City of Legends

There’s a scene in my favourite movie, "All That Jazz", where Joe Gideon’s ex-wife challenges him to give the name of "that girl in Philadelphia" to illustrate how anonymous and meaningless his philandering has been.  Joe steps up to the challenge and brashly declares that he remembers her name because she meant something to him…her name was "Sweetheart".

"No," his ex ruefully points out to him.  He repeatedly guesses, but all his guesses are just pet names like "baby".

He then goes out, muttering to himself, and choreographs arguably his most brilliant and self-revealing work, ever, "Air-rotica", for his upcoming Broadway show.  Even his ex has to admit that, while it won’t go over well with critics, it’s his best work ever.

Genius, it seems, is fueled by our flaws, not our perfections.  God made woman because, with man, he didn’t get it right on the rough draft.  My best work comes out of the flaws and imperfections of my own life.  I have been accused of being an optimist and one who tries to make the best of things.  Wow, that’s a pretty nasty thing to say about someone, isn’t it?

This in no way excuses us our arrogances, flaws, weaknesses and vices.  I will put my list of vices (actual ones, not rumoured) against most and I am not a monster.  Flawed, yes.  Perhaps the victim of my own sense of romanticism, certainly.  But I am not a drug smuggler, child-molester, drunk driver, killer, thief or torturer of animals.  Not saying this pridefully, because my flaws and sins run deep enough to make sure I am acutely aware of my own failings.  As I said in one writing "An honest man cannot be the hero of his own memoir".  I penned those words after beginning on my memoir and suffering an epiphany that no one is a hero, except in moments rare and focused by our own perceptions and those of others.

Early today an old female friend (okay, she’s not THAT old, but I have known her for nearly a decade) dared me to write something in a poetic sense that was truly erotic and mind-shattering.  I obliged.  She is not someone who has any romantic interest in me, although I rather fancy her, but rather keeps me around for the same reason a cat keeps a catnip mouse…there are times when I am fun to play with, even if I am not the real thing.

Last I heard from her after she read the poem, entitled "sexorcism", was a short note that read:

"w o w

(speechless)"

I hope that’s a good speechless.  I hope.  I am not above a certain level of glee knowing how many people have had fantasies built upon or within my works.  There is enough of the rogue I am reputed to be by some that I do take subtle delight in knowing there are women who think of my words when they kiss (or otherwise engage) their boyfriends and husbands.  And, I know, there are enough husbands and boyfriends who would like to get a rope, get a tree and hang a poet for National Poetry Month ("modern love was invented by the minstrels in dark ages when they used to hunt them down from town to town" said Tom Cochrane) for this notion.

I almost laughed the other day when someone gave their analysis of the plotline of "Dr. Zhivago" as "a Russian doctor who can’t keep it zipped runs off and leaves his wife".  We focus on what is key to us, what drives us.  I see the same novel and film as a story of a poet trapped by circumstance and the fates and finding his small comfort in the arms of a woman who is also battered by forces beyond her power to control.  We see what we wish to see. 

Anyway, I do not know if there is a point to be made beyond that I am not asking everyone look at the world through my eyes, as it would be a damn dull world without forces against me.  If I was truly free to speak the truths I know, earnestly and without harm to the reputations and fortunes of others, and would be believed in the telling of these things, I think I would be a different figure in some people’s eyes and hearts.  Flawed, certainly, but not as malicious as you might imagine.

Maybe I need to include that poem in the new book…

I was sifting through the works I have been composing over the last few weeks. There’s a lot, a lot. An interesting melange of anger and fear and lust and love and pain and joy and hope and despair and the human condition. Some fairly well writ material, I am pleased to say. We’re creeping up towards 17,000 works in the catalog now. That is almost the equivalent of having written a poem a day, every day, since I was five years old.

Can I quit now?

No.

Poetry never deserts you, lies to you, betrays you. It never says one thing but does another. Poetry speaks the truth, without regard for agenda. I think of the scene in All That Jazz when Victoria Porter is up in Joe Gideon’s apartment and she asks him if he thinks she has what it takes to be a star. He clenches his fists because he can’t lie to her about THAT, and tells her no, realizing at the same time it probably will derail his whole seduction strategy.

She rationalizes it away and sleeps with him anyway. But he was willing to not sleep with her, in order to keep his integrity in the moment.

I’ve never lied to a protege, no matter how pretty or willing, and told her she was good when I knew she wasn’t. I have been fortunate enough to be involved with some remarkable writers. People with the power to shine like the sun and roar like the thunder. That few have lived up to the potential I have seen in them is no insult to or indictment of them or me, some choose a different path. I don’t think a barber or an office worker or an ice cream salesman is less than me, just different. There are days I would gladly trade my place in this life for theirs. Gladly surrender. Trade it all for one honest kiss.

Trust me. I believe in surrender, I just can’t find anyone to surrender to. I have tried, really tried. At least a few times. But I keep hearing that "I know what I said and I know what it sounded like, but it was said in the moment and I had my fingers crossed anyway and…" speech that tells me that poetry is still my only earnest mistress and master.

I am anxious to see more of the TVC2008 entries, anxious to see more of what people see in their heads when they hear my words. I am coming to pieces trying to finish the Evangelist CD. In part, because there are a half-dozen unfinished tracks I cannot complete for various reasons, either AWOL collaborators (Kitabu) or production delays (Aubergine) or a sense of incompleteness (gotterdamerung). This may be my last CD for a while and I want it right.

I hate shutting down peacat, especially with at least two external authors in line to publish through it, but I see no moral or ethical alternative. I am trying to feel my way through a complex labyrinth, but I am making headway.

Henry Plantagenet was right. But I am not quitting. Not on poetry. Not on life. Not on love. I can’t let the disease of other peoples’ complexities hobble me, taint me and take from me that which I require to do what I am required to do.

So, buckle in, people. And get ready for some Crazy Ivan turns that will reap the whirlwind. Daddy’s home.

I don’t know why I "get" Warren Zevon, but I do and always have.  The late, twisted composer of some of the most truly bizarre rock songs in history always speaks to me.  From Werewolves of London to Lawyers, Guns and Money, the Z has a special place in my heart and consciousness.

And one of his best songs, in terms of stirring me, is Mohammed’s Radio…a song that has passed into the distance in no small part because of Western paranoia over Moslem extremism.  Well, Jihad them if they can’t take a joke.

I downloaded both Linda Ronstadt’s brilliant cover of it this evening from iTunes, as well as the Z’s live rendition.  And they strangely calmed me.  I think Warren Zevon’s self-destructive cycle speaks to me like Bob Fosse’s Joe Gideon avatar, played by Roy Scheider in All That Jazz.  I think people expect creative artists to be a bit unbalanced.  Sorry, folks, move along…nothing to see here except when the peacock is in bloom.  Aside from a tendency to blunder into really, really drama-laden relationships, I’m as boring as life gets.

I’m lucky.  I am in good health.  I still command a decent price in the marketplace.   I have three beautiful, healthy children and friends who would have my back if Hell came for me.  I tend to lone wolf it a bit too much, am somewhat gullible and take horrific risks when someone calls for Superman, but that’s not as bad as some traits I could have, I guess. 

I have decided that when I do my interview with Barbara Holmes later this month to give her a listen to the full package of the CD Evangelist, so she can write her impressions.  After her and the gentleman who has already asked to interview me for his online zine, I’m packing it in for interviews.  Everything I have worth saying I’ll say in my poetry and songs. 

Jan Innes once said I don’t write poetry, I live it.  Might as well take it all the way, you know?  This world of mumbling mediocrity needs a little more elegance and eloquence, and maybe I can’t save the world, but I can inspire one or two more voices downrange…you never know.  Too many people wrapped up in their self deceit and self-defeat.  The violence and venom of this world are not the disease, they are the symptoms. 

We are the disease. 

We need to learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all (as Warren Zevon did, when the pain of life wasn’t killing him by driving him to excess).   Judge me for who and what I am and have done, but my poetry has never lied to me, ripped me off or tried to do anything other than make life a little lighter, brighter, clearer and dearer for me and for others.

That’s the message, coming into focus, I plan to take on the road.

Guess what just came on my iTunes?  Requiem For Soprano, Mezzo Soprano, Two Mixed Choirs & Orchestra.  From 2001:  A Space Odyssey.  The sound of the monolith.

Spooky.

A recent note from someone let me know that there had been, once again, an identity issue surrounding me.

Let me clarify who I am (best Christopher Lambert impression, from "Highlander"):

I am William Francis DeVault. I am a poet. I have many sobriquets, but since I gave up on pseudonyms in the 1970’s, just one name. My monogram is "WFDV" and my family motto translates to "Humble only before God".

I am regarded by many as the "Romantic Poet of the Internet", a title originally given to me by Yahoo, in the mid-1990’s. Some consider me one of the fathers of the "Digital Renaissance". I have even been regarded as a possible reincarnation of a Holy Man, a notion I disregard and reject. I am me.

I have written thousands of poems, published several books, been in many publications, toured and presented my works from coast to coast in the United States, and known the love of some truly remarkable friends and lovers along this strange road.

I currently hang my ponytail in Morgantown, West Virginia, where I work as a trainer and coach for TeleTech and also moonlight as a teacher with Monongalia County’s Technical Education Center.

I used to write a comedy column for AOL’s Writers Club and used to write film reviews for AOL’s Roadside, USA hub. My favourite movie, all time, remains Bob Fosse’s "All That Jazz".

I am also called "The Amomancer", as one who "casts spells with words of love". It comes from the word "Amote", which I coined as both a contraction of the Latin for "I love you" and as meaning "To speak of love".

I have three wonderful children, all by my first wife: Perelandra (Peri), Elric and Dante. I have married and divorced, twice.

I host the podcast show "From Out of the City".

I graduated from Morgantown High School, in Morgantown, West Virginia, in 1973…a school that has never invited me to speak before even a single English class. I briefly enrolled at West Virginia University. I suppose attending classes would have helped, but I was off, in my own sphere, writing all the time.

I’ve survived gangrene and pneumonia, both in my younger days. At one of my last physicals, the doctor told me it would take kryptonite to kill me, but that I’d look better if I lost some weight. I have dropped almost 50 pounds since then.

Thanks in part to my relationships with psychologists and psychology students, I have taken just about every psychological test there is, and I know the results. Neurotic, bright and mercurial. I achieve emotional satisfaction from gratification of my very strong sex drive. In the absence of sex, I eat. I am conquering this as we speak, and to that I attribute this incredible run of productivity over the last three years. I have learned to sublimate to editing and writing and recording and painting and engineering and composing.

I am shy with women, my poetry being where the romantic can express himself.

But I am not psychotic and not pathological. Most lies I have told in this life (a bad habit for any cause) were told at the behest of others to cover their sins, not my own. I know my demons, I converse with them, and I keep them under an iron fist, but I keep them. I have sworn to fulfill the "Nosferatu’s Dream"…that if I ever see myself turn evil, I will destroy myself. I don’t hide from those who seek me, I don’t charge for good acts, I believe that any person who gets rich off of spiritually by making others pay to find their paths is a charlatan and a fraud. All truths are to be freely given, as is all love. Love = truth.

My favourite person is my father.

Perhaps the most famour quotations from me are: "A quote is just a tattoo on the tongue" and "The existence of a single atheist does not disprove the existence of God".

I am overly generous, sometimes taken advantage of for that. I have been an ennabler. I do recall the middle name of every woman I have ever been with. I am a natural flirt, something my daughter pointed out to me years ago, and I like bright, articulate, beautiful women. Despite my failings in my first marriage and some rather aggressive temptations, I did not cheat in my second marriage. I still haven’t taken a lover since then.

I was once given a tryout at Marvel Comics at the behest of Stan Lee. I didn’t make it.

I hosted the Mississippi Gathering of Poets in Bay St. Louis, three years ago. I headlined with the Southern Poets Reading Tour, twice, in 1997. I am featured in the Appalachian Education Initiative’s "Art & Soul" volume, celebrating arts education by honoring 50 "outstanding creative artists" from West Virginia. I was a featured in the Edinburgh International Internet Festival of the Arts. I have read in schools, churches, bars, coffee houses clubs and colleges across the United States.

I hosted the Writers Club Party at the Algonquin Hotel in New York City in September of 1995.

I have lived in South Carolina, Alaska, Washington, Colorado, Michigan, West Virginia, North Dakota, California, Maryland, Mississippi and Virginia. I have been homeless.

I have a tattoo. It is of a lion, on my right shoulder, mtching the lioness on my second ex-wife’s shoulder, as she requested. Duh.

I used to teach "Youth Alternatives to Violence" for Monterey County Probation in California and was the county coordinator for Monterey County for the California Friday Night LIve Partnership’s FNL program for young people. I was the Alcohol and Drug Resource Specialist for Harden Middle School in Salinas, California.

I have never eaten a live hamster. I love chicken livers. I do not like broccoli.

That is a picture, from 1974, of me on the cover of my book "The Morgantown Suite Poems". Those are pictures of my second wife on the cover of "from an unexpected corner" and "Love Gods of a Forgotten Religion".

A mystic once predicted that I would die a violent death. If so, I hope it is for a purpose and not just as a random target of random violence. I do not attend funerals, as I find them barbaric. Celebrate life, not death. Jesus said "Let the dead bury the dead".

I designed the cover of Daniel S. McTaggart’s book "Midnight Muse in a Convenience Store". I sometimes, in my spare time, edit books and design covers for other authors.

I don’t drink or do drugs, never have, never will. I believe sleeping with a person under the influence is rape.

I have made, in the past, a healthy salary as a manager of software development teams, a proposal writer and manager, and as a consultancy director.

I am an ordained minister. I have been admitted into both the Southern Baptist church and the Episcopal Church, but I count myself a Quaker (Society of Friends).

I prefer Macs to Windows platforms. My drink of choice is Diet Dr. Pepper, which is unfortunate as I do believe Splenda to be a much safer choice for artificial sweetener. I tend to wear black because it simplifies my life, I have bad taste in colour coordination. I love jasmine tea, as to me it tastes like a woman.

And, until proven otherwise, I am immortal.

At least spiritually and literally. Check in with me in 500 years to see how the physical side goes.