Vita Ipsa Loquitur

I fear sometimes that I am becoming a boring person. I never have anything very interesting to say here these days. And I used to be so crazy and weird. But what happened. I seem to have lost a lot of my old weirdness. Not to say that I am no longer weird. I just used to be weirder.

If you wrote your own autobiography, what would it be about? I always wanted mine to be so legendary that it would be banned from high school reading in most states. It would be the kind of story that ruined people's lives forever, an epic chronicle of biblical proportions. I think it would be called "Vita Ipsa Loquitur: The Doomed Man's Travelogue In Black and White".

As you can tell from the title it would be a light-hearted, and inspirational sort of tale, a hero's quest of sorts. It would have to be filled from cover to cover with adventure, romance, and all kinds of swashbucklery in general. I imagine it as a cross between Homer's "The Odyssey", Bram Stoker's "Dracula", and the film "It's a Wonderful Life". And, of course, it will be 100% true.

Can you grasp that? I think it would start out something like this:

Prologue: The Black of Night

"Vampires?" The captain asks dubiously. "I doubt it. Not this far north. The climate wouldn't suit them at all."

"You may be right", I reply half-hearted. Nevertheless, I did meet one last night. He showed me things that would not soon be forgotten, and I knew he was not finished with me yet. I look out over that same bleak horizon where I saw Captain Sveinsson's burning ship, Urd, succumb to the fathomless deep not quite a fortnight agone. Now it is only the white-hot sun edging ever closer to it's inevitable demise. A cold wind is blowing off the Atlantic Ocean, and I sigh heavily in resignation. "It's lookin' to be a cold one."

"Yes, my friend." There is a long pause as we both consider the gravity of the situation. I look down at my grandfather's compass that hangs around my neck, long since broken. The moments pass heavily by until the captain finally breaks the silence. "This man that you spoke with, this vampire, perhaps you brought him with you. Perhaps he has troubled you for a very long time."

"Perhaps."

"And you never did tell me how you came to be here yourself?"

"That is a long story", I say, "And I don't care to tell it right now", I answer his next question before he can ask it. Truthfully, I don't know the answer to the questions. How did I get here? And why? Looking back at it, I can't make any sense of it myself.

"Very well. I understand." He shrugs it off. "It doesn't matter. We will find our way back soon."

I am not as hopeful in that regard. I still have this one problem, this great big loose end, this thing I came here to do, and I know there is no going back until it is done. Not for me anyway. I am not sure what I would be going back to, for that matter. I reflect darkly on these things as the sun begins to slip below the waves taking all remaining color with it. I am not afraid, only anxious to get to the next horrific twist of the knife.

I run my fingers through my long, thinning hair. It is falling out faster every day. I don't have much time left before I will be too weak to fight it any more. Tonight might be the night. Am I ready? The Captain shudders as though for a moment he knows my mind, and all the ugly things that lie in it. He starts to say something, but is interrupted by the sudden, atavistic booming of the drums. Every night that same terrible rhythm that will haunt my dreams for years to come.

I am certain now that the captain and I are the last civilized men, forgotten on this God-forsaken island amidst a sea of unrelenting madness, and the savages are just waking up. Things will start moving quickly now. We must cling desperately to the last vestiges of our neglected faith.

"Hafðu augun opin, vinur minn."

"Aye, Captain."

"Please, call me Snorri." He pulls out a tall bottle and offers it to me.

"Why not?" I consent. I hand the bottle back. We soon finish every last drop of it between the two of us.

"You know, my friend, one good thing about this place?"

"Tell me!" I beg. The drink is already twisting my sense of space and reason. The esoteric, animal part of my brain is beginning to take hold as we succumb to the darkness, even as the distant voices of the newly damned begin to scream in terror.

"The night lasts only four hours."

But alas, I know all too well that four hours can be a very, very long time.




So there you go. I just need an advance from a major publisher to begin for real. About half a mil would probably cover it.