone number on your wesbite). She is preparing to get back in the game and revive her magazine. I pledged my full support.
Lupi, pick a vector and go. Many synergies are evolving from this trip. The portents and omens are excellent.
I'm here in the Cyber Cafe on Topanga, and seated a table or two away is a woman, in her late-thirties to mid-forties judging from snippets of her cellphone conversation I am hearing, who looks better than most teenagers you would encounter in Morgantown.
And people wonder why I love LA?
Grown ups who are still attractive. One good reason. In a lot of your marginal subcultures you see a phenomenon with badly dressed and badly groomed young men dating young women who actually seem to be paying attention to their appearances.
Guys with a basketball jersey and baggy shorts, walking into a bar with a young woman dressed and groomed to just this side of prom night. Sooner or later, I think the young women give up on their looks, because the guys never make an effort, and join the slob farm. Why make an effort if the guy doesn't? Then the guys get ticked because their sextoy is now a size eighteen who doesn't wash her hair as she chain-smokes her way through another tough afternoon watching Judge Judy.
Here, in LA, there is a more competitive attitude. People care about the image they present. Men dress, not to avoid being accused of metrosexual tendencies, but to look good, to impress women, to impress themselves. To feel good about themselves.
The women respond, and make the effort to continue to look nice.
Like the woman sitting not ten paces from me, in her midriff top and stylish slacks (not hiphuggers, those are generally reserved for the trailer-park wannabes who learn how to dress by watching hip hop videos).
I'd bet good money her husband (or ex-husband) wears a suit. Combs his hair. And showers.
Just thinking out loud.
I got a phone call this morning (I'm carrying, but it is roaming) from a young lovely I work with, to see how I was doing. Maybe I should seek her out when I return tomorrow.
A few fragments from the last twenty-four hours (E.J. suggests I do a book of poems about this trip called "Poet in the Promised Land"...I'll consider this).
That's Going to Leave a Mark
that's going to leave a mark
the stark, raving sad
of a parting of lovers
when the covers are blown
and the seeds sown
on toxic'd soil are wasted
like lovebirds basted
in a twisted, fisted memory
that never really happened
the way it could have, should have.
but the scar remains, nonetheless.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Tight, White Skirt
You don't need to flirt
when your tight, white skirt
does the dirty work for you.
Those eyes and lips,
those thighs and hips
that dance like speculation.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
clown red lips
pretend to be my friend
at least until the check comes
and the tab is payed.
decisions swayed.
judgments stayed
as the roles are played
with a half-assed half-cast
of reality with a hidden player,
a prayer on clown red lips.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
Well? Is the scent of night blooming jasmine and burnt desert scrub impregnating me yet?
Tomorrow is going to be a crazy, crazy day.
It will start with me getting up about 4 am, PDT. Why? I've kept myself on my own body clock, East Coast time, so as to make adapting back easier. I'd go nuts switching gears twice in a week's time.
Then, dawdling. Dawdling? Well, my plane doesn't lift until about 10 pm...so I'm going to do my last minute Los Angeles shopping in the afternoon, probably at the Third Street Promenade. Have to. Of course, I'm not going to go nuts...can't afford to, and several of the people who asked me to get them things, well, they haven't earned them. I'm making some adjustments.
I'm hoping I can find a lounge at LAX that is showing the Monday Night Football game. I am, after all, a Steelers fan (yeah, I know, new age poetic god likes smashmouth football. bite me.)...
So things will be a bit lunatic tomorrow. The solitude has been useful, it has given me time to reflect, to evaluate my path. I've made my piece with my past mistakes, everyone I've known I have issues with, I have apologized. That's a statement of my character. What they do with that apology is a statement of their character. I can't babysit the karmatarded (my own coinage, there).
You move on, or you keep rooted in the past. The one person I've held a grudge with over the years never apologized for his actions, never considered his actions wrong. I'd still let him in my house, I just wouldn't seek out his company. People who don't accept that fact that you can grow beyond your mistakes are almost always those who are flatliners. Zero growth, spiritually.
Unfortunately, according to C.S. Lewis, many...most...lack real moral sentience. It makes life trying. Imagine having your eyesight in a room with violently moving blind people who do not understand that there is such a sense as eyesight. They don't understand what you're yelling about. And you get frustrated dodging them.
I'm not claiming superiority, just an incidental awareness of my own failures. I'd rather, most days, be one of the self-righteous numb. It is exhausting, this existence. It doesn't make me a better person, just more precisely aware of my failings.
I just got this in an email from the poet.
"Post this, don't post it. I trust your instincts. Be back in the pits on Tuesday.
Brave and Constant Hearts
Where have I found constant and brave hearts,
willing to believe in things greater than the mediocrities,
the hypocrisies we face and trace and place front
and center as we seek to enter a heaven of our own design?
I am yet unconvinced of the futility of love,
but the utility of a brave and constant heart
seems lost on the failed experiments, incapable
of transcending the descending days into self-mutilation.
The singer sings of hearts of gold and I am sold
on the value of such a dream, but not as paperweight
to hold down our bills of wrath and hate and grief,
replacing belief with relief that we are yet undiscovered.
Buried deep, we sleep and never wake, the faded snake
in a mythology of temptation to be blamed by the lamed
when they cannot admit their history, their complicity
in all that has turned from gold to green to brown to black.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved."
It may sound dark, but I see a drowning man, contemplating his own mortality, as he continues to churn the water with limbs yet capable of drawing him to air. Yesterday, on too many levels, could not have been easy on him. I understand that some of the guests that were amongst his most bitter critics, he was unaware they were coming.
Guess that was a real gotcha.
I have a new son.
Brian, welcome to the family. It was a lovely, if brief, service. I have never seen Peri so unconditionally happy over anything. You're a good guy. I know your relationship will weather some storms and you'll be a forever thing.
I envy you.
When I get back on Tuesday I'll scan in some of the photos to share. I'll be back, later today, to share some new poetry.
Oh, and LA? A foregone conclusion. I told Aldo Alvarez, years ago, that LA would be my center of operations for the digital renaissance, I see no reason to change my mind. All that is needed is the will and the wedge. I see things more clearly now.
Peri? Love you. Very, very proud of you.
Dante? Every time I see you I am more mesmerized by your development. You're a great son and will be a great man. Love you.
Elric? We'll have to work on your cocksure smirk. Too much like people perceive me to be, and you would not want my path. Love you.
Jan? Thanks for putting together this shindig. Thanks for everything. Argue if you must, but Peri is practically the perfect blend of the best in both of us, with her own take on life.
I'm skipping brunch at the Hilton. Anybody looking for me will have to be more open. Open hands to the wall. I am tired of quiet daggers in the dark. Stealth proves nothing but your own belief that you are unfit to challenge me head to head.
On the dark side, at one point during the reception I turned to my old friend Chuck and observed that there are an estimated 10 people in the world whom I know (who have, through either their own words or through direct actions against me) hate me. Nine were in the room. He laughed and congratulated me on my brass for showing up. I told him I would probably set off the airport metal detector. I had promised Peri that if I were alive I would be there. One less obligation, now. I'm working to clear out a backlog of ill-considered promises.
I survived the evening on adrenaline and naproxen sodium (the gout was brutal) only to crash, emotionally, this morning. I rebounded (don't ask how...I still have a few secrets) and am preparing to return back East tomorrow night.
There were some old friends I had not seen in years, at the wedding. I encouraged them all to stay in touch, and whether because they really want to or because they were being polite, all but one assented to the notion. We'll see how thin the veneer of civility is.
I'm breaking out a novel I wrote when I get back. Since the person I wrote it for has not seen fit to bring it out, I think I'll reclaim it and publish it myself. It's not bad.
Oh, and that sonic boom you thought you heard late last night? That was me, setting my new personal best for the Topanga Run.
About 2-1/2 hours until the wedding (or, about two hours before I am allowed near the wedding site. frown.)...I am in the Internet Cafe in Santa Barbara right now, contemplating the parking situation closer to the wedding site...most likely I will have to walk a sizable distance to the wedding. Pariahs walk.
That's okay. If Peri is happy, healthy and safe I can stand the isolation.
No truly ironic surprises so far this trip. No mystery people surfacing. No former lovers popping out of the woodwork to seek a rekindling. Or my death. So...this is good.
The drive to Woodland Hills cleared my head a bit, and that was all good. I found Euromints, which seem to be what Penguin Mints have evolved into. Caffeinated mints, yum!
I bought four boxes. One for me, one for Peri, two for friends back home. I think I still have friends back home (of course, one should never count too heavily on the consistency of relationships...too many times they disintegrate or blow up at the most inconvenient times).
After the reception I shall probably return to Carpinteria and then head back to LA early tomorrow. I have previously stated I will be brunching at the LAX Hilton, but may skip that if I do not see a good reason to be in a pre-specified location.
I have made some decisions about my upcoming books and schedule...I'll reveal all of that on Tuesday.
She rose from the water to taunt me, to haunt me.
More beautiful than I had remembered.
The prickly, sickly smell of the low tide
pricked my pride and I was castaway
and back
to stack all my memories like coins
wagered in a strange game of time lost.
The cost incalculable.
So here I am, again, the green felt sand
like a belt around the girth of waters
where play the daughters of man
brushing the crushing waves
that echo into themselves
words whispered in times forgotten.
But I hear when I draw near as I dare.
I am home. I am home.
The bright horizon draws down the curtain
to invite the stars to dance
and stare at me, my hair caught
in a hot, final gout of ions
torn from the desert to follow the sun.
As I did, until it hid from me, behind the sea
to sneak up on me later, from behind.
The well-traveled breeze.
The bark of waves on sand. The hand of God
in every inarticulate clearing of the throat
of the Charybdis. This is where we begin and end,
friend and assassin. Lover and liar, synonymous
in the strange true tongue of prophets
who could only marvel at what I already know:
I will lay awake tonight and listen
to my lover call my name.
Over and over and over and over.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
It is the day of the wedding.
Saturday morning. I'm still in California. I'm still alive. I checked off on the brunette, why live up to a reputation that is more smoke and mirrors and lies than truth (most people believe what is convenient for them to believe, I have found)? I've not had a serious date in almost three years. The burns are yet unhealed, and I have too much to accomplish before the gloaming. If this means I live my days out in solitude, that is just the way of the world and a joke of the Fates. They were always strong on the punchlines. I laugh at the irony.
Okay, we have that out of the way.
Nice dinner last night. Brian's parents feted us at a Mexican restaurant in Santa Barbara and I got to see people I'd not seen in a decade or more. Mostly family members from my ex's side. Most treated me with civility. Today will be the test. (extension of this paragraph deleted for whiny tone)
Such is life. I know my demons, and my mistakes. Perhaps admitting them has been a fault of mine, but I'd rather have the integrity of a conscience.
I'll abide by the counsel of friends who encouraged me to show up, comport myself with grace and dignity, then make my exit. Perhaps this is yet another test of my penance.
I've at least been given a job: keep the boys on task as ushers. Not sure what that means for when I will get to be seated or how. It's a mystery.
I got to meet many of Peri's friends. A lovely bunch of people, actually. I hope she hangs onto them for as long as there is life.
Oh, my entries into my blog today are courtesy of the Internet Cafe in Santa Barbara, at the corner of Haley and Garden (open noon to midnight, seven days a week).
As I type this, a very pretty raven haired woman is smiling at me from across the table...if you don't hear from me again, you know I died happy.
I am going to go into uncharted waters and comment on my daughter's wedding tomorrow and the groom.
I know he has friends who read my blog, so at this point I expect them to already be dialing their cellphones, wanting to tell him I am talking about him. Good.
Peri has always been my girl. My best friend. Even though we have gone through some rough patches with the divorce, my second marriage and some of the BS that came with that mesalliance, I am still devoted to her.
That having been said...I like Brian. From what I perceive, he is a good guy. Honest, hardworking and devoted to Peri. It is tough for a Dad to lose his girl to another guy. But, getting a new son like Brian makes this easier for me.
I can tell how she feels about him, and it is all good. She has no illusions. She knows he's not perfect. But she's not settling. She's chosen well a very good guy.
I can see how he looks at her. I can sleep at night knowing he'll do what it takes to keep her safe and make her happy. Which, in the end, is more important to me than my relationship with her. I am not so selfish as to think that the be-all and end-all of everyone whom I care for's existence is to be how they view or relate to me.
What others think of you. What others say or do about you or to you. These things do not change who you are, they merely reveal their character, their vision (or lack thereof).
I am pleased to welcome Brian to the family. I hope my sons choose as well, when their times come.
Much love to my new son.
Okay, lots to say and I'm on the clock, so let me get to it.
Congratulations to WVU for their thrashing of Maryland last night...not as close as the 45-24 score would indicate. They looked good, very good.
I watched it in a local sports bar because, as luck would have it, the hotel I am staying at is the one hotel in the all of Western Civilization that does not have ESPN. Two Spanish language sports channels, but no ESPN.
Someone the other day commented on my sudden blurting of withheld emotions before a trip or separation. It is an impulse based on a very real event in my life.
When I was in high school, at Morgantown High, there was this girl (note how all my great stories open with that line?) named Margie. We teased and taunted each other a great deal, but there was definitely a connection there...
At graduation I ran into her as we were organizing to march onto the field (Morgantown High School, Class of 1973, representin') and I took her hands and we spoke for a moment and I almost...almost...almost said something. And didn't.
And aside from an awkward moment passing in a shopping mall a few years later, that was my last chance.
I hate the notion of going away and people falling out of my life or dying or vanishing and I never get the chance to speak unspoken truths. It is one of the fires that forged my soul as a poet, unspoken truths. We all have them, we are just cowards. We are so busy hiding behind our comfortable knowns that we daren't launch ourselves into the possibilities beyond our our screen doors.
That having been said, I think Morgantown is in for a shock. I am back on my feet. I have tasted the winds. I have accepted the badge of the ronin. I am my own man, again. There will be some changes made.
Now, for a trivial gripe. When I changed planes in Minneapolis, I stopped at a kiosk to use the internet. The charge was $5.00 for 15 minutes, then $1.00 each additional minute. The problem was in the interface was so sloppy and unstable that I think I managed to get one email off, and the 8 seconds that put me into the bonus charge arena was due to my spending almost a full minute leaving them a message about how bad their service was.
My receipt says that the service is provided by Concourse Communications, from Chicago. If you encounter them, I'd give them a wide berth. I was very unhappy with the service.
To follow up on an earlier note in this blog, I wanted to expand on my words regarding the Los Angeles Times and WVU Mountaineer Football.
In today's (September 14) LA Times Chris Dufresne gives 'The Times Top 25' which is headed by none other than WVU...his comments regarding tonight's matchup against Maryland:
"Law firm of Slaton and Smith try to make another case tonight against Maryland."
Cute, although some of his other comments about other teams and matchups are perhaps more pithy. My favourite? Regarding this weekend's "Bowden Bowl" between Florida State and Clemson:
"Bobby says son Tommy can't coach this week unless he finishes his homework."
For someone like me, who knows that family well, I find it uproarious. And, knowing how competitively Tommy takes football (two-hand touch games on church camping trips were played with smashmouth intensity when he was in the game), I am sure it ticks him off to still be in his Dad's enormous (or, as Bobby would say 'humongous') shadow. Tommy, accept it, when you win a half dozen national titles, maybe they'll give you your due.
I'll be watching this game tonight, from my hotel room in Los Angeles, on ESPN. Mom and Dad will be stuck defending their driveway from tailgaters who want to park there, then drunkenly stagger to the stadium, just over the hill from where I grew up.
My old friend Anastacia wrote me yesterday and requested a poem. I don't usually take requests, but she is the one friend who both stood by me and was critical of my second marriage (and nailed her critique, by the way)...so I owe her one.
Besides, it was a poem I was thinking of doing anyway. She also left the West Coast to head East and feels the same sense of loss of the skies to the West when the grapefruit sun slides into the water and the lights of Los Angeles set fire to the clouds. She wanted me to speak of the Santa Ana Winds, from which I draw strength (I am not the same man who landed two days ago, but I am much the same man I was a decade ago...there is an ancient, new light in these eyes) and the beaches and the sound of the waves and the smell of the Pacific Ocean (so very different than the smell of the Atlantic).
My response to her was this, and I quote:
"I will write you something in the next day or two...to be honest, I have not touched the beach yet, but will later today or tomorrow. That's when the final link will be reforged. It is like going to dinner with an old lover, then braving a gentle kiss...and wondering if you have the courage to lay with her, one more time, to see if the magic that you know is there, remains."
After I wrote that, I realized it was, in and of itself, somewhat poetic, so I just wanted to share it.
In unrelated notes, I see where the college football sports writer for the LA Times places West Virginia University as #1 in his college football rankings...let's go, Mountaineers and kick the terrapin out of Maryland tonight...
and Happy Belated Birthday to Jan, the mother of my children. I can give you no gift you would accept or understand, except my gratitude for their existence.
Even though it is barely inching towards 7 pm here, the gloaming has begun. Night comes early, which is fine for a city that does not know repose. When I move back, to stay, I will welcome that return to the shadows. I enjoyed it the last time. I have always resented sleep, especially when alone. Being compelled to give up effort and conscious thought for hours at a time was and is maddening.
Of course, to me a bed has only a secondary function of being a place to sleep.
I have had a lot of time, being sort of trapped in this twilight between home and the wedding, isolated from those I usually commune with. And with this time comes thought. Contemplation. An idle mind is the devil's chainsaw.
Just call me Poulan.
I am working on several major pieces, both on paper and in my head. No, add to that on my hands and arms...I have recently taken to writing on my skin. I don't know why, except paper is not always available.
Here I am at Planet-Cyber, a cybercafe (or, if you prefer, internet cafe) in the Valley, on Topanga Canyon. I stumbled across them by accident and their technical setup is far superior to Velocity's...even if the atmosphere is less laid back.
My feet are doing a bit better, and I have been writing some new poetry. Nothing to share at this moment, but I will probably be back on later today, and tomorrow and again on Sunday and Monday (I may take a blogging break for the actual wedding).
I am taking pictures (low-tech, disposable camera) and will be adding them in at a later point.
I sit here, sipping my Perrier with Lime. Those of you who know me from my LA first coming will recall my addiction to that, even over my extreme fondness to Diet Dr. Pepper, which I used to order by the 6-pack with my meals from Pink Dot, one of the true great inventions of modern society. They would deliver me a hot baked potato, stuffed with bacon and cheese, a slice of chocolate cake and a cold 6-pack of DDP, until 2 in the morning, and they took checks. Just the place to call when you are on a writing bender.
I recall, when I got my first flyer from them, it was actually more of a catalog, listing everything you could order. I called my old friend Chuck and asked him what he might want to order at 1 o'clock in the morning. He said "chocolate cake". I checked and, sure enough, you could order that. I asked him what else he might want. He said "a fifth of Jack Daniels". Sure enough, that too was available for delivery. I asked him a third time. He paused then said "Well, presuming the chocolate cake and Jack Daniels did their jobs, a box of condoms". And, yes, Virginia, you could order condoms, to be delivered to your apartment door at 1 in the morning.
Heaven, to some people. I'll never tell if I ever availed myself of that particulat service. A certain leggy, blonde e-zine publisher will have to be the first one to admit to anything first.
I am sitting here at an HP PAvilion f50 at the Velocity Cafe in Venice, checking my mail and blogging. Thank God for internet cafes. If you are in the LA area and haven't swung by there, I recommend the fresh-squeezed orange juice and, if you buy food, the computer use is free. Yes, free.
Got an email from the Faery, the classic "You're a great guy and I ackowledge that you think you love me, but I do not love you and I hope this doesn't mean we can't be friends." When in my life have I told a woman that my feelings obligate her? (On the other hand, when promises are made and compromises forced, I am quite willing to say "But...") This is not the case in my "relationship" with "The Faery". I wish her well and will continue to be a loving and supporting friend. Anything else would be a perversion of the concept of love. And, for the record, I have not said "I love you" to her. I have acknowledged feelings, but that word is not one I have given to a woman in more than two years.
I drove by where I used to live and snapped some pictures. The apartment building on Venice Boulevard still stands. But someone else lives in my apartment now. I felt a pang, a twinge, as if I encountered an old lover on the street and realized she was now with another. Down the block, at the corner of Lincoln and Venice, the hotel where Brigit and I had spent nights entwined in each others' bodies, hearts and minds was now a vacant lot. How apropos, eh?
My gout is powerful right now, so much so that the Alleve is bouncing off it. Sheer torture to walk, stand, even move my feet. I will retreat to my room and sleep off the day's sorrows. The pain purifies me.
Tonight, I hunt.
I had dinner at Jerry's Deli on Ventura with Peri, Brian, Dante, Elric and my ex (Jan). Dinner was pleasant and so was the conversation. This was the first time seeing Peri (or Brian) in more than two years.
Peri looked great. She hugged me and I felt like Saul when the scales fell from his eyes after the days of blindness. It was a good feeling.
Brian was genial. I honestly like him and am glad to add him to the family. I good-naturedly ribbed him about his freshly shave head, letting him know he'd make a good body double for Michael Chiklis, which led into a good discussion of the show THe Shield, which we both like and admire.
Cobalt Cafe? I was bone-dead tired and ready to go to bed, but I had told Rick Lupert, who has been running this weekly event for over twelve years, that I would be there, and so I was. There were about twenty poets and audience members present, the usual mix of poets and their significant others, which is one of the reasons I dropped out of the poetry reading circuit years ago here, too incestuous. When I go to a rock concert, I expect to see more than musicians and their families as the audience. Poetry Needs to reach out as well. Some good performances, though. I packed it in early, feeling isolated and tired.
I resent that notion that I, the Romantic Poet of the Internet, would change my songs on MySpace at William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love without telling my readers in advance. I mean, as a poet, and author, and an honorable man, that would imply a certain descent into random capriciousness. I resent the rumour.
I just don't deny it.
Enjoy 'Brisant Revelations'. The Gods of Love have stepped over the line into a little thunderous rock. This is my tribute to my forthcoming, imminent trip to Los Angeles and my salute to a few people who make my day to day less day to day.
Izzy, take us out. Full speed ahead.
Happy Birthday. (You know who you are). I hope that life is being kind to you and you are finding what you want and need. Pax vobiscum.
Less than 48 hours before my plane lifts. I'm bustling, trying to make sure everything is covered. I will try to make AudioBlogger entries from the road, and step into an internet cafe or two in the Los Angeles area to post (if you know any good ones in the LA - Santa Barbara area, drop me a note and I'll be happy to plug them when I use them).
I admitted to my grandmother yesterday that I am considering returning to LA permanently next year. She got upset. She reminded me of how little money she got by on when she was a working woman. The problem is, thanks to my own abused charity, I am in a position where I must work and generate a great deal of money in order to satisfy my creditors, or risk having all my intellectual property lost to idiots when I die. I had originally wanted to cede it to a good friend, but when I discovered she was incompetent and dishonest in these matters, I realized I would have to take care of everything in advance.
It would be so much simpler to just, like most people, give up and rot. I'll still be throwing punches at fate from my deathbed. It's not in my nature to quit. I resent even the act of sleep, it robs me of time I could be using in a more meaningful manner.
We are working feverishly to finish a final track for the forthcoming CD, NEMICORN, before I leave for Los Angeles. Obviously, it is a priority.
The code name for the track is "Atlas Roars". I give my tracks code names at inception, to help keep me on vision as to the feel. Obviously I am going for a very aggressive, masculine, solid feel to this one, as opposed to the more etheric works of late. We proved with "Wordslinger" that we can rock out, and even recently with "We Owe Debt to Memory"...so I am not worried. The initial mixes are quite promising.
Regretfully I will not be able to spend as much time in the company of a few key people before I depart. Some of them I am already missing. Reality has a crooked smile and a wicked laugh and often tries to see how I will react to adversity. The Fates are not always kind, in the short term. I wonder if any surprises await me in the City of Angels.
I m still hoping/planning to attend Cobalt Cafe on Tuesday Night. I also still wish to go to to the desert in Wednesday. I have not stood in the ion streams of the Santa Ana Winds in more than half a decade and I feel the depletion. I am brutally aware of the wear I feel upon myself, just as a man with a bruised heel but miles from home still must walk, acknowledging within himself the pain. Sometimes the relationship with the pain becomes so intimate, you cannot recall a time before it was in your life. Nancy was right, I would be worn down, but not by my poetry (as she thought). I am so terrified to love again, it is disabling me.
I am hoping to get locale, loot and lovelife all working on the same track so I can finish this run I call a life with a purpose and a passion that marks this a comedy, not a drama, in the classic theatrical sense. We are only in the second act.
The Amomancer needs but the vaguest of energes restored to him, to rise again.
Four days (actually 3 and a half) before I go to Los Angeles. The anticipation is killer.
I found, after much searching, what may be a major part of my gift to Peri and Brian. They are theatre people. And one of her favourite movies is "The Breakfast Club".
And, guess who is appearing in a Los Angeles based production of Bob Fosse's "Sweet Charity"? Yep. Molly Ringwald. Except for the possibility of scheduling conflicts with other obligations they might have (always a pitfall when you are incredibly out of the loop) it at least is far more intimate a gift than a gift card. I am tired of being a generic person. An ATM card.
Received a series of fascinating notes from an old friend, Pam, this evening...analyzing my trouble with women (not historically, but my current lack of a romantic focus). She made some sound points. And she has a very attractive daughter...hmmmm. Wonder how she'd be as a Mother In Law?
I jest and jab, but emotionally I am depleted. The fire is just the last crusts burning hot. Without replenishment I would join the undead masses. Thank God for Los Angeles. Thank God for the Santa Ana Winds. Thank God for those few people in orbit around me at this time who at least lend me the illusion of affection.
Sometimes, illusions are all you need to stave off the hunger pangs. You still weary and die, but you do not notice the awful gap in sustenance.
I have constructed a rough schedule for my week in Los Angeles, subject to change, but making i easier for people from the 'town to find me, or understand what I am doing.
Tuesday, 9/12:
I arrive at LAX, visit the Cobalt Cafe in the Valley and read at their open mic so the legendary Rick Lupert and I can finally face to face.
Wednesday, 9/13:
I will probably be travelling to the desert to regain my spirit.
Thursday, 9/14:
Early in the day, not sure, but late in the day I will be tarvelling to Santa Barbara to set up my BOO (Base of Operations) for the wedding)
Friday, 9/15:
Rehearsal dinner, later in the day, otherwise, I am leaving this open in case I am required for errands, etc.
Saturday, 9/16:
Peri and Brian get married. I will dance.
Sunday, 9/17:
Catching up with some old friends, I will probably go to the LAX Hilton for ther legendary breakfast buffet, about 11 am. When I was staying there for a month or two, it is where I loved to go.
Monday, 9/18:
Last minute shopping (can you say 3rd Street Promenade?), plane leaves late in the evening.
Tuesday, 9/19:
Back in Morgantown.
This is, of course, a gross oversimplification, and is subject to changes (the right poetry fan at Cobalt and my whole week goes in a new direction).
I am immersed in a sea of possibilities for new muses. I am going mad with the process. It is like you are searching for a kitten and come across a basket of small, furry creatures. Maybe they are kittens, maybe they are not. Maybe they will grow into cats, maybe something else.
Do you cast them aside out of uncertainty?
The Faerie tempts me, but stays just beyond my reach. I cannot tell if this is a restatement of the dream of the three panthers or not...am I supposed to act? She spoke the other day of dreaming of being a panther. Is this symbolism, or coincidence?
Now Atalanta emerges, tall and lean. As Jasmine may have signaled some possibilities, I am quite fond of her but I find her a frightening thicket of Gordian possibilities and am uncertain if I am just going to be wasting my time with her. With any of them. The Princess remains on the periphery, daunting and taunting.
There is a major theme within me to remain in Los Angeles and dispense with all the guessing games. I am too weary and too wary to play games with children who do not know what they want. I will almost certainly visit Rick Lupert's Cobalt Cafe on Tuesday, under an assumed name, and read until I bleed.
The die is cast, it is but to me to have the couer rage and wisdom to read it.
Well, I have new respect for Jared Leto.
Why? I am sympatico. I hear for his latest film he had to gain 65 pounds to play Mark David Chapman, the killer of John Lennon. Then, he took the weight off. And developed gout.
As someone who has confronted this crippling pain since I started losing weight, I understand what he is going through. Usually it strikes the big toe. For me, it hits the second and third toes of my left foot, feeling like a sharp piece of glass is being driven through them with every step or flex of the toes. A doctor told me I had three options: Put the weight back on (screw that), live with the pain or go on a prescription medicine that, I am told, once you start you are on for life.
I'll deal with the pain. If you see me limping, don't feel too sorry for me. It's just pain. I have pushed through pain before. Poets are supposed to live with pain, it is ennobling.
So, Jared, hang in there.
Technorati Tags: gout Jared Leto weight loss mark david chapman John Lennon
A week until I leave for Los Angeles. So many little details to cover. Too many.
I am actually entertaining interviews while I am in the City of Angels, hoping to at least get a good network re-established while I am there. With my resume, it is not a question of if, it is a question of when.
The books are doing fine, but even the most commercial poets hold day jobs. Professors, teachers, pig farmers, editors. Not a problem for me, I wrote some of my most celebrated works while holding down high-paying pressure-cooker jobs as project manager and proposalling lead for companies like Perot Systems, Computer Sciences Corporation and GE.
Time to get my mojo completely back on-track.
The changes to the "songs" I and the band (William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love) have on MySpace are complete, and I am satisfied with the changes.
Dropped from the lineup is finale from my CD, THE LAST ROMANTIC VERB, "The Gods of Love, Live at Kyrienar" and "Horizon"...
Now in the mix?
TRIUMPH. Yes, TRIUMPH, the thick and wicked dark vision of the shifting mores of conflict. You want to hear something brutal and doomed? Here's the one for you.
NOSFERATU. The funked up presentation of the poem "The Nosferatu's Quandry" that I had up briefly about a month ago and everyone compained about it having been taken down. Prince, I think, would approve.
So, follow the link above and get down to it. Listen. Download. Let me know what you think.
No promises, but I may decide to drop in on Rick Lupert's Cobalt Cafe in Los Angeles on the 12th, to shake up the open mic poetry night and meet the legendary editor of the Poetry Superhighway ezine. All depends on if there is anything else better to do (Definition: Getting to spend time with my kids, or a lovely of the second magnitude or later insists I spend the night...)
I am intending to have lunch on Wednesday on the Third Street Promenade. Anyone care to join me? I'll be bearing presents to those loyalists able to show...
I have gotten so much sleep the last two days, I feel spoiled...
let me see...ah yes, some old works out at MySpace...some new ones in the queue to be processed and placed alongside...I guess you'll just have to see what the new ones are.
Looking forward so much to seeing Peri again. And Brian. And Dante. And Elric. And my city. If I won the lottery and an apropriate Aphrodite materialized, I'd have the universe licked...
Technorati Tags: Poetry Super Highway Los Angeles Third Street Promenade MySpace
I was out at Barnes & Noble last night, to confer with Tag about PSALMS OF THE MONSTER RIVER CULT, our forthcoming joint book effort, and as I waited for him, I traded barbs with one of the servers in the coffeeshop, whom I have had conversation with before.
I hadn't been there in a few weeks, and it is a running joke that I am always missing one of the other servers, whom I have had a few conversations with in the past, who seems very bright and interested in genetic engineering, a field near and dear to my heart (my position paper on the theological ramifications of cloning was the first document the Southern Baptist Convention's Christian Life Commission ever reviewed on the topic. I wrote it when I was 14.)...
Anyway, as we trade light barbs, she says the other server is around. I replied "And?"
She said "Well I know you only come in here because you're in love with her." Perhaps a stretch of the definition of love, but I was curious to hear the punchline, which she telegraphed the presence of with her dangling delivery...
"Well, what's not to like about her?" I was expecting some kind of joke at her friend's expense. I admit I am earnest in my delivery of compliments of people, something which sometimes makes people uncomfortable. It's just part of my "zero tolerance" policy towards lying.
"Well, you're too old for her and its kinda disgusting." Cold delivery. The kind usually reserved for a failed attempt at delivering an earnest thought as a joke. Ouch. I confess, there are only two or three words that bring blood, and that is one of them (No, not "kinda"... "disgusting") I guess I've known enough truly contemptible people, child molestors, drug dealers, insurance salesmen, in this life and the notion of being an object of loathing perturbs me.
So I sat down, drank my iced tea, read my magazines and waited for Tag. When he arrived, we worked on the book for about an hour. I did see the other server, but did not engage her directly. Tag noticed this and asked, as usually we speak. I told him the story and explained that I always consider those kind of backhanded sotto voce messages as a possible proxy for "go away"...so I decided I'd sit quietly, do my work and leave without note, which I did.
I'm not shattered or anything, and I do not feel I have been, done or thought anything untoward, and perhaps being of my antiquity and having to deal with a reader fanbase largely of college age women has rendered me sensitive to accusations of being a dirty old man. Perhaps. And, no, I am not going to launch in an historical defense of "men my age".
Snort.
On a more earthshaking level than my bruised, aged ego, I see where Steve Irwin died, television's "Crocodile Hunter", killed in a freak stingray incident. The barb caught him in the chest and tore a hole in his heart. Death was swift and, for a man who'd spent his life working with dangerous animals, apropos. Rest well, Steve, you will be missed.
An old friend forwarded me this, it is a satire of the bogus fund-raising letters so often used by spammers, identity phishers and pranksters.
Note: this is a prank, not reality! I did not write it, but am posting it here, as I do not know who the author is and wanted to share it.
"I am a very sick little boy. My mother is typing this
for me, because I can't. She is crying. Don't cry,
Mommy! Mommy is always sad, but she says it's not my
fault. I asked her if it was God's fault, but she
didn't answer, and only started crying harder, so I
don't ask her that anymore. The reason she is so sad
is that I'm so sick. I was born without a body. It
doesn't hurt, except when I go to sleep.
The doctors gave me an artificial body. My body is a
burlap bag filled with leaves. The doctors said that
was the best they could do on account of us havin'
no money or insurance. I would like to have a body
transplant, but we need more money. Mommy doesn't
work because she said employers don't hire crying
people. I said, "Don't cry, Mommy," and she hugged my
burlap body. Mommy always gives me hugs, even though
she's allergic to burlap, and it chafes her real bad.
I hope you will help me. You can help me if you
forward this e-mail. Dr. Johansen said if you foward
this e-mail then Bill Gates will team up with AOL and
do a survey with NASA. Then the astronauts will
collect prayers from school children all over America
and take them up to space so that the angels can hear
them better. Then they will go to the Pope, and he
will take up a collection in church and send the money
to the doctors. The doctors could help me better
then.
Maybe one day I will be able to play baseball. Or
maybe just use my lungs and heart, when the doctors
make them. The doctors said that every time you foward
this letter, the astronauts can take another prayer to
the angels. Please help me. Mommy is so sad, and I
want a body. I don't want my leaves to rot before I
turn 10.
If you don't foward this e-mail, that's OK. Mommy says
you're a mean heartless person who doesn't care about
a poor little boy with only a head. She says that she
hopes that you stew in the raw pit of your own
guilt-ridden stomach. What kind of wretched person are
you that you can't take five lousy minutes to forward
this to all your friends so that they can feel guilt
and shame for the rest of their day, and then maybe
help a poor, bodiless nine-year-old boy?
Please help me. This really sucks. I try to be happy
but it's hard. I wish I had a puppy. I wish I could hold a puppy.
Thank You.
Billy 'Smiles' Evans,
The boy with just a head.
And a burlap sack for a body. "
Yes, it is sick, in its own way, but I am also certain that there are some people who will actually believe this to be for real. Demonstrating that maybe we need to require people buy a license to own a computer or get on the internet.
Technorato Tags: web culture online humor spam fundraising burlap
Tomorrow I am making a change in the 'Gods. No, not those, but the pieces on MySpace from my band, William F. DeVault and the Gods of Love.
Why? To make room for some of the more sophistocated sounds we've been grinding out to interlace and interface (and get in your face) with my poety.
If you haven't dropped by yet (you do NOT have to be a MySpace subscriber to visit and listen to the pieces) take the link, above, and check them out, here's a summary of what is there right now, this second, balancing on the edge of a razor as I make my decisions...
Right Set of Lips. Wow. This acoustic surreality about the questing lust and loves that fill my works of recent is charming and subtle. I was very pleased with it. But is it popular enough to survive the axe? Let me know if you think it needs to stay up!
The lyric is as follows, and the original poetic work is called "Lyric: Dance Naked in the Sky":
split second timing
turn on a dime and
find the prime number at the top
burn the walls to the ceiling
leave the world reeling
don't dare start unless you can't stop
climb the wire
light the fire
and dance naked in the sky
live like a goddess
no time to get modest
it's a crime if you just try to get by
show me a reason
to know that your teasin'
is an invitation to dance in the sky
I don't like to take chances
on third string romances
just tell me when and I'll never ask why
climb the wire
light the fire
and dance naked in the sky
come, don't you falter
take me to your altar
for the right set of lips I would die
The Faerie: Strange but Beautiful was not originally inspired by The Faerie. But she is beautiful, and strange, and there is a confused and romantic stream of consciousness within me over my attraction to her and her attentions and intentions towards me. The poem was written just before I met her, the music afterwards, in thought of her. The piano just drives home a painfully romantic, wrenching sense like the sad end of a kiss. The lyric? As follows:
strange but beautiful
the arc of the lark, a curve of unswerving passion
fashioned in jasmine and honeysuckle wreaths
to stop the nosferatu's teeth
from more than a taste
from laying waste
to what, in haste, was imagined love
and some immortal dream of joy
that mirrored what I'd seen in the sun's cleft,
or so I imagined, in hope God had left,
but it came from blood
not the ether that folds cold memory
into the shrouds of distant stars
the better to bind noble scars
strange but beautiful
strange but beautiful
I can sense your presence
but I cannot ken the vector of your approach
and like Hector, I cannot fight
what I cannot touch in the light
swinging blind against the walls
as I kick against the pricks
I would place palms to cool stone walls
and wait your arrival, eyes shut to silence
the shadows of the fires
the shadows of desires
that would blacken flesh and bone
and drag me to the precipice
to dance for the fates my amomancies
strange but beautiful
Horizon. Wow. An acid dance played out behind this prophetic miracle of a work, written before most of my core readers were born. The growl that everyone loved so much in "Joining the Machine" is back and the piece fell together nicely. It was almost effortless, a sure sign of something that has been waiting for the right moment, the right path, for a long time. To those two of you out there not familiar with the poem in question, it goes like....this:
there was a season
when I was stronger.
when days lasted longer and wind filled my sails.
there was a reason
for love's trial and error.
ghosts in the mirror were yesterdays' tales.
the winds now are memory.
hope and illusion.
pain and confusion inherit my gold.
but I, I shall live on
the crusts stained with jelly,
filling my belly with morsels and mould.
there is yet a season,
with dragons returning,
the fires yet burning shall lift to the skies.
there must be a reason
to seek the horizons.
to sail for the islands with unclouded eyes.
my sails are of iron. the sun is my shepherd.
and I am the leopard.
the lion. the beast.
alone at the tiller. I seek no more portage.
the winds of an old rage
shall yet drive me east.
Finally, from my CD "The Last Romantic Verb" we have The Gods of Love Live at Kyrienar. This thunderous blast with its driving guitar line features three of my most classic works, finally brought to the stage with music. "Monument", "Phoenix & Golem" and "TRANSCENDENCE". There are poets whose entire catalog of works doesn't measure up to those three alone. The first is an ancient work, celebrating the gift of immortality I granted Psyche when she became my lover. The second is a statement of acceptance of the brutality of unrequited love. The final, my arch and argent kiss off to the Panther. Yes, my children, the this artist's rainbow is alive and well. To those of you a bit lazy with the mouse button, I include here the three poems' words so you can deconstruct to your heart's content.
Monument
I crave a cup. a bowl. a mug of your heart's steel.
unsheathed before by mortal or god for rage or lust
of things both unneeded and forever unreal...
it is the quintessence...and the dust.
dreams do not stand before you and call the blade.
dreams do not walk or breathe or love you as I do.
and can. and will, if given just a moment's shade
from the moon of pain and the stars that lie.
my words shall be eternal. syntax monuments of you.
beneath the tread of centuries, stone shall fall.
paint peel. music rise to ears long deaf. but now...
and from this night on...you are immortal.
Phoenix & Golem
phoenix and golem.
handmade, manmade, fire and clay.
the blaze of, the haze of, self-immolation.
an act of self preservation.
brass feathers quickened in the flesh
of clay and phosphorous.
a porous purpose to usurp us
when we finally get traction
on the scrith of life.
awake, my creation.
awake and open wide the iron jowls
to howls of Eden and Armageddon.
awake. pass through the sands
like water on the beach,
reaching for the leeching pull
of buried rivers of thought not
yet assembled in coherence.
but ready for the kiln to fire
at temperatures where clay melts
and mythologies turn to ash.
awake to seize the fates
in clawed hands, iron bands
that will cling against the sting
of all the scorpions of resistance,
persistence being a virtue of the damned.
TRANSCENDENCE
the heavens are in heat tonight
for this penitent, penetrative dream.
the iron lion stands astride memory.
mantichore wings of black lace fragments
of a leather lost to the weather of whim.
to him alone is there an accounting.
countdown.
grey skies to brown toxic fumes
as the hypergolic moments when
soul and intellect touch in the ceramic chamber
of a nautilus heart.
the skies scream aside in a fictional friction
of breath drawn out to thread like taffy
pulled too long.
an obit of an orbit, undecayed
as the patina colossus pulls free his lame heel
from the grounding earth
and raises high the last romantic verb.
liftoff.
and I am gone.
gone beyond imagination.
a consecration of madness
sold in gold and honeysuckle silver.
quicksliver slowed to sublimate
into a crystalline matrix of time.
farewell.
farewell.
but it is no longer my concern.
for I burn tonight in orbit no longer.
stronger than an epiphany
made construct in the shallows of an id.
copyright William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
So check these out, lest I have to just judge for myself which to prune as I promote new material...I appreciate it.
Technorati tags: poetry american authors myspace music lyrics
Happy Birthday, Katherine. May you find the peace and joy I believe you honestly have earned.
I slept last night. No, I really slept. Almost ten hours. I never sleep like that unless I am totally exhausted or very sick. And I see no other symptoms of illness, so I must have just been to-the-bone tired.
I've been pushing the edge for the last few weeks, I know...trying to juggle several disparate objects with one hand, metaphorically. But it is all good. I won't have to sell my soul to attend Peri's wedding and most of my projects are still on track.
I am going to a family reunion later today, and am planning to write from that corner, to make certain I pull my weight on my collaboration with Dan McTaggart later this year, the semi-sequel to THE MORGANTOWN SUITE POEMS, entitled PSALMS OF THE MONSTER RIVER CULT. RONIN IN THE TEMPLE OF APHRODITE is shaping up excellently and should not endure the production problems that have plagued 101 GREAT EROTIC POEMS. I even have my cover model.
I look forward to the LA trip with a mixture of trepidation and delight (I am awaiting "felicity or doom..."). Why I am going to be there almost a week is a good question to ask...since I initially made my plans it has been made abundantly clear that I am expected to show up for the rehearsal dinner, for the wedding, and stay out of the way the rest of the time. For a person like me, a major slap in the face, but we do endure much to be able to feel we are doing right. Relationships, all relationships, are work. Nothing of value is effortless. Sometimes the cost is sweat, sometimes blood...like either swinging a sledgehammer to break down a stone wall, or sitting quietly while someone tosses stones at you.
I was going to, as a partial gift for the wedding, present Peri and Brian with a very sentimental gift...but I see where they are right now more into practicality, so it shall be practicality.
Most of my friends from LA I have lost track of, or have moved on with their lives, or have moved. I return to an indifferent mistress, but one who wooed me once before and I have every reason to expect the same reception.
Technorati Tags: morgantown los angeles poetry
Halftime at the WVU-Marshall game. A strong showing by the Mountaineers. We'll see how they hold on in the second half.
By the way, I usually, this time of year (and again in a second wave in April (National Poetry Month)) get a lot of requests for assistance with term papers, research papers, homework and poetry deconstructions by enterprising high school and college students looking for an American poet who has not already been done to death.
Bring 'em on. I like helping on those projects and I particularly get a kick out of people with fresh angles (and, I have a lot of material to contribute to make projects custom and clever). Also, beautiful young women looking for fresh insights and their own shot at immortality. I may be smitten, but until she closes escrow, I am a free man. I also, often, donate copies of some of my books to the school libraries of the students who do these papers and projects.
Ten days until Los Angeles. It is hard to contain my excitement. I will come back as myself, not this wraithform shadow of who I once was. I am grateful to Peri, my daughter, for planning her wedding on the West Coast. Besides, I don't think she'd be thrilled with my bringing a date, and I probably would have if it was on the East Coast.
There's a line in the movies "Serendipity", spoken by Jeremy Piven's character "You know the Greeks didn't write obituaries. They only asked one question after a man died: 'Did he have passion?'"
My life will be answered with a resounding "Yes". Even by those who did not, could not, would not understand.
I have to run for a bit. A Faerie demands my attentions. Pardon. The Faerie. I'm waiting for her to invoke Joey Lauen Adams from 'Chasing Amy" and say "You are such my bitch...'
Hey, WVU won. 42-10. One more reason for vandalism and general bad conduct, but a hearty congratulations to my Alma Mater.
Technorati Tags poetry Faerie Serendipity WVU football homework
There I go again, making promises. Promising to return from LA.
Even.
Even if.
Even if lightning strikes.
Which it has an alarming record of doing, in my life. Who knows who I'll run into while visiiting home. Who knows what sudden whims may catch me. And to give that all a hook in the hall for the sake of someone I am not even involved with is...is...
completely in character.
If you know me, if you have read my works, you know what promises mean to me. What my integrity, hard won, then lost, then won again, means. What the connection means, even if I am the only one who feels it...because, as Arachne once told me, what matters is what is in my heart.
I hate it when I am taken for granted, however. I must allow enough of the chaos back into the mix that I can regain my autonomy. That's what has been missing.
Tht's what I will recover, as I stand, arms open, and great the fire on the winds of the high desert.
And find myself home. It will be painful returning after the trip. to wait for the next act. It will be wrenching. I left once before, to try and recover form the damage I had done playing babysitter to a sick friend. A friend who, in the end, only wanted more, until the feel of the husk against her lips was not enough and, since she could not find my soul in the hollows of my hearts anymore, she let me leave...
Now I am restored by time and contemplation and ready to step back into the stream of energy, to recharge myself.
For the final time, My Electric Lady...
I am confused. Updated this blog this morning. Ping'ed Technorati.
Still not in the index as having been updated. In the interim, all the other blogs I track do show updates.
Confused? You bet. A little frustrated. Amen.
My friend Hutch sat down with me today and discussed The Faerie with me. He was, generally, supportive and even agreed with my strategy for maximum self-defense while feeling out the situation. I value his judgement, so it was good to hear him express support.
The Faerie invoked one of my favourite stories from "Love Actually" in conversation the other evening, to describe an aspect of our friendship. To say which one would give away too much, but trust me - it was a positive thing. I really like that film.
The last day or two I have been so busy it isn't sane, but things will slow down as I enter the home stretch before Los Angeles.
I was asked if I will return to Morgantown after going back to the city that is the spiritual center f my existence. Of course, as I have some promises to keep, barring major catastrophe, or the invocation of the "love or money" clause in my daily existence.
Tomorrow is the WVU vs. Marshall game. My call: The Mountaineers: 34 The Thundering Herd: 10. I actually know a Marshall fan who will be happy with this, as most people have given up 25 points in their side bets with him.
I need to sit down with McTaggart and get some more work done on PSALMS OF THE MONSTER RIVER CULT this weekend. One thing I want to do is a cycle of poems out of my family reunion this weekend. I will keep you informed.
Love to all. I'll be back later.
