"The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning." - Robert Jordan
James Oliver Rigby Jr. 10/ 17/48 – 9/16/07, Born twenty nine years and one day before me, otherwise known as Robert Jordan. James was best known for his books in the Wheel of time series, passed away four years and two days ago.
I remember the day I first bought one of his books. I walked into the IGA just down the street from my house hoping they had replenished there book supply. On the top shelf in the si-fi section (I say section and you may imagine a vast selection of books to be had, alas, that picture is not so, the selection consisted of six books) sat The great hunt. Yes, I thought, after weeks of mining the same shaft, a strike. On the cover a man holding a horn was watched by a strange creature and a beautiful woman, this intrigued me. I hurried through the check-out line, and rushed home to devour that 600 page book. Three days later I started reading the book for a second time.
Fast forward fifteen years. I had been trying to keep up on James’s battle with cardiac amyloidosis, poorly because I had almost no Internet connection. I opened up the Internet and went to his home page and learned he had died. I cried. I remember feeling as if I had lost a part of my soul.
I am now writing and have been writing for about a year; almost my whole life this voice of mine has been trapped, stuck behind doors I couldn’t even see, only feel. James was one of the reasons I held onto hope. The beauty and intricacy of his work compelled me to seek, to continue seeking that voice.
Thank you James, lovingly known as Robert Jordan, may God rest your soul.
(The following poem has no ties what so ever to the above story)
Senselessly you walk through the door
Trampling those you have sworn you adore
Stopping here and there
To examine the fruits of your labor
Blithely you stop and stare
At your handy work laying there
What’s wrong you ask
Without any real care
The falseness behind your eyes
Stark and bare
Senselessly you walk back through the door
Leaving those trampled you have sworn you adore
BY Chris Mcqueeney 9/18/11