Kenneth Reimer's Blog, page 4

* “A Farewell to Friends” – June 13, 2014

‘Tis a strange thing—this writing of a novel.  Even more strange is letting it go.  Zero Time, my story of time travel, has for five years exerted an influence on my life.  In the early days, blank scraps of paper, coil-bond notebooks, napkins in coffee shops, all were tattooed by my pen and transformed into art by the force of my imagination.  These bits and pieces were stitched together into a semi-coherent manuscript, then I alternately added to and chiseled away at this manuscript.  The days turned into weeks, into months, became years, and now, finally, I hold a proof of the novel-to-be.  I could not be more proud of what I’ve done.

Zero Time will be for sale in September of 2014, and I cannot wait to share my creation with the world.  (I know it’s just as expression: “with the world,” but wouldn’t that be nice?)  I should be overjoyed—my god, I’ll get my life back.  (That is, of course, until I start work on another project.)  As the release date draws nigh; however, I’ve begun to notice something peculiar: The prospect of letting go is making me feel just a little bit sad.

I’ve come to recognize that the reason for this tinge of melancholy has nothing to do with publishing a novel, it’s about saying goodbye to the characters within that novel.  You don’t have to be a writer to empathize with what I am feeling.  Think back to the finale of one of your favourite television series.  You know that the characters are not real; you know that you’ve been watching actors play roles, and that nothing you’ve witnessed over the years has actually happened.  Still, when the final credits roll, it feels like some of your friends have moved away forever.  It should not be, but it’s sad.

Now consider that you’re the one who gave these characters life, and you’ve worked with them almost every day during the past half-decade.  How are you going to say goodbye to these constant companions?  It’s a singular relationship that exists between a writer and his or her creations.

I imbued my characters with lives of their own.  I gave each of them a past, a family, loves, hopes for the future, relationships beyond the scope of the novel.  As a writer, I had to do this, or the characters would have lain flat on the page.  The unexpected result of all this attention, however, was that I began to care for these fictitious people.

And that can be problematic.

One issue I’ve had to face is that, as the writer, I am the agent of the characters’ suffering.  I could, of course, simply put an end to the strife and place them all on a beach in the Caribbean.  That is what we want in life; however, it’s not so much what we prefer in fiction.

Another issue I will have to face is that sooner rather than later, I’ll have to bid these “friends” farewell.  I will miss Jana and Spencer—my two main characters—the most.  Spencer is still a bit of an enigma, but I’ve come to know Jana as well as I know almost any person alive.  In the beginning, I knew her better than she knew herself.  Now, however, near the end of things, I suspect that she has memories which I did not create for her.

This cannot be literally true, you say, and of course you are correct.  For just a moment, however, allow yourself to delve into the mind of a writer.  In the past few months, as I’ve struggled with frequent revisions, I’ve begun to notice some “incidents.”  Nothing serious, you understand, but troublesome none-the-less.  Sometimes in snatches of conversation, Jana alters her delivery of the dialogue from what it was in the previous reading.  It’s not drastic, just variations in intonation that only a writer would notice.  In reading over one particular scene, Jana now seems to be impatient and wants to hurry it along, as if she’s anxious to get to what comes next.  I can hear it in her voice: “Come on,” she whispers.  “Come on.  Hurry it up a little.”

What the hell?

Even worse, at the conclusion of the odd scene, I swear I catch a surreptitious glance that should not be there, as if she wants to get a look at me before I turn the page.  It’s freaking me out.  One of these times, she’ll wink at me, and then I’ve got some serious creative issues.  (Not to mention psychological ones.)

Soon enough though, I’ll say goodbye to these characters.  I’ll be done with it.  I’ll hit “save” a final time and close the document for good.  As I do this, I might be just a little concerned regarding how they will remember me.  Will Jana look back with fondness or bitterness?  Even worse, might it be indifference?  I really did try to do my best.  And Spencer…well, Spencer is a different matter altogether.  How can he ever forgive me?

I even wonder if I will see these people again.  I’m not thinking in terms of a sequel, or even a “prequel,” but sometimes characters resurface in other narratives.  Will any of them demand to have more of their story told?  I can’t say now, but for a writer this is a fascinating question, and it sets my imagination spinning wildly.

But, no, other works await.  Jana and Spencer have their own thoughts now—they’re as done with me as I am with them, and we all need to move on.  Another cast of characters lingers in the wings.

I have a horror story called Ashes that has waited patiently for a couple of years.  Those characters are my long-neglected children, and they desperately need some attention.  A brush stroke here, another there, and they can come to life.  The fugitive Michael, Ashleigh, William Stark, Vaslir…even the blood-soaked Randal—my relationship with these characters is just beginning.

Scraps of paper have already been stitched into the working manuscript of a novel, and several hundred pages of Ashes are gathering dust in my computer.  Very soon, it will be time to brush off that dust and start chiseling away at the narrative.

I can almost see the expectation in those characters’ eyes.

Wait a minute, did Michael just wink at me?

 

Kenneth D. Reimer

(Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kenneth.d.re...)

I selected this image for the back cover of Zero Time for several reasons. One, a carving from ancient Egypt captured a sense of antiquity that I thought appropriate for a story of time travel. Two, I liked how the figures seemed to be passing through a doorway, reminiscent of how the characters in Zero Time pass through the time portal.
I’ve posted the image here because I now see how it symbolizes my own transition. I am moving from one novel to the next, from one period of my life into another.

 

* “Thunder Beach” – June 6, 2014

Stretching in a slow arch from the eastern reach of Puerto Rico to the northern coast of Venezuela, there is a crescent of islands that separate the Caribbean Sea from the Atlantic Ocean.  On most maps, these islands are labelled as the Lesser Antilles.  People who have been there, simply call them paradise.  My favourite island in paradise is Saint Martin (Sint Maartin), and on its western coast is a small stretch of sand that is constantly rocked by the sound of thunder.  The odd thing is that when the thunder rolls, there is rarely a cloud in the sky.

This stretch of sand is called Maho Beach, and it’s situated at the base of the runway for the Princess Juliana International Airport.  A narrow road and a chain-link fence are the only barriers separating the sand from the tarmac.  When the planes come in to land, they pass directly over the beach, and they come in low.

I have travelled to Maho Beach a multitude of time, but I have to admit that I’ve never actually gone swimming there.  A variety of other locations on Saint Martin provide more beautiful settings.  At Maho, the sand and sea are only a backdrop for its main attraction—the succession of planes that glide above it as they approach the runway, and those that roar away from it as they climb toward the sky.

If you don’t come to swim, you may as well relax and have a Carib—the beer of the Caribbean.  At Maho Beach, there are two bars where you can satisfy your thirst.  The first you will see as you arrive at the beach is the Driftwood Boat Bar, where the bar is an actual boat.  Somewhat squeezed between the road and beach, it’s cramped and a little noisy, but if you can grab one of the few weather-worn tables on the beach, it’s splendid.  You can sip your Carib from an ice-cold, sweating bottle while the sun warms your back, and your toes wiggle in the sand.

On the other side of the beach—only a short walk away—is the Sunset Bar and Grill.  I love this place.  It has changed over the years, sometimes for the worse, but it seems that the current owner has gotten all the details in perfect balance.  The food is tasty and remains reasonably priced.  The atmosphere is friendly, and the show just can’t be beat.

The bar is raised fairly high above the beach, so when a plane comes in to land—if you crane your neck a little—you can almost convince yourself that you’re at eye-level with the pilot.  (Every successive Carib tends to assist in this illusion.)  The planes pass by so close, and they seem so big, sometimes it’s difficult to wrap your head around what you’re experiencing.  If you’re lucky enough to see a 747 coming in, it is so immense that it momentarily fills the sky.  The larger the planes are, the slower they seem to move.

I sometimes wonder how the captains of smaller aircraft feel as they approach the beach.  Maybe they’re relieved that the plane they’re flying won’t require the entire runway to stop—the end must come hard and fast.  At some level, however, the pilot of a turbo-prop must feel a flash of inadequacy.  As they make their approach, they can see the multitude of faces turned expectantly in their direction.  The anticipation must be palpable.  Then, as they draw near, however, recognition and disappointment ripple across the crowd.  Faces turn away, and the plane lands in anonymity.

What goes up, must come down, and conversely at the Princess Juliana International Airport, what comes down must go back up.  Equal to the attraction of the planes sweeping down to land over the beach, is the thrill of them taking off.  The big jets need to utilize very inch of the runway, and to do this, they must taxi as close as they can to the chain-link fence separating the airport from the beach road.  It is a strange sight indeed to watch the colossal form of a 747 tower above the crowded beach as it rolls into position for takeoff.

At each end of the road stretching between the beach and runway—sea and sky, there are signs posted that read: “Danger Jet blast of departing and arriving aircraft can cause severe physical harm resulting in extreme bodily harm and/or death.”  The warning is unequivocal, but every time an airliner taxis into position, you’re guaranteed to see a group of tourists gather along the fence in anticipation of the oncoming thunder from the engines.

I do not doubt that being blasted by jet propulsion is a fascinating experience.  It may even be a life-changing experience—in all sorts of terrible ways; imagine lacerated corneas, punctured eardrums, dislocated fingers (these from clutching the fence), and bodies battered from wind-driven cartwheels down the beach.  Perhaps I’m overcautious, but in this case, I think caution is the better part of wisdom.  I’ve heard stories of serious injuries, and I really have to wonder what these people are thinking.  It’s both a shocking and amusing spectacle for anyone sitting sanely at the Sunset Bar and Grill.

If you are going to spend the afternoon at Maho Beach, it’s worthwhile to extend your stay a little longer and watch the sun go down.  Not surprisingly, the Sunset Bar and Grill is a good spot from which to witness this daily work of art.  Like every masterpiece, however, the necessary elements need to come into play.  Start with the Caribbean Sea and the setting sun.  Got those.  Now, add an interesting cluster of clouds.  If you’re lucky, one of the sunset cruises may hover near to the horizon.  From the perspective of the Sunset Bar and Grill, these gallant ships offer a picturesque addition to the scene.  Then, if the timing is right, an airplane might come in for a landing.  In the distance, its lights will sparkle against the darkening clouds.  As it nears, the rich glow of the low-lying sun will brush it with gold.  Combine all these elements into the one moment, and you have a perfect ending to a perfect day at Maho Beach.

When I book my next flight to Saint Martin, I’ll remember to reserve a seat on the right side of the cabin.  As the plane makes its final approach to the island, and glides over the beach, I’ll press my nose to the window and catch a glimpse of the Sunset Bar and Grill.  As I look down at them, the crowd will be staring back up at me.

Chances are I’ll see myself on Youtube when I get back home.

Kenneth D. Reimer

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* “The Warrior” – May 23, 2014

He stares back at you with eyes devoid of emotion.  They are unblinking—cold, dead.  His expression is frozen, as if carved from stone, and it gives no hint as to the thoughts hiding behind those eyes.  What has he seen?  What happens to a mind enclosed for two thousand years of darkness?  There is no sense in asking, for his voice was silenced millennia ago.  You are standing in the Shaanxi History Museum in Xi’an, China, and he is a foot soldier in the Army of Terracotta Warriors.

You didn’t know the museum housed a sampling of warriors and horses from the excavation, but the surprise is welcome.  On placards surrounding this intimate vanguard, you read the history of the army.  Most of this information you already know, but it still both fascinates and appalls.  In 210 B.C.E., 700,000 craftsmen and labourers worked to create the Army of the Terracotta Warriors, and then many of them were summarily executed—mass murder at the behest of the Emperor Qin Shi Huang in order that the location and nature of his mausoleum remain a secret.  And the diabolical plan almost worked.  But for a farmer digging a well and accidentally uncovering the broken limbs of a figure, this monument to Qin’s atrocity would still lie hidden.  It is difficult to imagine an individual as megalomaniacal and evil as Qin Shi Huang.  How could someone who considered himself so great of a man be so totally lacking in humanity?

Now, in the museum, you stand face to face with a small cadre of warriors, separated by only four feet of space.  You sense, however, a greater void.  In those four feet, one hundred generations stretch back to antiquity.  Even in the muted light, you are able to study every aspect of their appearance.  Each figure is a marvel of exquisite detail, faces, hair, uniforms—none of them are the same.  The four horses lined flank to flank among the men are equally life-like, moments frozen in time.

All this sharpens your anticipation for the day to come when you intend to visit the archeological site itself.  The rest of the army awaits.  It is the reason for which you have come to Xi’an—one of the reasons for travelling to China.

You step back and regard the men of stone.  There are only nine of them.  Whenever you’ve read of the Terracotta Warriors, the articles always describe an Army.  This is only a squad, imagine facing an entire battalion.  Individually, each of these warriors is worthy of praise; collectively, they must inspire awe.

Soon you will know.

When the morrow arrives, you get up early and make your way out of Xi’an to the Museum of Qin Terracotta Warriors and Horses.  Once you enter the gates, it becomes immediately evident that the archeological site is really an archeological complex.  Three large building have been constructed to protect the excavations.  The two sprawling before you—covering Pits One and Two—are massive, the size of airplane hangers.  The third, smaller building, covers Pit Three.

Pit One is where you want to go; every image you’ve seen of the warriors has come from that excavation.  When you walk through the doors and step into the vast interior, the scale of it makes you stop in your tracks, and then it draws you forward.  Now you know why the Terracotta Warriors are referred to as an Army, it’s the most impressive aspect of the site.  They stand in silent readiness, row upon row, column by column—too numerous to count—almost too much to take in.  Except for a walkway that skirts the inner wall of the building, the entire space is a single, massive excavation site.  The only thing you can say is “wow.”  The word is a wholly inadequate expression, but it’s all you can muster.  An army of clay-clad terracotta soldiers—wow.

The excavation is not even near completion.  Of the 7000 or 8000 anticipated warriors and horses, less than a fifth have been reconstructed, and these are assembled at the front of the colossal display room.  Behind them, the rest of the army lays as it has for centuries.  Tons of earth have been removed, and particles of light might now sift through the dust, but the fragments of the warriors themselves remain untouched by human hands.  Only the hands of Time have exerted their influence.

The manner in which the Army is displayed unintentionally symbolizes its history—discovery and restoration in reverse.  Immediately before you, thirty feet below, the front ranks stand at rigid attention—forever watchful.  As your vision lifts and pans back, you gaze further and further into withdrawing time.  The warriors seem to disassemble and collapse upon themselves.  Beyond these broken remnants, there are only monumental heaps of earth.  Fragments of warriors jut from the surface of these mounds and patiently await resurrection.  Laid out at your feet is a colossal jigsaw puzzle that has only been partially assembled.

Once, these ranks flashed with brilliance.  Now, except for the odd smudge, the warriors are without colour.  Only the occasional strip of yellow lights a bolt of cloth.  Points of red mark the soles of sandals.  The ponderous weight of passing eons has leached out the life of these soldiers.  It has stolen too the weapons with which they were to defend their emperor—lances, bows, all are gone, and clay hands clutch at air.

Ironically, Emperor Qin Shi Huang also clutches at empty air.  What was intended as a monument to his greatness is now a testament to his vanity—the remnants of an impotent, futile gesture.  Ask anyone if they have heard of the Army of the Terracotta Warriors, and they will know something; they will have seen some image.  But if you are outside China and ask of the emperor who decreed their construction, blank looks will answer your question.  The memory of Qin Shi Huang has been supplanted by the army that was created to guard his name.  The terracotta warriors shall be known for generations, the emperor is now of the same clay that was used in their construction.

Kenneth D. Reimer

(Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kenneth.d.re...)

This is the sight that greets you upon first entering the Pit One excavation.

 

This warrior was displayed on the mezzanine that circles Pit Two.

* “The Ring, the Bull, and the Bruises” – May 16, 2014

Not too distant from the Spanish city of Seville, there are a number of bullfighting schools where the matadors of tomorrow come to test their mettle.  Although I had a conflicted attitude regarding the art of bullfighting, when I was given the opportunity to visit one of these schools, I did not hesitate to accept.  Since that moment, experience has lent me some small degree of wisdom, and I now realize that hesitation is a vastly underrated quality.

It was a sunny, spring afternoon, when I stepped onto the hallowed grounds of the bullfighting academy—a vestige of the tradition once regarded as sacrosanct in the Spanish world.  Just within the gates of the compound, we were greeted by a surprise: prancing before us was one of the magnificent horses for which the region surrounding Seville is renowned—a white Andalusian, or Pura Raza Española (Pure Spanish Horse).  I was thrilled before even entering the small arena.

Once inside the circular building, we were ushered by our host, a gallant gentlemen of middle age, onto a terrace overlooking the training ground for the aspiring matadors.  As the young men honed their art, sparring with an angularly framed, aggressive training bull, we were served an elegant lunch—replete with liberal portions of sparking wine.  The sun baked down; the food was delicious; the setting was exotic, and the entire spectacle was thrilling.

Following the leisurely lunch, I was somewhat surprised when our host asked if any of us wanted to step into the ring and try their luck with the bull.  Immediately, someone in our group—a matador wannabe—thrust his arm in the air and began waving his hand.  I shook my head smugly, thinking, “Fool, fool, fool.  Who in his right mind would…?”

Then I realized that it was me.  That was my arm.  And that was my hand at the end of it, waving.  I was the fool.  Awesome.

The part of myself that is introspective and cautious would have paused—would have hesitated before volunteering so enthusiastically.  That me would have kept quiet, sat back and observed the chaos.  While some ill-advised traveller got trampled by a bull, the wiser me would have sat sagely in the audience.  He would have shaken his head, chuckled sardonically, taken a sip of his sparkling wine, then he would have turned to the person beside him and commented wryly: “You know, sometimes these tourists can be such fools.”

That version of myself, however, lay submerged beneath three glasses of sparkling wine, and he had nothing to say, no words of wisdom to veer me from my path.

Truthfully, even sober, I probably still would have gone into the ring.  How could I go to a bullfighting school in Spain not walk out on the sand?  In my defense, I did possess literature on the sport.  On my bookshelf back home were two volumes of bullfighting written by Ernest Hemingway.  They were packed with informative facts that would undoubtedly serve as a bulwark while I made my stand in the ring.

However, I did not have the books with me, so I was forced to rely on the expertise of my guide.  (Who, I was soon to discover, possessed no expertise whatsoever on the topic at hand.)  He assured me that the bull was enraged by the red cape, and when it charged, it was going after the cape, not the matador.  With this assurance in mind, I made my way to the ring, accepted the proffered cape—the muleta—and stepped into the centre of the arena.

From the terrace, the sandy surface of the ring had looked soft, almost inviting, but it actually felt more like baked clay, dry and packed hard.  I kicked at it briefly, then focused my attention on the bull that stood poised at the far side of the ring.  Understand that this was a training bull; banish from your mind the image of a raging, full-grown animal bred for the sole purpose of the fight.  The training bull is less than half the size, with one third the muscle and one fifth the attitude.  Even the points of its horns had been filed down to rounded tips.  Still, it was a bull, and it looked a lot larger from ground level than it had looked from the terrace.

It was black and a little shiny with sweat.  Its horns spread out from the side of its head and thrust in my direction.  Sinewy muscle strained.  As I studied my adversary, it did something that under different circumstances may have made me laugh—it snorted and struck with its right, back hoof against the surface of the sand.  So they really do that, I thought.  That’s not just something you see in a Looney Tunes cartoon.  Hm, a cartoon.  If a bull tramples a tourist into a flat, two-dimensional image, will someone come afterward and just peel that person off the ground?  Will he or she simply pop back into shape?  Tourist resurrection?

Summoning my courage, corralling my ignorance, I advanced three paces and made my stand.  I brandished the muleta, leaning to the side and extending it as far from my body as possible.  (After all, the bull goes for the red cape and not the man holding it.)  Then I taunted the beast.  I hooted, and if my memory is accurate, I yelled something akin to “Here, bully, bully.”  I also made disparaging comments regarding the nature of the bull’s parentage.  Not very sportsman like, I know, not my best moment, but if it is any consolation, I was soon to get my comeuppance.  The bull regarded my antics momentarily, almost passively.

And then it charged.

(About those books on my shelf back home.  At the time, I hadn’t actually read them.  I’d been hoping for some manner of literary osmosis, but that hadn’t happened.  Still, the titles alone should have been instructive: “The Dangerous Summer” and “Death in the Afternoon” are fairly unambiguous.)

Midway across the arena, the bull reached terminal velocity, moving much, much too quickly for an animal rushing in your direction, especially if it has horns.  A little less than four feet from where I stood, it veered sharply, and instead of charging the muleta, it came straight for me.  No time to react.  No time to think.  The flat part of its horn cracked my hipbones; the tips wrapped my sides, and I was airborne.

Reports were that I travelled twenty feet, but I would allow for exaggeration and temper that estimate.  I spiralled in the air and hit the baked sand with an explosive jolt that emptied my lungs.  My right leg took the brunt of the impact, and the pain was intense—worse than anything I’ve experienced, including cracking my ribs three separate times and having my car totalled by a drunk driver.

Several people rushed into the ring and pulled me to my feet.  Luckily, the bull had lost interest and was already swaggering across the arena.  I was helped to a small medical room where the guide, who knew as much about first aid as he knew about bullfighting, splashed iodine on my wounds and bravely declared that I was okay.  There were so many small lacerations that, when he was done, my leg resembled the garage floor from the Valentine’s Day Massacre.  In two day’s time, the bruise on my leg would actually turn black, and by then I would be on the sunny beaches of the Costa Del Sol.  You can be sure that I drew some ghastly looks.

During the entire procedure, the guide could hardly contain his laughter.  Apparently—and I had to take his word for it—at the moment of impact, when my feet were just leaving the ground, the expression of indignation on my face was truly comical, as if I couldn’t believe the monumental audacity of the bull.

Despite the pain, I took some consolation from the fact that I was struck directly in my midsection, and the horns missed me altogether.  Even with rounded tips, I shudder to imagine the damage that could have been done.

There was also a morsel of satisfaction to be scavenged from what occurred once I regained my place on the terrace.  It may be difficult to believe, but subsequent to my inglorious retreat, other tourists decided they wanted to face the bull.  Had they not been watching?  While I was being served another glass of wine—now required as a pain suppressant, a teenager from Ontario was in the midst of his confrontation within the ring.

As I watched, the bull charged, thrashed at the muleta and then was clearly past the weekend matador.  Surprisingly, the young traveller had performed an amateurish but successful veronica.  Appearing shocked by his unexpected prowess, he turned to his audience and bowed, cape sweeping to the side.  He had reason to be proud, but he should have been more mindful of his circumstance; he had forgotten the bull, but the bull had not forgotten him.  As the youth straightened from his bow, a smile stretching from ear to ear, the bull charged his back.  Its head was low, and it caught him just beneath his butt cheeks.  He hid a slow, almost graceful arch through the air, literally turning heels over head, then he landed in a heap some distance behind the bull.  He got up slowly, but he was laughing, and we knew that he was all right.

While this minor tragedy unfolded within the arena, I was sitting sagely in the audience.  I shook my head, chuckled sardonically, took a sip of my sparkling wine, then I turned to the person beside me.  Just as I was about to deliver a wry comment regarding the nature of tourists, a spasm of pain traced fire from my leg to my skull.  My smile twisted into a grimace, and it occurred to me that any wisdom still in my possession would best be expressed through silence.

Kenneth D. Reimer

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