City of Legends

Today I slipped over to Facebook and found myself startled.

I startle easily, but I also startle well…think of old Tex Avery cartoons and you get the idea.

There, in the right column was a list of upcoming birthdays from my friends.

Okay, two of my friends have the same birthday, tomorrow, January 13. So? Not like that doesn’t happen. In fact, my older brother Robert? His firstborn, Crystal, was born on his birthday. Now that’s a neat trick. But, I digress.

The two friends are Janet Innes and Claiborne Schley-Walsh. Those of you who know me well would find that interesting, twice over. First ,because I did not know the birthdays of two of my closest and most beloved friends on the planet after all these years, but also because they occupy such similar roles in my life. Come to think of it, I think I met them both for the first time within a few months’ span.

Both live a good distance from me and I never get enough time to keep in touch with them. So far, not such a big deal, huh?

Now for the meat, part one: Jan Innes was editor for several of my books. "Claibie" organized the two Southern Poets Reading Tours I read with. Getting better huh?

Part two, anyone? I met them both through the AOL Writers Club, and both championed specific women I met through there as relationships for me: Jan kept me from walking away God knows how many times when "the Panther" was up to her roller coaster emotional roller coaster, and Claibie all but shoved me through the door in my getting closer with Karla Frances Sasser, the Mad Gypsy. Of course Claibie also placed two hands firmly on my back and applied pressure for me to take the possibility of a relationship with a much younger woman, Ann (who ended up being my second ex-wife). I don’t think Jan ever tried a second pass at matchmaking for me.

They are both fantastic ladies who I have nothing to say but glory and praise and I am delighted they are still in my sphere of contacts. My life is better for their having been in it.

Happy Birthday, Jan and Claibie…and here’s to the comet that must have passed over the world that most auspicious day!

There’s an old psychological test called the “I am” test, where you write the words “I am” down a piece of paper, then finish the sentences (I have heard it given in 10, 20 and even 100 sentence versions). Sometimes they ask you to prioritize the sentences, sometimes they ask you to pick the one or two most important. There is great variance to the way it is administered.

I remember the first time I heard about it, in the book “We Seven“, which was ghostwritten to be by the original seven Mercury astronauts. I didn’t pay much attention to the passage at the time, although I recall one of the astronauts saying that when he took the test during selection process, his last entry was “I am a prospective Mercury astronaut”. He thought that may have given him a bump.

I took the test for the first time, as I recall, in high school. I remember being surprised by some of my answers, particularly when it came down to selecting which were the most important to me. I remember son and brother, Christian and poet were all on the list. I don’t recall what else I wrote at that time.

But I recently asked myself the question as to what would be my answers if I gave myself the test today. I thought for a moment, trying to separate myself from pre-conceived notions of self, and let ‘er rip. The list came out like this:

1. I am a poet
2. I am a man
3. I am a father
4. I am a deist
5. I am a brother
6. I am a son
7. I am a born-again romantic
8. I am a writer
9. I am middle-aged
10. I am alone

That wasn’t the priority, just the order they came in. Some would quibble that 1 and 8 are repetitive. I say those people can blow it out their asses. A writer is a statement of something you do, I am a writer, I write. A poet is something you are. You can write poetry and not be a poet. The poets reading this will understand, the others will either scratch their heads or accuse me of arrogance, egotism or wordplay.

Some will have issue with my describing myself as a deist rather than a Christian. Sorry, although I believe quite firmly in the divinity and message of Jesus Christ, I also believe that God made many paths to the truth. We can’t tell God what box to sit in.

The alone one will make some friends squirm. I am not saying I do not have friends and even those who mean more to me than that. I just feel that I am in a space of solitude, of isolation, put there by my own vows and actions, and it may be a place I reside for the rest of my life. I am uncomfortable with that, but resolved to it. Screaming under torture is not the same as surrender.

The middle-aged is aggravating. I hate the limits my body is trying to place on me. I plan to punish it horribly for its lack of cooperation. Hint: I wore my running shoes to work today. My knees and ankles will be cursing me in German before the day is out.

I am a man, last time I looked (let me check. yep). And I am proud to be father to three wonderful kids who drive me nuts but love me nonetheless (why is it my course in life to love difficult people?) I am content as son to my parents, who are good people who raised me well and just this past weekend celebrated their 56th wedding anniversary.

I swiped the phrase “born again romantic” from someone who used it and credited the rebirth to me, once upon a time. It wasn’t until I saw those words that I realized that I had lost faith in love, and it had been restored. If asked to prioritize these ten definitions, that one would place second or third.

Because “poet” would place first.

It defines me. It’s the label that stuck because it’s what I got handed as I came through the door into this life. I’ve tried to dodge, dislodge and disavow the label more than once, but it is who I am and it is, I believe, who I was made to believe, it is part of my path. Jan Innes’ ex-husband remarked upon reading the Panther cycles that I didn’t write poetry, I lived it.

He was right. And it is in that fantastic sphere that most of my greatest triumphs and most horrific heartbreaks are seated. But in the end, it is more than what I do. It is who I am.

And I live my life, what is left of it, secure in knowing who I am. Which makes me perhaps the most fortunate man I have ever known.

So to the God who slipped me the ticket, to the teachers who gave me the tools, to the lovers whose kisses and corruption have hammered this molten heart to make it into shapes and functions never before seen, I thank you all. It is with extreme gratitude (although the occasional wish for a kiss, a hug and perhaps saner sojourners on the trail) that I admit that once that sentence, that “I am…” is completed, the other nine become superfluous. My love for my family flows through my work, my romantic streak is born in it and is fed from it, my love of God is a part of my talent which I use as a form of my own strange liturgy to the Creator.

I am poet.

I don’t know why I "get" Warren Zevon, but I do and always have.  The late, twisted composer of some of the most truly bizarre rock songs in history always speaks to me.  From Werewolves of London to Lawyers, Guns and Money, the Z has a special place in my heart and consciousness.

And one of his best songs, in terms of stirring me, is Mohammed’s Radio…a song that has passed into the distance in no small part because of Western paranoia over Moslem extremism.  Well, Jihad them if they can’t take a joke.

I downloaded both Linda Ronstadt’s brilliant cover of it this evening from iTunes, as well as the Z’s live rendition.  And they strangely calmed me.  I think Warren Zevon’s self-destructive cycle speaks to me like Bob Fosse’s Joe Gideon avatar, played by Roy Scheider in All That Jazz.  I think people expect creative artists to be a bit unbalanced.  Sorry, folks, move along…nothing to see here except when the peacock is in bloom.  Aside from a tendency to blunder into really, really drama-laden relationships, I’m as boring as life gets.

I’m lucky.  I am in good health.  I still command a decent price in the marketplace.   I have three beautiful, healthy children and friends who would have my back if Hell came for me.  I tend to lone wolf it a bit too much, am somewhat gullible and take horrific risks when someone calls for Superman, but that’s not as bad as some traits I could have, I guess. 

I have decided that when I do my interview with Barbara Holmes later this month to give her a listen to the full package of the CD Evangelist, so she can write her impressions.  After her and the gentleman who has already asked to interview me for his online zine, I’m packing it in for interviews.  Everything I have worth saying I’ll say in my poetry and songs. 

Jan Innes once said I don’t write poetry, I live it.  Might as well take it all the way, you know?  This world of mumbling mediocrity needs a little more elegance and eloquence, and maybe I can’t save the world, but I can inspire one or two more voices downrange…you never know.  Too many people wrapped up in their self deceit and self-defeat.  The violence and venom of this world are not the disease, they are the symptoms. 

We are the disease. 

We need to learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all (as Warren Zevon did, when the pain of life wasn’t killing him by driving him to excess).   Judge me for who and what I am and have done, but my poetry has never lied to me, ripped me off or tried to do anything other than make life a little lighter, brighter, clearer and dearer for me and for others.

That’s the message, coming into focus, I plan to take on the road.

Guess what just came on my iTunes?  Requiem For Soprano, Mezzo Soprano, Two Mixed Choirs & Orchestra.  From 2001:  A Space Odyssey.  The sound of the monolith.

Spooky.