City of Legends

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.

In the last 48 hours I have encountered more Ghosts of Christmas Pasts than I thought existed. Old friends (and a few not so friendlies) emerging from the ether to speak of things that they felt I needed to hear, or at least they needed to say. And it is all good.

I’m not going to pretend the past year has been anything short of a proving ground for some principles and philosophies. I’ve failed on a few, won on most of the rest and am still waiting the sound of falling shoes on a couple. All in all, a stellar year, and one I will remember fondly (believe it or not).

My dear Mother is prone to say that I am the sort of person who can fall in horse shit and get up smelling roses. She’s right. I may have my dark times, usually when I am in pain of a physical or spiritual nature, but I am pretty durable and amazingly optimistic. I perceive hate, fear and rage as venoms against me, even when I am their source, and thus I don’t let them stick around long. They do their damage, I heal and hope I learned something from the encounter that will reduce the likelihood or intensity of the next meeting.

You can condemn my methods, my talents and even my results, but that merely means you have issue with them. I won’t deny I’ve screwed a few things, a lot of things, up and badly. But on the whole, if you assemble in a room the 100 people who know me best and have seen me in my broadest spectrum, I am content I get an acquittal, and maybe even a round or two of applause for the effort.

The mere fact I am right now pondering the logistics of assembling such a group indicates how daft I can be. The second sign of daftness is that many people who think they know me best don’t have a clue. And there are some people who figured me out in the first thirty seconds I knew them whom I would love to see in that assembly.

I slept badly last night, my back is sore and my neck is stiff. Pollen is driving my sinuses bonkers right now. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder doing yard work and I’m still wearing yesterday’s socks (ugh). I have to deal with the possibility of canceling my tour, or at least scaling it back, due in no small part to an 89 cent burrito from Taco Bell that almost laid me out. It’s bad when you see strips of your own stomach lining. I felt like a starfish.

But I am resolute and working hard to finish the CD and get myself in the best shape I can for touring. I am working hard on my emotional hygiene, as that will be more important than anything in my making it to and through the Evangelist Tour. I am asking a lot from myself. More than ever before.

I pondered taking a lover, but Karla, of all people, smacked me upside the head and reminded me that without the spiritual aspect, it would do me more damage than good. Of course, she’s gotten some more recently than me, says one side of me, looking to shout her down.

I got cute yesterday and made "flair" on FaceBook of all my CD and book covers, sans one which I withheld out of respect for the feelings of a few people who would not hesitate to butcher me in public if they thought it would ease their personal pain. You should, if on FaceBook, swing by and get some…and sign up as my friend, I can always use more friends, even if you haven’t yet passed the test (no one has, so don’t sweat it, I just sleep with one eye open and am tougher than I look).

My son, Elric, is helping me with the music for the final tracks for the Evangelist CD. That is exciting, in many, many ways. And, if you haven’t been over on Amomancer in a while, or don’t like the tone of the malediction poems, wait a few days and strap in…there’s something coming up that will melt the icecaps and dry up Iowa. At the same time.

If you were sitting in my family room right now, watching me dance at the keyboard, you’d probably figure out pretty quickly that, despite the fact I am wearing my earbuds, I am listening to Morris Day and the Time performing Jungle Love.  The moves are obvious.

But I am not here to talk about my sublimely masterful footwork.  Nope.  I am just here to say good evening and lay out the schedule as I see it over the next few weeks or so.

I am postponing a final decision on the tracks for Evangelist for two weeks.  This will hem in the production schedule, but it’s my work so I get final say.

No new book until next Spring, if then (we all know how I suck at keeping those promises), tentatively entitled Return of the Ronin.  Of course, I like the title so much I might steal it for a CD.  We shall see.

I am going to spend next week in California.  It was supposed to be this early in the year or solo, but I have ample offers for company and I will not be bored.  I will not be reading in California.  Under my own name.  In any place you’d think to look for me.  Ha!

Thanks to the lovely lady in the poodle skirt for helping me get my head on straight, and I would be remiss if I did not credit the amazing Karla Sasser for her updates form the City Streets Music Festival in Birmingham for helping me keep balanced.

Please, be thinking of the people in Iowa, battling the floods, and those who will continue to be displaced and challenged by our own folly in neglecting the climate until practically too late.  The truth is the Hell on Earth we have manifested in foreign lands seems to be coming home to roost. 

I may be taking on a new crew of proteges.  More on this, perhaps, later.  I am tired and have a busy few days ahead of me.

The boys, with their mother’s help, gave me a nice Father’s Day dinner.

With the brain-curdling strains of Nutbush City Limits featuring the Ike and Tina Turner Review blasting holes in my eardrums, the evening rolls close to an end. An interesting day, to say the least, full of adventure, distractions and accomplishments.

Jezika™ and I finally selected the poem she is going to lay the techno magic to. I told her if it comes out well, it will be the opening bit to the tour. That’s right, the psychedlic kid has chosen (or as she put it, she fell in love with) "I rained poetry" to give the rave treatment to. Let’s see what it summons. Excitement.

Halfway through working on some technical details this evening I got a text message from Karla (The Mad Gypsy) Sasser, taunting me about the fact that she was texting from a concert in Birmingham, featuring Sheryl Crow and Shawn Mullins. Not a huge Mullins fan, but since Sheryl is my second alternate back-up wife if and when Candy grows tired of my antics, I should have been there.

The new poem "the rise of bragi" has spawned some interesting emails. Good. People, you have no idea what’s about to happen, do you? Me neither, but I know the bend of the light when gravity warps. We be ready for Gotterdamerung. It’s a simple equation, think of the human mind like an athlete’s body, you burn the immediately available fuels in the first portion of the marathon, becoming tired and achy and weary. Then, when you think you can’t take another step, the body flips a switch and the near-nuclear energy of secondary sources comes gushing out as your body becomes actually more efficient It’s called second wind or second kick. When I get really, really beat down, my brain does the same feat of prestidigitation. I spelled that right on the first try. Wow.

Thin Lizzy’s The Boys Are Back in Town just rose from the depths of my iTunes selection and drove red-hot razor-sharp steel barbs into my skull. Fun! The cat is hiding. Coward.

Everyone on your feet, The Z, Warren Zevon, is now pumping Werewolves of London…ahhhwoooooooooooo!

I have to go…the moon is full.

A friend called me last night to get caught up on things. I told him I could answer 99% of his questions in a paragraph. I paraphrase here:

"I am well, the kids are good, work is passable. Writing is good, the books and CDs are doing well and I am planning a massive, bone-cracking tour for later this year which will most likely end with either my death or my permanent relocation to Los Angeles or both. Fell in love, good for writing, bad for sanity, relationship seems to be in strange and alien territory, don’t ask. Grandma is getting out of the hospital, Dad and Mom are great and I should be finishing up a screenplay this weekend."

It felt like one of those Christmas letters people are so fond of putting out. I did an HTML version one year, I will have to see if I can find it.

Last night I stayed up way too late and laid down tracks for the Jezika™ collaboration (the ™ thing gets tedious) and for the revived Evangelist project. Made a wrong turn and allowed myself to connect with the material. Powered through. Larry, I owe you, man. When I see the damage done to so many people I care about, it makes me think you may be right. But I think it is a more of bad human judgment than anything else. Everyone wants to compromise, no one wants to be smart or do the right thing anymore. We want strawberries and steak in the blender. It rages me major.

Remind me sometime to tell you about John Henry and the 500 lb vibrator.

First off, let me start by pointing out the Feed Burner box to the right. If you use it, they will email you what I post here, without you having to come here to check. No kidding. I know many people who use it and I think you should think about it, unless you like to see the design and leave comments (a rarity here).

Secondly, the weekend of weirdness continues. I just got off the phone a few minutes ago with the fifth from last person anyone would ever guess.

No, not Ann (second ex-wife). And no, not Nancy (first love). Not the other Nancy (Brigit), either. And, no, not Alisha (that would even shock me).

It was my friend, former lover and peer Karla Frances Sasser, aka The Mad Gypsy. Seems she’s been following my professional and relationship news via my newsletter and was on her way back from a weekend with my poetry family..my big sis, Claibie and the amazing Larry Sampson, Dear old friends. I feel positively sustained and I promised to stop by the next time I make a cross country exile dash (I feel one coming on),

I was mucking around on Face Book briefly this evening when I came across an application I had all but forgotten, relating to my resolutions and goals for 2008. We’ll assume the one I flipped over on Day One is still valid, and that we can focus on the other four: Return to California, finish novel (or two), finish screenplay and find something true.

Truths, I have found, are a dime a dozen. Relevant truths a bit tougher to come by, Karla reminded me of that, and I thank her. She told me that no one she knew was better dealing with difficult times than me.

The return to California, which I have been envisioning as a whirlwind vacation a deux seems still on the books (I haven’t been told otherwise) but it is likely now to be part of a full on move back "home". Let’s face it, people, I was never happier than in Venice Beach. In the absence of a stabilizing and motivating relationship, which is where my heart really resides and I would live in a shed in Antarctica if that’s what it called for, my physical address should be just south of Santa Monica. The extra money I can generate in that environment will help fix many, many other things. The ability to focus is tuned by the night blooming jasmine. The Pacific Ocean has the second strongest draw on my soul of all things. You-know-who has a permanent lease.

The screenplays and novels are in the works, something you may notice if you associate with my new blog "Random Drafts and Chapters". It is interesting finally getting some of these to air.

So progress is slow, reverses are inevitable and life goes on. I’m weak but game, and my natural romanticism (which has, let’s face it, been brutalized in the past by some rather nasty treatment) is reasserting itself with a vengeance. Even my ex-wife Jan has expressed sympathy.

Wow, am I that beat up?

I would ask E.J. to post this on his website, but he’s on hiatus.

For those of you unfamiliar with this work, it is a remnant from my affair with the poet Karla Frances Sasser (and she lets me refer to her by name, she seems actually proud of our little hormone storm), who is referred to in my muses as "The Mad Gypsy". Hard to explain.

Anyway, while prepping for the psycho podcast that is overdue and killing me, she requested this poem for the entry about her. I could never refuse her anything (she actually was one of the people who pressed me into my second marriage, I sometimes say I only did it because she asked me to). It is an odd and very honest work, about how she could not bring herself to say "I love you" during our time together, as the emotional intensity was tearing her apart (I am not known for drawing-room affairs, more like spiritual cyclones that destroy small islands, end civilizations and overturn all but the hardiest and best handled of craft).

She loves to hear me read this, particularly with "that voice". How could I refuse her?

You Could Not Say the Words

you could not say the words
when the time came,
fear holding back the wet step
across a Rubicon I had already forded,
sliding into you as sacrament.

you writhed and sighed and tensed
with every motion made and splayed
wide your form to swallow whole
my every exploration of all
but your soul, kept inviolate from me.

and so, I fed on your warm flesh
and willing, eager, enthusiasm.
feeling legs entwine and the wine
spilling from you as though uncorked
from a vintage of jasmine and blood.

you could not say the words
but spoke with hungry eloquence
as merging lovers, unlabeled in your heart,
but springing well your Venus flytrap
on one who came to hear them.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Congratulations to Hanna Irvin, the daughter of my muse Karla Frances Sasser (aka the Mad Gypsy) for finishing third in the Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize for Young Writers.

To read her entry at the official website, you can click right here at the Kenyon Review site.

Congratulations Hanna. Like mother, like daughter, both gifted artists.

I was just reviewing my FreeFind report for the past week. A few things jumped out.

First of, some of you read my blog, then head to the website. Right after the Mad Gypsy was referenced on my blog, people were looking her up on The City of Legends. I would love to do a joint reading with her, again, when I tour in June…Karla? You’re up.

Secondly, we need to work on spelling. Someone was looking for the long form (heh heh) of my poem from the Goldenheart Cycles (isn’t it about time I standardized "Goldenheart" as to how to punctuate it?) titled "Impalement". Except they spelt it "impalment", which I think means the act of becoming friends. Of course, so does "impalement" in the context of that poem, just a very different kind of friends. Sigh.

I’m tired. Life is so much hard work. There are times I wonder how the Salieris of the world get through their days without killing themselves.

Me? I have my poetry and my muse. Yeah, my muse is 2500 miles away and unlikely to get much closer anytime soon (and there is a sizable chance this will be, like so many before her, an unconsummated relationship). But, for the moments of the wine, we plant the vinyard, eternally optimistic that the chances we take, the faith we place and the work we do will all bear fruit.

For we recall the taste of the wine, when it does so honor us.