Riki the Writer

On the Eve of Nanowrimo, I felt a need to say a few words. I know I said that I would be writing non fiction this year, but I have decided against it. My November schedule is such that I don’t know if I”ll have the time to totally immerse myself in the writing. It also appears that I will not be able to go to any of the write in sessions, as they coincide with my dialysis schedule. I will be writing, however. I’ve decided to continue with the novel I started last year.

I wish all my fellow Nanites luck in their quest to reach 50,000 words in 30 days. I will be on the sidelines, cheering you all on.

With National Novel Writing Month (otherwise known and November) a mere 33 days away, I’ve been mulling over whether or not I would participate this year. I’ve participated the last two years in a row and have been unable to crack the halfway point of 25,000 words by the end of the month, let alone the 50,000 that they are actually looking for. I’ve had a huge lull in writing over the last year anyway, why, I’m not sure. I’m thinking it could be some undiagnosed form of depression, but it’s hard to really know.

I think, however, I may have come to a decision. Even though I flaked on the challenge the last two years, and I still have those two novels, unfinished, on my laptop, I think I may try again. I’m thinking I may try non fiction. At least I know the story, and there’s no need to think of the plots. It’s real. It’s actually happened.

I’m sure some of you are now wondering what non fiction story I could actually write without having to do a boatload of research. Well, those who only know me through the internets may be wondering, but anyone who knows me well, even through the internets knows what story I would tell, my own.

Anyone who reads my other blog, rikionpd.tumbler.com, knows that there I mostly talk of the trials and tribulations of being on hemodialysis, which I’ve been doing for about two years. I’ve actually been on and off dialysis since 1991, creeping up on 20 years. I’m thinking I’ll probably start with the scattered memories I have leading up to that night in February of 1991, starting dialysis for the first time, the stories of both transplants, and going on dialysis again for a third time, to the complications that bring me to where I am today.

I don’t expect to make 50,000 words again this year, but I’ll be happy if I make the halfway point before the end of the month. Wish me luck, and check my profile on the NaNoWriMo site, http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/user/423786 to keep up with my progress.

It’s dark, and I’m alone.
I can’t move. Well,
I can move, I just don’t want to.
I can’t go anywhere. What’s the point?

There was light here before.
I remember the light.
It was bright, and it was warm, and it was beautiful.
It was love.
It permeated through me, rousing me, warming me.
Then it left me again, beaming just as brightly on others as it had through me.

But it’s gone now, as are the others.
They took it with them when they left.
I watched as it grew dimmer,
Powerless to stop it from going.

So now I’m surrounded by darkness, emptiness,
A void.
A void in which no light enters,
Though I sit, watching, waiting, and praying
For the smallest of shimmers to return.

    The church was small, and the Sunday flock got smaller and smaller as the years went by.  The majority of his congregation now were older ladies, devout Catholics, and there was no way he could perform Mass in the state he was in.
   
    The priest made his way to the back of the church, like he had done many times before.  He looked to make sure there was no one around before stepping into the confessional.  Once safely settled inside, he worked his hand under his robes, placed it on his hardening member, and thought about how many Hail Mary’s he’d have to say later as penance.
   
    Before he could get started, he heard voices outside of the confessional.  He kept quiet, hoping they would just go away, and let him get on with the task at hand.  The voices got steadily closer, and he heard someone enter the other side of the confessional. 
   
    It was a young couple.  He knew who they were, but there was no way he was going to say anything to them, as that would bring attention onto himself.  At this particular moment in time, attention was something he definitely didn’t want or need.
   
    He listened to them, and he could hear heavy breathing.  At the realization of what they were doing, he tightened the grip on his dick and began a slow stroke.  With every gasp and moan they uttered that couldn’t be stifled, he’d quicken his pace.  He did his best to keep in step with the young couple beside him, not wanting to get ahead of them.  He knew he was getting close, and tried to slow down a little, however, hearing the young woman cry out in climax was more than he could bear.  Pleasure ripped through his body as he felt his own hot liquid flowing over his hand.
   
    In the depths of ecstasy, he also cried out, startling the young couple, who then made a hasty retreat.  He chuckled to himself as he listened to them go.  When it sounded like the church was again empty, he emerged from the confessional and slowly made his way back to the front of the church.  He put his hand in a small pocket in the robes and felt his rosary beads.  He wrapped his fingers around the beads, and as he walked, very softly, he whispered, “Hail Mary, full of grace.  The Lord is with Thee…”

This is a poem that I wrote on my blackberry, on the way to Robert Stanfield International Airport in Halifax, Nova Scotia on May 11, 2010.  I was incredibly excited to see my best friend, who was waiting on the other end on Newark, New Jersey, and I was thinking of her when I wrote it.

Wheels up and i’m on my way.
Headed out for a special holiday.
And, yeah, I know where I’m going to.
A special place called right there with you.

It’s been so long that we’ve been apart,
But miles don’t matter when it comes to the heart.
Big plane in the air, cutting through.
Won’t be too long till I’m right there with you.

Well, I’m on my way.
I just couldn’t wait another day.
It’s been too long, my friend,
And I just can’t wait to see you again.

Too soon, I know I must say good bye
And in the wrong direction I will have to fly.
Till then I know what I’m gonna do
Spend all my time right there with you

I wrote thisi yesterday.  I got the idea while watching an episode of Creepy Canada on Saturday.  After I researched the story that they told, I found out some more information and the idea just got better.  I wrote it down before I forgot it.

In order for this story to make sense, you need to know who the Poe Toaster is.  It would also help to know a little about Edgar Allan Poe as well.  This Wikipedia article helped me a lot, though it was not my only source of information. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe

Let me know what you think!

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A letter to the editor of the Baltimore Sun, dated January 20, 2010.

Dear Sir:

    I read in yesterday’s edition of your paper that the tradition of the Poe Toaster may have come to an end.  That is a shame, as it is a delightful little mystery that I’m sure brought a few folks to your fine city over the years, even in the dead of winter.  I thought that since the tradition is now over, that you would like to hear the story of how it began.
    I’m sure you will see this story as a great stretch of the imagination, a piece of pure fiction, concocted explicitly for your entertainment, but I assure you, it is not.  I will give you this story, and you can do what you wish with it.

    First, let me introduce myself.  My name is James Reynolds, and although you may find this far fetched, I have walked this earth for the better part of 185 years.

    In 1849, I was a strapping young lad of 25 years.  My father was one of the first to find gold in California, sparking the gold rush of that year.  I could have had the run of Baltimore in those days, young and wealthy, but I was also stupid and heartbroken.  My beloved mother, Mary, had died of consumption just before Christmas, and because of the great sorrow I was feeling over her loss, I spent the majority of the money my father sent me on expensive liquor.
    I’m not sure if it was luck, or if he’d been watching me, but one night, the great Mr. Poe was the man I asked if I could buy a bottle for, and it didn’t matter what the cost.  He requested a bottle of cognac, and said he would only accept it if I would sit and drink it with him.  I honored his request.
    This became a ritual with us.  Nightly, for several days, we’d meet and converse over a bottle or two.  He spoke a lot of death; the death of his mother, his foster mother, and of course, his beloved Virginia.

    In the carrying out of our nightly ritual, we became acquainted with a man we knew only as Markus.  Sometimes he would sit and converse with us as well, but he would never accept a drink.  Poe was suspicious of him, saying that there was no reason for a man to frequent the taverns if he was not there for the liquor.  Looking back now, I probably should have listened more to Poe.

    On the night of October 2, 1849, we made the decision to leave the tavern early, as it was the night before an election and we knew there would be gangs going from tavern to tavern looking for drunkards they could abduct, fill with whiskey, and carry from poll to poll to vote, and we did not wish to be the ones abducted.  Unfortunately, we did not leave early enough, as several men came into the tavern, and were eyeing our table, with several empty bottles laid upon it.
    We ran, and I must have been a faster runner, because the last I heard of Poe’s voice was of him calling my name, and calling me a bastard for leaving him behind.  I kept running, not looking back, until I tripped on a loose stone and fell to the street.  I could tell by the pain in my leg that I was injured, and the gang would soon catch up with me.
    When I looked up, I saw Markus standing over me.  He scooped me up into his arms and leapt so high, I was sure we were flying.  That is the last I remember of my human life.

    I awoke several nights later, in a shallow, yet open, grave.  As I looked up at the stars, I knew that I was no longer human.  I never saw Markus again, and it took many years to forgive him for turning me into this creature, instead of just killing me.
    I wandered through some of my old haunts, keeping my head down and staying in the shadows, fearing that my pale skin would give me away.  It was then that I heard of Poe’s death, and even then, the rumors of the mysterious circumstances surrounding it had begun.  I knew that there were others, like myself, who knew what had happened, but would never speak of it to anyone.

    I left Baltimore that night, ashamed that I had been unable to help the man that I was beginning to know as a friend.  I traveled the world with the money my father had sent me, then left me when he died.
    I read every chronicle of Poe’s life and death that I could get my hands on.  I got to know every detail that was ever written about him.  Then, in 1949, when I was sure that anyone who had ever knew me in life would be long dead, I returned to Baltimore.

    In the early morning hours of January 19, 1949, I crept into the cemetery of the Westminster church and found the stone monument that marks Poe’s grave.  I dumped half a bottle of cognac onto the ground, then set the bottle next to the stone.  I also left three roses with the bottle, as one would normally leave flowers on a grave.

    I’ve read that it was speculated that the three roses were left for three people, Poe himself, his Virginia, and Maria Clemm.  They were partly right.  You see, dear Editor, my mother, Mary, was also buried in the cemetery of the Westminster church, however I couldn’t remember exactly where her grave was, so I left it with Poe, knowing that he would make sure that she knew of the gesture.
    I only did this once, my way of asking for Poe’s forgiveness, for leaving him behind that night in October of 1849.  From what I’ve read, the mysterious stranger dressed in black, with a white scarf, began coming yearly in 1976.  The image that you all know as the Poe Toaster, I believe, was created by Sam Porpora, as he says, to create publicity for the church, however, he got the idea from me.

    I would love to see the tradition continue, even though we both know that there is no mysterious stranger who comes in the night to lay half a bottle of liquor and some flowers on a grave.  It is merely a man looking to raise some funds for his church.  Still, I see it as a great way to honor the visionary writer that was Edgar Allan Poe.

    So, in closing, I leave the decision to you to either print my letter, or disregard it.  Either way, you now know the truth behind the Poe Toaster.

Sincerely yours,
James Reynolds
World traveler, former drinker, vampire

Someone posted a link to something called the Bad Translator on twitter, and I couldn’t help but take a look.  I put in a few phrases, and I laughed.  I started putting in song lyrics, and I laughed.  Then, I got the idea to start putting in the lyrics, verse by verse, of the song, American Pie.  So, I found the lyrics online (although I probably could have typed them all out, but I was lazy) and copied and pasted the verses into this Bad Translator, and this is what I got.

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Coming soon … I remember that music makes me smile. I know that when I had the opportunity for me, I can dance, maybe [branch], which is in the joy of AE

But he is concerned that the minimum delivery in February each year. Therefore, do not move

I do not remember if I cried when I read a young widow, but things moved in a dark day, I died.

So, bye, Miss American Pie. “Driving Chevrolet dams, and earth. They are good boys drinking whiskey and rye singing ‘thisll dead day.” That day I die.

Do not write a book about love and faith in God provided the Bible book, roll Rock ‘, you can save the human soul, that can teach me to dance a little?

Ah, I know that I love him, because I saw you dancing in the gym .. the same shoes, I love the rhythm and blues

I have teenagers bronze dollar rose pink, small, but I know that I was lucky on the day the music died.

She began to sing, “Good-bye, Ms. American Pie player. Drove my Chevy wetlands, but this is their event. Good old drinking whiskey and rye singing ‘thisll day I die.” Thisll day

Ten years ago, we have our own state, the Rolling Stones fat and moss growth, but does not like to use. If the king and queen of clowns from the vote on the president and from his voice

Oh, the king to see, steal his crown clown paste. In order to reduce delays and lack of control non-refundable. While Lennon read about the implementation of the Quartet and the dark days of music Elegy Park last Marxist

We sang “Goodbye, boys, Miss American Pie.” Drove my Chevy to the dam, dike, but they do. I drink whiskey and rye singing the good old “thisll thisll today. The next day I die

Chaos in the summer woods. Bird flew in the rain, the loss of 8 miles, soon .. violation, landed on the grass players tried to create a lively party

2 times air now, sweet perfume while the Sergeants March tune. We all went to dance, but there is no chance, so players can win in March, a group fighting for the refusal. Do you remember the middle of the day, music, death penalty?

We started singing, “Good-bye, Ms. American Pie player. Drove my Chevy to the dam, dike, but they do. Well, drinking whiskey and rye singing the old” thisll this day thisll. With the death

Yes, there is a generation lost in space, place, no time to recover. This happens as follows: Jack be nimble, Jack quickly this time! Jack Flash candle fires devil only friend.

Oh, I see the stage hands and rage, anger, featuring … I saw in hell, Satan can break the waves of birth, on the night of fire, the victim is a celebration of light, angels, Satan is smiling and happy music day of death

Guangdong: “Goodbye, boys, Miss American Pie.” Drove my Chevy to the dam, dike, but they do. I drink whiskey and rye singing the good old “thisll thisll today. The next day I die.

I am a girl sing the blues, and asked some good news, but he just laughed and turned around. There is a sacred mountain, where the number of years, I heard the music, but he was born hearing

The way the children screaming, crying, and the poet said that the fans to sleep. However, this is not the word, the church bells all were broken. The three men I admire most the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, the last bus of the arrest, dead on the shore

They sang, “Goodbye, Ms. American Pie” dry. “Dams and drive Chevrolet. They are good boys drinking whiskey and rye singing ‘thisll days of death.” Thisll day, I am

Sing: “Good-bye, American Pie female children. Drove my Chevy to the dam, dike, but they do it. In the good old drinking whiskey and rye singing ‘thisll one day die

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if you want to compare, I got the lyrics from http://www.lyrics007.com/Don%20McLean%20Lyrics/American%20Pie%20Lyrics.html

The Bad Translator can be found here.  http://www.conveythis.com/translation.php