City of Legends / William F. DeVault

I am about to head back to DC (normally a big whoop, but I made a promise to keep Candy informed when I took trips, and will dutifully record when I arrive).

On that topic.

Ms. Candy Tothill is without a doubt in my mind one of the most talented, brilliant and loving people I will ever have the pleasure to accept into my life. Do not interpret any expression of my own frustration over her complexity (she describes herself openly as "difficult") as a criticism of her or an indication that my love for her has flagged a hairsbreadth.

I have studied her poetry (even those pieces not about me), spoken hundreds of hours with her and had the honor of reading her yet-unreleased book Losing People, which I can only hope she would allow me to write a jacket blurb for. I have said before that there will come a time when she is regarded as South Africa’s greatest cultural export, and I stand on that. I have told her things out of me that no other human being has ever heard me express, and she is without a doubt the most important person in my life.

I think her decision to give me equal footing on her marvelous blog, InsideCandy, was wrong-minded, and I told her so, and I have made no attempt to limit or eliminate her right to post and comment upon my blog to her heart’s content.

To use her own expression, stolen from Moonstruck, I love her awful.

3:45 am…eastern daylight time (9:45 am Johannesburg) An SMS (text) message from Candy Tothill speeds its way at the speed of light towards my cell phone (the time is the timestamp on the message, which may be from any of several nodes) The content (sparing you poor people the mushiness we enjoi) is "Had to go to meeting, will not be on at 11, will call later"

4:50 am…eastern daylight time (10:50 am Johannesburg) I am awakened by my alarm, check for messages (none) and stumble downstairs, glass of ice water in hand, to have my morning catchup call with Candy

4:58 am…eastern daylight time (10:58 am Johannesburg) Having checked my email, comments and FaceBook, I bring up Skype, call Johannesburg and get…Candy’s voicemail. Well, pooh. She’s probably in the next room fixing coffee or had something come up. I’ll try later.

5:09 am eastern daylight time (11:09 am Johannesburg) Checked messages again (still nothing) and I dial again…still nothing on either line. Double pooh. I leave a note in case she comes on that I am going to take a shower.

5:27 am eastern daylight time (11:27 am Johannesburg) Checked messages again, dialed again. Main phone make funny noise and dies after two rings. I try again and am greeted with busy signal, as it is still ringing from my first call. Leave good-natured voicemail on cell.

5:30 am eastern daylight time (11:30 am Johannesburg) Remembered I owed Candy a rewrite of my most recent post on her blog. Procrastinate for five minutes by playing with cat.

5:35 am eastern daylight time (11:35 am Johannesburg) Start rewrite of post.

5:47 am eastern daylight time (11:47 am Johannesburg) Finish rewrite. Congratulate self. Check messages. Try Candy’s phones again.

5:50 am eastern daylight time (11:50 am Johannesburg) Check CNN and politico.com, consider going over to Warcraft for a few.

5:59 am eastern daylight time (11:59 am Johannesburg) SMS arrives (see 3:45 am eastern daylight time) I respond, letting her know it took its time getting to me.

6:02 am eastern daylight time (12:02 am Johannesburg) I decide to write piece about the dependence we have on our technology, disguised as narrative of communications timeline.

6:19 am eastern daylight time (12:19 am Johannesburg) I finish entry and publish.

All the works I have been writing of late, for months, all of them, have been directly or indirectly of and about Ms. Candy Tothill, whom I love and adore and am devoted to. Just to make the record clear.

Insane weekend, featuring:

*Business presentations being prepped in the US and South Africa, including one for the US Army.

*A near arrest of a small, feisty woman by a small army of policemen.

*Various ghosts of the past manifesting themselves to their own folly.

*A box of assorted doughnuts.

*The dimensions of a book of poetry.

And I won’t explain any of the above. But Candy knows.

Some of you trying to access Candy’s wonderful Inside Candy blog may be getting a "temporarily unavailable due to bandwidth concerns" notice. That’s what we get for trusting a hosting provider we find out about on a cereal box.

Actually, it is a very temporary thing and should be resolved in the next few hours, there has just been an explosion of interest in her site in the last few days, and deservedly so and I think everyone was taken off guard.

She is amazing, people. I’d share her with you all but she’s mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

I’m a happy miser.

"I wish to announce that a miracle has just been performed. Yesterday I finished editing "As Such…" and I have, just this instant, completed the Foreword." - Candy Tothill

I hijacked this draft message from Candy (she didn’t know I was going to…but I saw it and went…what the hell…), as she is currently suffering under one of those patented "load shedding" events that Eskom likes to inconvenience people with. They regularly shut down power to entire cities, as South Africa has a problem generating enough power for their developing infrastructure.

I have gone over Candy’s edits: Excellent. She was thorough, even brutal. But I loved it. I can get lazy and sloppy, but she was willing to go toe to toe with me.

And the Foreword? I have told her that if she wishes to post it here or to her blog Inside Candy she is more than welcome. It is a beautiful piece of writing by a woman who takes my breath away with her talent.

I am honored by her words and her affections.

Over the next few days a select group of ninja wordsmiths will fan out around the world with eBook editions of the volume, for the express purpose of writing blurbs for the jacket.

Then, at 6 pm, EDT, on Sunday, March 23rd, which is the stroke of midnight into March 24th in Johannesburg, South Africa, I will activate links in several places that will make the eBook edition available as a free download to any and all who want it.

For 24 hours.

Yes, I know there will be those who will be content with the eBook and not hustle to buy the hardcopy, which will be available initially from the City of Legends, but eventually (it takes a few weeks if you don’t want to buy access like the major houses of mediocrity do) the book will be available through Barnes and Noble, Amazon, et alia. But this is something I want to share. Something I need to share. And while money is nice and would solve a few logistical problems in my life, the spiritual rewards of affirming that love is alive to the world are far greater.

Look to the skies for some surprises over the next few days. I’m just getting warmed up.

I would rather live my life as ronin than ever love another.

The kind souls at War of Art wrote a charming bit on the business of blogging and paid particular attention to my love and life, Candy Tothill, and her blog "Inside Candy"

War of Art discusses personal blogging

I would suggest you read this…

I am boycotting posting anything new on this blog until my co-author posts something. I am starting to feel like I am taking over hers!!

God love you, Candy. Wait until you see what miracle this genii next performs.

The other day I and my lady love were talking about everything and nothing when the Candiferous one herself said "I want to ask you a question…" which is usually a bad sign except I have done nothing to be worried about from her, at least I do not think so (she has a temper, or so I am told, but she keeps it well in my presence, or maybe I just don’t annoy or bore her as some do?)

Digression which will get back to the point: Where do you think is the first documentable evidence of my affection for the unbelievably marvelous Ms. Candy Tothill…was it back in mid-September 2007 when I posted "The Island of the Sweet Siren" on Author’s Den?

Nope.

Maybe a few weeks before that when I released the poem "Above room temperature" in which I accused her of settling for men well below her worth? Nah.

Back to the conversation…

Candy said "A few years ago you dedicated something to me on Author’s Den and I always meant to ask you why…"

So we pulled it up and there on February 18, 2006, was my timestamped first posting of "The Ronin in the Temple of Aphrodite" with the dedication "Thanks to Candy Gourlay for the inspiration (don’t ask how)." Back then she was known to me by her previous married name.

I had to be upfront with her. I was cornered, so I relied on the truth.

I explained how, as a part of my whole personal renaissance I had decided to follow my own advice from my poem "In the memory of lovers" and live by the credo to "take no pretender, again, to my bed". But I also wanted to benchmark my heart. I wanted, if I was to be alone for the rest of my days, to at least stand for a purpose, a standard.

And who better than my friend Candy? Brilliant, insightful, deep, beautiful and talented. I figured if I couldn’t have someone who lived up to Candy’s benchmark of everything, I’d just skip the next few courses. Truth!

But now her memory brought us back to that inscription and I had to confess that I had, for some years, considered her about the most perfect woman I knew, just unattainable.

I guess, if you wait long enough, and hold to your standards, a few miracles are bound to come your way.

Mine did.

Knee deep in sleep I creep to the edge and look over it. A long way down.

That’s life, you know. Measuring the moments that may not cooperate in what you think is best, testing the waters to see if they hide diamonds or an unsubtle agenda.

Denying choices you’ve made, and parading serenades you have doubts about, shouting lies in hopes that the repetition at least mocks sincerity.

I’ve been writing, pencil or pen to paper, fingertips to keyboards, for four and a half decades. Who knows how long before that the nature/nurture controversy made its background bend and the emotions befriended the vocabulary. How long did it take for me to realize that I had that stripe? I know the answer, but the question is could I have just painted over it and become another grey piece of the grey clay of the grey day that never ends well?

Forgive my posture. I am of a mood to ponder, aloud (blame Candy, she gets me stirred up and I am stuck with the aftermath, having allowed myself into chambers of my nefarious heart and intricate soul that even I never knew were there).

So I think, aloud. I resent the present, as it traps me from tomorrow. I have no affection for the past except as a plastic-bead necklace used as currency for people who have no defensible values. I have made no excuse for myself, and find myself in a sky pocked with abstractions I am still trying to find convenient collapsible handles on and in.

And there aren’t any. So I have to look at things in new ways, which is a great exercise for the brain and heart and soul…but it is painful.