Words are important to me. I consider them to hold their own specific type of magic so to speak. When you invoke a word you can un-package all sorts of meaning and activity in the mind of another human being or device. It’s no wonder recipes for magic are called “spells”. Among my favorite type of words is the name. If words are magic, then names are divine. In many religions, for that matter, it is strictly taboo to utter or write the name of their deities. In other cultures, the name you give your child can determine how painfully they are bullied, triggering any number of violent, intrusive neuroses. Names are pretty powerful.
I went through a couple of name changes as a performing artist. For the most part, they were never greatly thought out but I was committed to them regardless. As an example, “My Protégé” used to be my name, a hilarious running gag that had every host and MC introduce themselves as my mentor. I went by the name “An Unbound Spirit” for a very (very) short time but this mostly applied to online-only works. More recently I go by the name “Dimas“.
Just me
Words and meaning
A bit is packaged into these two syllables. Dimas is a symbol of the person I want to be. A much more enlighted, aware, and effective version of myself. In my mind, I needed the name to have a story behind it that reflected this form of myself. First off, it’s my initials (DMS), just pronounced by adding vowels (DiMaS). This represented being compressed, like coal, to produce a diamond. This was my government name under pressure.
There’s also the meaning of the name, or at least the hidden meaning. My birth name, Devon, means “poet” in a Celtic dialect and also hails to the root of the name “David” meaning “the world bringer”. Both of these harken to the image of a speaker or writer. Well, my heritage is Hispanic from Panama, so the name Dimas pronounced in Spanish as “Di mas” means “say more,” which again crystalizes my original name into a tighter form of itself.
Further, I love laying references to mythology and religion. In the New Testament Bible, there are two characters named Dimas/Demas. The repentant criminal that hung beside Christ during the Crucifixion was the first. Secondly was a follower of Paul who left mission work to return to a normal life because he “loved the world” or loved worldly things. In this way, the name represents both a Penitent Sinner and a Would-be Saint at the same time. This accurately describes my understanding of people and my own humanity. Any of us are one decision away from being a saint or sinner.
So Who Are You Now?
I’ve been undergoing a bit of an identity crisis lately, or as I’ve been calling it, a violent ego death. For my entire life I’ve been a bit splintered in my actions and endeavors. I’ve been a technology creator, an entrepreneur, a community activist, a poet, a rapper, a video game developer, an MMA fighter, a beat producer, a journalist, a nude photographer, and a father. There’s almost certainly something missing from this list, but the point is that I didn’t know who I was behind all the logos, LLCs, titles, and pseudonyms. Dimas included.
After my nervous breakdown in late December 2018, I realized that it was less that I was doing too much, and much more that I was too many people to too many people. All the while I was no one for myself. While Dimas did serve me in poetry and music, I’m not the person that name was designed to represent. It’s still a trajectory for me, yes, but certainly not where I am. What this meant for me was bringing me back to myself so I could ever get to become Dimas. In fact, this site is meant to represent my attempt to collect my disheveled identities under one roof. So I will be performing and acting under my birth name as Devon M Scott (like this website. Duh).
If you followed this post long enough for the anti-climactic re-brand announcement, thank you. I’ve honestly always been a bit embarrassed of representing myself, so performing under my name is awkward, but necessary. Dimas was an important phase for me, but more important is going to be consolodating my identity.
I’m excited to exercise the creative energy I am experiencing. “Devon M Scott” will produce a lot of art, poetry, music, articles, photos, and even software and I hope you enjoy it. You are encouraged to let me know what you think. And if I ever run into you on the street, you can tell me, and call me by name.
In search of answers The mystic would suggest To look within and everything can be known to us, I find this erroneous, When I read the book within What is shown is just A lonely question.
The question resembles the answer Like the lock resembles key Necessity is the silhouette of a solution And as the Chasm is also the shape of what is yet to fill it It chooses to call rather than announce Emptiness is a gift Not one given But that it allows to be taken
Silent questions are the emptiness of the wise A philosopher stoned turns silence golden Pontificating only in questions Responding only in wonder So speak less Or declare your emptiness As fools do. Attend to your ears And let the answers in.
My wife once described the azalea as a homely plant that gets real dolled up for prom night. For most of the year, it is an unassuming and at times ghastly bush. At the crack of Spring, it bursts and blossoms into a fantastically beautiful bouquet, then like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, returns to its former ignoble origin. Each year in early Spring my city of Wilmington, NC celebrates this floral firework display with, well, fireworks. The North Carolina Azalea Festival took place over this past weekend and, as it does, swallowed downtown in blossoms, bands, balloons, and brokers of cheap yet expensive goods.
Color Explodes from Our State Shrub
The festival involves all the standard fare (you could say it’s really your standard fair) from floats to vendors to big acts. Many downtown residents understandably purport again and again that they hate the festival and its relentless shut-down of the streets in front of their homes and shops. Regardless, the festival draws in a decent crowd from both nearby and remote areas for the attractions.
Along with several auxiliary events like the Stop the Violence rally, Alt-Zalea and others, there are also big names that come in to perform, this year including Hank Williams Jr. and Ice Cube. These may escape the eye of the more casual passer-by, however, as you navigate the maze of tents, bleachers, and road barricades. The more common elements of the festival still serve well for interesting or insightful experiences.
The Parade Will Go On Without You
My family and I went to enjoy the parade early Saturday morning and it went exactly as you might expect. Backed up lines of costumes, cars, and brass instruments awaiting their cue to march for the crowd. Now I missed about half of this parade, actually, simply trying to corral my family. We arrived early (since there’s no other way to find parking or places to stand) which meant about 30 minutes waiting for the parade to start. Over this time span, children 10 and under get antsy. My toddler wanted to return to where we parked and took her mother and myself with her. My other two daughters stayed with their grandmother. After some back and forth we eventually coaxed the child back to the rest of the family sans meltdown.
The parade already started. Beauties and belles, arrayed in dresses that would make a Disney princess insecure, led the event. Their vestments a vestige of a romanticized American South and a heritage I don’t share and that honestly wouldn’t have me. Commentary aside, behind them a train of high school bands, color guards, veterans, Shriners, and floats appeared one-by-one entertaining at each stop with rehearsed performances. It was a pretty interesting display of music, dance, driving tricks, and oversized balloon monsters. For all that I saw I also missed the Chinese dragon dancers, several belles, and a few bands. My wife was disappointed. I was more intrigued.
Celebrating Flowers, Dresses, and Southern Oppression
Life Marches On
No one really needs another metaphor for life, but parades make a good one. Or perhaps it makes a better metaphor for experiences in life. Parades are an interesting type of celebration. They are fantastically passive. Floats and pageant queens drift by like colorful clouds while onlookers clap and snap photos. A progressive sequence of equally candid and curated moments, bundled up with heritage and history. Like clouds, like life, it starts and goes on without you. You can get so tied up in the struggles of the day that you miss it, even when it’s right next to you. But when you catch yourself, you find out there’s nothing to do but enjoy it or march along with it for a while yourself.
Diversion Can Be Medicine
After the Azalea Festival parade, we went to see the vendors. I was honestly surprised how the line of merchant tents actually seemed endless. Local businesses had tables near their physical shops, vendors from different towns showed up, shops that generally work out of their homes had booths. Everyone had brought some money so it was open season on any small things anyone wanted to pick up. This meant a good time for everyone to browse, enjoy, and feel satisfied with a fun spur-of-the-moment purchase.
Festival booths are also a great way to study the psychology of each member of your family. Every neurosis can be observed, it seems, by watching a person making a buying decision they don’t have to. There were many opportunities as every several feet there was another stop to step into a tent and ask about merchandise. There is also something therapeutic about simply gawking at something novel, interesting, or pretty. At least for me, I feel more creative walking around dealers and artisans, watching what they crafted by hand. To see how many of them took what were once little ideas and packaged them in compelling and ornate ways into a charming craft.
My children’s eyes lit up once or twice at baubles like bubble guns and cute stuff like stuffed toys. I find there is an important maturity developed from making a decision on a single thing from a spread of desires based on how much you are willing to and able to spend at the moment. Further, walking away satisfied with that decision breeds a responsible and appreciative adult (I hope).
A Mile of Artists and Artisans Easily Working Off Their Tent Costs
Deep Fried Paradise
Because we took the initiative to carry a package of nutritious Oreo cookies with us, we had snacks all while shopping. This meant things went very sanely when we arrived at the food vendor end of the tents. We already knew what we wanted, so we wrapped that adventure up with the purchase of a couple of obligatory funnel cakes.
Fair food is a unique paradox. It barely qualifies as food and it’s never priced fairly. Despite this, it has an important place as I consider it the only true American food. Everything else is imported and immigrant born as far as I’m concerned. After all of the decades I’ve lived on this planet, I still marvel at the fact that you can deep fry and serve butter or Coca-Cola. I’m also amazed by the fact that I can eat a single onion, prepared and served in such a way to meet my calorie requirements for a day, and my fat and carbohydrate recommendations for a week.
Fair Food Prices Correlate with its Glycemic Index
With the exception of some plants that my wife and mother took home with them from the festival merchants, in the end, every purchase although small was more than we needed or wanted. The bubble gun was out of bubbles and batteries by mid-afternoon, the stuffed toy is already neglected in the pile of other stuffed toys, and the funnel cakes were even too much to finish. It wasn’t the merchandise or their practicality that made them valuable, though. It was the moment of diversion they brought. Unlike distraction, which takes away energy and attention, diversion can actually add to experiences and help recharge some of the power cells we use to experience things in full presence. As far as participating in the Azalea Festival, a half-eaten Pollock pancake helps complete the show.
Enjoy Yourself
The Azalea Festival was honestly an extremely fun time. I didn’t have a chance to participate in all of the activities and events as I wanted, but that’s not the direction I should turn my head. There is a lot going on each year, and I was also invited to speak at a couple of auxiliary events and walk with a non-profit I volunteer for in the parade. It wouldn’t have been feasible to participate there and to also learn life lessons with my family. Much like making a purchase decision at a fair vendor, I’m satisfied with my choice despite all the others not taken. Okay, I’m lying. I wish I made the Ice Cube concert, too, but those are the breaks. I truly enjoyed my time anyway.
My Daughters Enjoying Funnel Cake Over the River
Whether it’s a fragrant flower, proud parade, a maze of merchants, or an Oreo (deep fried or otherwise) there’s an art to being content. The North Carolina Azalea Festival spends a lot of effort and attention on simply appreciating simple things. This isn’t the first post I’ve written about a family outing where I learned appreciation, and hopefully, it won’t be my last. Learning that life experience is a parade you get to participate in or miss is a lesson I hope I’ll hold on to for a long time. And remembering to embrace a diversion, especially where it enriches an experience, could well become a fountain of youth for me. Let the small things go a long way whenever you get the opportunity. There is a lot of value hiding in each moment.
Everyone’s ex is crazy Including your ex’s ex. And maybe your next. She has received harsh names But Karma is nothing but elegant With a fierceness you could call regal Karma is a stern and kind maternal Who’s patience bleeds through Whether she is taking or giving.
Karma fights my battles With violence like silent poison The judgment of the hunting hawk Confident, she denies validation She needs no believers No congregation Neither can you pray for her favor.
Karma weighs and measures But she is not justice She just is. She is not the package But only the postage.
I see you Karma sees you, too When your package arrives The kind get kindness and the cruel, cruelty Consider the name you’d offer Karma Is your own
Because she only gives you what is yours And you’ll get what’s coming to you In the end.
At an after party and I’m mingling around Kareoke contest women all singing aloud Ain’t nobody knowing what a single thing’s about Barely even spit a word of English from my mouth Potables are potent and they’ve been since seven shots ago State inebriated, call my Uber, I have got to go Tapping on my shoulder, I look over and I nod the host Called to be a speaker, it’s the spotlight I’m about to toast Climbed a straight ladder Just to place my mind over my grey matter Stay scatter brained prattle lines lame chatter “Cheers!” Look away, glass of champagne shattered People gather rather fast. Faces worried Safe enough to say that I was celebrating early Pedastel descending like an elevator, surely Always make a scene. Actors, places! Hurry!
An embrace is a tragic reminder That I can hold on to love But never possess it. Phantom limbs leave a numb tingle where they used to surround me And I chuckle when it occurs to me I can no longer juggle your emotions Without your arms.
Loneliness feels like the texture of sand grains flowing through amputated fingers. It has the same hollow rasp as the last breath of hope.
I defy my parents decades too late I stop making the bed I don’t wear my scarf in the cold I stand in the puddle during the rain I sit too close to the TV The more childish the tantrum the deeper the wound must be But you are too far now to chastise me like in my daydream.
I hurt myself when I lose someone because if I sense pain it means at least something is still there. I hurt someone when I lose them because if they hurt me back it means at least in some way they are still there. But you stop responding You’re the bigger person It stings but not the way I want I can’t cry when you won’t let me.
I keep forgetting that you keep what you hold on to Until you let go And I let you go Now I can’t let go
Again I have been running from my fear And for a minute there, I lost my self From darkness did the terror swiftly near Unsettling as night, my path engulfs A stumbling escape on weary legs A chariot by motored wheel brings death The road before obscured both dark and vague And panicked air left hanging on my breath My hands upon the steering wheel stay My feet pound pavement just to stay alive For I am both the man who runs away And also I’m the man who crue’ly drives Now I have naught to fear from enemies Because the fear I run from is named me
She called me a poet To what do I owe this Because when I speak other’s notice? That my verbs stray to word play? That I’ve recited what you’ve heard me say? That when my pen and pad are in separate rooms I feel a sense of doom As if a sentence soon Will be sent that I’m meant to remember And I’ll never get the message I’m intended to? Is it that my mind is rent in two? That I speak in dreams Saying secret things And still seek to bring Without surcease a string of lyrical meaning as clear as a shriek that sings?
No, these don’t make a poet They are evidence that I dabble in words Or that I babble absurd But not why I am what I am
A poet isn’t made by words By definition, words are made by the poet Meaning that my essence lies in precedence To the premise that I pen my pensiveness Something pushes me over the precipice
Three factors remain preeminent
one
I produce my art for art sake Lyricism is simply the way that I breathe breath Metaphor the way I seek sense Publishing the way I cheat death I write or else I keep tense You see, poetry is just what happens When I’m left around paper My fingerprints when my fingers print
Poet, you must write for the art
two
I present my art for heart sake God gives gifts to be re-gifted I must write so your soul will be lifted I bend meaning to make the way you see shifted I open rifts with words riding perfect fifths asking the question maybe if It is not for me, nor from me, but through me Poetry is my compassion, meant to be heard Create for your audience
Poet, you must write for the heart
And finally
three
I produce my art for … For-saking the label For-giving the critique For-going the recognition Fore-stalling the question What’s my for-mal title Or my for-mer career Because these “for”s make it forced
Poet, you mustn’t write for the part
To be a poet isn’t to fulfill a role but to fill a hole To feel whole No one can name your art Or genre Be authentic
She called me a poet And I never needed her to I was always what I am
I need a minor second of your time Because if we don’t have harmony, You’re no friend of mine Because me and my friends align At least three quarters of the time So we ought to be just fine. It is instrumental If we couldn’t be in a band together We certainly couldn’t stand together How did we even land together? Must have been we were fans together Maybe then we should make plans together Because if you rock with me at the concert Throw the horns up like we’re rams together You and I can be just fine Like we’re touring in the van together My friendship is like rock stardom It looks real good until you have it It looks like glamour but it’s havoc If you can survive it I’ll be your groupie And we could make it through anything We both give zero damns together I don’t care what your beef is Cause I don’t want to butt heads What’s said is much less than the music I don’t want to hear it if it isn’t a lyric So let’s do what’s best for us Be the hook on my chorus Write the words like a thesaurus And while you’re at it Look up another word for “bestie” And find your name there.
@IAmDevonMScott Shirt$25.00
