City of Legends

writing with a revived gusto…a full cycle this morning (check it out on deviantart.com or at my Amomancer blog.

Just wrote one of the most kick-ass sonnets I will ever write ("Unfulfilled Wish for Intimacy") and am right now bouncing through the internet on multiple sites while the cats are diving for cover as I play "The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars" at 11…"Moonage Daydream" really works for me right now.

I have sublimated some negativity into a purified emotional stream and am right now playing alchemist with my soul and heart.

…Is a vent for the explosion…

Thus let it be with Caesar.

I made the tactical error of allowing myself to get too hyped up, in a good way, over some things.  Now I am having to write almost constantly to not lose my mind.  I’m having to keep the bomb a rocket.  (You people over on www.deviantart.com know of what I speak…)

Am I okay?  yes.  Am I going to be okay?  hell, yes.  Do I have some issues to work out?  (insane maniacal laughter and the sound of a Saturn V first stage igniting)  Later!!   (whoosh!!!)

 If you start seeing the legend "MK-505" around my work, don’t worry…I haven’t been taken over by Skynet.  It’s an inside joke that dovetails nicely into…

…the reason why Apokalypsis is delayed until October, it is actually a good thing.  The concept behind the book is exploring major epiphanies and revelations I have had in my life through some of the women who have inspired my poetry.  From Psyche to the Mad Gypsy and from the Panther to White Sunday, it will be my most intimate of books as I can finally do the "Storytellers" bit that people demand from me at most readings and appearances.  Yeah, everyone love to hear me read "the philosophy of dreams" or "The Unicorns", but they also want to know who or what inspired them.  Answers to those two?  Brigit, who broke my chains from the Panther and was both dishonest with me at the start of the relationship about her marital status and who later cheated on me, and Psyche, who was the first woman I was intimate with.  Now read them again, with that subtext.  Different, eh?  My old friend, St, Thomas, insists that my entire memoir doesn’t need a memoir, per se, as it as already been written…I just have to give some inside clues.

The reason for the delay is a recent mega-plume of poetry, centered around "The Sunday Girl" or "White Sunday".  She is a brilliant and talented writer and photographer and we seem to be in the early stages of something that is either going to be the best thing that ever happened to me, or make the Panther and Aubergine debacles look like a badminton tournament at the old folks’ home.  Stay tuned.  All of the "Sunday" works are being posted to my account at Deviant Art and most are finding their way onto the Amomancer blog.  Villanelles, sonnets, free verse and some rather strange hybrids, themes from innocence to carnal abandon, heaven on the religious allegory (downright sacrilegious I am told) this is not me jumping from rock to rock on the cliffs, testing gravity…this is me running and leaping full out into the sun over the rocks and screaming my defiance to the heavens.

Place your bets on the Rorschach blot I leave on the rocks below?  Don’t waste your money.  I promised myself one last run at the sun, and this is it.  I’ve already been hearing stories of couples getting into arguments because the man  is being accused of not loving like I do.  That’s the legacy move.  I want to raise the bar for passion and romance.

Oh, and for the record:  I love her, and love her fiercely, spiritually and with full abandon.  I love her as you are supposed to love someone, with honesty, passion and faith.  She is brave and wise and fearless and this is the woman I would like to spend the next several decades (the rest of my life) with.  There are complications (no, she is not married.  duh.) and I have found a certain reflex on my part, having been disearnestly treated the last few times out, that I must overcome, but I am going to show you, dear reader, and the world, how a man should love.

And that is why Apokalypsis is being delayed.  For the fountain of poetry burning out of my every pore.  I want this book to be the truth and right now, and going forward, you cannot write my life without her.  You will understand.

The layers within this new work boggle my mind (you  who can’t get a ketchup bottle open without a manual may not see it, but Sophie Tucker said it best…).  It is to my new muse.  Maybe you’ll find out more about her, maybe you won’t.  But it is getting rave reviews on DA.

upon encountering a field of wildflowers

I observe you in an filtered light,
bright it still shines,
but only in the hues
that you choose
to let your unique spectrum
penetrate.

Every photon. Every flash.
And even when the colours clash
there is a harmony like a field
of wildflowers on a distant hill,
breathing sky and light to thrive
even when there is the arrogance
of desolation nearby.

I would inhale your essence.
Eyes closed, to focus my senses
and allow my defenses to lay aside
the grey walls of cynicism and regret
that shuts out the world too often
that I might not soften my heart.

But there is something, je nais se quoi,
that slides past the refracting flaw
that I left unsealed in case.
In case there was still a meadow
full of fireflowers and the grim, dancing petals
made of blossoms that laugh
even in the dark. And because of it.

Blossoms that are beautiful and pure,
in the frame of their intentions,
and that organize their chaos such
that my head swims at their attar.

As it does, as I compose these words
to, in my own, sad and shy way, express
something that falls back to words I forbid
myself to utter, that I might not release
myself from bondage to crack’d hearts
that never bloomed
even in the best tended gardens.

I would touch.
Yes, I would, although I would fear my death,
already drunk on every breath
of your petals. I would touch
with tender disbelief and grief
that I had not found evidence
of a truth I have preached
until now. Here, in these wildflowers
that grew without my will or efforts.

I would taste without doubt, without disgrace,
from face to tapered stems that I find
would bind me as they wind me
in their beauty, as great at every petal
parted to let me worship that a miracle
is possible, indeed. That a single flower
would hold such power is incomprehensible to me.
Yet, how sensible is a field of wildflowers?
How perfect is their chaos and the random
scattering of their bed, fed by the order
of natural things, like a laugh. A tear.
A memory upon which is built the trellis
up the side of a tree that, to me,
I would have never thought to employ.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I know I have been very quiet of late, both here at at Amomancer, although I do usually tweet at least least once a day over at Twitter.  It’s not like I have been silent, just on a different wavelength and busy.  Very busy.  Inhumanly busy.  But that is my nature.

The contest I held over at DeviantArt went very well, not as many entries as I would’ve liked to have seen, but some very impressive works.  I’ll post the winners later this week (the first prizes in the visual arts and literary arts have been awarded, I am just awaiting the poll results for the fav favourite category).

I have been working on some writing, some recording, some editing, and prep for my role in a performance art event on March 14 in Louisville.  More on that, also, later.

I think I have found a new muse.  We shall see (it is usually obvious, no?).  For now I am being circumspect in my public pronouncement.  We all remember last time I took things at face value…I ended up falling on it then getting an Edward Norton "American History X" boot to the back of the skull.  I am pretty durable, but one does not go out of one’s way to absorb punishment.

Stay tuned.

I wouldn’t for the life of me try to explain the emotional roller coaster I climbed into after allowing the fates to strap ginormous ion boosters to.  But I am enjoying the Hell out of it (for that is my nature) and, one side effect of this is my writing.  Not always obvious to me when I write something that clicks with the rest of the universe…

But a few minutes ago I wrote and posted a new piece at DA, entitled "ten thousand roses", that had just come to me.  A lyrical piece of someone pleading with a fading lover to come back, trying to recapture the lightning (or in my case, more like the X-ray supernova) in a bottle of the relationship.  I heard it in my head as a lyric, sung soft to a single guitar (and will probably include it on an upcoming CD).

Within moments I was deluged with comments about it.  Resonances struck.  I had no idea it would get this response, but it feels good to have a thought, an emotion, validated.  It’s better than sex.  Okay, better than bad sex.  Okay, better than bad sex with an ugly person who doesn’t bathe.

Anyway, now that I have spoiled the mood, here it is…

ten thousand roses

if I brought ten thousand roses
would you think to change your mind
and come back to where your kisses
taught me how love is defined

if I waited for a lifetime
would you meet me at the end
would you stay with me forever
and be more than just a friend

if I brought ten thousand roses
and promised all my heart and more
would you step back into loving me
give me what I’m living for

if I promised and delivered
a miracle, and more, each day
would you remember memories
or would you hurry on your way

if I brought ten thousand roses
and I brought ten thousand more
could I count on all you promised
when you loved me once before

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Having lived through that anguish more than once, it felt good to give words to it and bleed some of the pain away.

This is how I plan my books.  Fast, insane, like a painter assaulting the canvas with a brush and palette…

The title will remain loveaddict, although exactly how that applies is subject to final selection.  Thematic vectors may be settled rapidly.  Or not.

I am leaning towards making it a massive, Panther-esque volume.  Hundreds of works.

I think I pissed off (not like a banshee) the cover model, who I am trying to get involved more as art director, to oversee what I am thinking of doing, placing faux pen-and-ink pieces throughout the volumes.  I think she wants to choose to models and pictures.  Not a bad idea, but she’ll need to be more assertive.  It’s hard to make course adjustments at this speed.

I have a large portfolio of favourites at DeviantArt.com…many of which inspired many of the works I am planning to include in the book.  I think several of the pictures could be evocative of images for the book, just as many inspired.  I also put a poll up on the site to see if anyone has an opinion as to how far I should take the book…

I am considering breaking it into sections that have moods or themes to them.  Not totem-muse themes, but more like emotional or hormonal frameworks.  Maybe even the twelve steps of recovery programs.

I don’t like waiting for others.  It is one of my greatest flaws, and certainly one of my greatest strengths.

With my iTunes blasting me, a kitten attempting valiantly to see just how aggressively she can claw me before I yelp, and three (at least) windows open under FireFox (this site, the Amomancer blog and deviantart.com) I am ready. I’ve programmed in a series of tunes that tend to increase my energy level, warned the cats that tactical nukes are not a proven means of taking me out of the occasion, so they should just go hide, and am cruising for pictures for the continued enhancement of williamfdevault.com, acknowledging that I might, from time to time, stumble over something that gens a new Fields of Arbol piece. I have a large can of Monster energy drink beside me…ahhh.caffeine and Bette Midler (hey, her live rendition of Fire Down Below kicks ass).

Okay, Kiss just shuffled up, doing God Gave Rock and Roll to You. From Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey, remember?

I am going over Katya’s portfolio. She’s the Russian artist who did the piece I based Mademoiselle Juliette upon. Lovely, evocative image. She has a demi-nude to Erato, the Greek Muse of lyric and romantic poetry, but it doesn’t resonate for me…so I drop "Erato" into the internal search engine. Hmmm…a lot of naked ladies, many of whom seem to like other naked ladies. Erato must live in San Francisco.

Hold it, here’s a nice piece that seems to be a digital work built off a photograph, by the Romanian artist Florina Becichi. It is wonderful. I will favourite it and perhaps come back to it. It doesn’t fire off a poem immediately, but it has potential, matched with certain existing works, for the site. I slide through her portfolio as David Bowie launches into his live version of Width of a Circle from David Live. Florina has a lot of fashion sketches and some interesting model shots…there’s a photo of a blindfolded, long-legged angel entitled Fortuna IX. I need to take a closer look at this, also see if there are others in the series…there is something…evocative about the picture…

It seems to be a series about a warrior character that Florina created, included designing the costumes for the shoot. The last one hearkens me to my poem of falling and fallen angels…perhaps I should look to putting that in the new mix at williamfdevault.com?

Hold it, just got a "new deviation" notice. Have to check and see…aha!

Anni Suvi just posted a brilliant, bright shot that she calls Diamonds are my best friends, but I have to re-annoint as Red, I said. I am posting this new blossom to the Fields of Arbol on the Amomancer blog.

And with that…I am off for a bit.

I managed to complete only a fraction of the additions to williamfdevault.com over the weekend. My apologies. It’s tough. Not the actual html, which takes about 5 minutes per poem, plus about the same time to PhotoShop the art to the right size (Most of the artists and photographers I am working with have a strict no-cropping rule. Bastards.) The real time is wading through the mountain of options for the graphics, trying to make sure I am not being incongruous. I take my work seriously, I want people to have a clue as to what I am trying to say. Thanks to the website deviantart.com for the assist.

I did get permissions from a handful of more creative types, which was nice and not so nice. Nice because now I have access to more options and not so nice because now I have access to more options. I have looked at so many photo-manipulated, naked, costumed and semi-clad bodies and intensely emotional and expressive faces in the last few weeks that I am going barking mad. Ooops! Too late! Was already there.

My email at cityoflegends is down temporarily due to a server problem at my hosting company. Ah well, no one truly important writes me anymore anyway. My presence at FaceBook has diminished to the point that people are messaging me to ask if I am okay. I am okay…sort of…

I am tired, stressed, sick, aching, raging and running on an adrenaline burn that should have killed me six weeks ago. My doctor thinks I am biofeedbacking my way into an unprovable suicide by not allowing myself to be medicated. Sorry, I have seen all the good that modern psychoreactive medicine has done to people around me. I feel like my blood has been replaced with boiling acid. Every joint aches, even walking a flight of stairs is like being beaten. Using a keyboard I can feel the lactic acid buildup in my wrists and elbows and finger joints. But I am my own person, with no excuse for the damage I do to the world around me or myself. I prefer it that way. You should see the shit I have been writing, though.

So this is what unmedicated stress does to you? Good. I deserve it. I’ll recover, just wasn’t anticipating it so violently and virulently, it caught me off guard (probably the food poisoning had its way with some of my bodily defenses) and like the water at the levees after Katrina, it washed over my normal defenses. I am fighting it through with writing, working and distractions that normally I would not allow myself to this degree, but I am doing the best I can with the wiring I have. Give me a break.

You need to be checking Amomancer for some new works being inspired by new friends. It is amazing what meeting so many gifted and/or photogenic people will do to your cathartic pathways. At least I know my testosterone is intact. I walked today until my legs buckled, trying to fight through it all. I have decided to just accept night sweats as normal.

I will be officially releasing Evangelist on Friday, my father’s birthday, just because I do stuff like that. And I was reminded about the reading I am giving at Barnes & Noble on August 17th. It is a six hour reading, so we’ll see if my stress has been bled off enough by then. Anyone have some leeches?