tracks for the CD (part one)

"Enchante" 
is a go
as is 
"Slitoris"
"The Warm Wine"
"Centaur"
"The Taste"


I have a very intense, sexually dark piece I am considering (You mean "Slitoris" is not dark enough?).

the CD and me

I am right now working on the concept and content for the CDs...some interesting ideas have come up and I am actually waiting for another person's input. Yeah, I know...abnormal for me.

I think you'll find this CD a bit edgier than the first few, I am letting myself indulge my dark side a bit more. Testosterone and adrenaline in the mix. It's tough, having had to be the grown up in so many relationships, I don't often let that part of me out to play. He's there, you see subtle threads of him in some of my works, but I have always felt like I have to keep him in check so I can take care of others. My art reflects my life. It has to, as all art is an expression of some aspect or perspective of truth.

I guess what I probably need is a relationship where he is allowed to come out once in a while. Maybe this CD is that statement of truth, that I have this darkness, that I want to express it, that I am looking for a time and a place and a person where I can express it.

Anyway, you'll see when this CD surfaces, I think many, many people will be surprised.

guilty as charged

EJ and I were discussing his return to the Amomancer blog, when he had to comment about my recent epiphany about my taste in women.

He laughed, then told me he has always known what my dream girl would be:  An amazon Marla Singer.  (Those of you who do not know this character, go rent "Fight Club" or better still, read the damn book).

Damn.  Am I that transparent?

But on the good news side, expect EJ to be back to blogging his little heart out with new poetry every day probably mid-September, in conjunction with the new CDs' release.

I found my old friend Tanya Anne Crosby on FaceBook...yay!  Alas, too short for the dream girl part (and she was never fond of me in THAT way, anyway...)

finding the shadows and what is inside them

Curiously a random observation off a television program the other night made me realize something about myself, regarding the kind of women who have, historically, caught my eye and inspired my pen.

Dangerous women.  Bad girls.

Not heavily armed psychopaths, but women who are a bit out of control, a bit notorious, a little scary, even, with a dark element.  I look at my history and see women who most caught my attention were those that a lot of people would have considered a risky proposition to approach or engage.  Addicts, exhibitionists, partyers, cutters, women with attitude and an edge.

Now, whether that is out of some misplaced desire to help someone I feel is off the path, or a bit of adrenaline being mistaken for testosterone, or a desire to domesticate a jungle cat, I am not sure.  Some have opined that it isn't I am attracted to them, but they tend to be attracted to me and I accept their interest, as I am the typical love-starved artiste.

But this observation deserves serious scrutiny.

a day that flowed and sang in strange melodies

Yesterday through this morning has had its share of strangeness, pleasant strangeness.

I had a rare moment of quiet.

I reconnected with my muse "The Faerie".  She is well and things are going good in her life.  She is the kind of person who could fall through Hell and come out the other side with just a nice tan.  She is currently pregnant with her first child and really embracing the experience. 

A reader took up my call for a Church of Poetry, which I have always been just waiting for others to hear the call to.

Jazz was communicative, which is sometimes a rare thing.  There is such beauty in her darkness, a beauty that she, immersed in it, cannot appreciate.  I try to help her to get her arms around that.  Evene though she has clearly indicated there is no interest on her part in me, I still would like to see her grow as an artist and writer and find her way in this world, which is not always kind to truly creative and sensitive people.

I had a very good engineering session on the new CD.

All in all, a good day.

Enchante

I listened, intently, to the final cut of my new single, based on the poem "Red and Black", featured the other day upon this site, and realized several things:

1) It's good. A little too uptempo classic rock for what people usually expect from me, but good.

2) It definitely shows I am starting to accept the fact I can actually front The Gods of Love.

3) I can't call it "Red and Black". When the song is done that which hangs most in the ether is the single French word "Enchante". (Basically pronounced, to you Saracens out there, as "On shaun tay".

4) I will definitely put it on the new CD, and feature it in this week's podcast, which is overdue. Sorry.

Hey, have to admit it, I like David Duchovny's new series "Californication"...maybe if for no other reason than I have lived that life, met many of the characters he is meeting, and found myself on much the same treacherous emotional/sexual ground as his character finds himself.

But I was never stupid enough to bang a sixteen year old. Ever.

FaceBook applications blues

My biggest problem with Facebook (which I still massively prefer to the ADHD world of MySpace)? Applications.

Scarcely a day goes by but that I am bombarded by requests from several friends to add some new application to my profile, one that makes me rate whether or not I'd go out with a stranger based on their picture and age, or turns me into an undead...it is really a little distracting.

Social networking sites, for me, are for social networking.

red and black

A new piece, perhaps a lyric? Perhaps...

dedicated to Jazz, wo always seems to think I'm trying to get into her bed, when what I am really trying for is far, far more ambitious.

red and black


blossoms born of heat and quest
that place this suitor to his test
that I might dare, her passions, wrest
to bear with bright vermilion

meanings borne in things unsaid
that place me in her heart and head
no beggars bag for just a bed
I crave the full cotillion

black as blood in moonlight's glare
she looks for me, she'll find me there,
beneath the wreath of jasmine'd hair
that sparks a dark Bacchante

the petals settle in gentle breeze
to mock and stalk and please and tease
a cure to purity's disease:
release the beast enchante.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The State of the Faith

Friends, neighbors, dreamers and the damned;

I come to you today, not as a dispassionate observer of the landscape that is the literature of modern poetry, but as a man who has lashed himself to the faith, bound hand and foot and heart and soul, and caring deeply about the trail it takes and the progress it makes in this world.

There are those who would say that poetry has been diluted by the modern schools and the proliferation of poetry in the mass media such that it is not longer poetry, no longer of the faith and flesh that it once was.

I see their point and respectfully disagree.

There have always been those who profess to the faith of poets when they are not poets, just as there are millions of people every Sunday sitting in pews who do not practice even the most rudimentary tenets of the Christian faith. Hypocrisy abounds, and even a diminution of that, a sort of sorcerer's apprentice mindset where everyone who sits down on Sunday calls themselves a Christian and everyone who write a poem calls themselves a poet, as if the single act were enough to transform the individual spiritually or intellectually.

I have met hundreds, if not thousands, of people who have written or write poetry. I have met a handful of poets. And no, I am not blasphemous enough to claim that the dividing line is whether one makes a living or is published as a poet, indeed, the correlation between artist and marketplace has always been murky.

The poet lives by and in the faith, recognizing that in their words they are speaking to and of the divine and reaching out to meet halfway their Creator. Be they authors of poetry about great rivers or humble moments, mighty passions or gentle questionings, historical epics or subtle meanderings of a creative mind, the poets are those who live their faith.

And, just as with those of Christian, Islamic, Jewish, Hindu or any other great religion that calls for more than a calling-card commitment, the world and the faith would be better off with more earnest disciples.

The State of the Faith is strong, but much remains to be done, not to complete a journey, but to keep the eternal journey oriented to the proper paths.

In my time as a poet, for I am one who has walked the path this mad faith has demanded of him as best I can, I have been called heretic and high priest, father and fool, Anti-Christ and apostle.

I leave it to the judges of history to define my role when civilization has evolved and my words are read by those unborn when I had long last breathed my last and judge the resonance of the words that I tore from my own flesh to share as nourishment to those willing to put aside their pettiness and perverse ignorance to embrace the notion that "In the Beginning was the Word".

And even though it was made flesh, so it remains, this Word, and it is to those who accept the burden of the poets to protect and promote, invoke and provoke, and to ultimately share the truth revealed only to those with eyes of stained glass and fire. Let the poets dream and share their dreams, and let the faith be served.

Thank you.

trust

I have been busily mixing away on the new CD, having fun with some new tracks that are still incomplete but headed for completion in the next few days as I get the vocals and music mixed right.

Yes, I should let someone else do it, but I just can't seem to relinquish control. Too many people have fallen short of my vision...maybe "fallen short" is the wrong idea, perhaps "missed the mark" is better. Yes, that's it.

It reminds me of the story about Keith Emerson taking the rendition of Alberto Ginastera's "Toccato and Fugue in D minor" to the Argentine composer's home in Switzerland. A bit nervous about the reception he would get to Emerson, Lake & Palmer's electronic take on the piece, he was stunned to find the composer's reaction being (hampered initially by language barriers) that this was what he had been hearing in his head when he wrote it, that they had captured his vision.

Who can I trust to capture my vision? I have no champion, no heir, no helpmeet.

Too many have abandoned me, betrayed me. I have lost the capacity to trust in the manner I once used to. The sad thing is I am not sad or bitter about it, as I think I have polished the skills necessary to sufficiently do what I must without assistance. This does mean a mountain of effort to move a mound of dirt, alas.

It would be nice to relax once in a while.

An Apology for the Slave Trade

Earlier today I noticed a question on CNN.com about whether or not the United States should apologize for its involvement in the Slave Trade in the past (I hope it is in the past!).

A strong majority, like 66%, were saying we shouldn't.  Well, that's a load of crap.  How can we keep running around in circles, screaming about Christian principles being our founding father's aims, and ignore one of the most sacred aspects of Christianity?

Christianity teaches that is you have done wrong, if your family has done wrong, if your people have done wrong, you have an obligation to God to apologize.  And sincerely.  It doesn't mean the apology will be accepted, but that's not your problem.  

I have said before, and will say again, my apology is a statement of my character, my willingness to owe up to past failings and try to at least be honest.  What the person I apologize to does with my apology, that's a statement of their character.

But, theologically, morally, it puts it behind you.

So let's quit the hypocrisy and just get on with it.  If no one else will up to it, let me:

I, William F. DeVault, apologize on behalf of the American people, the government of the United States of America and any of my ancestors who may have, directly or indirectly, contributed to, profited from, taken pleasure in, or stood by in silent assent to the slave trade perpetrated in this nation in past generations.

I invite all other American of good character, Christian or not, to join me in this.

a second kiss for the karma?

One of the biggest gripes I ever hear is concerning the humble, simple song "Kisses for Karma" on my CD "The Last Romantic Verb". Whine. Whine. Whine.

If you know the song, you know the gripe: The horns. The come out of nowhere and blare, then the second time, to be followed by a wailing harmonica. You have a problem with harmonicas?

Well, for the next CD I am re-engineering the song to smooth out that, and throwing in some interesting twists. I dug out the master tracks while kicking through my archive and was surprised and shocked at how complex the arrangement had been. Wow. But, loads of fun with great opportunity for re-envisioning.

So, that's a little news out one of the two CDs I am putting out next month (specifically "Amomancer"). More later.

Romeo and Juliet

I was out, cruising the information superhighway (which nowadays looks in sincere need of a "keep cyperspace clean" campaign to reduce the cluttering ads...the mind boggles at how much bandwidth is being eaten by this cretins) when I ran across, on YouTube, my favourite music video of all time...Dire Strait's "Romeo and Juliet".

It is not that it is the best produced video, especially by modern standards, but it has an integrity, borrowed from the song (which still speaks to me like a drunken oracle across the decades) that makes it beautiful).
I recall weeping the first time I saw the video, the resonances for times in my life are decidedly there.

More on the CDs

I have almost all the tracks for AMOMANCER already in the can, and am assembling the material for NAKED, AGAIN as we speak.

Despite a few very strong tracks, I think both THE LAST ROMANTIC VERB and NEMICORN were inconsistent.  This CD (AMOMANCER) will be far, far stronger.

I am trying to get the same model for both CD covers.  She and I had discussed her being the model for one cover, but I think it might create a nice flow to have her do both, just in very different manifestation.  We shall see how that goes.  If not, I know several other worthy candidates...or who says I even need a model, hm?

The CDs

Okay...two new CDs next month:

"Naked, Again" will be straight-up reads of many works that have been requested in the aftermath of last year's "The Naked Reads".

"Amomancer" will be a collection of the song-poems, including:

*The Taste
*Centaur
*The Warm Wine
...and many others

So keep your eyes and ears open, because I am taking a break from CDs for a bit after these releases. No, really.

thought for today

Those who do not laugh, cry and make love on a regular basis are not attending to the fitness of their souls.  These three things exercise the spirit, balance the heart and cleanse the intellectual palette.  They release the demons of isolation and pain and touch the divine.

going international, making someone cry

A very nice reader told me yesterday that listening to my song "The Taste", based on my poem "the taste of remembrance" made her cry. Sigh. Those of you who know my whole story know that these are the moments worth living. It was a woman's tears upon hearing one of my poems that first opened the heavens to me.

I checked my statistics this morning for my website and noted that the last seven people to visit my site came from 7 different countries (a rarity, as my site is visited predominantly by Americans)...the countries were, in order of "hit", Australia, The United States, South Africa, Mexico, Canada, the United Kingdom and Pakistan.

contemplation of the last few days

Movement in the ether. Old friends re-appearing without herald. A most curious dream. A shift in bases of power. A rediscovered talent. Coincidences.

A thread of music. Explaining things that comfort to someone who wants the truth. A familiar soul in an unfamiliar face in an unfamiliar place. The taste of grilled mahi. A recollection of my last kiss. A brother's question of relevance to my past. The devil in the details, as God is in the big picture.

A new lyric. Finding a line I had forgotten in a poem written so long ago there are children of children who were unborn when I lived it. A new definition. The texture of humid air on a face dry with memory. A small piece of paper on which the words "love hurts" was written by a faithless lover, found tucked in a book I held onto as I left in disgust and triumph.

Cold water. Hot tea. Room temperature juice of an orange, sour and alive like the words of an honest rival. Strength in the touch that is no longer there. An awareness of a vulnerability, made by illusion to seem a strength, at length.

At a distance, the persistence of the deep hollows and the shaded shallows where warm water stagnates for a breath of another person's lungs, taken as sacrament.

This is a good life. I shall linger.

a most curious dream

I had a most curious dream last night. Not just for the content and context, but also for the quality of it, very crisp and clear. I practice lucid dreaming and am very good at realizing when I am in a dream (if I am flying, disembodied or in a a large bed with a beautiful woman, usually it's a dream...) but this one was framed ordinarily enough that it took me a moment to realize I was within myself.

I was sitting in a pew at my old church (Calvary Baptist) with my family, listening to a gospel quartet when, in a moment of exuberance, I flashed a "peace sign".

The music stopped and the lead singer of the quartet berated me for doing that, saying I had "defiled" an "American church".

I stood and began to recite the Beatitudes...as the crowd grew ugly.

I am not anti-military in practice, my family has many career military men and women in it and I respect the difficult jobs they have. But I also believe that Jesus was not lying when he said "Blessed are the peacemakers".

The Warm Wine runs tonight

No politics, no theology, no philosophy, just raw, naked passion. Yep, sounds good to me.

From Out of the City for August 19th, 2007 is now up at Radio City of Legends, featuring not only the origin and essence of "Brag bleeds", but also The Gods of Love join the poet for "The Warm Wine".

Join me for some red? I am saving the white for a special occasion and purpose.

The Warm Wine

Thanks to Izzy for the musical prod (his guitar work set the metrics for this work.


The Warm Wine

She was midnight. Bright light and warm as life and fire.
Soft lips. Her hips made for the touch of this man’s hands.
Dark hair. Nowhere did she deny her true desire.
Kisses wander beyond her heart. Naked she stands.
Her breath, small death. Bright light. Delight, her vows inspire.
Warm wine drawn out to share. So fair. Her bed: Pain’s pyre.
Sentimental. Sacramental. Gentle demands.

She was the gate of fate, burning my heart ashen.
Waking. Taking. Slaking her thirst with me, the well.
Draining and sustaining my heart in her fashion.
Soft. And sweetly. And completely lifts me from Hell.
Tender splendor, no pretender to her passion.
Angel made flesh she seems a dream. Pale permission
To touch and trust when dust is legacy I know too well.

I will lay back and her attack will make me bleed
wounds of a love, cleansing for the sowers passage.
Make way the grey and play and stay. Fulfill my need.
In her mission no division: Peace and couer rage.
Warm wine. Divine. Consign me to life, I concede.
Release and cease the days of grey, just come and feed.
Let me, set me to her purpose. Share my vintage.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The Warm Wine and chaos theory

Chaos theory. Yeah, I get that on both a mathematical.scientific level and a personal.emotional.spiritual level. My need for chaos seems to be undiminished, my appetite for random energies as sharp as ever, although perhaps my tastes have become more refined with age.

I am writing, explosive little bullets of work, nothing too dazzling, but this is one of the ways the good stuff comes...the shotgun blasts of thought kinetic constructs is merely my brain clearing out the rubble to let the juggernaut roll smoothly.

New piece for this weekend's podcast: "The Warm Wine". It is a curiously erotic piece built upon a line from my poem "Bragi bleeds". Those of you who know me or are sophisticated enough will decode it quickly. Those who cannot or will not, enjoy it like an old "Rocky and Bullwinkle" cartoon, where the double entendre slipped by you as a child, leaving you just with the surface amusement.

I sent an email off to several California-based friends last week, seeking guidance for my vacation. None responded. I must assume I am persona non grata in the Golden State? More likely everyone wants to be second to respond, typical California etiquette.

a brick upside the head

Last time I had a skull-splitting, six senses and a cab, full blown poetic explosion like that was when I was sitting at my desk in LA and "TRIUMPH" burst forth from me, along with the pantherdemon vision, which I have never released the poems of and will not this side of the grave (but I did tell her about them).

But these are not of old bones, these are of peppermint and cinnamon and the smell of vinegar in an autumn cider press house. Fire, so bright and hot you do not feel it burn you, you see it, then realize the damage is done and the light was all the warning you received in the silent echoes of memory.

Hmmm...some interesting material here for a poem. Or two. Or seven. Or seven times seven. Or...

I smile the smile I reserve for moments of clarity, and begin to write.

MySpacious Interruptus

For those of you whom, rather than leaving word here or emailing me a greting yesterday, left me word at MySpace (why? I don't know)...MySpace is down for the time being (surprise! surprise!) so don't be surprised if I don't get your note or respond right away. I received notifications of the messages, but can't access them or respond to them.

That online social network has certainlly gone to hell since Rupert "I may be foreign, but I own the US political process" Murdoch bought it.

random notes, the morning after

Closing in, soon, on my 2,000th post. Wow.

Survived my birthday. Yes, I made the red velvet cake. Even Elric, the twin who is not a fan of chocolate, found some virtue in it, which was fine. He'd still be my son if he didn't like it, I mean I haven't disowned any of my kids for not being chicken liver eaters, have I?

I will do a podcast this weekend, last week's return just reminded me of how much I enjoy the process.

I am in talks to have a professional come in and redesign at least the front end of the www.cityoflegends.com website. More on that, later. Clean it up and tighten it up. I just never seem to have the time or focus to do it myself.

My grandmother will require 4-6 weeks convalescence for a compression fracture of a vertebrae. She is not amused, but it could have been much, much worse at her age.

Years ago I gave a valuable piece of advice to a friend who was confused as to which path to take in a complex spaghetti-pile of a relationship life...I told her to "pick a vector and go". I think that shall be my motto for the next year.

Peri called last night. That was nice. I miss her. At this point, if I make the decision to go to California in December, she will be the main reason.

by request

An old friend asked me to post this for my birthday. I could not refuse.

Horizon

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.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

is there a god of coincidences?

Well the fates sometimes drop me a b-day present.  An old friend from the LA days materialized out of the blue to say "Hello", coincidentally on my birthday:  Wildman maverick low-low-low budget filmmaker Kevin Rapp, now seemingly domesticated.  Or is he?  

That was nice...too many people have been left behind on this road.  I'll have to see what he's been up to and thinking about.

ahem

You the man. Happy Birthday, O Poet-God of the Known and Unknown Universes.

You owe me lunch when you get back to the city of lost angels.

the illusion of memory

I have done a little soul searching in this life.  Okay, a lot.  Okay, more than most monasteries have in a five hundred year history.  I am one big mound of introspection (say what you will about my clumsy attempts at earnest expression on occasion, I do know my heart).

It took weeks to put out the last podcast, and I understand why now...the fire is not there.  Oh, I can fan it for a moment into a semblance of heat and light, but without an active muse, it grows pale and frail with decay.

Just a few weeks ago I was talking to a woman of my acquaintance on the phone and she asked me about "the voice".  I had little trouble slipping into it, because I am rather enamored of this woman.

But when I sat down in front of the microphone to record the podcast, the voice wasn't there, I couldn't summon it.  Bruce Autrey of Poetry Heaven had made a point in his review of one of my books that reading my work was like peering into someone's bedroom.  I understand what he said more than he does, I think.  I express the raw, the true, the naked, the pure.

And it is tough.  Except under inspiration.

I have no trouble shedding my expressive inhibitions for a woman I am actively interested in or involved with, but to just summon the words and the wonder without that...I can fake it, but I am acutely aware of how limited that is.

I don't want to fake it anymore.  No more memories, no more illusions.

Birthday Indigos

I wouldn't call them the Birthday Blues...only one thing gives me the blues, really, and I haven't had one of those in my life for a while (you never know, though, what might happen next).

It's a combination of factors. I know I probably won't hear from my daughter. If I want to let my teenage sons take me out for dinner for my birthday, I have to pay. And I am baking my own cake, my Mom slipped me the box of red velvet cake mix when I was last in. I have to buy my own icing, though.

I'm not complaining, though. I have more than enough blessings in my life; an embarrassment of them, by some standards. I'm content, just getting older. The clock ticks and I am tired of waiting for the worms.

Part of me wants to rip through my remaining decades with a vengeance unknown to mortal man.

A part of me wants to wait for the next thunderstorm, run to the top of the nearest hill and bare my chest to the heavens and scream for God to take his best shot. He loves it when I do that. God has a great sense of humour.

And part of me just smiles and knows that there is an indigo sky, just as the sun disappears, and it has all the answers a man with a keen sense of his mortality and the insights that experience has blessed him with would ever need answer to.

the legacy poems

The legacy poems. From time to time that phrase, uttered by an interviewer a few years ago, comes back to me, just to remind me that after I am dead and gone and the ashes scattered and the paths I walked on overgrown or paved over, there will be something left of me.

And the question is "What?". Which of my works will be remembered? I wish I could say with some clarity which, but I have a few senses of this and what my legacy will be.

"The Panther Cycles" will be remembered, but like so many largish literary endeavours, it will be remembered as a whole and not for any one element. Indeed, I think it will become an abstraction in time, with those who know of it willing to debate whether I was wise or right in my feelings, my acting on those feelings and my writing of those feelings.

"glass roses", the poem. It will be remembered. It will be something spoken with a vague mysticism by those unfamiliar with its origins. And this is fine with me.

"The Unicorns". Perhaps a perfect work. Definitely something, as it has not only the integrity of the art form, but it has a resonance for everyone on the verge of, or just past the point of, the great leap from innocence to discovery.

"The Philosophy of Dreams". If I hadn't written it I would say "Damn, I wish I'd written that"...just too much a living thing on its own. It has a life, a soul, like I did not fashion it of word and whim, but it came through me from another place and time. Perhaps it did.

"The Patchwork Skirt of My Love". I have been attacked as an obscurantist for this one, but anyone who knows what passed between the hearts in this frame knows it was not a thing of pavement and Pontiacs, but brandywine and bare legs and fantastic times and places. Were that it had passed in more than hearts.

"Sacred Smile" will be remembered. A long time ago when I realized a woman I was with was not in love with me I was very sad, then she pointed out that it was my feelings that validated my actions, not hers. She was wise, in that way. So, even thought his piece was offering to another pretender, it is still earnest from my heart.

"Equinox" is a poem I get a lot of attention for, even though at the time it was more of a clearing of the mental throat than an attempt to make anything large and living. I think it, too, shall be among the living when I am dead.

"Bare feet on a wooden floor". Damn you, Kristina, for giving me that vision. You spoiled me. And, as this final piece of "The Goldenheart Cycles" has found its audience and pleased them, I am trapped to revisit that vision regularly.

"I rained poetry" is imperfect, no doubt. But it is the breath of me that will be left int he wind when I am gone. It expresses so perfectly my passions. Perhaps I should like my tombstone to read

William F. DeVault
I rained poetry

Yes, that would be nice. Anyone else have any suggestions? Poems that you think will still be read after I am dust?

to do list...

Time to go beyond a healthy discipline with myself. I see I have been backsliding in many areas...

Not to excuse this, but to explain, my life has been something of a jumble, but that happens periodically with me. Okay, regularly. Okay, constantly, for about the last half-dozen years. But that's all I will admit to.

So, I am drawing a line in my sand and setting certain personal goals I must accomplish before I take my vacation this December:

1) Wrap up the PSALMS OF THE MONSTER RIVER CULT final edit with Dan McTaggart.

2) One more book of poetry, title and theme to be determined.

3) Finish a novel. Not reading it, schmuck, I can do that in an afternoon...I mean finish writing on one of the draft books I have started.

4) See about bringing in some professional help on a website redesign. I have a lot of good ideas, just no time for it.

5) Clean out my social networking sites. Seriously, dump the deadwood.

6) Look into hiring a fracking agent.

And this list doesn't even start to address the real-world issues. Yikes!

Wednesday , more or less

Well, I survived the anonymous bashing I took yesterday on FaceBook...ego more or less intact (I realize it was likely either someone with a real grudge or someone who thought they were being funny, but I have never gotten completely bulletproof to the cruelty of criticism...nor do I ever want to be).

Tomorrow is my brithday. No, no parties, please...I am going out to dinner with a friend tonight and celebrating quietly (unless someone has plans I am unaware of) tomorrow. Aside from a winning lottery ticket and a real successor to the lineage of muses, there is not much I need in this life.

I am content.

Word on Grandma is that she has a broken hip, we'll know more later today.

Define Me on FaceBook

Well, nothing like a good, rousing slap in the face early in the morning.

Having started hanging out on FaceBook of late, I have been indulging in the applications one can add...and was invited by one of my "friends" (a variable notion, as some I barely know) to use one entitled "Define Me", I decided to try it out.

I haven't used it yet, but this morning I had my first "hit"...my first list of words that "define me" posted to my application, given to me by one of my friend with the same application...and they were.

pitiful
self-indulgent
egostistical
blowhard
loser

Why would anyone want to be my friend if this s their definition of me? No idea. But, it must be interesting to despise someone so much and still want them as a friend...I can't imagine havin such a low opinion of someone and still wanting them in my sphere, except as a demonstration of my charity?

I'm not wounded, I believe that of my friends list there are only three or four who actually know me well enough to express an informed opinion of me, and none of those, I believe, are that hypocritical, even on a bad day. And only knowing one or two of my contacts as having the application, it does narrow the list of suspects, I suspect. Sigh.

Well, at least they didn't call me a bad poet.

Ooops...a short while after I posted this, they went back and added "talentless" and "hack" to the list.

The sad thing is, I figured out who it is.

Grandma

If you look up the word 'tough' in the dictionary, you get a picture of my maternal grandmother, Glada. She's 95 years old and has lived a hard, hard life, many of those years as the domestic for an extremely wealthy family in Morgantown, West Virginia (for whom a local hospital is named) while living in pretty abject poverty.

I just got word from my Mom that Grandma is going in for tests, she's having some health concerns and the doctors are going to make a determination about whether or not it is reasonable for her to continue to live alone, something that she insists on doing.

Please include her health and peace of mind in your thoughts and prayers today. She may be tough and occasionally contrary, but I love her, very much.

wither California?

I put out word the other day that I am thinking of making an escape to California later this year...not to stay but as a vacation (with maybe some readings mixed in).

Then it occurred to me that I am not honor-bound to the beloved Golden State. If the stars are not aligned right and there is not some sense of a welcome (for instance, if no friends or family seem delighted by my potential appearance and make no offer to me for crash space, etc), then I will throw the whole net wide and see what other regions of the country where I have friends, family and, yes, fanbase, that may be more welcoming.

Yes, LA and Venice Beach and Salinas are homes to me in many manners, but so can New Orleans, Mobile, Austin, Birmingham, Atlanta, Tampa, Houston, Denver, South Carolina, Boston, New York, Sault Ste. Marie and many other areas lure me with little effort.

Let's see what happens...

Cynicism versus strategic thinking

Complexity. Yeah. It's all over the place, obscuring reality and making a muck of things. Everytime you think you've gotten ahead of the curve, the world curves around and you're acting out scenes from "Alice Through the Looking Glass", as produced by Tim Burton.

A friend in trouble called last night, expectng the genii to fix her universe with a wave of his hand. Wish I could. But people need to accept the fact that despite my good intentions, I cannot fix all of their mistakes for them. I've tried that for people. It went well, briefly, then went into the ground, to paraphrase the great Billy Connolly, "like a dart".

I still have a miracle or two up my sleeve, but I have to be very, very careful not to waste "the magic", not only on someone unable to truly benefit in the long term from it, but in a situation where it is a "grounded result". Some things, you fix them and they are fixed, grounding out the energy. Somethings you fix and the impact of the resolution creates a cascade effect where there is actually more that comes out of the situation than went into it.

If it seems I am holding back, unwilling to aid those in need as much as I once was, it is not a knee-jerk response to liars, manipulators, ingrates and lost causes (although they all can give you pause). It is a desire to have the maximum effect.

Like the sentient bomb in "Dark Star" comes to realize...I can only "explode" perhaps once more, it would be a shame to waste it.

The Podcast is Up!

The podcast is up.

Phew.

Radio City of Legends is where you will find it.

Or you can access it at Apple's iTunes Music Store.

Enjoi!

August 12, 2007

The new podcast will be up later today.

Phew. It has been a grinding, brutal task getting it assembled. And I am still not 100% happy with it, but I am admitting that it is rare for me to feel that way about my works.

By the way, I would be a total rat bastard if I did not today acknowledge the birthday of Psyche (Nancy), the first of the greater totem-muses and inspiration behind such works as "The Unicorns", "Monument", "My Electric Lady" and "Nevermore My Steel". My best wishes to the woman who asked me to give up "this poetry stuff". I still love you, as much as ever, but I knew, in that moment, you were not for me. Nor I for you. My life would have been easier, simpler and far more steady had I stayed with you, but I have lived enough lies.

Anyway, back to the podcast...five poems, musically scored by the infamous "Gods of Love". The poems are:

Soft as Dawn
Vodka and Condoms
Open, You to Me
Blood/Lust
and
You Could Not Say the Words

A pretty damn good collection, and interesting as a composition, joined. I'll post the link, later.

saturday mourning

priests may damn me
poets will slam me
and all along the crack'd road
I will dance a strange diversion
few will reach me
all will teach me
and all along the crack'd road
I will dance a strange diversion
a purpose crossed
a faith I'd lost
and all along the crack'd road
I will dance a strange diversion
memories made
by eyes now grayed
and all along the crack'd road
I will dance a strange diversion


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Still Strange, Still Beautiful

And in a not-unrelated move to extend my dominion over the known universe...



I have started moving some of my more popular recordings to GarageBand records...

this is for "Strange, but Beautiful"

Facebook and images

People criticize my blog all the time for its lack of pictures. That's fine with me, I'm about the words, not the picture. The right word is worth ten thousand poorly chosen images.

I have been having fun on FaceBook:



Join me.

(By the way, if you have Javascript, you should see pictures)

the search for the final muse

Thus the experiment ends, with not a bang or a whimper, in any sense.

I pulled out of the online dating services I was on, having satisfied myself that I was wasting my time trying to read between the lines of evasively crafted profiles that brought to mind Ransom's description of the cold wombs in THAT HIDEOUS STRENGTH.

I like flesh and blood, and I have been attracted to, and drawn to me, in the past, people who would have never garnered a second look from me, or I from them, if we were just looking at a snapshot, a blurb and some stats.

I'll leave my profiles up, for future generations to find, but resolve myself to getting out there more often, looking for the final muse. I already have one extraordinary candidate, and others who, in the fullness of time, might exceed her if she is unwilling or unable to find what she wants in my sphere.

And I didn't pay $29.95 to meet any of them.

to the dark maiden of sorrows

She knows who she is, the rest of you? Just enjoy.


you are dark,
an ebon ribbon
that has twined about my soul.
you are black,
an burning chestwound
playing passion in control
of memory,
both remembered
and dreamt in troubling sleep
where the dreams are moist, electric,
and in shadows brittly creep.

you are light,
yet undiscovered
in your incandescent prayers.
you are flame
that licks the tapers
casting light in devils' lairs.


William F. Devault. all rights reserved.

out amidst the technewbies

Yes, that is me on Facebook, and on LiveJournal.

Yadda, Yadda, Yadda.

If you want to ask me to be your friend on either, I won't reject you, unless you are a total, raging idiot and tick me off.

Running a little faster than full speed

A lot of little things happened yesterday:

Wrote. Some pretty good, lean, mean stuff.

Heard from my friend Scott, recently back from China for a few weeks. He's going back in a few (he teaches there)...unfortunately it looks like I will not have the time to get together with him, but good to know he's doing okay.

Spent some quality time with Jazz on the phone, helping her get her new Mac laptop working to her tastes. She asked if it is supposed to get that hot against her bare thighs. I told her that it was just showing remarkable good taste. I know I would get hot against her bare thighs. Sigh.

Worked with my son Elric on his latest fascination: Developing new races for Dungeons and Dragons. He had some interesting ideas. I showed him a technique for building from the raw, rather than just reassembling pieces of other creatures.

This on top of a ten hour + day in the office and various other pressures. The novel progesses, the podcast nears completion...but I need to step back for a day or two then listen to it to see what it is like from the outside, I am too close to it now.

Closed down my entry with one online dating service, switched to another...let's see if this one produces more than extremely fussy and occasionally rude people, shall we?

The visit home

It went well, got to see my Dad, my Mom, my brother Robert and my Grandmother (God love her, she's in her mid-nineties and still sharper than anyone in the Bush Administration).

Went to a wedding, drove a pretty girl home to out in the boondocks, got a couple of new tires for my car (the prices are so much different that it bascially paid for the gas for the trip to get the tires there instead of suburban DC).

I drove 532 miles, all told. In 32 hours, and squeezed all the aforementioned items in...a reasonably productive time.

a very strange interview

I am on hiatus, but I am not dead.

With permission, I'd like to post a little game the poet and I played a while back. He rolled a die and based on that die answered a question per roll about the muse it indicated. He was not to reveal to me or to you which muse was being answered on which question. It was fun.

I grouped the questions and answers by the roll he received, as, for instance, all questions on a die roll of "1" would be for the same totem muse. No muse got more than three questions.

Die roll (1).

If this muse had turned out to be a man having had sex-change surgery, would you still have felt the same? Answer: Probably.

Is your biggest regret with this muse that things went too far or not far enough? Answer: Not far enough.

Die roll (2).

Better in your bed or in your head? Answer: better in bed.

Do you still communicate with this muse? Answer: I would if I knew where she was.

Did she write, and if so, how good was she? Answer: She wrote a little and it wasn't bad.

Die roll (3):

Would you kiss her if you saw her? Answer: No.

Die roll (4):

Did the totem you use for this muse take any real thought on your part? Answer: Yes, she was hard to label, to pin down to a single identity.

If you were still with her today, would you consider that a triumph? Answer: Absolutely.

Die roll (5):

How was she as a kisser? Answer: She didn't like to kiss.

How many poems did you write about her? Answer: Dozens, but not hundreds (hint).

If you and her had a daughter, and the mother died in childbirth, what would you name the girl? Answer: Katherine Angeline

Die roll (6):

Will this muse be remembered a hundred years from now? Answer: If I am remembered, she will be remembered.

If she knocked on your door tonight and asked to come in, would you invite her in? Answer: Without hesitation.

We can guess who some of these are or aren't...but I liked the mystery of this format.

Well, I am off to find some ice. Be well, see you all down the road.

EJ

with a click of the mouse

My past moves to intersect with my present, and not in an unpleasant manner.

My future is vague, but I am resolute.

I had a nice talk with my daughter yesterday. Damn, I miss her.

Ran across the woman who should have been my second wife (who? you'd never guess, the answer is not that obvious) but external forces, including a blonde with an agenda, intervened (and why do I insist upon spelling "blonde" with an "e" while my spell checker argues me?). My life would have taken a massively, and most likely more stable, path had I built upon our relationship in Los Angeles.

Final recording session for the big podcast, I hope, tonight. We shall see. I may have a surprise or two waiting for you.

Circle-of-friends housecleaning time.

And I like my new Virginia license plates...easy to remember as they beg a mnemonic that invokes Psyche.

You Could Not Say the Words

I would ask E.J. to post this on his website, but he's on hiatus.

For those of you unfamiliar with this work, it is a remnant from my affair with the poet Karla Frances Sasser (and she lets me refer to her by name, she seems actually proud of our little hormone storm), who is referred to in my muses as "The Mad Gypsy". Hard to explain.

Anyway, while prepping for the psycho podcast that is overdue and killing me, she requested this poem for the entry about her. I could never refuse her anything (she actually was one of the people who pressed me into my second marriage, I sometimes say I only did it because she asked me to). It is an odd and very honest work, about how she could not bring herself to say "I love you" during our time together, as the emotional intensity was tearing her apart (I am not known for drawing-room affairs, more like spiritual cyclones that destroy small islands, end civilizations and overturn all but the hardiest and best handled of craft).

She loves to hear me read this, particularly with "that voice". How could I refuse her?

You Could Not Say the Words

you could not say the words
when the time came,
fear holding back the wet step
across a Rubicon I had already forded,
sliding into you as sacrament.

you writhed and sighed and tensed
with every motion made and splayed
wide your form to swallow whole
my every exploration of all
but your soul, kept inviolate from me.

and so, I fed on your warm flesh
and willing, eager, enthusiasm.
feeling legs entwine and the wine
spilling from you as though uncorked
from a vintage of jasmine and blood.

you could not say the words
but spoke with hungry eloquence
as merging lovers, unlabeled in your heart,
but springing well your Venus flytrap
on one who came to hear them.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Early Sunday

I've been up for the last hour or so...when my mind catches gear I am stuck with wakefulness.

I am visiting in Morgantown, and last night my Mon's dog climbed into bed with me. I had to laugh. Wrong Sarah. (Inside joke in case E.J. is reading this)

So much to do today, including a 200 mile trip back to Virginia. I am just trying to keep everything in order.

An interesting poetric fragment struck me last night...I jotted it down. We shall see what comes of it.

speaking with the whispers

The "wedding" was pleasant, and I got to see a great many people I had not seen in months, many of whom I could tell what they really thought of me by the way they avoided engaging me, or engaged me with great vigor and enthusiasm. Hypocrites need not apply.

Afterwards I took a former student of mine home, stopping for dinner. I had always found her rather attractive, and she has put out some signals to the notion that she would not find an overture immediately dismissable. We talked, we joked, we flirted, she complained about her life situation, and it occurred to me I am not something she is running towards, but a place she is running away from other things to. Deja vu. I have been the janitor of the human condition before, too often.

I have sometimes wondered if I have ever had an authentic relationship. I would like to think I have.

In the midst of it all my own line ricochetted around inside my heard: "I will take no pretender, again, to my bed"

Damn good line, from the poem "In the Memory of Lovers". Sorry, guys (and gals)...I've played with that kindling before. It will take something authentic to take me there, something I have not had in my life in some time (in retrospect, the last time it was real was probably sometime in 1997, if then, and I am ashamed I have allowed myself to be so easily fooled).

I can talk myself into almost anything, superimposing my whim and wish on top of a tabla rasa or near to it. Summoning virtues to laud that are lacking or absent. Alllowing myself to be lead by my hormones or my loneliness into places my heart rebels against. No wonder my soul is in fragments, my mirrors cracked and cryptic as they bounce a light of indeterminate source onto the floor of an unfamiliar room.

dating profile critique

Well, I received a profile critique from a woman on the online dating service I joined.

She explained that my main picture and my secondary pictures didn't look so much alike (I used my dust jacket picture for the backups, as that would evidence I am not just someone pretending to be me)...she said I looked macabre. I wasn't offended. The fact that in a photo studio, asked to look dark and mysterious, I look a bit different than when I am smiling with my family for holiday snapshots, no issue.

She also critiqued my physical condition and the fact that if I was out being more active (she is an active outdoorswoman) I would get in shape and meet women interested in me.

Such is life.

Saturday and the roads are open

Well, I am off in about a half hour, to the wilds of West Virginia. If you hear no more from me, oh well...it will add to my cachet as an artist.

Some good material last night...the brain, she is a 'hummin.

under scrutiny

It's a bit unsettling, having my blog appearing on the front page of the DeVault family network, courtesy of my baby brother Mark (he of the mighty Mountaineer stats).

I recall vividly how I have been criticized, more than once, for saying something that might offend the more delicate sensibilities of some family members (or the scandal when my second wife, Ann, had her modeling website, complete with swimsuit photos from a gig at BerryDog, linked to my website).

Of course, what could be even more interesting is when people comment on my blog...as some, like the J/K alliance, are not prone to hold their tongues (well, at least not in that manner!) when someone might be offended.

But, it was not my decision to put my blog front and center, so I'll just wait for the first controversy, and see what proceeds from there.

weekend plans

Projects for the weekend:

See my parents (My Dad just turned 84 this week).
See my Grandmother (She turns 95 next month).
Look up at least ten old friends (easy enough, I am going to a wedding).
Write something as good as "Equinox" (for Fro).
Throw out "Mather's Milk" and start a new novel.
Finish recording the podcast.
Drive at least 500 miles.
Surprise someone, in a nice way.
Add ten people to my livejournal friends, Good Reads friends, Google newsletter list and LinkedIn network.
Eat something I've never eaten before.
Continue the quest.
New shoes.

Friday and the DeVault ning

It's Friday of a curious week. We shall see what the wekeend brings. I am scheduled to travel to Morgantown to visit with family, see a few friends and attend a wedding.

We shall see if that snaps the mood, no?

My brother, Mark, has put up a family network at ning.com ...I would recommend looking at ning for establishing your own social network site...I am considering it for a few possible aspects.

Take care...back later.

Hello, Fro

Yes, I am real. And are those your real lips?

Loosening my soul

It's early. I've already walked the dog, checked my emails and now, with my headphones cranked up to "11" I am allowing my eardrums to be pounded into insensate death by Savage Garden's "I Want You" (sometimes thought of as "Chica Cherry Cola" for the hook that did not make it to the title).

Music helps get me wired in the morning (without a lover, it is sometimes difficult to motivate first thing, with a lover beside me, getting me going is not a problem...)

I'm going in to Morgantown this weekend, to see the family and attend a wedding of a couple of friends from when I worked at Teletech. Okay, yes, there is also a woman involved, but you didn't hear that from me.

Still taking perspective shifts to the podcast. I guess I built this one up too much in my own mind, I am obsessed with making it "right"...which may be impossible, knowing me when I am in this mood.

Time will tell...maybe the road trip will loosen my soul.

reverse matching and a glorybox

Would somebody be so kind to get Portishead's "Glory Box" out of my head? It is stuck there and aside from the usual annoyance with any music wedged between the folds of my cerebrum, it also is Ann's and my old song, so it is doubly aggravating.

Had a cute experience earlier today. I have made no secret of the fact that I am currently working with an online dating service.

Well, the other day I sent out greetings to a few select women, based not on my preferences...but on theirs', using "Reverse Matching".

All have responded "I am sorry, we're not a good match".

So either the system doesn't work...or they lied about what they want.

Sigh.

the world of poetry readers

Checking out my statistics as to where visitors to my blog and website came from in the past week or so...some interesting numbers.

More than 60% of my readers come from the United States...no real surprise there.

But #2 was the UK...that is unusual, as I normally get substantially more hits from Australia than the UK.

Third up was Canada. They're usually in the top five.

Followed by India, which usually makes the top five, as well. There have been months they have given the US a run for the dominance.

The fifth most visiting country was The Philippines, which is unique in my experience, but not unwelcome.

Sixth was a tie, yes, a tie, between Australia and Ireland (God love those Dundalk schoolgirls). Eighth was South Africa, dogged closely by Malaysia (another unusual presence in the top ten).

And finally we have France at #10, narrowly beating out New Zealand, Switzerland, Israel and Bangladesh.

I could give the full breakdowns on the dozens of countries represented, but it's all just statistics.

Welcome to all my new readers from around the world.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Happy Birthday to my father, William Dennis DeVault, who is 84 years old today (doesn't look or act a day over 64).

Much love and hope for many more good years of health and happiness.