City of Legends

I wrote a poem today to a friend.  Yes, a female friend.  No, not that "Sunday girl" everyone is bitching at me for writing so much about and now won’t be able to figure out of they are disappointed in me or relieved because I wrote of someone else.  Give me a break, I wrote "the Goldenheart Cycles" in the midst of my affair with the Panther.

How about both?

I am not so absurd as to assume because I have written a few…er…a few dozen…ell, maybe a hundred poems about someone (White Sunday) that their feelings in any way reciprocate mine.  I have learned the lesson many times in many ways that, even with a public commitment (ahem, you know who I am talking to)  affections are tenuous.  I am, to some degree, certain that the next time a woman says "I love you" in that way, I will have a hard time believing her.  I hate developing a bit of a rind, but I think I have done remarkably well, all things considered, at holding my head up over the aeons.

I digress.  Again.  Nice to know some things do not change.

The relationship between myself and "White Sunday" is an absurdity of its own flavour, and one I am not of a mood to explain.  In her I find all that I like in a woman…and all that has complicated my relationships with other women.  I have leapt from higher cliffs on longer odds and shorter bets.  But I admit we are still in the "courting" stage, and the odds do not favour me.

But there are other women whose companies I enjoy.  No, not that way, keep your mind out of the gutter.  I have been a strangely good boy for quite some time, which seems to frustrate a few people.  Tough.  This is my game, I am playing by my rules for my purposes.  I mean to exchange writings and to draw inspiration from. 

Earlier today I was once again struck by a certain friend who is overwhelmingly beautiful, and creative.  So I warned her I was going to write her a poem…which I did.  It is called "I do not chase the wind" and it about not going after woman who are impossible to win.  I think of the poem and I smile, as it is both true and ridiculous.  I have won the heart of more than one woman in my life who was beyond me, out of reach, impossible.  From the brilliant and beautiful Psyche, to the alpha-Amazon Valkyrie, to the lingerie-model lesbian Leopard to the creative, sensuous and quite-distant Aubergine, there is a spectrum of madness there…on my part.

Even at this time in my life, I still seek, not anyone, but the one.  The person I can live out my life with, even if the ride sometimes gets bumpy and crazy.  We’ll see what happens over the next few years.  I figure it will take about two years to see what is to become of me in that realm.

In the meantime, enjoy the new poem, "I do not chase the wind":

I do not chase the wind
for it cannot be caught
and after I have fought
my way to the mountaintop
there would be no way to go
but down.

I do not chase the wind
for dreams are for their time
and I am wise, if past my prime,
and know how not to make an ass
of myself by thinking above the waist
sometimes.

I do not chase the wind
for it is but a metaphor
or five or six for the war
between the soul and the flesh
damned to fail and wail at rainbows
"Not fair!"

I do not chase the wind
for it would not be fair,
although if I would dare,
she might find me swift of foot,
carrying my golden apples of
poetry.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

My son, Elric, the other day dared to ask me if I understand women.  He pointed out I have a great deal more life experience than him, have met and dated many incredible women (by whatever standards one may apply to extraordinary) and have been married, write some pretty decent love poetry and have an above average IQ.

I think I may have confused him with my answer.

First off, I told him that women are neither more nor less complex than men, just different in that both their brain chemistry and the experiences they have in this life can and are often very different.  I have met no men who have had an abortion.  I have met few men who have traded their body for drugs.  I have met no woman stupid enough to get her hand caught in a jar or so cruel as to not give a truly penitent friend a second chance.

Then I created, for him, an allegory.

Let us presume there is a wild animal in the back yard.  Doesn’t matter what sort, but let us say a fox.  I know what a fox is, what it eats, its methods of hunting and the way it socializes with other foxes.  I know female foxes are called "vixens", baby foxes are called "pups" and that fox hunting is sick and disgusting.  I know many folktales and fairy tales that include them, and I know they are often considered a symbol of sly malice.  I know a great deal about foxes, including that they are considered a high risk for carrying rabies.

I know a great deal more about women than I know about foxes, but I also know this:  Generalizations are dangerous.

I do not know if a particular fox is rabid.  I do not know if it is hungry.  I do not know if it has had rocks thrown at it by stupid boys or ever been hit by a car or chased by a dog or accidentally eaten poison.  I do not know if it is currently under duress, deaf, blind, in estrus or high from eating some stoner’s stash in the woods.

To have a one in a million chance of predicting what that fox would do if I walked down into the back yard and offered it my hand to sniff, I would need to know all these things and more.

And women, as a rule, are more complicated.  At least the ones worth getting to know.

Do I understand women?  Enough to respect, love and fear them as a feral race placed upon this earth to challenge my eloquence, my patience, my heart and my IQ.

God love ‘em all.  Of course, now Elric knows the secret, the obvious secret of the complexity of people, regardless of gender, and the folly of ever thinking you’re one step ahead of the curve.

I’d tell Dante (my other son) the same thing, but I don’t think he wants to hear it, yet.  he’s going to need to have his heart broken a few times before there is a need for the secret to understanding women.  Which is to say, we don’t understand them, we love them and find their most arch elements to be charming.

Jazz argued with me about Marilyn Monroe and her relative level of “hotness”.  I took the position that MM was not the hottest woman who ever lived.  Indeed, that to my tastes, I could name 20 women off the top of my head who, at their prime, were hotter than Marilyn at her prime.  Here’s my list, in no particular order, and subject to major revision if asked tomorrow.

20.  Olga Georges-Picot
19.  Alexa Davalos
18.  Suzy Plakson
17.  Brigit
16.  Yvonne Strahovsky
15.  Thandie Newton
14.  Danielle Bianchi
13.  Kate Beckinsale
12.  Gina Gershon
11.  Angela Bassett
10.  Tina Fey
9.  Angelina Jolie
8.  Katharine Hepburn
7.  Carrie Anne Moss
6.  Ava Gardner
5.  Scarlet Johanson
4.  Kim Novak
3.  Daryl Hannah
2.  Jamie Lee Curtis
1.  Ann Wilson (of Heart)

And this is just off my head.  I am sure, if I ponder for 15 minutes or so, I would swap in and out a few names.  Don’t make much of the fact that there are many major movie stars, musicians and models known for their beauty who did not make the list.  Hotness is all about resonance, we don’t all like the same things (I prefer Ani DiFranco to Britney Spears, for instance).  I was going to boycott all former and current muses from the list, but just had to, had to, include Brigit. If I was not allowed to use her, I would most likely bring in Shakira or Janis Joplin or Jessalyn Gilsig (hey this is MY list, go make your own).

Yes, Marilyn practically oozed sex from every pore (if you ooze sex from every pore, please see your doctor), but I never found her THAT irresistible.  Now, where would some of the more famous or infamous of my muses fit on this list?  That would be telling, but let’s just say that there are a handful currently on the list who would lose their ride on the mothership to help me colonize a new planet if all other things were equal and I broke the embargo (okay, semi-embargo) on the muses. And don’t ask me to choose, or disclose, further.  Like I need that stress.  Sheesh.  Let’s just say this list might surprise a few people.

Why do you think I wrote my muses poetry?  To keep from exploding; emotionally, spiritually and perhaps even physically.  FYI:  If you are in danger of physically exploding, please see your doctor.

Okay, now to deal with the hate mail.

Interesting piece, E.J., you are clever. Which means I either have to promote you or have you shot. Or both.

It’s practically the gender-bender side of the Madonna-Whore complex. I believe in spontaneity and romance, so much so that the notion of being meticulous and cautious in that arena seems disingenuous, and therefore somewhat twisted. It is a trap for me.

I have also come to distrust, to some degree, the motives of others. Having found myself on the receiving end of deceit, I find it difficult to accept, at face value, the attentions and intentions of a woman. A part of my brain goes "What is she really after?" Been there, done that, have the scars, the bills and the tattoo to prove both my gullibility and the consequences of it.

There is hope…the question is what sort of situation or person will be required to awaken me. I am willing myself to breathe, but such breaths are forced affairs, lacking the natural elegance and ease that should accompany life, not some reanimated corpse of a heart.

Golem and phoenix, you bet.

Also nosferatu and mantichore and dragon and lycanthrope and zombie. And, for that matter, Roy Batty.

A long time ago there was a debate raging in the AOL Writers Club about "creatives" and "norms"…whether a truly creative person, be they an artist, a writer or an actor, could find a stable and fulfilling relationship with one or the other. Yes, a fellow creative might have insight into why you are the way you are and understand your process of thought, but they might also be so caught up in their own process that even a slight variance in style would generate massive conflict.

On the other hand, a norm might respect and even worship the creative side of you, and provide an anchor in the real world, but will they understand who and what you are? Will you be trapped in emotional isolation, as I have found myself on several occasions, when the muse (in the abstact sense) is upon you?

I have found most creative artists to be some of the most lovely, but lonely, people I know, forced to compromise who they are because their gifts isolate them - and to demand even a normal level of equality from their relationships would further isolate them.

Sigh.

I am who and what I am, for better or for worse.

I wrote this poem over a year ago, realizing that the dangled reconciliations of a fallen relationship were merely attempts to get me to pledge additional financial support. It draws its essence from the sermon preached by St. Paul in which he spoke of seeing a statue erected "to an unknown god" by cautious polytheists who thought they might have missed someone…

I have, in time, learned that much of what I write is not to Ann or Lauri or Alisha, but to a deified, rarefied abstraction of womanhood. One that, while some have lived up to parts of, no one will live up to the all (although, if anyone wants to try, I reserve the right to be delighted to be proven wrong…)

to an unknown goddess

I will start spinning your veil, today,
even though we are probably yet unmet.

I will catch moments, like snowflakes that fall,
to remember them to you someday when we speak.

I will not offer to show you the scars
but speak only of the healing and hope.

I will prepare you a place to lay down
near the fire, near the window, in my heart.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved. wrongs to be ignored and forgiven.

I remain the romantique, the quixotic fool who firmly believes that love is possible, if not inevitable.

I’ve had moments of it. Nancy, once we had worked out out differences, but before I screwed things up. Jan, for all too short a season…largely my fault. The Panther? No. Shadows and incense. Brigit? I like to think so, maybe she can answer better than I. The Mad Gypsy? I would have said yes, once, but now am uncertain. Ann? It would be easier to forgive her trespasses if I thought not, and I am into forgiving people, not wishing that baggage. So I will consider what we had to be a ruse on her part so that, in the end, betrayal is not so much a colour of the palette she is painted in.

So, what is to be made of what is observed from a safe temporal distance? I wish I knew. Right now I am emotionally withdrawn. Capable fo touching those emotions within me, but not able to fully embrace them. There is too much pain in them, and though I have been healing at a good clip from my estrangement from some whom I have cherished, both lovers and family, I am far from yet myself.

Perhaps in this time of catharsis I will find a cure for my conditions. My willingness to allow myself to be reshaped so readily. I have seen in myself a tendency to do what I think is necessary to save a relartionship, even if I know it to be wrong. I have been asked so many times to lie for or about another’s failings, taking them on myself, that I have been accused of showing a martyr complex. Actually, I think it has been more of a chameleon’s disease.

I’ve had to live so many lies just to get through the day with past liaisons, is it any wonder that the rainbow became shuffled and confused? I sought out the Quaker faith because of their demand of truth, and found it placed me in precarous position with so many people in my life. How easily people, even some who have damned me for deception, ask me to lie for them, to cover for them, to help them maintain their facades and their deceits.

I have earned better treatment than that. Perhaps not from God, who is perfect, but certainly from the people whose asses I have hauled out of hell everytime they had the whim to do something stupid. Superman (another of my complexes?) is tired of saving the Lois of the week after she wanders into the alien hideout.

I have a friend, Thomas, who has been writing me massive letters explaining his view of my "problem with women". He believes that my problem is I see women as good, divine and wondrous creatures, superior to men and worthy of respect…when in truth they are deceitful, petty tyrants. I don’t embrace his worldview, which has undoubtably been shaped by his own discourse with women, but I understand it. If I had to base my worldview purely on the experiences I have been handed, I would have to concede much of his point.

But I don’t…and I won’t. So, to any out there who have taken the opportunity to, purposefully or inadvertently, bring me hurt or harm, or put me in the impossible situation of having to be your Wormtongue, I’m going to do two things.

1) I am going to promise to try harder to do better and
2) I am going to forgive you.

As of this moment, all past grievances are settled. Pick up your beds and walk. The other way, please. Forgiving is one thing - trusting again…not so much,