Martin Drake

RIP Devon Pitlor

2,043 posts in this topic

This should be its own thread.

http://www.proxywhor...dpost&p=4115316

I have been instructed to let all of Devon Pitlor's fans know that he has passed. His real name was Gary Kolar. I have known Gary (Devon) for years and I have read and reviewed all of his stories. Gary published his books, The Strange Fiction of Devon Piitlor, volumes I, II and III before he died. They can be purchased on Barnes and Noble and amazon.com. I am saddened by his passing but I know his stories will live on. My pen name is Katje Kaase.

Rest in peace, dear friend. May you find the Living Fresco you wrote about in your story, 1952.

Kathy Kuzma

He was a phenomenally talented writer, and a seemingly bottomless well of original ideas and creative energy.

The Devon stories represent only a fraction of his prodigious output.

This forum, nay the entire universe of online discourse, is substantially diminished by his absence.

Requiescat in pace, Gary.

:candle:

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With all due respect -

DEVON EMERGES. HE TELLS A STORY AND LEAVES. THE WORLD TURNS. DEVON MASTURBATES. THEN DEVON WRITES ANOTHER STORY. AND DR. WOO CREAMS. THEN THE GODDESS CREAMS. THEN GRACE AND LEIA CREAM. THE CYCLE GOES ON AND ON.

DEVON,,,DEVON,,,,DEVON AND SO ON FOREVER.

IT IS A CYCLE WE CANNOT ESCAPE.

KrlKnX8.gif

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:roar:

:pound:

:lol:

:poop:

:Muttley: 

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:stoni2: :scotch: :wacky:

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:candle: I was just thinking of him yesterday.

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I've always hated 'R.I.P', but I rather like 'P.I.R.'

:candle: We'll leave the light on for ya.

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:candle: I was just thinking of him yesterday.

So was I,I did a monstrously large shit that was an absolute bastard to push out,then it clung to side of the toilet like a fucking limpet,and I thought to myself "i wonder if Devon has slipped away yet ?"

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Casperm_zpsa13c96c1.jpg

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well, whatever you did, at least Devon will always have been a better person than you.

and you will always be a coward compared to him, because he did write his stories and associate them with his avatar

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the above was not for you Herb, but for the guest above you

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well, whatever you did, at least Devon will always have been a better person than you.

and you will always be a coward compared to him, because he did write his stories and associate them with his avatar

:roar:

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well, whatever you did, at least Devon will always have been a better person than you.

and you will always be a coward compared to him, because he did write his stories and associate them with his avatar

Fuck a buncha Stratego.

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well, whatever you did, at least Devon will always have been a better person than you.

and you will always be a coward compared to him, because he did write his stories and associate them with his avatar

Fuck a buncha Stratego.

which is why Devon will always be superior to you, as well

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He wrote so much more than just stories. "Devon" wasn't just the tip of the iceberg, but a snowflake on the tip of the iceberg.

This is a great loss.

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"Devon"

Small town East Coast America, February 17, l971:

I stand in the back of an angry crowd of citizens in the town square in front

of the courthouse in the sleet and watch seven black-clad federal marshals

handcuff my father, a prominent county assistant prosecutor, and lead him

into to back of the biggest black Buick I've ever seen. Accused of massive

securities and exchange fraud, this pillar of the community and junior high

football coach is going to the state "white collar" prison forever! Revengeful

eyes are cast from all directions on me, my mother, my brother and my

sister. Kids who loved us at school hail from local families that have been

cheated. Some have lost everything. The grocer who has sold us food since

my infancy makes a cutting gesture across his neck, spits at my feet, and

walks off. The high school biology teacher glares at me as if to say "wait till

Monday." The team quarterback whose passes I've caught for 3 years shows

me his fist.

I am 4 months away from high school graduation. Nothing will ever be the

same. To go to the senior prom, I, arguably the most popular guy in my

school, have to bring in a "cousin" from a town 200 miles away.

20 days later Danny L_________, major fraud extorter, dies of "sudden food

poisoning" in his prison dorm. He gets less than an inch in the statewide

paper. I am irrevocably now without a dad. No one to sit in the stands while

I catch passes.

Edirne (Adrianople) European Turkey, April 11, 1981

I pack my few traveling items and head out of the Metaxis Greek Hotel into

the swarming crowds between Edirne's central market and the train line

connecting to the airport. I'm an insignificant courrier for a now-defunct

agency of the United Nations. I've done my job. It's time to go home. At

home I have a new baby girl that I've only barely seen.

A stout Turkish woman with a commanding eye stops me "Go not a step

further, young man! The answer to your chagrin is bundled in food wrapping

in the attic of the rental cottage"

"Why are you stopping me?" Only a shrug and a string of incomprehensible

Turkish words. The woman bustles off into the crowd which absorbs her

forever.

Home, May 4, 1981

The stupid rental cottage, once belonging to my father, where I've been all

my life, doesn't even have an attic. Or does it? I go there and ask the tenants

for permission to explore. Reluctantly, they give it to me because I was

"Danny's boy." The attic is actually a crawl space, but up there rolled in wax

paper is a typed letter from a stockbroker in New York informing Danny L--

---, my dead dad, that "he will take the brunt of the punishment" for the

"venture." It is a confession of guilt from the other principals. But, due to

legal complicity, my dad "takes the hit."

A woman in chaotic, dirty Edirne, more than halfway around the world lifts

the shadow of guilt and shame that has hovered over my shoulders like the

buzzard of death for over ten years. We make the letter public, and it is

published in the local paper. No one cares. Except us. Except a marketplace

woman with no name in Turkey.

I bring a nut tree to my father's grave, plant it. But it never grows, and the

custodial staff eventually throws it away. We all stop going to dad's grave,

and it becomes almost invisible in the tall grass.

Such are the fuzzy edges of reality. We rub against them daily and barely

notice.

Per fas nefasque.

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He wrote so much more than just stories. "Devon" wasn't just the tip of the iceberg, but a snowflake on the tip of the iceberg.

This is a great loss.

It's sad if true, but saying things like that makes me think it's not. :candle::dunno:

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La dévoilade: A vision of my own finish

Alone....I am rarely alone....but alone, sick, feeling feeble and vulnerable,

feeling old (enfin!), feeling rejected and full of poisonous substances and the

bile of my own disillusionment with what I deem to be a much-wasted life,

and feeling that no one would ever stand by my side again and say "Joey, I

understand,"....I picked my way up the side of the Mont Ste Louise to the

magnificient cliffs overlooking the Bay of Calvi.

300 metres beneath me the ancient Mediterranean crashed against the time-

worn stones of St. Florent and L'Ile-Rousse. I saw its currents separate like

blue-ridged sea-dragons and wind off in filaments toward the Presqu'ile de

Bastia. Only a muffled roar reached my ears at this height. Only white

mouettes chattering bird-talk to one another could be heard. I thought they

were mocking my stupidity, my essential uselessness, my ephemeral passing

as an alien being on their rocks, my intrusion into a world that had no place

for me.

Another 3 meters up, an ageless countrywoman dressed only in the

traditional black of the World Peasantry was gathering herbs in a plastic

bag...green and black leaves from some plants that only she and her kind

know about. I expected the usual spit, genuflexion and shudder that only a

Corsican can execute when encountering a stranger....especially a stranger as

accursed as me, as lonely, as out of place and damned.

Instead I was greeted by an open face and a benign smile. In that smile, so

bereft of fear and loathing, the entire human universe opened once again for

me. With the sea at my back and a stoop-shouldered peasant woman

pausing to smile before me, I saw the entire span of my lifetime, and all its

chaotic uselesss endeavors melted before some kind of inexplicable deeper

understanding....a fleeting thought about immortality, a thought which I

struggled to retain. A thought about who I really was and what this

short life is really about.

And she said without preface: "You can only be one of my very own sons. I

have many in the town. You are with them. You are my child."

I don't know what prompted this, but in that moment the mask fell from my

face. I was stripped naked and lost all care for my own mortality. Reflected

in a visage of peace and calm, I knew at once that this woman---gnarled and

creased by living ---had been with me all my life and that like a ship at sea

taking refuge in the mirror-surfaced Bay of Calvi, I had come home and was

a baby again. A naked baby with no secrets, no agenda, no past, present or

even future. In her eyes I was clear and spotless. My sins were forgiven and

my guilt abolished. My heart was no longer solitary and dry. I cried without

knowing I was crying. Big tears ran down my cheeks. Big, big tears.

La dévoilade. The unmasking. The time when all people regardless of how

important or valuable or loved they think themselves to be must lose the

mask and stand in the light of innocence and purity naked onto the world

and themselves. One of the rare epiphanies of life...and it had come at last to

me.

Beneath all the multicolored masks of life, beneath the stress, the chaos, the

worry, the needless pride, the strife, the posing and calculating and

clamoring there lies an essential refuge of innocence and calm, a better side

to us all, a side that we had at birth and lost under layers of life's dirt and

crust. There is a part of everyone of us that reaches out to the other and

whispers "you are my child." We have an inner being that before being

fouled by the process of living and forgetting was once good and worth

saving and which made a contribution to the world. Something with a light,

or at least a glow.

I saw this in the eyes and heard it in the words of an inconsequential peasant

woman on a Corsican hillside. I don't pray, but if I did, I would pray that

everyone on earth could experience this same encounter.

CUSTODIATENERI

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This is incredibly sad to hear. Devon was one of the most brilliant and promising writers of this century. PWR was extremely lucky that he deigned to share his literary gift with us, despite all the evident rancor and jealousy exhibited toward him by the slovenly lower tiers.

Devon may have passed from this mortal coil, but his literary gift to humanity is immortal. For that we should all be thankful.

:candle:

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Res gestae hominis sapientis

Adapted from a thought by Titus Livius as later expanded on by Jacques

Bergier:

In the beginning...or shortly thereafter....the tiles (pieces of the puzzle) were

distributed to the animals wherever the animals were. And most of the

animals didn't know what each puzzle piece was. Some of them just played

with it.

Some of the animals spoke the same language and put their pieces together.

But other animals came and killed them and scattered the pieces again.

The tiles were indestructible, and so they remain to this very day: Under

bridges, in libraries, buried in the ground, in dense forests, in the homes of

common people who use them for bookends or cooking pots, in children's

toyboxes, in basements of pizza joints on Mary Street, in Calvados, in Tsui-

Dshen, in Manhattan, in the tunnels of the Toronto subway....virtually

everwhere.

Some animals have been privileged enough to get a few tiles fitted

together...but then the animals grow old, tired and die. Or they just give up.

Or something more immediate stops them. Maybe they fall in love.

But no one animal has ever re-united all the pieces.

When that happens, illumination will come briefly and then flicker away, as

the pieces will be once again redistributed.

I was fortunate enough in my life to see just a few pieces in one place in one

time for a short minute. Such luck will never befall me again.

Nunc bene avete,

Joey

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