City of Legends / William F. DeVault

Made a commitment to myself this morning, based on how much energy I seem to have (too much, actually, which can be annoying).  I promise you, dear readers, to have the most manic weekend of my online life (that’s a pretty damn high bar if you know my last 15 years online).

Watch here, on Twitter, at blip.fm, the Amomancer blog, Facebook, and everywhere else I manifest…we are going for a ride.

Strap in.  (yes, in.  No, I said in…why must you always read something dirty into everything I say?)

The week started unusual.  Someone from my past re-emerged.  A good someone.  Not a footnote someone, a chapter (or two) person.  Red hair.  Very tall.  Great kisser.  I digress.

Received an invite from an old friend to go to the Springsteen concert.  Decided not to.  I love the Boss, and all, but the timing was wrong and, dunno, just not what struck me in the moment.  I am, however, planning to take my sons to an Aerosmith & ZZ Top concert this summer.  They have never been to a concert.  They’re to be 16 in July.  This will be interesting.

Got a reverse query today from a small, small, small press editor.  Wants to do a volume of just my Goldenheart cycles.  Intriguing, but I have to think about it.  I want to hear his vision. 

Leapt a few cliffs in the last few hours.  Getting the power, the adrenaline, back.  The testosterone follows.  Wrote like a hurricane the other morning…loaded about ten poems onto the Amomancer blog, with future dates so they’ll automatically pop over the next week and a half without my having to remember to feed the readers.

Strange dream last night.  Okay, not strange.  Nice to know I still get dreams like that.

An unusual week.

While the Amomancer blog is being hammered by the White Sunday works, I thought I’d bring a poem straight here.  It came off of reading through a massive folder I have that contains the emails, the letters (or epistles) between myself and a woman whom I shared a relationship with.  The words, I believe, were true in the frame she spoke them, my words, of course, remain true…but the truth is, all faiths fail…

thistling epistles

the barren boughs are what the casual observer
would see, in this tree, planted then recanted
like the meal you thought better of later.
the vines wend their way up the mighty trunk
to choke the life from it, each barb and brier
seeking to steal that which beauty would inspire
and bring down the living arms that reached to God
in gratitude for the Spring and the harvest
that never came. and were it not for the epistles
of the dreamers who once climbed in its embrace,
the beauty and the majesty of this tree would be lost.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

I have a half dozen tracks I am working on right now for my CD TRUTH, and think, maybe, I have stumbled and fallen into sunshine in my search for the showstopper number.

It is the recitation and musical adaptation of the poem "faith healer", which you can read over at the Amomancer blog by clocking on the title.

The poem has a complex history and weaves romanticism, eroticism and mysticism into a single piece, predicating the notion that intimacy can be a powerful healing force (which explains why I am, over the last few years, slowly falling apart. Ha!). It takes elements of my life and experience stretching back decades, and even contemporary (my history with women who are survivors of abuse plays into my sense of affection as an healing agent).

But, in any case, we shall see if it finishes as well as it seems to be. I need to do some added voice on it and my throat is still putting up a fight.

Those of you who frequent my Amomancer poetry blog have already noted the change to a flesh and red colour scheme in the last 24 hours. My idea, my design. Mine alone.

I am going for a conspiracy of one.

I have found that letting others do certain tasks for me is, in the long run, a zero-win proposition, as everyone stumbles and since it is unlikely that both shall stumble at the exact same moment, a partnership with anyone doubles the opportunity for issues.

I am going for a conspiracy of one.

This weekend I am going to try and fix some longstanding issues with this blog and a few of my social networking outlets, doing what I have to do to resolve, absolve and just plain solve the issues in the tissues.

I am going for a conspiracy of one.

By weekend’s end, I hope to have doubled the level, if not complete, the placement of all the soundfiles from my CDs on the williamfdevault.com site, expanded the art gallery there (including creating some specialized galleries of some special artists and models) and posted a new podcast.

I am going for a conspiracy of one.

That’s not to say that I am not going to work with key friends, lovers, peers and powers in the future, just that I have rediscovered the need to control a larger defined zone of interpretation of my work and person.

I am a conspiracy of one.

for what it is worth, for what there is…I have finished my exile.  Today, November 1st, I am back in this world. 

I apologize to you who worried needlessly, as to my health and safety.  I am fine, and strong and well.  I just needed a time to walk paths I would not normally, to breathe the ether.  I have filled my lungs with my native atmosphere and now dive back into the world through which I must swim.

Later today, early tomorrow, at latest, we will begin posting the new CD "truth" to williamfdevault.com

I am announcing that I have pivoted to reality and will be casting my vote for Barack Obama on Tuesday.  I still wish it was Hillary Clinton I was voting for, but the decision of the McCain campaign to select so odious a running mate as Sarah Palin has driven me to take action for the survival of my country and the freedoms we enjoy.

New book?  Sooner than you might expect.

To all of you who have regularly visited the Amomancer blog and kept it alive and well, I thank you.  Your devotion is touching.

I do need to clean up the feeds and referral/subscription subprocesses, they were vandalized in my absence.  Trust, like love, is just word until made manifest in action.  I live, I learn, I grow and evolve.  I am stronger and smarter than I was not so long ago.

Barbara, again thanks for the interview and the concern.  Mariya, for the inspiration.  Liza, for the understanding.  Jazz, the heat.  Sarah, the vision.  Robert, the trust.  Pam, the consistency and strength.  Elric and Dante, the clarifying joy.  Peri, for being my crucible lens.  And to God, for all these things, and all there is.

We still have, by all rational estimates, a few decades to do what is entrusted to us.  Time for dreams and the dreamers.

This will be my last posting on this blog, for a bit. I have some matters to attend to outside of the blogosphere.

My next post, barring a major life event that forces me back to the blog before then, or a major life event that disables or disposes of me, will be posted by noon, EST, November 1, 2008. Those of you who know me best, understand.

Be of good cheer. I will do my damndest to return,

Amomancer will continue, I have post-dated a stack of poems for the interim.

Later this week I will be activating yet more poetry/art integrated pages at my new site. www.williamfdevault.com, bringing dozens more of my classic and recent works to life and light with art and photography by talented creative artists from around the world.

One feature I am adding is special areas where I will be featuring clusters of my works interpreted with the help of a single artist or photographer, in many cases individuals who are already familiar to my readers.

The first two that will be activated are two amazing photographers who come at you from very different aspects:

Ukrainian graphic artist, photographer and model Mariya Andriychuk will have a featured gallery where a dozen of her photographs are used to interpret various works of mine.  Mariya is one of my friends who has helped to inspire the Fields of Arbol features on Amomancer.  Her photographs will adorn such works of mine as In the Arms of the Dragon.

Brazilian photographer, model and artist LiZa Lorraine will have a similar gallery, also with  dozen of her works.  LiZa has been a creative and inspiration contributor to several of my recent works, including the aforementioned Fields of Arbol.  Her talents will enhance such works of mine as Cithara Song, strummed lightly as the sun leaps the horizon.

Two more disparate artists would be hard to find.  LiZa’s work reflects an everyday elegance, the beauty of a smile, of well-turned ankles in ballet slippers.  Mariya’s is edgier, swinging from the blatantly erotic to the intensely, desperately spiritual.

I am very grateful to have these the first of several interpretive and creative artists featured on the new site.

It’s Sunday evening (here in the suburbs of Washington, DC). I have friends and loved ones spread across, at last count, 11 time zones. So, in a way, time is irrelevant. I keep telling my clients that, but they believe in deadlines. They should believe in live things, not dead things.

Sometimes people are just so slow to pick up on the good ideas.

Note: Yes, I am weeks behind on the upgrades to almost anything. Give the man a break, he is still outperforming just about any other thing in his age class. I just take on ten times as much as anyone else, so when I only get as much done as five people I look like a slacker. Back off and go accomplish something with your life. Make your mark somewhere besides on a fire hydrant.

Uh oh, Pointer Sisters on my iTunes with "Jump". Great energy tune. Cats are heading for the weapons bunker and slipping on the kevlar. Cowards.

I am still rather recovering from the way in which Hillary Clinton seems to have been marginalized by Barack "Messiah" Obama’s people. We’ll see if he is as smooth snake oil salesman as he thinks he is. I wouldn’t bet against John McCain right now in the election. And I am sorry, people, I put country, world, ethics and my feminist convictions well ahead of loyalty to any political party. When you start answering to party above world, country or conscience, you don’t deserve my consideration. Party Unity usually is only a good rallying cry in a fascist or communist state. I don’t think we’re there…yet.

Prince (and the Revolution) are feeding me the notion of "Let’s Go Crazy". Not a bad notion in a world gone completely insane. The cats are now on the phone, advising me they have "the bomb" and are not afraid to use it. I laugh, as I know they don’t have the missile technology to deliver it accurately.

I am glad, seeing my slow recovery from the early summer, that I canceled the tour. I don’t mind the notion of being a martyr to my work, but that would have been asking for it. I do watch with a slightly raised eyebrow the procession of people who seem to regularly visit my sites (thank you StatCounter). Move along, nothing to see here for some of you. Barring direct questions from Barb (ahem) Holmes when she gets to the interview, there are certain tags that are retired.

I am writing some amazing stuff lately, it is only the tip of the iceberg you are seeing on Amomancer. I wish I could slow down, really, but it is like being electrocuted. Your mind tells you to let go of the cable, but your body is locked into the current.

Many thanks to the new generation of muses who have so graciously blessed me with their presence. I am grateful to God and good fortune for the richness of this life and the opportunity to live it, to share it with others, and to have them share with me.

Aeons ago, during the 1st exile (right after my first divorce, when I was in Los Angeles), I was fixed up with a former opera singer on a date. It was just lunch. We had met socially at an event featuring my good friend David Demeter, who is a very successful drummer in the LA music scene, and a friend of a friend passed word that she wanted to see me socially.

We had a pleasant enough lunch, no major awkwardness, and even agreed to see each other the next weekend. Knowing she had a 10 year old child from a previous marriage, I even did the gallant thing to reassure her that I was not kid-phobic and told her that after the recital we were going to attend, we could all three go out to lunch. She seemed pleased.

A few days before the date I got word from one of the mutual friends that she (the opera singer) did have a criticism of me from our first date. She felt my "dating skills" were "primitive".

I was taken aback, having usually been accused of being too charming in conversation, and having been raised appropriately by my mother to be a gentleman. I asked for further clarification and was told they’d try and find out in what area I was failing the civilization test.

Word came back the next day that the issue was that I did not talk about myself enough on the first date. That I asked a lot of questions about her, but did not follow them up by offering up information about myself. I always had thought that people liked it when you didn’t start every sentence with "I" (of course, this being LA, that might be a little alien). I was truly flabbergasted and, although I went through with the date and even took her and her daughter to lunch afterwards, I let the potential relationship drop there.

The truth is, I am not aversive to telling people about myself, it just usually doesn’t occur to me unless asked (yes, just wait until Barb Holmes and I do the interview thing, you’ll get plenty). Maintaining a blog is a bit of a stretch for me, as most of what I am expected to write about is me; my day, my feelings, my poetry, my books and CDs and appearances. I find me…boring.

So, here’s a break. For you and me. I’m going to drop the topic of me for a bit and write about politics, religion, society, television, film, how to make grilled cheese sandwiches that don’t stick to the griddle, the theology of love, and all those other ten gazillion things that are not about me, per se.

We’ll see how long this lasts…and if you get bored and want to find out what I am up to, go over to Amomancer and read the poetry for the bread crumb clues to my heart and soul.

Not possible.

To move beyond memory, one must forget who they are, where they have been and what they have experienced. A persistent vegetative state might make it so, but that’s not a status I have devoutly wished for in this life.

Today is August 14th. It is a crossroads date (someone with my sense of time and history has man) as it is the anniversary of one or more events, that cross paths in my understanding of the world I live in. My birthday is August 16th, Psyche’s is August 12th. For the five years we were together, we tended to celebrate on the 14th as a compromise date.

There are other things that have occurred on Thursdays, on the 14th of a month, even on August 14th, and in my morning contemplations it is remarkable to remember some of them and close circles and utter words to keep promises (I may be slow, often, as I forget or am distracted or given rationale to forget, but I generally get around to those oaths I have made) that I have made, in good faith, altered only by the external forces I have no control over.

In that context, you may want to check out a new poem I posted this morning on Amomancer entitled the mantra of severing, which is about keeping promises, even ancient ones, when they are recalled. There will be those who believe they know of what I speak, but to imagine that, in my entire life, I have only walked one road with one companion to one end and made one promise…that would be a very blissful life, and chaos still calls.

I once wrote that "memory is the curse of those who care". It leads us to a terrible and an arrogant place, where we think the world sees with our eyes and feels with our hearts, and knows us. When I was a child I used to blow my mind by trying to contemplate infinity, but one day I hit upon something more incredible to contemplate: There are billions of people on this planet, most (if not all) of them leading lives as experientially, intellectually and emotionally complex as our own. That many thoughts, that many emotions, that many dreams, and God knows them all, and I can never even know for sure my own heart.

We never move beyond memory. At best, we acknowledge the sprained ankle of life and adjust to the limping.