City of Legends

and, yes, I know the world might spin off its axis if I do only one thing at a time.  but, it’s a chance I have to take.

Sitting here, working on about a dozen things at once, headphones cranked up to 11.5 on the Richter scale as I listen to Salme Dahlstrom’s "C’mon Y’all".  Don’t worry, the cats are reputed to have moved the Johannesburg and taken up residence in a small shanty on the outskirts while trying to find a concrete bunker to renovate.

The magazine is taking its time, but getting there.  The new book?  Not due for another few months.  New poetry?  You have no idea how much I have written in the past few days.  I feel like I have given birth.  To nonuplets.  Ah, music just slipped over to "Cells" by the Servant.  The instrumental version, wonderfully utilized in "Sin City".

Starting to itch towards Los Angeles, again.  Last time I left it wasn’t my choice, but my decision.  I had burned out my welcome devoting so much time and energy to a friend in trouble that I had burned most bridges.  Funny thing about burned bridges…they don’t grow back.  It has taken me this long to realize a lot of people I thought were my friends, not really.  LA is bartertown.  You trade on what you have for what you want and need.  With my network shot to shit and in a relationship that required almost 24/7 monitoring for the safety of my partner, I had to make a money move.  It sucked and sucks, but I don’t regret it as much as I would’ve regretted standing my ground.

My ex (#1) yesterday took a few divots out of my soul trying to engage me in recriminations about stupid things I had done twenty years ago, repented and apologized for, and paid toll on the highway to Hell long ago.  You have to let go of the past to embrace the present and the future.  Those things can hollow you out.  Christianity (the real kind, not the canned and sold as "unfit for human consumption" by and to people who want their God to fit them and their worldview) teaches you to apologize, ask forgiveness, then move on.  It is a statement of character when you can apologize and seek to make amends.  Self-flagellation went out with catamites.  We have become, or perhaps always were, a vicious and vindictive race and society.  It is sickening on all levels.  Inability to forgive is a serious character flaw and inconsistent with Christian teachings.

But, I digress…back to work.  Perhaps if I install and Einstein-Bose condensate field generator on my desk I can even do more…hmmm…

This just in, hearing that my Emerson, Lake & Palmer tracks are about to come up on my iTunes, the cats have booked cargo space on the next shuttle.  Ingrates.

My 1st ex-wife, Jan, does not want to watch the TV series, Californication, starring David Duchovny as a blocked writer who takes out his frustrations with alcohol, drugs and women.  Mostly women.  She thinks it is too close to home regarding me, despite the fact I never have done drugs or been a drinker of alcohol, and my romantic misadventures in California are greatly exaggerated by lost souls looking for icons.  One hack, a few years back, even posted a bio of me, stating that while in Los Angeles I had engaged in "high profile affairs".  I still laugh at that one.  The only thing that has ever really made my lovelife "high profile" is the fact it fuels my poetry.  If that is "high profile" call TMZ and tell them they owe me a suitcase full of money.

My son, Elric, on the other hand, is convinced that somewhere, somehow, one or more of my writers friends have had a hand in the writing of the series and that Duchovny’s character, Hank Moody, is at least partially based on me.  I don’t see it.  Hank Moody is completed absorbed in his talent so that when it doesn’t work right, he implodes, he has a dichotomous relationship with his daughter that is more like best friends when it is good and painfully perplexing to him when it is in a slump.  He is rarely the aggressor with women, but finds himself in difficulty saying no.  He has a sardonic sense of humour, makes fun of himself easily and yet finds all women beautiful.

Hold it.  Maybe Elric is on to something. 

Nah.  I’d never cheat on Natascha McElhone.  Or Tea Leoni.

But many of his flaws and foibles are common in creative types and thus the resonances.  I find the show sometimes painfully spot-on.  I recognize many of the characters from the show as archetypes and find a certain smug joy in remembering the names of those who were those people in times past. I’d name names, but some of them would not appreciate the use of their names here.  Or anywhere. 

That having been said, I miss Los Angeles.  No matter what my birth certificate or high school diploma say, LA is home (particularly Venice).  I look forward to, in the next year or two, returning on a permanent basis (as permanent as I get) now old enough and wise enough to better weather the storms of its own fickle charms.  If I ever vanish mysteriously, start the search there, it will save you some serious legwork.

A sidenote:  I also find amusing the lawsuit pressed by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, claiming that the producers ripped off their album title for the series title.  Sorry, dudes, if that’s the case then the Morgantown High School Red and Blue Journal has you in their sights, as I read that play on words (Californication) in their pages in the early seventies.  Pay up, they could always use some renovations.

There is nothing like the smell of the Pacific Ocean.  Add to that fresh Santa Ana winds and I am home.  Not quite, I’m an hour or so south of Los Angeles, but I am in the sphere, in the vicinity.  Near the source.  More than a decade ago Aldo Alvarez asked me why I wanted to move to Los Angeles, considering how plastic it is.  I don’t find it plastic.  I don’t find it false or fraudulent.  I find it alive.  Pulsing. 

People ask me where I am from all the time, unable to define my regional accent.  I’m sort of pan-regional, having lived all over the United States, and listening with a chameleon’s ear to so many actors and recording artists.  I am not a city boy or a country boy.  I am not New England or the Deep South.  Not Midwest or Boston or Texas or Slacker Coastal.  A little bit of everything, thrown in the blender and spun until the ingredients are forced into a homogenous concoction.

But here, in Southern California, it’s like the elements touch me.  The winds charge me.  The sky draws out the venoms in my wounds.  I inhale the scent of the sea, of the nightblooming jasmine, and suddenly I can sleep a full night without a twitch.  I’m not hungry or thirsty.  My step lightens, my aches ease, my headaches vanish.

I am at peace.

Aeons ago, during the 1st exile (right after my first divorce, when I was in Los Angeles), I was fixed up with a former opera singer on a date. It was just lunch. We had met socially at an event featuring my good friend David Demeter, who is a very successful drummer in the LA music scene, and a friend of a friend passed word that she wanted to see me socially.

We had a pleasant enough lunch, no major awkwardness, and even agreed to see each other the next weekend. Knowing she had a 10 year old child from a previous marriage, I even did the gallant thing to reassure her that I was not kid-phobic and told her that after the recital we were going to attend, we could all three go out to lunch. She seemed pleased.

A few days before the date I got word from one of the mutual friends that she (the opera singer) did have a criticism of me from our first date. She felt my "dating skills" were "primitive".

I was taken aback, having usually been accused of being too charming in conversation, and having been raised appropriately by my mother to be a gentleman. I asked for further clarification and was told they’d try and find out in what area I was failing the civilization test.

Word came back the next day that the issue was that I did not talk about myself enough on the first date. That I asked a lot of questions about her, but did not follow them up by offering up information about myself. I always had thought that people liked it when you didn’t start every sentence with "I" (of course, this being LA, that might be a little alien). I was truly flabbergasted and, although I went through with the date and even took her and her daughter to lunch afterwards, I let the potential relationship drop there.

The truth is, I am not aversive to telling people about myself, it just usually doesn’t occur to me unless asked (yes, just wait until Barb Holmes and I do the interview thing, you’ll get plenty). Maintaining a blog is a bit of a stretch for me, as most of what I am expected to write about is me; my day, my feelings, my poetry, my books and CDs and appearances. I find me…boring.

So, here’s a break. For you and me. I’m going to drop the topic of me for a bit and write about politics, religion, society, television, film, how to make grilled cheese sandwiches that don’t stick to the griddle, the theology of love, and all those other ten gazillion things that are not about me, per se.

We’ll see how long this lasts…and if you get bored and want to find out what I am up to, go over to Amomancer and read the poetry for the bread crumb clues to my heart and soul.

I am back on the East Coast.  On MY computer.  Still slightly reeling from the whole eight billion degree weather in the San Fernando Valley and the assassination attempt by a corporate spokesman chihuahua, but keeping my sense of humour.

I will give a full, unvarnished and truly surreal report later.

Right now, I need a pillow.  To myself.  For a few hours.

It was hot yesterday, and we are due for a reprise today. I jet out late this evening. I have had an interesting time, the heat…the food poisoning, these were not great…but spending so much time with Peri and getting to do some background research on some of the mindgames being played on the web, that was entertaining.

On more pleasant fronts, here is one of the first official entries in the TVC2008 contest, which caught my attention:

That’s no typo. It was 114 degrees in the San Fernando Valley yesterday. And by reports it is that hot today.

Smelting steel on your car hood, anyone?

The food poisoning is facing, although I am left with some temporary infirmities that I am working around. I adapt, as anyone who actually knows me will tell you. I am sort of like the description that the android Ash gives of the facehugger alien after serious scientific analysis in the movies Alien:

Well, it’s an interesting combination of elements making him a… tough little son-of-a-bitch.

Barb, it has been said before…wounds are possible. Death? Unproven.

I am getting stronger. Not happy with the aches and pains and inconveniences, but maybe this was God’s way of a) making sure I did keep to my promise to modify my diet and b) get me to rest. Maybe food is now my enemy? That would be interesting.

Spent some time this morning with Peri. In fact, I have spent time with her every day since Tuesday. It has been nice. I picked up some new running shoes and got back to walking. Brutal, in my condition, but I have been easy on myself on several fronts and I am not going to hurl myself into the teeth of the world in anything less than full battle condition.

Any idea how much ice-cold lemonade hurts on a bruised stomach lining? Ouch.

Tomorrow evening I lift back to the DC suburbs. On Sunday I will complete the engineering on Evangelist and announce the final track list. Those who owed me tracks and don’t get them in by them? Screw em. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to keep moving, leaving others behind. I will see if they get something into me later worthy of release, but not on this CD.

I don’t know, based on the medical prognosis, if the damage done by the food poisoning will impact my stamina for the tour. We shall see over the next few weeks.

The heat persists. I am slowly regaining my strength (the pain is pretty overwhelming, though) and decided to drag my sorry ass to the nearest computer to check in with all and wade through my email.

I found out the following, in short order:

• Some individual wanted to apologize to me for having been mislead as to a quotation from me (someone else had told them that they were the originator). Not sure what the quote was, but if they think that’s the only case of plagiarism of my work I have been apprised of, I have news for them. Nonetheless, very classy to apologize.
• I can get a much larger penis by trusting my credit card number to someone who uses stolen email addresses to advertise their drugs and who can’t even spell my name right.
• The lady in the poodle skirt has a very, very dirty mind. This is a good thing.
• Despite a semester of Russian in college, I can’t read Russian advertisements for porn sites.
• Selkes, by their very nature, are slippery.
• Karla still likes the Braves.
• Banks I have never even heard of insist on asking me to go to a third party site and enter my account number for them, along with my password, Mother’s maiden name and zip code.
• Some childhood friend has bought into the Obama = deep cover agent for Muslim extremists conspiracy theory.
• I typo’d "sewer" in an online interview.
• Viagra has hundreds of different official sites, all of which write me under different stolen email addresses.

So, all in all, I was (for the most part) better off staying in bed and moaning.

I am getting stronger and will fill everyone in on the upside of my trip as strength allows.

I’ve always looked for the path.

Not the path to perfection, or spiritual enlightenment or wealth or fame or glory. Or even love.

Just the path.

My prayers are usually very simple. One line: "God, show me the path I am to follow."

It occurs to me that a lot of people don’t understand that. I don’t care, usually. Sometimes it bothers me, as no one likes to feel cut off from their own humanity and the fellowship of others. But that’s the way it is. The way I am.

It occurs to me that I have, of late, been walking the path without always knowing where it was leading and whether it was for my benefit or that of others, and what those benefits might be. Very confusing.

But, over the last year, I have written and recorded some of the best work of my life, had the opportunity to become close with some remarkable people who have enriched my life, and I theirs, I believe.

If everyone is happy, healthy, safe and strong, I am content.

From my tone, can you tell I am in LA? Yes, I am jacked back in to the core of my existence. In the end this is where I most probably belong, where I feel at home, and where the strength to walk the path derives from.

I was happy to find that I still have substantial time on account at PlaNet Cyber on Topanga, which is where I am writing this from.

And responding to some interesting emails.

Over the next few days, expect some interesting things to be discovered, uncovered and recovered.

I am on the path.

I have said before that my life, begun in Norman Rockwell middle-America, often seems to have been painted in adulthood by Salvador Dali.  Yesterday was one of those days.

• Readers of my Amomancer blog will find, sans explanation, a curious poem about  a beautiful woman practicing Yoga in a Poodle Skirt .  It is not my place to explain that one.
• The gentleman for whom I currently am producing proposals for has decided I work too hard and is forcing me, depending on the outcome of a meeting today, to take a vacation, at his expense, for a week, in Los Angeles (my favourite city on the planet).  He’s not taking "no" for an answer, or so it seems.
• A selection of people out of my past have suddenly cropped up on Facebook, wanting to be my friend.
• My full shipment of books and CDs for the tour arrived, all at once and are currently crowding me at my computer desk.

Taken one at a time, these might all be just little quirky things (okay, the poodle skirt thing is bizarre) but all together, they draw me out of mainstream reality into a world that Rod Serling should be narrating.  What next?  Am I going to grow a third arm?