City of Legends

It has been more than three decades since I wrote those words, the title of this entry, "memory is the curse of those who care", embedded in the poem "Virgin’s Dawn".  And as time goes on, I appreciate more and more the wisdom of them.  I’ve never been a photo album kind of person (that and the fact that most of my childhood photos reside in the silt of the Gulf of Mexico) who needs his icons to recall his past.

Memory is not now.  It is not tomorrow.  It is a fading slate, worn down by the erosion of other memories and the moment that is upon us.  It is convenient in the abstract, for the most part, but not in the detail.

I treasure memory, I value it.  I even sometimes slip into it like a well-respected pair of socks or an anxious lover, but I never confuse it for the moment.  Or do I?

Many, many years ago I learned how to recouple to emotional states from the past, to relive them.  It is a nice tool to have if you are a writer.  I can take an experience from days, weeks, months, years ago and relive not necessarily the details of the moment, but the emotional topography of it.

Thus I can tell you what my first kiss was like.  Awkward, more than anything else, as I did not see it coming and it was over before I could express my appreciation for it.  The fact that there were eye witnesses in my best friend and older brother only made it more vivid and awkward.

I can tell you what that surge of adrenaline feels like when something darts towards you out of a bush at 5 o’clock in the morning, howling like death itself.  For the record, Sherlock, the basset hound, who was my nemesis as I worked my morning paper route in the hills around Morgantown, West Virginia, was just trying to do his job as a watchdog and at the same time scare aware the guy who delivered the paper that was used to discipline him.  He wasn’t that scary, but the sudden shift of gears when he would startle me, that was magic.  It feels like being punched in the chest at the same moment you are being electrocuted.

I recall, with pain and joy, every touch, real or virtual, by everyone I have ever allowed into my life.  But because I must be honest to the memory, the pain that is always a part of any birth, fall or rebirth is always there.  Beyond that, the knowledge that I will almost certainly never see again in this life so many people I have loved and cherished, that is a curse magnified by the love I felt (and feel, dammit) for them, and the vividness of the memories they inhabit.  Even as I write these words, the emotions overwhelm me with joy and cruelty.

Should I tell you the razor’s difference between Psyche and Brigit, in comparing their eyes when they smile?  Would you care to know what it feels like to be caught in a cataleptic state between sleep and waking, paralyzed and trapped with only your thoughts and fears?  Could I show you something so true you have to deny it, for fear that it would burn you like hot glassware from the oven, laying upon bare skin?  Would you want to experience, ten thousand times, the same pain of realizing that someone you trusted was lying to you and that to expose them would only cause them more pain?  I may not want to, but I do, every day.

It’s been a good run.  Damn, a great run.  I would never have imagined how far I would have flown when I first placed pen to page and words to tongue and kisses to memory.  I hope it continues for a few more years, at least.  Still a lot to be said, and to be said as well, or better, than I have said things so far.  Perhaps a few more kisses, basset hounds in the shrubs, dares to be won and battles to be fought, at least if not successfully, with zest and joy and passion.

More things to remember.  More fodder for the curse.  More memories.

Bring ‘em on.

I was getting ready to post a heady essay I had just written on the nature of Christianity divorced from mythology.  It’s not bad, and it makes some valid points and I will eventually post it.

But…

It occurs to me my world is all but abstract to most of my readers.  They don’t know or see what is and isn’t happening in my sphere, so I am going to try harder to be more earnest and forthright on a personal level.  Nothing, God help us, against the poetry and the thought.  I just felt the need to connect as a human being.

A long time back I wrote a poem about such things, during the darkest days in Venice, where I despaired that so many women saw me as an abstraction that I was never going to find anyone to settle down with.  Half true to history, but the mystery of my second marriage and its eventual demise (that’s for another day) only tells a part of the tale.

Hi.  I’m William Francis DeVault.  I am 53 years old.  I was born August 16th, 1955, in Greenville, South Carolina, in the United States of America.  I have three children, two ex-wives, my parents are still alive, as are my four siblings. 

I am most often associated with Morgantown, West Virginia, where I came of age as a poet, and Venice Beach, California, where I feel the most at home and have written some of my best work.

My life, which seems exotic to many, seems rather average to me.  I have been places and done things that many have not, but not so much as some.  I have never jumped out of an airplane, fired a handgun, or been elected to public office.  I am above average in IQ and if my ethics and morals seem a bit hard to explain or understand, the key is simple:  I don’t always blame others or even try to justify my mistakes.  I have had several times in my life where I told a friend or lover that, should things go badly, they are to tell whatever tale gets them out as injury-free as possible, they can count on my silence.  Although I have been driven to near madness more than once when an unprincipled person takes that too well to heart, I have held up fairly well.

Despite my years, I still feel quite young.  I sometimes have to fight for that…but that’s okay.  I like feeling 17, especially with the experiences of this life to call upon (the old "If I knew then what I know now").  And before you begin to snicker know this:  The last woman I was with was my second wife, on February 12, 2004.  Prior to that I had not been with another woman since the summer of 1997.  So let’s lay aside the "can’t keep his pants zipped" assumptions.  They are ignorances and prejudices, two things that are not tools for the evolved mind or heart

I am passionate and sexual, but I have chosen to guard well my heart and soul this time, as I know I am passionate and sexual, and I am just gullible enough to allow myself to walk into disastrous situations with blinders on when lead by my hormones.  I still write about the joy of a woman’s body and presence, but until I find one trustworthy and just plain worthy, I think I will stay the dichotomous monk I have evolved into.

Yes, I have been connected with one or two women who were married in the past, but with one minor and notable exception (a long time ago), in every case I was lead to believe the situation was far more dissolved than it was.  Nothing quite like getting an angry call from an ex-husband who isn’t an ex-husband.  Have I allowed myself to be gullible because that was the most convenient thing for me to believe.  Yes.  Without a doubt.

My father, who is going to be 86 next month, was the best man at my first wedding.  He is still someone I love and admire.  At the time I did not have a male "best friend", so I gave him the job.  I hope he was touched.

Of late, I have four good male friends.  Friend is a hard word for me, as I have a brutal definition of friendship, having been quoted as saying "A friend is someone you can trust behind you with a sharp knife and a good reason".  I hope I will pass that test of character even with a stranger.  Of these four friends, two are fellow poets, one is a musician and one is my older brother, Robert.  We spent most of our lives at loggerheads, being the alpha pack dogs we were…it is nice we have learned to cooperate.

When I fall, I fall hard and completely.  Aubergine, the last woman I said "I love you" to, warned me that she wasn’t very good at relationships and I would fall from a great height.  I accepted the challenge and the fall was great and terrifying. I have empathy and sympathy for those who continue to dare to love and accept their fall.  I will see you on my next trip up the pillar and off the cliff.

My mother just turned 76.  She’s a firecracker.  We have lively political and religious debates, as I have drifted to the left of Al Franken over the years, she to the right of Dick Cheney.  I love her greatly.  I would not vote for her for President.

My children are joys to me.  My daughter, Peri, lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian.  He’s a good guy and they are good for each other.  She’s half me and half her mother, not always having gotten the best of us.  But I adore her like no one else in this life, even when she treats me like tick crap.

My sons, the sons of thunder, turn 16 in about a week.  Elric is so much like me as a teenager it is frightening, although Dante has some of my traits as well.  Between the two of them there’s enough energy, intellect and appetite for life to start a new civilization on a distant planet.  Of course, they’d need to find the right women, first.  Good luck.

Today is an ordinary day.  I am in the office, doing some work for a defense contractor, helping with some proposals and quality programs.  Not poetic, but it pays okay.  I’m worth a lot more than I am getting, but in this economy its good to hold onto a job.  The building we are in shuts down air conditioning on weekends.  It is about 2:20 in the afternoon, the sun is shining and you could wring my sweat out of my shirt.  Not ideal writing conditions.

Contrary to what I have heard, last summer’s illness was not self-inflicted.  I am violently opposed to that avenue.  But it did screw up my tour, my digestive system, my schedule, my overall health and physical conditioning.  Remind me to only eat at Taco Bells in my own neighborhood.

Well, I have meandered enough.  Thanks for taking the time to read.  Yes, I know there are a thousand unanswered questions.  Be patient.  We have time.

And if you know a nice woman who wants to be worshipped five hundred years from now as an icon of romance and passion, send her my way.

My good friend and sometime collaborator, "Mountain Poet" Daniel S. McTaggart, has accepted my invite to be part of the festivities for the kickoff of the Evangelist Tour, on August 17, 2008. I would encourage (en couer rage) any and all within driving distance of the Barnes & Noble in Morgantown, West Virginia, to attend. You are in for some surprises.

I am soliciting some local musical talent. Whether this means some local bands will perform and/or there will be an Amomancer performance, I leave it to the fates. But in a perfect world, if I had my druthers, you’ll get both. All the hours I have been spending in the studio of late are paying off…I no longer think I sound like a dying, diseased bullfrog with a hernia. And I am learning how to work a microphone! (It is tougher than you might think!)

I am also tracking down other local authors to take part in the readings. Books and CDs galore (all of them, including Dan’s) will be on sale (if you guys sell me out of them on day one of the tour…ah well…), with the Evangelist CD and As such being the official CD and book for the tour.

77 days. Sheesh. Gotta get back on the treadmill.

Well, I am getting good initial response to my release of a complemetary eBook of INVOCATO, so much so I may need to expand the program. I am delighted.

I am placing so much of my emotional energy into the editing of the two new books that I have little fire left to write with. I know this will change in the next several weeks, but it is still a point of frustration for me.

I think I will do something. Something odd. Then, document the results here. Like my life isn’t odd enough already. I am considering looking up a list of people who have, in the past, inspired my work, people who I have lost track of…and seeing if I can find them, and what they have to say. I’ve been toying with the idea for some time (someone who lurks is probably right now reading this and cringing).

I commented the other day to someone that the main difference between LA and Morgantown is the culture of competition. In LA you are expected to compete, to achieve. You are encouraged, even by your competitors, to come out swinging and show what you’ve got. In Morgantown, there is a strong current of suppression. You are encouraged to sit in the back of the room and be quiet. Don’t make waves. Don’t compete. I have not yet reached a full understanding of the root of this, but it is a palpable thing.

I think it has to do with a fear of change, that somehow anyone who evolves threatens the order of things, and that at the pinnacle, the cultural power is held by those who wish things to stay the same, in Morgantown. In LA they have learned that change is inevitable, and thus the power resides with those most adaptable to change. And because they know how to harness the change, they encourage and support it.

It is a curious dichotomy, as one normally suspects that the larger an organism is, even a cultural organism, the more resistant to change it is, and that agility is the main power of a small organism.

I remember when I worked at the bank, the officers of the local banks were all gung-ho about changing the state laws to allow branch banking…expecting that they would gobble up smaller banks. The laws got changed and they got gobbled up by even larger banks. Perhaps this sort of thing instills the big fish in the small ponds a fear that drives them to assiduously defend their waters, afraid that anyone who brings anything new to the mix is trying to take something from them.

People forget that humans do not dominate the world through caution, but through boldness and adaptation. Those who scurry into corners and erect artificial imprediments to change one day emerge from their caves to find themselves irrelevent to a world that went on without them. Hiding from the sunshine doesn’t make it go away. It merely removes you from the equation.

I wish I was not so cut off from so many people I have worked so hard to help and have sacrificed so much to their benefit. I would be angry for the insult, were it not for the sorrow that permeates it. Not depressed, but sorrowful.

To quote one person, when they explained where they had failed in life, "I did what I could." Maybe I have not righted every wrong, fixed every broken wing - but I will, in the harshest and most honest light, weigh what I have accomplished in helping others against the damage I have done from my failings. Yes, my wings have been as "oft leathery as feathery", but I have kept leash on myself when the darkness was upon me and given myself free rein when the opportunity has been to help.

I grow weary of slander. Weary enough to find my voice, perhaps. That would be interesting…to speak not only truthfully, but forthrightly. To shine the light in the dark corners.

The problem is, much damage would be done to individuals whose worst fault seems to be a willingness to hide, and I have problems, without higher purpose than my own vindication, defending myself. A bitter paradox, but worth examining.

Sometime, soon. Several significant anniversaries are approaching, and such days mark ample emotional feed for my contemplations.

Okay, the day is getting better. Got major work done on "The Morgantown Suites" before distracted by the siren’s call of "The Compleat Panther Cycles"…

May have scored a major coup for additional supplementary material (no, not HER, I’m not even asking HER, we’d just end up arguing over why SHE wants me to change everything so no one will even know it’s HER)…more on this coup, later. I’ll drop a note about this when it finalizes, both here and in my newsletter (if you want to see my most recent newsletter, and even sign up, go to
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewnewsletter.asp?AuthorID=369 and join up.)

Haven’t hear anything from the Deep South now for three months, weird, but I sort of expected it. I keep refocusing on the "Four Agreements" especially the one that says that what people say and think of you is not a statement as to who you are, but who they are. Reality doesn’t shift because people paint perception.

I note that my old High School, Morgantown High School, after two years of badgering by E.J. finally added me to their list of "Accomplished Alumni"…even if they did get the sobriquet wrong.

sigh. keeping my sandals clean.

Noting some odd hits on my blog…but hope that is just a market-expansion!

Rough night. For some reason or other, kept waking up (may have been the storms, but usually I sleep well through those, so maybe I was restless for other reasons)

No exciting email this morning…Brigit may have done her usual surface-for-a-day-then-go-away-for-months routine. argh. Well, at least unlike some people, she at least surfaces. No word from JIllian on her books (or Jezz just writing to be Jezz).

Four weeks until the release of "The Morgantown Suite" and the buzz is…er…there is no buzz. Some of that is my fault for having spent so much energy on the P’cycles and "INVOCATO"…part of it is the incipient apathy in Morgantown for anything that does not have the word "beer" in its title. (chortle-snort-snarfle) Regardless of what they think of it, regardless of whether or not ArtsMon really, really gets behind it (hey, they get all the royalties) it still is coming out. If asked to talk about it, pimp it or read from it, I shall…if not, at least it goes in my credits (book #7…there is a book #7, isn’t there?)

I had run into an interesting fellow the other night at Books A Million. At the end of the long discussion I gave him my number, in case he ever wanted to talk later…he called yesterday, when I was in the middle of twelve things, I told him I’d have to get back to him…he gave me his number. And…I think I lost it. Damn. Well, maybe he’ll read this. As a pet peeve of mine is people who slowly or never return calls (riles me to no end, bad business, you know, and besides it leaves the initiator wondering if you ever got the call or if there is a reason they are being ignored) I hate it when people think I’m ditching them.

Considering a March, 2006, release date for the memoir "Wings as Oft Leathery as Feathery"…updated to modern times. Part of me deplores kiss-and-tell books. Part of me is just so damn tired of the lies I have allowed. Lying to me is a sign of disrespect. Lying about me is a sign of betrayal, especially if I have done nothing to harm you. Invoking my own sense of loyal nobility to have me participate in your lies, only to throw them all on me when you get caught…well, you can imagine. Somedays I feel like those cheesy computers on old "Star Trek" episodes, where all Kirk has to do is tell them they are behaving illogically to get them to blow up.

Okay, back on focus. Will slip on the headphones shortly, program a track of Warren Zevon (Lawyers, Guns and Money; Mohammed’s Radio), Matthew Sweet (Girlfriend), A3 (Woke Up This Morning) and Amy Grant (Good for Me)…hey this is my brain, not yours…get a life…and work on completing either of the pipeline books.

Blogger was down last night, at least a half hour longer than they predicted, for maintenance…it happens. The stories I have to tell from back when I was a programmer/analyst/project manager!

It was a truth we learned the hard way that on Tuesday nights the US Information Agency computer system (which was also used by Radio Marti and Voice of America) got all their system updates loaded. This, unfortunately, meant that on Wednesday morning the results were undependable if you scheduled a demonstration of software for, say. the Director of the USIA, who happened to be Ronald Reagan’s best friend.

Yeah, that’s right…two keystrokes and the system locked and the computer center chief, Carl, went nuts…along with everyone else in the room.

From then on, we scheduled demonstrations for Tuesday mornings.

Did some good writing yesterday…did a cute Top Ten List for a friend…made some tough decisions about "The Morgantown Suite"…have some new edits to integrate from Gina…teaching my writing class tonight. Have a job interview with a mysterious company in Fairmont this afternoon…they only seem to want to share their initials, and the phone number from their ad (and that they return calls from) resolves in a Google search to a residential number. Either this guy is a recruiter or it’s a very entrepreneurial effort (gee, did I spell it right?)

I encouraged my friend "the Gooch" to start his own blog. He is very knowledgeable and highly opinionated about sports, particularly the WVU Mountaineers, and I think he’d make a dynamite blogger. Aside from Chris Henry being drafted at all, he called the recent NFL draft pretty well, and we’ve had some spirited debate about the fate of Kevin Pittsnogle in the NBA Draft (he says the guy doesn’t have NBA level skills, I say he’s colourful and charming and sports teams are more in the business of getting fans in the seats and selling TV air time than getting the absolute best athletes).

Says a lot about "the American Spirit"…no?

I have noticed a lot of potstirrers going after "sexual predators" lately, particularly on Fox News. Even in discussions not related to convicted sex offenders, they seem to want to invoke them. This concerns me.

Don’t think for a second I have any great fondness for them. I don’t. I have spent too much time supergluing back together young women who have been sexually abused to have any sympathy for their attackers. But you combine the rabble rousing (but "fair and balanced") tactics of "news" organizations trying to sell advertising time with the amped up outcry and awareness of Meghan’s Law tracking of offenders, and you have a day coming soon where offenders who were caught, convicted, served their time and are back out in the world, regardless of whether they personally stand as a threat to society, will be dragged fromt heir homes, beaten and lynched.

Hey, if it makes Rupert Murdoch another fifty cents, he doesn’t care about the American (and Christian) traditions of justice.

Yes, many sexual predators are not successfully rehabilitated. Same thing could be said for murderers, car thieves, drug users and jaywalkers…especially if they are cornered by society and told they can never rise above their past mistakes (the recent Supreme Court election in West Virginia had a campaign doing that very thing to a parolee to gain political points, (costing him his job) to help elect a candidate in the pocket of an out of state coal company). The fact that I find their crimes particularly revolting (or that paid and prompted talking heads like to hang onto their audience to talk about them) should not change the way we, as a nation that likes to brag about their Christian principles, takes care of our fallen brothers and sisters. Yes, take every chance to protect our children (but note: most assaults are not by strangers…they are by family members. Your child is more at risk from Uncle Charley than from some guy in Nebraska who was locked up for five years, ten years ago. Shall we start requiring all relatives to register?)

Thus endeth the pontificate.

Time for breakfast.

Yes, quiet more or less.

Got a lot of work done on the annotations ot the P’cycles…
finished my review for the classes I’m teachning tonight and tomorrow…
sent off the books to LB and Jillian…
helped Dad and Mom get oriented for tonight’s birthday dinner for Marla…(I’m giving her one of the eight billion toy bats someone gave me. they had this strange notion that everyone collects something in an animal, and they kept sending me stuffed bats and children’s books about bats…so I still have a load…kind of a shame they decided to send those on and either store or destroy so many of my personal effects I’d managed to keep for decades…I guess people have their own priorities)

am looking forward to kicking back tonight after “24″ and doing some more work on the books. “Morgantown…” is no longer as much fun as I had hoped…the continued isolation here makes it seem kind of silly for me to sing its praises (not that it is my first exceedingly one-sided relationship)…

still ticked at my host, Interland, over the down time last night…when I noticed it last night, I had to sit on hold for twenty minutes until I got hold of a woman who informed me that they would be posting a notice about the problem momentarily…I told her than even their support site was down, so it seemed unlikely that anyone would see the notice…I just hope I lost no mail.

the spammers have riled me to no end…the other day I tried to send a thank you note to a city offical and it was bounced as spam…it seems the isp for many of the local government organizations as “registeredsite.com” which interland uses to provide email for their customers, as a blacklisted spammer…

Weird day, weird evening…strange coincidence I started my blog this morning…maybe all my days are this surreal and I just don’t realize it, maybe this will help me understand better.

There’s a local place I hang out, sort of a cross between a bar and a restaurant. They have music most evenings, and the people there are nice. Mostly.

I called them a couple of months back to try and set a reading for National Poetry Month, and emailed them, never got a response on either. Maybe I’m not their cup of tea, I dunno. I’d rather hear "no" than silence, but that’s my worldview, I can’t hold others to account for my concept of manners. Anyway, I digress.

About two weeks ago I was in there, drinking iced tea (yes, iced tea, I don’t drink beer) and one of the servers skipped up and asked me what I was doing. I’ve become something of a fixture in there, even to the point the picture of me featured in a recent newspaper article was taken there, and the interview was conducted at my favourite table.

I told her I was writing (true). She asked what I was writing, craning her neck. I told her I was writing poetry (true)…then she asked me to write a poem about her.

I don’t usually write on command, I find the works tend to be a little awkward and I hate putting inelegant works in the universe. I was bemused by her brass, though, and asked her if she wanted something "heavy" or "light", and when she asked I explained that the difference would be something about her that was light-hearted, or something more introspective (I was hoping for "light" and she asked for that, so I was fine. Heavy is particularly difficult on command.)

So I quickly scribbled something down, made a copy for my archives and gave it to her.

At that point another server came up (we’ll get back to her later, so I will identify her by the initial "X") and told me I should write a poem about the place. I decided they deserved such a work, and that I should include it in my forthcoming book, The Morgantown Suite. So, with a little sweat and toil, I put it together, I made her a copy because she said they’d like to have it framed and put on the wall. Nice.

A few days later one of the other servers caught up with me when I was in there having an iced tea and asked why I didn’t write her a poem. I told her I would if she liked, and asked if she wanted something heavy or light. She said "honest"…so I wrote a piece about her elegance, she really has a certain air to her, very mature and elegant. I gave that to her.

A day or two later I’m sitting at my table, having some chips, when a 4th server sits down beside me and asks what I am up to. She’s never done that before, so I ask her flat out if she was feeling left out over the poems. She said yes, but that she didn’t want to seem greedy. I told her I would write her something (it ended up a little bit better than most of the others, I actually put some thought into it, as I knew something of her as a person as a result of some things she told me that evening.)

A fifth server who had been hanging out with me a lot when I was at the bar, she made some offhand comment about the poems a few days later, so I told her I would write her one, if she wished. I am not sure, but I think I did write one and gave it to her…I’d have to look it up to see what I wrote.

Finally "X" came up to me the other day and asked why she hadn’t gotten a poem…oh, great. I told her I’d write her one. She told me she was leaving town at the end of the semester and I’d better hurry. I wrote something the next day, but have not seen her since the discussion.

This evening I go into the place to meet my brother for tea and chips, and the manager (who still hasn’t responded to my emails or calls regarding a reading, not that it matters…NPM has been over for a week) takes me aside and cautions me that I should not be writing "those kind of poems" to his servers (he said he’d read "a couple"). I was flustered but told him that a) I didn’t think there was anything indecent about any of the works and that b) all or nearly all were by request (4 out of 6 were solicited, the other two were done after I asked if they wanted me to include them). He told me that if anyone requested a poem I should tell them that I wasn’t allowed and that is wasn’t right for a (his words) "man of your age" to be writing that "sort of stuff" about young women. There was a not so vague threat of my being asked to leave if I did not comply. Hey, it’s his place and I never break house rules, even if I think them a bit bizarre.

I turned back around to place my order (this entire discussion took place in front of two of the servers…)…I thought a moment, then begged off my order and left. I called my brother and explained the cancellation, then called a writer friend of mine I was going to meet there tomorrow and we rescheduled for another day and location. And, despite my fondness for the atmosphere, I am not going back. I am not sure what was read into those works, or what political dynamic between his employees had come from the works, but I certainly do not want to be creating a problem for those servers…and I do not like being accused of unsolicited poetry, or even sexual harassment.

So, X, if you read this and want you poem, drop me an email and I’ll get it to you.

And, now I have to find a new place with iced tea that I like.

Bummer. And I feel bad for anyone who was so offended by what I wrote (I looked over it all, nothing even mildly offensive (and you’re talking to a guy who has taught Sunday School, is an ordained minister and does not use four letter words in his works), and I had not said or done anything to anyone outside of the poetry) that they had to bring about such a reaction. Maybe I do need to hie myself back to Los Angeles, where an artist sans guitar still has some license to appease requests without being accused of indecency (I note around town you can sing about anything you want, but writing is a different matter in this subculture).

And as for the poem about the establishment, I’ll leave it to my handlers to decide whether or not to include it in the forthcoming book…I had considered asking them to host the release party…but while I don’t stay angry, the place seems somewhat tainted to me now, so that’s a no-go. Too awkward, I’d rather not take the risk of getting further down a slippery slope where I can be accused of anything inappropriate for my age. Sigh.

Well, we see if tomorrow is so surreal.