City of Legends

And it is a question, as visitors to my Amomancer blog clearly see that I am not currently writing to a single central inspiration of the female persuasion.  The fire is there, the focus is not.

Huerta the other day sent me a frowning emoticon, , when I expressed that I need to find a new major muse.  The fact she frowned tells me that there is much ignorance, even amongst my closest circle, as to what a muse is to me.

God, or rather, Goddess.  Simply put.  But with an explanation.

Not to replace the one true God, but to give me a focus as a writer, which is, perhaps more than man or human or liberal Democrat who has been married and divorced twice, my most evident self-definition. 

The furnace of my passions burns as hot as ever just as the core of the Earth itself is a molten mass of radioactive isotopes and stone.  But without a path for release, what you (and I, and the world) get are small volcanic outpourings, just enough to keep me from being torn apart.  They are impressive in and of themselves, but they are not Krakoa.  And I, personally, am a big fan of Krakoa-sized eruptions (see Psyche, Panther, Brigit, The Goldenheart, Aubergine and even the Leopard).

I am, by my very nature, a monogamist.  I believe in, I celebrate, I enjoy having one person that I can revolve around, like the Sun for my planet to orbit.  I find no shame in that, in basking in a radiant glow that warms and nurtures me.  Without it, my "planet" dies a slow death.  Not just from the lack of heat, but also the tidal forces that pull and stretch, toss and catch me as I spin through a remarkable universe.  Those forces rip me up inside and keep the heat burning, the magma churning and I, myself, learning what is good and beautiful and foul and fair and truth and illusion.  These are the reasons I get out of bed in the morning, these are the reasons to lay down beside someone else at night.

And I have to admit, I miss it.  I’m not looking for a fling, but an Olympian thing.  Someone strong enough to push back when I am half-mad (I never fully get to the whole mad).  Someone who isn’t going to bullshit me about their status and the realities of their world just because they want a taste of the ambrosia that gets flung around like cheap beer at a Steelers game. 

I’m not perfect, God knows.  I can, and have, put up with a lot from people who seemed to get in the door a little too easily with the password "I love you" and then started trashing the place.  I hate playing bouncer in my own heart and soul.  Hate it.  Someone who I can write about their beauty and virtues without having to lie to myself, that when I go back and read the works they inspired, I don’t have to ask "what was I drinking?"

The muse is a sacred thing to me.  It allows me to be who I am.  Without artifice, the vessel of my craft and spirit.  I have made myself Ronin, by choice, and the voice I hear when I speak is diminished as I strive to learn enough about myself and the nature of life that I speak no more blasphemies of the gods of love.

I’m not looking for sympathy.  I don’t need it or even deserve it.  I have been very fortunate in this life to have seen glimpses of beauty and passion and talent of the magnitudes I have seen.  There are those who would say I am being greedy in asking for one more, perhaps one final, run of the Chariot of Apollo across the sky.  If this is greedy of me, then I am greedy, and selfish.

But not dishonest or disloyal to my faith in love, to my unnamed Goddess.  I would rather die for a single, simple truth, than live for a lie. 

I was getting ready to post a heady essay I had just written on the nature of Christianity divorced from mythology.  It’s not bad, and it makes some valid points and I will eventually post it.

But…

It occurs to me my world is all but abstract to most of my readers.  They don’t know or see what is and isn’t happening in my sphere, so I am going to try harder to be more earnest and forthright on a personal level.  Nothing, God help us, against the poetry and the thought.  I just felt the need to connect as a human being.

A long time back I wrote a poem about such things, during the darkest days in Venice, where I despaired that so many women saw me as an abstraction that I was never going to find anyone to settle down with.  Half true to history, but the mystery of my second marriage and its eventual demise (that’s for another day) only tells a part of the tale.

Hi.  I’m William Francis DeVault.  I am 53 years old.  I was born August 16th, 1955, in Greenville, South Carolina, in the United States of America.  I have three children, two ex-wives, my parents are still alive, as are my four siblings. 

I am most often associated with Morgantown, West Virginia, where I came of age as a poet, and Venice Beach, California, where I feel the most at home and have written some of my best work.

My life, which seems exotic to many, seems rather average to me.  I have been places and done things that many have not, but not so much as some.  I have never jumped out of an airplane, fired a handgun, or been elected to public office.  I am above average in IQ and if my ethics and morals seem a bit hard to explain or understand, the key is simple:  I don’t always blame others or even try to justify my mistakes.  I have had several times in my life where I told a friend or lover that, should things go badly, they are to tell whatever tale gets them out as injury-free as possible, they can count on my silence.  Although I have been driven to near madness more than once when an unprincipled person takes that too well to heart, I have held up fairly well.

Despite my years, I still feel quite young.  I sometimes have to fight for that…but that’s okay.  I like feeling 17, especially with the experiences of this life to call upon (the old "If I knew then what I know now").  And before you begin to snicker know this:  The last woman I was with was my second wife, on February 12, 2004.  Prior to that I had not been with another woman since the summer of 1997.  So let’s lay aside the "can’t keep his pants zipped" assumptions.  They are ignorances and prejudices, two things that are not tools for the evolved mind or heart

I am passionate and sexual, but I have chosen to guard well my heart and soul this time, as I know I am passionate and sexual, and I am just gullible enough to allow myself to walk into disastrous situations with blinders on when lead by my hormones.  I still write about the joy of a woman’s body and presence, but until I find one trustworthy and just plain worthy, I think I will stay the dichotomous monk I have evolved into.

Yes, I have been connected with one or two women who were married in the past, but with one minor and notable exception (a long time ago), in every case I was lead to believe the situation was far more dissolved than it was.  Nothing quite like getting an angry call from an ex-husband who isn’t an ex-husband.  Have I allowed myself to be gullible because that was the most convenient thing for me to believe.  Yes.  Without a doubt.

My father, who is going to be 86 next month, was the best man at my first wedding.  He is still someone I love and admire.  At the time I did not have a male "best friend", so I gave him the job.  I hope he was touched.

Of late, I have four good male friends.  Friend is a hard word for me, as I have a brutal definition of friendship, having been quoted as saying "A friend is someone you can trust behind you with a sharp knife and a good reason".  I hope I will pass that test of character even with a stranger.  Of these four friends, two are fellow poets, one is a musician and one is my older brother, Robert.  We spent most of our lives at loggerheads, being the alpha pack dogs we were…it is nice we have learned to cooperate.

When I fall, I fall hard and completely.  Aubergine, the last woman I said "I love you" to, warned me that she wasn’t very good at relationships and I would fall from a great height.  I accepted the challenge and the fall was great and terrifying. I have empathy and sympathy for those who continue to dare to love and accept their fall.  I will see you on my next trip up the pillar and off the cliff.

My mother just turned 76.  She’s a firecracker.  We have lively political and religious debates, as I have drifted to the left of Al Franken over the years, she to the right of Dick Cheney.  I love her greatly.  I would not vote for her for President.

My children are joys to me.  My daughter, Peri, lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian.  He’s a good guy and they are good for each other.  She’s half me and half her mother, not always having gotten the best of us.  But I adore her like no one else in this life, even when she treats me like tick crap.

My sons, the sons of thunder, turn 16 in about a week.  Elric is so much like me as a teenager it is frightening, although Dante has some of my traits as well.  Between the two of them there’s enough energy, intellect and appetite for life to start a new civilization on a distant planet.  Of course, they’d need to find the right women, first.  Good luck.

Today is an ordinary day.  I am in the office, doing some work for a defense contractor, helping with some proposals and quality programs.  Not poetic, but it pays okay.  I’m worth a lot more than I am getting, but in this economy its good to hold onto a job.  The building we are in shuts down air conditioning on weekends.  It is about 2:20 in the afternoon, the sun is shining and you could wring my sweat out of my shirt.  Not ideal writing conditions.

Contrary to what I have heard, last summer’s illness was not self-inflicted.  I am violently opposed to that avenue.  But it did screw up my tour, my digestive system, my schedule, my overall health and physical conditioning.  Remind me to only eat at Taco Bells in my own neighborhood.

Well, I have meandered enough.  Thanks for taking the time to read.  Yes, I know there are a thousand unanswered questions.  Be patient.  We have time.

And if you know a nice woman who wants to be worshipped five hundred years from now as an icon of romance and passion, send her my way.

Barbara Holmes, known to the crew who used to populate the legendary Writers Club hangout on America Online (named by Wired Magazine as one of the best places for cybersex) was ringmaster, interviewer and host for various online chats and rooms within that hallowed space that sheltered and embraced such authors as Margaret Moseley, Harlan Coben, Tom Clancy and John Gilstrap.  She was the editor of my Top Ten Lists that were archived there (over 500 of them) and interviewed me more than once for online chats, along with many, many other authors (some of whom I just mentioned).  This is not her first interview for publication with me, and I hope it won’t be her last.

The interview was conducted over the past two weeks, online.

Call Him, William
By Barbara Holmes (TwisterB/Twist) with William F. DeVault (WFDV)

We met in an old AOL Writers Club chat room back in the late 1990’s.  Amidst the groups collective sat me, a fledgling interviewer and humor writer, he a poet and writer of fiery wit and personality.  I dare say neither were surprised at our first offline meeting.  We were what we were, exactly as presented online, honest and forthright.   Screen names and nicknames, yes, but no phony personas, no make believe life stories.  In one word:  Real.

Eight years ago I asked “But why poetry…?”  He answered “Poetry is not a decision, it is a disease.”   As the poet has grown, so has his abundance of work.  Still one of the most prolific poets on the internet, if not “the most”, William F. DeVault continues to captivate us with an absorbing anthology of words.  The result is a personal Everest, a legacy.  One which, I no doubt, in our first interview he only fantasized.  So, how long will he be able to maintain this frenzied pursuit; one can only chance a guess.   For our sakes, if the fates rain kindly on this ever-growing garden, we will indeed be blessed. 

Long live the disease of poetry.

Barbara:  You’ve recently made an enormous change to your website, integrating your original website with your blog. Why?

William:  It was actually on the advice of my ex (Aubergine), who was very high on the power of WordPress.  She had converted her blog to it, and suggested converting my blog to it and raising its profile, its visibility, somewhere along the way it became the front-end to my site.
One of the reasons for the emergence of www.williamfdevault.com.  It is going to take over the heavy lifting of displayed poetry, the City of Legends blog will remain a blog.

B:   Has it changed the way you relate with your fanbase?

W:  It has not seemed to have a major change, except it is easier for fans to leave comments. Which they rarely do…as they are disused to the idea.  Most often my comments are hellos from old friends or hatchet jobs from someone with an axe to grind and bad information.

B:   You’re a poet, what axes would there be to grind?

W:  Good question.  Actually, over the years I have made more than one less-than-admirer for my stance on the status of poetry as an art form, my opinions expressed (sociologically, theologically or politically) and the gravity of my romantic works.  I will give you an illustration:  In high school I was once administered a beating by a young man whose girlfriend had a crush on me because of my works (I didn’t even know her).  I have gotten in the face of more than one other writer or editor in my life, and I have a sharp tongue.  I have had ex-girlfriends call me and tell me that their new boyfriends/husbands know nothing of me and please to keep it that way, or confess they lied to me about their relationship status, when we were involved, to me and that their boyfriend/husband has just found out and is not happy with me.  I can’t go into more details without breaking confidences, but I am far less evil than gullible.  Which I guess, in its own way, is a harder confession to make about oneself.

B:   Between the years of 1995 and 1997 your writing exploded with the Goldenheart Cycles, the Panther Cycles, the Great Cycle to the Goddess of Fire and Poetry and hundreds of other works. How do you think this compares to the more recent upsurge in your works?

W:  I have actually been thinking about this.  I view it as one of three distinct "explosions" of work (the Panther-Goldenheart era).  The first was the early-mid seventies, with a lot of those works filtered now by time so that only the cream survives. The Second Era (the Panther-Goldenheart era) has just started getting the filtration, but in large part because of my insistence of the retention of the integrity of the cycles, there has been little elimination of lesser works.  The most recent era was kicked off by the podcasting and recording I began around 2006, but also as part of a delayed healing process from my second divorce. It reached a fever pitch during the Aubergine courtship, then the death spiral of that relationship played out in poetics, which had integrity, but is interesting now to go back and read.

B:  It’s been 13 years since the writing of the first Panther Cycle.  Where do these poems fit into your legacy?

W:  The Panther Cycles are a monolith.  They are a block of work that does not cap, but cornerstones a whole section of my works.  There are some extraordinary works in amongst those 600 and some odd works, including my first work with villanelles.

B:  How can they be compared to your present works? Or can they?

W:  I think the Panther Cycles are a little less sophisticated, structurally, than the more recent works, but there are certainly some moments in there that are as good as anything I have or ever will do.  The recent works are more evolved, more thoughtful, more earnest, but neither era can claim primacy in my catalog.

B:  Do you ever have the urge to add to any of these previous Cycles? Situations or settings that trigger a memory…

W:  Not really the Panther Cycles, although I did write a few poems over the years as a follow up when situations demanded it, like when the Panther broke a promise to me.  I am far from perfect and have made more than my share of blunders, but I have never held much with people who live for each re-invention with a disdain for what made them who they are and brought them to their change.  I believe in the human capacity for growth and change, but not at the cost of the truth.  There have been a few works, but not enough to tamper with the framework that is the ‘Cycles.

B:  The bond you had with your daughter, Peri, developed numerous fractures which began during the Panther era. Why was this particular cycle of work so crucial in the relationship’s demise?

W:  I think the evidence of my involvement serves as sort of a slap in the face to her mother, upon whom the dissolution of my marriage to her the affair rested, and that leaves a festering wound, for both of us.  The funny thing is, she now manages a bookstore in Los Angeles.  I have not sought, nor will I seek, to have my books sold through her chain, for the very reason I don’t want that aggravation in her face every day.

B:  Yes, the Panther Cycles would be bit of an irritation but why not your other works?  Don’t you think she would be proud to show off her father’s work?

W:  Ours has always been a complex relationship and reality.  I believe she sees me in a less sterling light than perhaps she did when she was younger.  Even I am not aware of all the perspectives and perceptions that have gone into our dissembling relationship.  I am hopeful we shall patch it up, but I know that there are some wounds that, no matter how skillful the surgeon, there will still be a scar and a memory.  You also must recall she had to endure my second wife, who was very jealous of her and did her own share of hand-grenade lobbing into the chaos.

B:  Did it affect your sons as well or just Peri?

W:  Yes, to a much lesser extent.  Elric and Dante did not have the pre-existing depth of relationship with me when the divorce and exile to LA came.  There was no real sense of losing their best friend, not on the scale of Peri and I, who were best friends for many years.  In some ways I think what really hammered the issues between Peri and I were not the Panther events, but the events in my second marriage.  My second wife was very jealous of how close I was with Peri and on more than one occasion I was forced to publicly give Peri the back seat.  That hurt, I know, and I wish there was a way to make it up to her.

B:  We’ve spoken for years of your need to return to Los Angeles.  Do you see yourself there in the near future?

W:  I had hoped to return to stay later this year, but it is now looking more like sometime next year.

B:  What necessitates this desire for LA?

W:  It feels like home to me.  It is where I want to live out my life, where I want to die.

B:  Why do you feel such a strong urge to go back?

W:  It’s funny, I almost feel like a salmon, justifying his need to swim upstream at spawning time.  It is a primal thing, I am only aware of it as a drive within me.  I am at peace there, and peace eludes me.

B:  I know you’ve not been feeling 100% in the past few months.  Has anything else reared its ugly head to stall your departure?

W:  Well, aside from nearly dying of food poisoning and having my heart brutally plucked from my chest, no, all is as it should be.  Ha!
The food poisoning I acquired while visiting my daughter in Los Angeles left me hampered to a degree I would not have predicted, the side effects were staggering (and, no longer being a teenager, my powers of recovery are not as potent as they once were). 
And, as you as well as anyone knows, I am driven by the champion vector of my personality.  Losing Aubergine as a focal point for my energies stripped me of my vector, I became depressed and bored and boring, a laser beam became a series of small, smouldering brush fires that had no purpose or path.  It has taken all I have, all the coping mechanisms and techniques for my own emotional and intellectual self-manipulation I have developed and learned over the last several decades just to rise to my feet.  My energy levels were and are depleted.  I am in recovery, emotionally, spiritually and intellectually.
And, as with all such actions, reality plays its role.  The logistics of the move, my sons, my aging parents, my grandmother (who just turned 97 and is fading) all play into the timing.  As much as I like to tell myself I am immune to the fates, the truth is I am always at their whim.

B:  You and I have had stimulating discussions on the subject of Muses, and your oft times dependence on them to write.  Who was your most recent Muse?

W:  In the absence of a dominating muse, such as the Panther or Aubergine, I am reacting to moments and minutes, so there are many muses in the sky at this time.  I foreswore the use of the totems, last winter, and am now evaluating going back to them.  I don’t honestly know what is next or who is next or where my soul is at this time.

B:  What work did they inspire you to write?

W:  Readers should look at the last two or three months of Amomancer (http://amomancer.blogspot.com) for some of the new inspirations and works.

B:  Who would be perceived as your greatest Muse?

W:  Wow.  The natural, safe answer would be the Panther, but you have to realize that she makes up only a tiny percentage of my works, and not the best works.  If I died tomorrow, Aubergine would end up with the crown, owing to the recency of her regency.  "More than Gods can comprehend", "Aubergine", “ the entirety of the book "As such…" and the works that frame the end of that age of grace, all are so powerful.  Who knows what happens tomorrow?

B:  Who is “Aubergine” that she deserves this lofty state of regency?

W:  Remind me to set boundaries next time.  (Scowl)  She was a friend, a writer, whom I had a crush on for some time, mostly because of the power of her writing, there was an earnest, raw energy to it, and I admired her greatly.  I can’t go much more into that without dragging her fully into the fray.  The relationship evolved unexpectedly, intensified at a speed and on a curve that would astound a hurricane forecaster, then fell apart under its own intensity mere days after my last book came out (some cynic pointed out that women tend to wait to leave me until after their book comes out, but the Panther was 9 years gone from my bed when "The Compleat Panther Cycles" came out!)  [Note: The interviewer is not the aforementioned “cynic.”]
In four years, she was the first person to say and do the right things to get around the walls I had put up.  I had not really given myself in some time (by the way, celibacy is a bitch) and I threw myself into the relationship with the blind emotional vigor of a teenager.

B:  What caused this fall from grace?

W:  I have my own theories, and have had many (some who have no knowledge of what transpired or was said within the relationship) present theirs.  In the end, even if there were sworn testimony of a thousand angels, I would probably still not know all, and I was privy to most things. 
I think it was the old Rita Hayworth trap.  She once said that men "go to bed with Gilda" (perhaps her most famous role) but wake up with her.  Over the years a lot of women have fallen in love with the poetry, ironically enough it is often works written to another, but then can’t find room for the third dimension when I am off the page and in their lives.  No shame to them.  I am not an easy person to love, in the real world.  I am mercurial, literal, intense, sexual and can be slow on the uptake (dropping clues on me is usually wasted, use anvils and shout a lot, that works better).  I shoulder my failures.

B:  In recent years you’ve become more politically active, with such works as "Darfur (Jesus Wept)" and "An American Father".  Is this an evolution in your conscience or just a side ultimately being revealed?

W:  I have always been politically active, but have kept that largely out of my poetry. I am a liberal pacifist feminist Democrat.  Tom Clancy calls me an anarchist.

B:  You’ve graduated from exclusively written prose to recording your work. Why now, why do you feel your work needs a voice?

W:  It adds a dimension, and it records how I perceive a work should be read.  I fell into it, after reading an article on podcasting.  Now we have five CDs and a 24/7 internet radio station at Live365.com

B:  You have also stated these recording take an enormous toll on you so why not another voice, why yours?

W:  It would be disingenuous to give the job to someone else.  These are my words, my thoughts, my soul.  No one else can speak for me, I wouldn’t want them to.

B:  Undoubtedly, you’ve heard other people read your work.  Weren’t you satisfied with their readings or do you just feel you give a better presentation?

W:  Better?  Not so much, but more accurate to my intention.  As an example, there’s a band in North Carolina named "johnnydirtyshoes" that did a reading of my poem "Darfur" at a fundraiser for "Doctors Without Borders".  You can see it on YouTube.  The reading is technically fine, but the nuance isn’t my nuance.  Writers write for several reasons, but part of my motive is to be understood. 

B:  You’ve spoken a few times of the CDs’ “band”.  It has a synthesized ring to it so who or what is this band?

W:  Mostly it’s just me, with Garage Band on my Mac.  I have had a few quest musicians and vocalists contribute, notably Alan MacDonald, Kevin Bond and The Selke.  I manufactured a second face for the band’s lead guitarist, Izzy Durden, when Izzy is me on the synthesizer, indulging my love of the film "Fight Club" and the notion that no one would imagine me as a wild-man guitarist. "Is he (Tyler) Durden?"

B:  The "Evangelist" is your fifth CD in three years.  How does this differ from the others and what is the symbolism behind the name and cover?

W:  It has some cuts from the previous CDs.  Aubergine had suggested a "Greatest Hits" compilation, so I met her halfway.  The cover is a woodcut of Paul on the road to Damascus, struck blind by his confrontation with Jesus.  I added the blood effects to intensify the look and contrast.  The symbolism is that the "Damascus Road" moments we have, when we think we have been transformed by our finding love, are real, but only within a frame of reference.  It took me months to recover from the break-up with Aubergine, and the CD kept changing form…finally I realized I needed to make a testament to love itself.

B:  Which of your books are you the most proud of, so far?

W:  Pride is a tough emotion for me, they are all flawed.  I have to admit a certain awe for "The Compleat Panther Cycles" though.

B:  Which of your CDs?

W:  "Evangelist".  It is honest, earnest and true, and it brings together a spectrum of my works and styles.

B:  Which do you feel exemplifies your work?

W:  Books?  "Ronin in the Temple of Aphrodite".  CDs?  "Evangelist".

B:  Which process satisfies the real Amomancer? The writing?  The readings?  The recordings?

W:  None of it.  The writings are necessary as my adaptive mechanism for life.  The readings became a tool for interfacing with my public, meeting new people and selling books (plus, when I press for it, I can make more money on a single night’s reading than in a month of book sales, plus sell some books and CDs).  The recordings?   Damn, I don’t know why I am doing that except that I can.  People seem to like it and I have some fun doing it.
I am not satisfied with anything.  I sometimes wonder if it is possible for me to be satisfied.  Hell, I sometimes wonder if it is possible for me to be in love, that maybe this whole tapestry has been an illusion, played to random chance or otherworldly amusement.

B:  An interesting personage you noted on your “who influenced me” blog list was “Dangerous Liaisons”, Viscount Valmont.  This character was exceedingly egotistical, a tremendous womanizer not to mention emotionally abusive.  How and why do you feel this type of personality influences the growth of your own moral fiber?

W:  Valmont discovered his conscience through love and did the right thing in the end.  I have never been the kind of man he was in the beginning of the story, although I have seen that beneath the surface.  When he saw the monster he was, he gave himself up, and gave others the power to see the truth.  I’ve spent too much of my life working with people who have been abused, trying to help them get their lives together.  If I ever thought I was Valmont, the monster, I would have to take myself out.  I lack his ego, his skill with women and his hollowness, ethically.

B:  The list also contained many individuals who could be classified as “Heroes”.  Do you see yourself in this light?

W:  I have my moments.  I want to do the right thing, which is sometimes clouded by the arrogance of life and the nature of the world.  I think if I was truly free to speak all truths I know, the world would see me in a gentler light, for sure.  I have a certain stripe of the heroic bent, the sort of kid who burns himself pulling moths away from the fire.

B:  You had the chance to “speak the truths” in your book. Why haven’t you finished it?

W:  Many times I am constrained by the "Dragnet" clause.  "Names have been changed to protect the innocent".  There are things I cannot say because they would hurt others, but at the same time there is the compulsion to speak the truth, so I let myself come as close as possible, sometimes even destroying works before they are published, as I find they will reveal something that hurts another.  Sometimes I don’t realize I have crossed a line until after I have crossed it (I said I can be dense).  Those are moments of great moral conflict and true horror.
I presume by "your book" you are speaking of the body of my works?  Or of my discarded memoir?  The memoir was discarded as I realized it would destroy so many sandcastles out there, and I am trying not to reveal myself at the expense of others, especially those who may be criticized or attacked merely for human failings.
You know, of all the people who have wounded me in this life, Aubergine was the only one who apologized in or after the act of my evisceration.  Perhaps that is part of her special place in my memory and tapestry.  She demonstrated that she has a soul.
But to the question:  Truth is never complete, where humans are concerned.

B:   If you died today, what happens to the hundreds, even thousands, of works you claim to have never released previously?

W:  My children gain control of them.  My brother has the master password to unlock the virtual vault I keep them in.  What happens to them after that is of no concern to me.

B:  What would you like your legacy to be?

W:  He wrote well and championed the couer rage to love.

B:  On your headstone, help me etch the testament: "William F. DeVault ….

W:  "We don’t know where his body lies, but let this be where those who would curse or praise his memory come to express what they perceive as true.  May love free us all from madness."
 

My thanks to Barbara Holmes for this interview.

One of the points brought forward in the first round of my interview with Barbara Holmes is the lady calling me to task for stating that the character of the Viscount de Valmont, from Dangerous Liaisons, is one that has had an impact on me and my worldview. I think I acquit myself somewhat in my self-defense. I recognize that, for the most part, he is not a sympathetic character and for most of the book, play and film he is exactly the sort of person I would despise and, despite my nonviolent nature, be inclined to take a swing at.

My acknowledgment is that, in the end, Valmont is, if not entirely at least partially, redeemed by the power of love and seeks to make amends for his failures. You can argue his motives, whether he is truly repentant or just guilt-ridden, or whether perhaps he sees himself trapped and sees no way out but to die and take his revenge on Madame de Merteuil. I tend to take the romantic view, that this man has been transformed by his first real taste of love and is trying to make amends for his evils.

It is that element in the character that has had an effect on me. Just as there are aspects in every character I mention in my influences list that I would not want a part of me, there are elements of the Viscount that I would not want to carry. I have never seen conquest as a sport, I have never been able to comprehend, much less sympathize, with those who view women as objects, rather than people.

And you think I have fun with that question? Wait until we get into the quagmires of my relationship with my daughter, weighing the Aubergine works in balance with the Panther Cycles and the question of legacy.

No, I did not get 100 links up yesterday.  Thanks for noticing.  To quote Wesley in Wanted:  What the fuck have you done lately? I may get that tattoo’d across my forehead.

I ran into the situation of how to have 100 links without unbalancing the page.  Will have to scratch my head a bit on that one.  Slept well, slept hard, have begun sleeping past 4 am (good sign).

Today:  Finish cleaning up loose ends, spend a few hours having anxiety attack over how good the Evangelist cut is going to be/not be.

Closing in on completing the tag indexing of Amomancer.  Starting from now and working back, there was an imbalance.  Starting at the back and moving forward, we are getting a more balanced picture of my catalog posted.

Someone wrote me about the use of Aubergine as a muse-tag, particularly on Amomancer.  Bite me.  This is to pave the way for the book Aubergine, which is to be the final words that began with As such…  Regrettable, but while stupid dogs stick around and bite when kicked, smart ones fold their tents and move on.  The last one out is not a quitter, they are an idealist, a romantic.  I can live with that legacy.  By the way, ahem, the apology was not for the relationship, it was for disbelieving an informed warning.  Don’t make assumptions when dealing with me.  You’ll be wrong more often than not.

And try not to read too much into the recent spate of KFS oriented poetry.  She’s a friend I was once romantically involved with, one of the most honorable and brave people I know, as well as being an excellent writer.  And, last time I checked, she had a boyfriend….who knows about us and our track record.  She has never re-invented herself, ever.  That’s class.  That’s integrity.

Anyway, I have a lot of things to do…more to do than I had on Friday…as new stuff comes in faster than I can juggle.  But that’s the way…uh huh uh huh…I like it…uh huh uh huh.

Working on a logo…and waiting for the last-minute video entries everyone is promising me…two weeks until deadline.

We interrupt the sex and sorrow to release the new lyrics for Kitabu, jointly here and on the Amomancer blog. I sat down with my original lyrics, and threw them out, as they were woven into a tapestry of the other lyrics. Not the first time or the worst reason I’ve had to throw out lyrics, but annoying. I will probably get shot at for the "legacies of pride" line, but pride cuts both ways, those who have something to be proud of (Mandela, Tutu) and those who do not (Amin and Mugabe) but would puff out their chests anyway and take pride in their sickness.

I wanted something that captured the texture of Africa, as well as the turmoil and the complicity of silence, of indifference (no, I am not being metaphoric here) of the West. For better or for worse, this is what came.

Kitabu

land of dark and green and gold
where diamonds rise and weapons sold
become the arch for hot hearts cold
to the pain of a sullen midwife.
Africa! Mandela! Amin! Mugabe! Tutu!
legacies of pride and those who died
fighting for something more, inside.
where both fates and hates collide
in challenge to all new life.
Africa! from the Sudan to the Cape!
from the grass where rose our species
to the killing fields of the disease
of human greed and human need, please
let us not turn our backs on this strife.
Africa! Hadeda! Zebra! Elephants! Lions!
Jesus weeps for the slaughter and the pain
that falls in a dehumanizing rain,
and for our indifference, we wear the stain
as surely as the madman with the knife.
Africa! land of passion and hope and dreams.
land of passion and hope and dreams.
land of passion and hope and dreams.
a book as timeless as it is enigmatic.
but as beautiful as it is bloody.
and as worthy as any grace under heaven.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
special thanks to Aubergine, for the inspirations.

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.

Free associating this morning whilst working on the guitar lines for Aubergine (be prepared to lose brain cells to a sonic apocalypse (good name for a band)) I recalled one of my favourite scenes in a film. Val Kilmer in "Real Genius" being a bit random but in the way I sometimes am. Val plays arrogant, fun loving Chris Knight in the movie…

Mitch: You know, um, something strange happened to me this morning…
Chris Knight: Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you?
Mitch: No…
Chris Knight: Why am I the only one who has that dream?

…and I smirked. Really. Any idea how long it has been since an honest-to-Arioch smirk was on this face? A while. Which means either I am regaining my traction on the scrith of life, or the alien pod people have already swapped me out for a plant-based lifeform. In any case, it was good to feel it bloom on my face.

I am going to go on vacation in July, as mental prep for the tour, and to see an old friend or two or one that I haven’t spent time with in some time. And beyond that is is nobody’s business but mine own where I will be and what I will be doing and with whom. It is time to recenter myself, with a vengeance.

Go do something meaningful, people. I’m keeping one foot in the nefarious zone for the time being, but the survival instincts kicked in. Well, actually, more like the regenerative powers…I did pretty much hit the ground as fast or faster than I ever had before.

Maniacal laughter.

I spent some serious time last night and this morning, working on the big show-stopper for the Evangelist CD, Aubergine. I had to select the works to be contained within, decide tone and texture and begin the engineering/orchestrations (yes, orchestration, I said I was going over the top).

I’m looking at probably a 9 to 10 minute build with six poems, capped most likely by More than Gods Can Comprehend. This is going to be interesting, maddening and cathartic. More than the Topanga Run, less than PanthEon, in its own way. I look to have it wrapped this weekend and will not leak this one. I may throw some people or my general readership a bone with a few pieces, but this one will be a surprise.

Speaking of surprise, I was puttering around on YouTube yesterday, trying to see if a particular scene from "The Stunt Man" was available (it wasn’t) when I ran across a sketch by British satirical puppet troupe Spitting Image, featuring Peter O’Toole waking up after a wild night of drinking to find he has lost a leg in a bar bet, had a sex change operation and is now pregnant by Oliver Reed. And people wonder why I don’t drink. Enjoy.

They also had a very funny sketch about South Africans, but I think I’ll avoid that one, as…well, no use burning any more bridges while I am standing on them, eh?

I write. You can criticize me for what I write, what I write about and my style, but you have to admit, I write.

I’ll try to keep it to two posts today…then maybe I’ll fade it back to one a day, soon…

I started laying the musical framework for Aubergine last night. Challenging, as I am demanding a lot from myself on this one. It won’t be easy, it won’t be simple. But, I am game. A reader has suggested I post a link to my version of I rained poetry, and maybe even let readers vote on the selections for the Evangelist CD. I don’t know. Too many things to ponder. My brain hurts.

To those of you who find my promotion of my book As such… a bit surreal, or even hypocritical, I apologize. The simple truth is that I am keeping a promise I made, in both letter and spirit. I have broken other promises in the past (and, sometimes, keeping one promise means breaking another), wrestled with definitions of faith, truth, honor and morality, sometimes losing, sometimes winning, and sometimes being caught in those webs where no matter what you do, you are doing something wrong in absolute terms or someone’s eyes. It is exhausting, and exhaustion sometimes leads to errors in judgement. I actually considered, for several days, pulling the book from circulation.

It is one of those 51/49 percent situations where no matter what I do, someone will find ample room to criticize me. That’s just part of the terrain. Life has no easy answers, no cut and dried resolutions. Someone, somewhere, will take offense at anything you can imagine doing. Anyone who even dreams they know everything that I am doing or why needs therapy. Hell, I probably need it…but it makes it so much more interesting to see me work it out in anapest hexameter, no? I’m going to screw up more in this life, those of you without sin…buy a catapult, I’ll stand in the open and let you snipe. If it makes you feel better to use me as a lightning rod, then I consider it a public service I am rendering.

I began packing my cargo boxes for the tour. A bit early, you say? yes. But I need to keep a running inventory on this trip, as I am traveling with a massive amount of books, CDs and merch (do you have any idea how much a single copy of The Compleat Panther Cycles weighs?). The bookstore reads are nice, as they order their own stock…but the coffeehouse, cafe, etc., type reads need me to drag my own stuff. Pain in the ass. But the boots are nice

The boots are more than adequate (Yay!) and I will debate within myself the jacket I have taken under consideration.

I was listening to a random scramble and shuffle off my iTunes and hit Bette Midler’s athletic version of Bob Seger’s Fire Down Below and…and…and…

I sat down and engineered a shell for my reading of I rained poetry I have Jezika™ right now working with.  It’s good.  It’s different for me, but good.  If Jezika™ doesn’t get it done or I don’t like her version, it will go on the CD instead.  I might even include both…two takes on the same work.  Hmmmm.

I also have to confess I am working on one of those monster production numbers, like Wordslinger, Erotic V and Beasts of Legend.  It may come together, or it may not.  Watch for further word on it here.  It is lush, fantastic and a worthy golem.  I am calling it Aubergine.  And if that doesn’t send a few chills down some spines, then I’m Will Smith in New York, surrounded by the undead revenants of a plague.  And who wants to live in that sort of world?

John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band…take me to The Dark Side.