Martin Murphy's Author's Notes

For Halloween
The Suffering
I looked deep into the earth. Past the tunnels made by man, past the water filled chasms to beyond the ocean’s depths. To the layers where God will always be invited, but he dares not go. I look into the palace of the fallen and unatoned. I see him there, The One; he owes me a suffering. There are many who owe me, but not like him. He is the relentless hunter who is feared by his own, feared by God.
It has been two millennium since we have spoken. It is on this day that I whisper his name, he rises his head as his ears pin themselves back. His claws hit the earth with fury, his skin stretches taut against his face. His long wiry arms pull him through the layers, for he has been called forth. Moments later he rises in front of me, he is tall and thin from the journey. His skin is hot and vaporous, the smell of sulfur fills the air. He stands before me wanting, as his body slowly shrinks to a being that never was, and never will be human.
I picture her in my mind, leaning forward slightly I whisper her name. The One / Ille Unis, takes from me all that I know. He tips his head back, and with a great sucking sound; he shakes his head violently as his body shudders. He is smelling for her soul. He stops and brings his head down until his jewel black eyes meet mine. He knows that she will never be one of the risen, she is an unbaptized bastard; he can smell it. He hesitates for a moment; then smiles with such intensity that I can hear his pointed teeth, crack and split in his anticipation. Ille Unis bows his head to me, then vanishes into the earth from where he came. I have given him the freedom to use the passageways. No matter where she goes on the earth, he will be there, and so will the suffering.
From now on her dreams will be premonitions of the eternity that will befall her. A thousand hot stones of Abel will be placed on her neck; for the dead cannot die. Her lungs will burn from pulling in the scorching hot tar that fills the pits as her skin bubbles and cooks. She will only hear the sounds of the forever dyeing and the weeping of the earth that knows it will never receive her.
In life, all of her spite and anger will fall away. Replaced by pain and the hope of reprieve. She will lean toward the son in the aft of the day, because darkness will bring the voices. The movements of dark within the darkness, and the knowledge that this will be the last life her soul will live on earth. That will be the end of her, and I go about my day.
Five years later I stumble across her in my travels, she is in an alcohol and drug induced stupor. Across the room stands Ille Unis. He watches her intently; he never leaves her side. Drink another, drink another, smoke the weed… take the pill. He whispers into the air and it rushes into her mind. He notices me smiling at him and once again he tilts his head slightly and bows to me. He speaks to me with a voice that I knew very, very long ago.
“Her Covenant gave her to me; they wept in my presents. If she gives herself to me freely, I will take only her, if not, her blood will join us. I have taken time from her, but she will know you from before. In the end when she asks, why. I will say your name restoring her memory fully, she will know who you are as she hears me scoring the inside of her ribcage. If you feel that is appropriate sir.”
I nod my head and whisper, “I do.”
Marty Murphy
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That old man salutes the wall, he bows his head and prays for them all. He snaps to and he stands up straight and he hears a young voice from the wall today.
“The command has changed, but we are soldier still.”
The old man snaps back without missing a beat. “The command hasn’t changed son and it never will.”
Then he winked at me and he faded away, I’m not even sure he was there that day.
But I spent the day in Arlington, and I’ve seen the older people cry as they put down their poems and flowers as the younger ones just think why.
Why does the black wall reflect the faces that see it, why are all the graves the same. Out off all the people that we see how can one name mean anything.
But I see a little boy being carried on his daddy’s shoulders and they slowly walk by the wall. The little boy points to his own name and I can see those teardrops fall. They fall for the times remembered and they fall for the times forgot but most of all the times never had, I bet they would have meant a lot.
I have seen the faces and I have seen the photographs; money doesn’t mean much here in Arlington; all the poems are written by hand. They are written to the unknown soldier, and they are written to dam good friends. What a person really means in your life, might mean different when questioned again. I learned that because I have spent some time in Arlington.
Soldiers never fall, they only rise.
Soldiers die so that others may live, there’s is a gift of life, they sacrifice nothing.
Marty Murphy

100 Words at 12:07
I have great words and thoughts at the edge of my mind. Like my ancestors they weep, fettered beneath the fertile soil that absorbs there very essence, there every scream. There eternal voice is fading as the soil grows deeper, richer. The very thought of them is distant, a parlor trick whose time has passed. But the words are there, in the paintings and memories of the moments, fleeting yet heart felt. How dare we weep while standing on the earth with such valiant voices. Voices so strong that a mere whisper can change the fear of those who weep.
Marty Murphy

Still top 100 in my category!!

One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker It sometimes seems like my life has been framed with the vignette of old spruce hanging over the river with a snow-capped mountain in the distance behind me. In my mind, I am still using all of my strength and all of my skill; my lungs are pushing me as my shoulders pull. I am a monster fighting ...

The truth is daring and handsome; it splinters the spindly legs fools stand upon. The frail life does not have heroes, martyrs or ultimatums. Perhaps that is why I can not remain invisible. An artist releases everything, placing priority and importance of the art above all else except the inspiration. The half-life, gritty remnants. The gutters, the booze and the women. Not to be left behind or brought with but to be used to their entirety.

In the midst of the burden; solidarity will be elusive. Your hypotheses will set you on a path with anticipation as its rule. Be happy with small victories and the taste of water, wine will not help. Clarity will come with sleep, good food and hard work. Realize that your belief may have nothing to do with the situation, be fluid yet tangible. Speak first with the voice in your mind, speak to others with a slow common voice that points to your agenda. Because they don’t know what you are thinking.
Marty Murphy

Why then do I not rage? I am no longer the compliant simpleton child of my youth. I have no ill faded belief that some great deity will strike down with karmic justice. So why then do I not rage? Perhaps then I am just a shadow of men, too contemplative, to much of a realist. Perhaps it is fear, that’s what shadows are; scattered by the light of day. I think not, I am too pointed. Unable to forget that greatness never fades, it shines long past its makers days. I shall not sabotage myself; like a prisoner of war, I will be un-reprehensible yet elusive. Why do I not rage? Mmm, because the water of spring melt runs cold yet still brings life, there too; it also brings death. If it is the only water, it will be consumed, only the gluttons will feel the cold.
YtraM

The darkness is slipping quietly in behind me. Soon I will not have to squint; as I look over the reflective placidness for the dark water hunters to rise from the cool currants far below. I realize that I am alive as my heart beats at the same rhythm as my pole pulses; showing me that my lure is running true. The loon behind me reflects its timeless call off from water that has been here since before the time of man. It strikes me now that the earth is very old, that every rock I have ever seen is older than I and will remain long after I am gone. We must play it out, the hunter and the hunted, the old and the young. Looking at stars that have long since died; yet lightyears away are still seen. I wonder if thoughts are like that, if what we believe and feel passes forward, on and on. Reflected from person to person to find itself aloft again, becoming a tradition or holiday. When daylight comes again the dark water hunters will recede into the cold current mazes and move elegantly threw under water jungles. I will be asleep most likely, dreaming of things I have not done or doing what I cannot do hear on earth.
Marty M

I see her from time to time, she comes from the flats and works her way up east hill. She is strong and elegant, sleek and fast as she powers her way forward. To a greater destiny perhaps, she does not waste a movement or a breath as she passes the tracks above the castle. She has timed it perfectly of course, for she has done this time and time again. She has seen the sun coming, she can taste it as she climbs. On a calm day if there is sun to be had she will be there. As the leaves start to roll toward the essence of the sun and the thermals start to rise; well, I have seen many things. This kind of grace is reserved and passes before the eyes of man without a glance. Perhaps that is the way it should be, she locks her wings as she dips into the quiet rising heat. She glances toward town and turns her body, side slipping across the ridge effortlessly. She rises ten, twenty, fifty a hundred feet until she is looking down at the old tree farm. I wonder if it is fun or if she is just traveling from place to place. She has done in a moment what would take me most of the day. When the sun hits our valley and the day is soft, watch for her quiet rise. That hawk will be there, she will rise from the green mountain growth to the cerulean sky. In a moment she will be gone, as if she never was, she has seen what you will never see and done what you will never do. We are clumsy beasts, never having considered the Dansville thermals.
Marty M

Ladies and Gentlemen; the first draft of my new book in finished!!

More Reviews, not doing bad at all! Currently in the top 100 in my category on Amazon!
https://www.amazon.com/One-More-Breath-Whitewater-Kayaker-ebook/dp/B084RDT92X?fbclid=IwAR0ZHys8Q_NZMOyqAMuTwZ8l_HfuBB-e4Mck20zSS3sSabvJDp275KZzqjQ

One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker

I shall not pray for you, just as they do not pray for me… the peasants do not pray for the beasts to become stronger. They revel in the dying as they look over their collections of bones beneath the quiet green grass. In their torpid life they fear and loath us, the beasts. We are what they cannot be; standing before the fiery gate of demise with a smile of arrogance. There centrality destroys them, they want what they dare not ask for, praying to a god that does not consider them; for help to over come the basic need. But not the beasts, we bite and claw at each other, we destroy each other for the pleasure. We will have what we want from each other without permission. That is what the peasants hate, the improperness of it all. The sheer lack of civility from the beast make the peasant envious and week. Do not pray for me crofter of the earth. We are the statues, the heroes, the desideratum. With us you know your place; afraid of the beast that smiles at the gates.
Marty Murphy

There are great ones among us. Though hard to see, for no one walks around in the midst of greatness all the time. They are quiet, courageous and patient but always aware. They see the simple elegance of a breath of cold air, the smile of a child with butterfly’s on there mind. They feel the wanting of some and the giving of others yet ask for nothing in there hour of agony. They hold steadfastly to the earth yet look at the sky, dress in grey and think of green. They know that water cannot be held so they do not try they are patient you see. Standing quietly just off to the side they see you and your hair and the day you will have. With all of there wisdom and languages the places they have been the lives they have seen; they say nothing. Stifled by your beauty perhaps but the great ones are watching you. Ready to jump in, ready to smile if looked upon, ready to simply nod their head. They are tricky to find, but you must look to see, one day you will find yourself looking so intently it will seem to the world that you are lost. When the people of the world look at you as you look at them you will realize; it is true. There are great ones among us.

In an old cabin I found a good book!

We are no longer the brilliant, perhaps the brilliant dead. For we longer seek to free the greatness in man. In all of the past that has led to greed and devastation. It seems that greatness in and of itself is fleeting and isolated. So, we have come, we had set aside your rules and societies, we have taken away your prodigies and become children once again.

Dansville Fish and Game Club Wednesday September 9th
I will be presenting a talk on my book; One More Breath the Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker. We would like as many members of the Dansville Fish and Game Club present as possible. I assure you it will be fun and entertaining!

One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker

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One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker

Now available in paperback!

One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker

The bugs are worked out and the paperback is coming soon!

One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker It sometimes seems like my life has been framed with the vignette of old spruce hanging over the river with a snow-capped mountain in the distance behind me. In my mind, I am still using all of my strength and all of my skill; my lungs are pushing me as my shoulders pull. I am a monster fighting ...

Martin Murphy's Author's Notes updated their business hours.

Some insight, on the writing in my mind.
I love this photo; I took it on a local lake in the early morning as I was fishing with my Dad. He asked me what I thought about that spot. I lifted my head studied the fisherman for a moment and said that’s a good spot. But in my hesitation, it went differently in my mind. He is fishing off the point in the zenith where water makes the sky. The same water that has been on earth since the beginning, he exists at the edge of the quiet grey on the non-reflective glass of time without causing a ripple. Below him the shore plateau plummets precipitously to the enigmatic world below teaming with possibility. Yea that’s a good spot. It was expressed to me recently by a most unlikely source; that when you realize who you really are, you will also realize that you are the only one. Like the fisherman in the fog… Marty
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One More Breath: The Memoir of a Whitewater Kayaker It sometimes seems like my life has been framed with the vignette of old spruce hanging over the river with a snow-capped mountain in the distance behind me. In my mind, I am still using all of my strength and all of my skill; my lungs are pushing me as my shoulders pull. I am a monster fighting ...

We don’t remember years or months or days we remember moments, he said. And some moments change our lives. With his face of age, he turned and looked across the field with a tear in his eye. If I could only see what he sees, giant men perhaps. The bastardly brave remnants of men with muddy teeth and sharp eyes. How does he see them? Perhaps he can see nothing at all, but I don’t believe that. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here, would he? I don’t know what to say to him as he folds his hands and looks to the ground. But he speaks again, do you know where the most valuable place on earth is? It’s a grave yard, in the graveyard lies all the ideas and inventions that never came to fruition. The love that was never fulfilled the greatness that was never attained the loyal fiends never to be seen again. All of these things are just six feet away but they will never be seen again. I hate this beautiful place. He stood up from the bench we were sitting on and walked into the field and placed his hand on a gravestone; paused for a moment, then walked off the grounds of Arlington alone.
Memorial Day, is every day.
Marty Murphy

I sauntered beneath the flickering streetlights of our town last night. Past the diner where I once ate hotdogs in the window as my mom waved at her friends passing by. Past the old barber pool that still turns during the daylight hours. I let an American Flag brush my hair as I walked past coffee shops, banks and bars. At the end of main street, I glanced back upon my time here, it is not as I remember. This is no longer the destination it once was, no longer a light in the darkness. To me it is a single duck feather floating high upon quiet waters while its maker has migrated to fertile lands. This town holds the remnants of Norman Rockwell’s America but no longer grasps the character. Factories have closed and opened only to close again. Stores have been turned away as the section eight abounds. The balloons are crashing, for the rules have tethered them to the ground. The destination of water is leaking and paint will no longer hold back its deluge. So here we are with flags of are hope, shimmering as a beacon home; perhaps Christmas. We could build more and make it better but the codes are just not worth the effort. The echoes of our town are being snuffed by new math and dissolution. There are too many questions, too many what if’s and not enough hard-working farm kids with a shotgun over there shoulder. Have hope, do not be crestfallen, death is fertilizer for life to come.
Marty

The Doe
I stood at the edge of a great wilderness and just wondered in. Three days later I find myself cold, wet and damaged. I am at the edge of my life, nothing new for me now. I have been at the outer edge of my life for a year now. I had thought that maybe being lost in the wilderness would be a good way. Its mid spring and I thought being lost here, well it made sense you know, everything that I had known has gone. I stumbled across an old unmaintained lean-to, it was like me I thought, nearly at its end and as good of a place as any. I curled up in the corner without a pile of leaves in it and sat. I can see my breath, I am shaking, I can’t feel my feet or my hands, my destiny is certain now as my eyes close and I allow my breath to become shallow. I am always too extreme always beyond where I should be so this fit. I hear a snap of a branch and my eyes struggle, yet open slowly. My eye catches a movement at the side of the lean-to, it’s a doe, she is ragged and limping from an old injury. It’s been a long winter for her just as it has been for me. She is alone and anguishing. She looks around and sees me where the logs meet in a dark corner. This structure has lost its ability to hold out the wind as it blows threw the gaps, yet it is the only cover for miles as far as I know. She steps up and wonders in looking at the pile of leaves in the opposite corner. She should fear me either she has given up or knows that I am in no shape to do anything about it. She crunches into the leaves and lays down laying, its as good a place as any, I think. Then she starts making noise and I see her chest expand and her belly tighten, her neck extends and her ears flatten. To my amassment she is giving birth ten feet from me. For some reason this old dwelling fills with a warm rich amber light, my eyes widen as details become known to me that I had not seen before. The carvings of names of those from years before and I pictured this place full of life. A destination at one time, perhaps it has become the destination once again. Twenty minuets later the fawn is clean and wobbling about, the new fawn takes its first mothers’ milk and I start to cry. I am curled up with my back against rotting logs and crying uncontrollably watching a baby fawn suckle from its mom. I am blinded by my tears and I am weeping out loud from deep within me as if my soul was crying for help. I cannot stop as I rock back and forth with my arms wrapped around my knees and tears streaming off my face.
I feel a cold bump on my forehead and I blink to clear my eyes. The doe is standing in front of me and bumps my head again with her nose. Then she touches her nose to my forehead and slides her face across my face. I can feel hear warmth then all at once I am stricken with visions of my childhood and my mom; feeling my forehead with the back of her hand checking for a fever then turning her hand over and running it down my face. One of the ways she tells me that she loves me and that I will be fine. Although I am in the best of care, mom sets by my side and from time to time touches me and smiles. I can hear her words as if she is standing beside me; be strong, I know you are. Then I see myself as an old man clasping the hand of someone I love as she is holding mine with the same intensity. Then I faded into darkness, when next I opened my eyes the deer were gone. But I am sure it happened, I’m not cold or hungry nor am I shaking any longer. I think that doe gave me something, energy or love or peace, I don’t know. But I do know that she gave me hope. I stand and stretch feeling my muscles release and a surge of new blood work its way into my limbs, as I step out of this shelter, I know that I will never come back here. Four hours later I am standing at the edge of a road flagging down a car, I tell them that I was lost in the woods. But I know which direction I need to go now.

Yours will be the darkest of grey, windswept and desolate. That soil will be looked upon with great disdain by passersby. The earth itself will not cultivate thee, for no life shall grow while this soil oozes spite. You shall wonder at the edge of the shallow desert peering through sullen eyes awaiting the boatman, only to be told; there are penances to be paid. You must arrive with two pieces of eight or wander for 100 Deka below the cracked forgotten stone of grey; a desperate shadow becomes you. Unless a bloom is laid upon your grave.
Marty M

Martin Murphy's Author's Notes updated their website address.