City of Legends

I was challenged by my friend Thomas to compare and contrast what is happening right now in regards to my writing to other muses, from my past.  This reminds me of a challenge a friend of mine once issued when he complained that Larry Bird was getting too much attention in the NBA.  We did a statistical breakdown on his play and found out he was the dominant player, by a major margin, at the time.

But, to mollify Thomas and put my current state of being in perspective, let’s use, as a yardstick, the following muses:  the Panther, the Leopard and Brigit.  I am selecting those as they are the benchmarks of my muses, in terms of number and quality of works, each having been involved with me over a span.

Let’s make it easy. 

Brigit was a factor in my life for approximately the same period of time that the Sunday Girl has been, so far.  During that time I wrote approximate 110 poems about her.  In a recent breakdown of my ten best works, none marked the list (sorry, love). 

The Leopard was a factor in my life for about 6-1/2 years, nearly twenty times the period of time of the Sunday Girl.  During that time I wrote approximately 150 poems about her.  Of those, one makes the all-time poems list.

The Panther was a factor on my life for a year and a half, about four times the period that the Sunday Girl has been in my life, so far.  I wrote to her approximately 800 poems.  Staggering.  In the base period, that period equivalent to my run so far with the Sunday Girl, I wrote 34 poems to the Panther.  Of the full 800, a single poem stands out in my all-time list.

The Sunday Girl.  Four months, more or less.  215 poems, as of a half hour ago.  6 of my top ten all time works come from that collection.  If I continue to create at this rate, by the time we reach the involvement duration I was with the Panther, we are talking nearly 1,000 poems, and already of a measurably higher quality and durability.

We’re not talking a distraction.  We are talking about major, profound and welcome change to the regime of the muses in my work. 

So, Thomas, does that answer your question?

I just found out that the line from my poem "Idol of Clay" -

"Hatred unlocks no doors in Heaven"

has become a minor mainstay at quotation sites for the topics of hate and Heaven.  I stumbled over someone invoking it on Twitter, then found it at several sites around the web.

Not complaining, it’s nice to be quoted (and quoted correctly, and attributed).  The poem itself was about a dishonest former lover (there’s another kind?) whom I was quite angry with and someone of our mutual acquintance asked why I did not hate her.  To me, hatred is like fear, a wasted emotion, disabling and manipulating us into wasteful thoughts and actions.

And, in truth, the last few times the lady in question and I have spoken, it has been as friends.  She even wrote one of the forewords to my book "The Compleat Panther Cycles" and, no, it wasn’t the Panther, but Brigit (for you muse trackers out there).

Ah, to have such epic ladies in my life again.  I fear I fall towards the gloaming.

My poem "the philosophy of dreams" has taken on a life of its own, gradually, and now I have been the latest to open a can of something closer to worms than whup-ass over it.

Earlier this year the poem got some attention when it was revealed that a reading of mine of the piece had been sampled by Euro electronica wizard Ophidian.  After hearing what he did with it for his piece "Phoenix" I totally approve of what he did with it and it is cool and righteous to realize how many thousands of chemically altered young people have heard my voice booming out at them at raves across the continent.

Very cool.  Very righteous.

Now I find myself accused of a retcon (retroactive continuity, a phrase that emerged out of the comics industry for when you rewrite the backstory of a character or event without regards for inconsistencies that emerge).  It seems some people latched onto the muse breakdown I offered up for loveaddict and noticed that despite the fact the poem in question "the philosophy of dreams" appearing in the book, Brigit (aka the Crimson Panther) is not listed in the muse breakdown list.  There is a muse named "Crimson", but it was correctly surmised that she is not the majestic Titian-haired goddess christened Brigit.

The truth is, after time and tempest has passed, I had decided that, in reality, "the philosophy of dreams" was more in the "Abstra" column than the "Brigit" column, and identified it so in the new volume.  That simple.  Okay, not that simple, as it took a helluvalot of soul-searching to come to that. 

I stand by my decision and will continue to evaluate the source and force of my works as I deem proper and accurate and true to the spirit of my work.  Believe me, many elements of my life would play easier if I could delude myself and rewrite my histories, but that is not in my nature or my passions.

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. 

Or so goes my rewrite of Paul Simon’s "Still Crazy After All These Years".

But the other day a former lover (Brigit) did re-enter my world, coming to me for advice on getting a novel published.  She was open and honest ) something she wasn’t always when we are together.  I gave her some sound advice…I think she was waiting for me to spank her for her treatment of me when we were a couple.  Not so.  People all have their crazy seasons, including me, when we do things that later we cannot explain or excuse.

This morning I sat down and tapped out a follow up to my suggestions and advice to her, here is what I sent her:

The publishing industry as most people know it is run, not as an artistic or creative enterprise, but as a business.  You look for maximum payout for minimum investment.  Unknown authors are a risk.  Even if you are not known for being an author, but for something else, you amplify greatly your chance of being published.

Or do you want to work at the job you are at for the rest of your life when we know you are better than that?  I would like very much to help you, to see you succeed, and to know you are on at least some level, grateful for my presence in your life, however peripheral.

That’s it.  Not asking for anything, just seeing someone fighting the same lame shadow-figures all writers fight and wanting to take a piece of them out, not just for her sake, but for my own. 

Jazz argued with me about Marilyn Monroe and her relative level of “hotness”.  I took the position that MM was not the hottest woman who ever lived.  Indeed, that to my tastes, I could name 20 women off the top of my head who, at their prime, were hotter than Marilyn at her prime.  Here’s my list, in no particular order, and subject to major revision if asked tomorrow.

20.  Olga Georges-Picot
19.  Alexa Davalos
18.  Suzy Plakson
17.  Brigit
16.  Yvonne Strahovsky
15.  Thandie Newton
14.  Danielle Bianchi
13.  Kate Beckinsale
12.  Gina Gershon
11.  Angela Bassett
10.  Tina Fey
9.  Angelina Jolie
8.  Katharine Hepburn
7.  Carrie Anne Moss
6.  Ava Gardner
5.  Scarlet Johanson
4.  Kim Novak
3.  Daryl Hannah
2.  Jamie Lee Curtis
1.  Ann Wilson (of Heart)

And this is just off my head.  I am sure, if I ponder for 15 minutes or so, I would swap in and out a few names.  Don’t make much of the fact that there are many major movie stars, musicians and models known for their beauty who did not make the list.  Hotness is all about resonance, we don’t all like the same things (I prefer Ani DiFranco to Britney Spears, for instance).  I was going to boycott all former and current muses from the list, but just had to, had to, include Brigit. If I was not allowed to use her, I would most likely bring in Shakira or Janis Joplin or Jessalyn Gilsig (hey this is MY list, go make your own).

Yes, Marilyn practically oozed sex from every pore (if you ooze sex from every pore, please see your doctor), but I never found her THAT irresistible.  Now, where would some of the more famous or infamous of my muses fit on this list?  That would be telling, but let’s just say that there are a handful currently on the list who would lose their ride on the mothership to help me colonize a new planet if all other things were equal and I broke the embargo (okay, semi-embargo) on the muses. And don’t ask me to choose, or disclose, further.  Like I need that stress.  Sheesh.  Let’s just say this list might surprise a few people.

Why do you think I wrote my muses poetry?  To keep from exploding; emotionally, spiritually and perhaps even physically.  FYI:  If you are in danger of physically exploding, please see your doctor.

Okay, now to deal with the hate mail.

I had to tell this anecdote before it grew cold in memory.

Or so I thought.

I shared it with the person it most involved and they had concerns about how they came off in it.  So I rewrote it.  Still not perfect…and I hate the notion that anything I might say could be construed as intentionally cruel or harmful to another person’s reputation.  If you have to be cruel to others to have your own way, you need to re-evaluate your life and your goals, as you are still a failed experiment.

So…no anecdote, at least not now.  I thought back to my memoir that I recently blasted to atoms.  A lot of stories in there that make me, and others, look like themselves, but not in the best lights.  The lesson isn’t supposed to be about people feeling bad about who they are or what they have done or been perceived as being, saying or doing, but rather that we are all human and everyone falls down…or is thrown down.

Maybe one day I will again write that memoir.  When I have something interesting to say about love and life and poetry.  When I know the answers to a few of my more nagging questions about who or why or when.  Too many of those right now.

I left the tags on this one after pulling out the anecdote, to drive everyone crazy.

Yes, I know that is the name of an older poem of mine, but it just seemed to fit this morning.

After a run of successful model and photographer recruitment, I had my first refusal today…and it was one o the ones I really had my heart set on.  Not the least of the issue being she is a redhead and I need a really powerful red hair presence for the Goldenheart and Brigit works.  Plus she had an incredible portfolio.  Such is life.

I am working on a proposal that requires input from two sources.  Yesterday.  Don’t have either yet. 

The enormity of the redesign of my poetry pages I have publicly accepted is setting in.  Yikes!

Headache.  Throbbing, pounding, light-sensitive headache.  Argh.

Hey, I have had worse days.  This year.

I got the boss to answer a few questions that I submitted, half jokingly…I didn’t expect answers, but after he did answer them he did give me permission to publish them, so…here goes.

E.J.: Okay, what’s the thing you’re proudest of?
WFDV: Wow. Tough one. Probably my children. There are days I wouldn’t bother taking my first breath if they weren’t in the world.

E.J.: Your greatest disappointment?
WFDV: More of a disillusionment - that the success of a relationship rarely has anything to do with the sacrifices you make for it. A hot and bitter drink that is to swallow.

E.J.: Living author you admire most?
WFDV: Aside from myself? Hmmm…you had to make it living? Cecil Adams, who does the "Straight Dope" columns. I learn from him and he amuses me. "Behold the snow. It fornicates" Still cracks me up every time I think of it.

E.J.: One thing you’ve read and said "I wish I’d written that?"
WFDV: "The Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore. Yeats wrote a foreword. It won the Nobel for Literature. It is amazing.

E.J.: One thing you’ve written you wish you could unwrite?
WFDV: Ha! I knew this was a trap! Trying to get me in trouble again, hm? Well, Mr. Smarty Pants, let me tell you…I may not like the poem "Weaver"…I may find it lame, amateurish and insipid. But…it has got me laid. So, I can’t count it anymore. Hmmmmm….er…"The Strings of Pearl" as it turned out that muse was a ruse. I hate wasting intellectual and emotional energy on a con.

E.J.: If you could control who or what your next muse would be like, what would you build?
WFDV: Wow, dangerous question. I guess I would love to fall in love with a woman who comes from a different culture than I, perhaps China or Japan, maybe Eastern Europe. Even Russian. It would add to the breadth of the relationship, it would make it more of a learning experience. I’d also like to see someone tackle translating some of my works into other languages. I know it is only a matter of time, but I’d love to see it now, so I can see how it goes.

E.J.: The three people you miss most, every day?
WFDV: Too easy. My daughter, Peri. Then Brigit. Then Alisha. I never learned the knack for making close friends with men, so my daughter, then my lovers, have always been my closest friends.

E.J.: If I gave you one wish, what would you wish for?
WFDV: A means to an end. For one of my books to take off like a rocket and be sold for a movie adaptation. The money from that could fix a lot of mistakes I’ve made.

E.J.: Which book?
WFDV: Well, at this time it would have to be THE COMPLEAT PANTHER CYCLES, as it tells a story…but give me a few months. I was actually working on a children’s book a few months ago, but it got so depressing, owing to my estrangement from my daughter…I just couldn’t do it. I was becoming suicidal just editing it.

E.J.: Whjo would you want to play you in the movie?
WFDV: William L. Petersen, been a huge admirer of his work since Manhunter and To Live and Die in LA. He’s got the gravitas, although he is better looking than me. Don’t ask about the other roles.

E.J.: Regrets?
WFDV: Not making things right with certain people in my life. Getting blindsided by duplicitous people…not for the pride, but because it then kept and keeps me from doing more than I can.

E.J.: Epitaph?
WFDV: He cared. He dared. He did.

There ya go, people…his next two books of poetry, to my knowledge, also do not have a story line…so I have little idea what he is intimating about another "concept" book. We shall see.

My guess is he is storing up a lot of emotional energy for his next muse and plans to make her the "breakwater" muse…the one that pushes the past back to where it belongs. He’s ragged, but raging.

What a day…and it is only noontime here.

Spoke with people from both the Appalachian Education Initiative and Arts Monongahela this morning. Everything still seems on track and I will be working with ArtsMon in the next few days to start cycling up the local publicity on "The Morgantown Suite Poems". Should be fun!

Got some notes from Dan McTaggart, the blue collar poet who is writing one of the intros to "The Compleat Panther Cycles" for me. It is nice to know that people still squirm when they read the 10th cycle…it is erotically charged and very evocative.

And I spent a length of the morning in exchange with the other locked-in introduction writer for the CPCs…this name may mean nothing to you unless you are a regular reader of my poetry, or from the olden days…but

Brigit

has come out of retirement. Yes, the "Goddess of Fire and Poetry" and "the Crimson Panther" has resurfaced to write a rather brilliant introduction to the works. Although I can’t say enough about how "catty" some of her statements regarding her predecessor are. Such is life. Predatory felines will be predatory felines.

For those of you who missed her, Brigit is the unbroken totem-mask of the muse that immediately followed the original panther, and was only named that because of a dream I had, sometimes referred to as "the dream of the three panthers, dancing" wherein I was in a featureless room, hearing old-time carousel music… around me, floating above the floor and circling, were three identical panthers, one of ebony, one of crimson and one of gold. I was very perplexed…then the music stopped and all three smiled at me at once, as if to say that I had to make some sort of decision or take some sort of action…I hesitated…and the music started back up…I awoke feeling that my indecision would have dreadul consequences.

Many have later assigned the "golden panther" to "the leopard" my ex-wife Ann. An I have, to this point, accepted these three women, each unique in her own right, as the logical symbols of the dream…only time will tell, if even it breaks silence.

Anywho, it was a delight to spend some time in the company of someone who knows the process of creativity as well as Brigit does (not without purpose did I brand her "Goddess") as most people I have known seem to limit their knowledge of the arts to "Write me something." It gets tedious being a performing dog for people when they snap their fingers.

Anyway, Brigit stands of her own accord and I look forward to further collaborations with her. I am glad to have her back in my sphere.