G. Derek Adams's Blog

There’s so many wrong ways to write it, so many blank alleys. The rain falls and the buildings are blind, windows with no lights. It is a wonder that anything exists at all, the rights and lefts of the mind that brought them to being so improbable. Only raw infinity makes them so, the dice are always rolling, the game always rigged. Sing with me, O Muse, just for a moment and I’ll find the way after that. Do me a solid, O Muse, your favorite paramour drunk on sea water and scorched by lightning.

This has been sitting in my drafts for a couple of years. – Author

Walking through snow is like ink on paper: convincingly permanent. The traveler’s toes were cold in their thin leather boots, but the crunch of his tracks writing their way between the trees remained satisfying. Crunch crunch crunch crunch, he echoed in his thoughts and watched the plume of steam float up from his open mouth. 

The traveler’s pack was heavy, but his brain was light — one recently filled at the town some miles behind, the other recently emptied by long months free from concern or duty. In all honesty, no mortal life is truly free of worry and peril, but this traveler  was blessed and cursed with a mind as flat as a kitchen table. Whatever he hit with his elbow fell off the table and was there entombed and forgotten in the unblinking darkness of the Kitchen Beyond. All that is left is the meal before him, spoon diving into potatoes and thin beef and then flying to his lips. A simple mind, a simple table, a simple man.

Those potatoes are a bit soft, I’ll cook those tonight. Jonas nodded to a passing pine, branches heavy with snow. With that loin? Or maybe save that for tomorrow? The pine gave no comment on his unspoken menu planning.

Jonas stopped and pulled the hood of his brown cloak back and shook it free of the dust of snow that had gathered. His hair was dark brown, curled into a thick pelt like a sheep’s. A smattering of sad hair on his cheeks and chin indicated his age was somewhere in the perilous vale between a child and a child that could be trusted with picking out the color to paint their bedroom. The heavy pack almost concealed but did not obstruct the hilt of a sword ready to grasp at his right shoulder. He tucked his thumb into the red cotton sword strap that ran across his chest and took stock of his progress.

The town of Clairmont was several miles behind to the north, but he had left the main road nearly an hour ago. He had made this journey several times before, but not regularly – he took great pains to never go to the same settlement more than once every few weeks, alternating and changing his supply runs between a half dozen similar small towns, encampments, trading posts. The snow was doing its best to obscure a prominent pile of rocks he used as a landmark, but with little success. Sorry snow, those rocks look just like a dog’s head on top of a mushroom, no way I’d miss it. Jonas nodded again. Only a couple of more miles until I hit the river, then south to get home.

He stretched his shoulders and let the pack settle its weight properly across them again. Home. The word felt warm, even though it only meant a small shack next to a frozen lake. Four walls, two beds, a stone oven and chimney. Home…crunch crunch crunch crunch. His boots and thoughts aligned and he continued on his way past the pile of rocks and towards the river.

Walking through snow is like ink on paper: easy to read, easy to follow. Jonas stopped abruptly as the first guttural moans hit his ears. Fuck. His hand was already on the sword hilt, waiting for instructions. Not again.

The moans came again, turning to almost a bray as the goatmen doubled their speed. The sword glided from its sheath and Jonas put his back to a nearby tree. Okay, at least three this time. They’re close, must’ve shadowed me all the way from town. He did a quick assessment, free hand clutching the strap of his pack as the kitchen table of his mind was hurriedly wiped clean. I can outrun them if I leave the pack, but then they’ll take all the provisions. Just like last time. I can’t let this become a habit or we’ll run out of money before the thaw. The sword’s clean steel was the answer, he nodded with regret.

Jonas let the pack fall gently to the ground at the base of the tree and turned to face his enemies. He took the hilt in both hands and adopted an aggressive stance, blade held low. The goatmen tumbled into the clearing a half-breath later, snow churning explosively in their wake. The largest Jonas recognized by his wide black horns and the brutal looking wooden spoon that he carried in one hand -suitable to stir a giant’s vegetable soup.  He had fled before, inches from the utensil. The other two goatmen were smaller, only small horn nubs on their brow – one carried a dagger, the other a broken trumpet – the music long since smashed out of it by violent employ. The trio slowed, seeing the sword in Jonas’ hands. The largest goatman spread his arms wide and gave a final screaming moan of triumph.

“Well, good day to you sir,” the largest goatman scratched the hairs of his mantee with amusement, “I’m terribly sorry, but we’ve decided to rob you this fine afternoon. Would you be so kind as to fuck right off?”

The smaller goatmen tittered, the trumpet bearer apparently flustered by the strong language used.

“You three got names?” Jonas asked, sword and hands waiting.

“Why would we share our names with—” the smallest goatman jabbed the air with his dagger in consternation.

“Yes, yes, it does seem a bit out of procedure,” the largest goatman talked over the smaller, “Why, good sir, would you be concerned with our identities at this unfortunate juncture?”

Jonas smiled, “I like to know who I’m fighting. And maybe you would like to know…who you’re fighting?”

Yeah, this is totally working. Look at them, maybe I can bluff them down!

“Well, who are we fighting then?” the goatman chuckled.

Okay, make this sound good. “I’m Jonas of Gilead, Squire. I’ve been trained by the best, faced wonders – uh, well – all sorts of weird shit! And lived to tell the tale! This sword? This sword right here? I call it my ‘good steel’ because it’s so good…at stealing lives.”

Perfect!!! Jonas fought with every fiber in his being to not drop his stance and give himself a solid pat on the back.

The goatmen laughed. They laughed and laughed, hands on knees – spit and tears running down their faces. Jonas sighed. Okay, that didn’t exactly work. But–

The squire’s hands and blade moved and his body followed. He focused on the smaller two opponents first. Less dangerous, but more unpredictable – remove from the board. He smashed the hilt of the sword into the first goatman’s teeth and kicked him hard in the chest, the dagger went spinning off into the snow. Before the second could react he stabbed his blade mightily into the damaged tubing of the trumpet. He ripped the instrument free with a smooth motion, then checked his shoulder hard into the second goatman’s chest, sending him to the ground. Jonas had just enough time to shake the trumpet free off into the tree line before a large wooden spoon collided with his shins. Not fast enough, okay fall with the momentum!

The squire hit the snowy ground hard, then rolled like a sausage down the hill and out of the spoon’s reach. The goatman’s hooves were loud and fast, Jonas clambered up getting his sword up just in time to block the next spoonbeat.

“You are making me quite angry, young man,” the goatman spat out the words then raised the spoon high.

Jonas clawed the snow and dirt out of his face and felt his heartbeat thud. Time slowed to a crawl and the squire watched his hands and sword move on their own. A high block, the goatman’s culinary club coming down hard on the steel, a tiny slice forming in the handle where sword met spoon. Thud. The goatman pushed down hard, the cut widened – a tiny canyon. He watched his left hand let go and snake out to grab the wide flange of the spoon. His right hand and shoulder howled with the sudden task of holding off the goatman unbalanced. What…what am I doing–? The squire pushed up with his right hand and sword and pulled down with his left holding the spoon. 

The spoon snapped in half with a satisfying snap.

All at once time, his mind, and the horrible enraged cry of the goatman arrived together. Reveling in the small wonder his sword and hands had just performed, but knowing the danger remained he backed down the small hill a few paces and brought himself into a classic guard position.

“You! You!–” the goatman waved the remaining handle of the spoon in utter apoplexy. Then tossed aside the useless piece of wood lowered its long black horns toward the retreating squire and charged, howling anew.

Crap. Jonas felt his feed slide in the snow, the small incline behind him making his footing unsure. No other way! He couldn’t safely dodge or tumble away so he was left with only one simple, albeit ludicrous tactical option. The squire did his best to dig his heels into the earth below the snow and readied himself to block goatman with longsword. He turned his blade flat towards the onrushing horns.

Steel met horns, scraping along the crenelations, the flat of the blade slapped against the goatman’s forehead. Perf—ow! The horns were longer than Jonas had estimated and the points lodged uncomfortably an inch or two into his chest. He turned the sword hard to the left, hoping to make enough of a brace to wrench himself free. The goatman howled and pawed at his cloak to force the squire closer.

“Grrrrr!” the squire grrrd.

“Worrowlllwwwweee”, the goatman worrowllwwweeed.

The two other goatmen, the pine trees, and the snow were all treated to a long protracted moment as each foe tensed and found new syllables to mouth. Then all at once, there was a brittle snap, unassuming and trite like a twig underfoot. The two flew apart in a sudden rush of released energy and effort, spinning and  falling face down into the snow.

Jonas was the first to pop up, already hustling up the small hill to the more even ground atop. He turned and readied his guard again, leaving the new snow and dirt on his face where it was. 

The goatmen were laughing. All three, laughing and pointing at him.

He looked down at himself, two spots of red blood were blossoming on his chest. Ohh, that’s gonna hurt real bad real soon. But why are they–?! Then he saw it. Or rather he didn’t see it. The blade of his sword was gone. A hilt and three sad inches of steel were all that remained. The break was clean.

My sword is broken. The thoughts landed on his kitchen table mind like pebbles – clattering then laying still.

who are you? who is the you I talk to when I come here, feeling some sort of responsibility to the invisible person – the pretend person that my mind makes like a mirror or a camera so I can turn and wink when the bit is good?

this is the record, i suppose. notches in tree bark or ink on journal page – the same nothing, the same game, but still – the impulse.

i came to say that i am still moved, that the travelers mean something to me. i read the early pages and the hidden chapters, read them like a stranger, decipher them. i understand better what he was saying, what i’m still trying to say — because the word is simple, the tale is elemental. strange to find myself still on the path, still hiding the same riddles and humming the same tunes.

i understand that you’re also real. there are people that see, there are perhaps eyes out there that have seen, ears that have listened all the way from the beginning. it feels unfair to hide so much from you.

there’s more of the story out there now – locked away in time and space. (where you will probably never find it?)

oh, i feel it now – the revulsion. the gut-sick that comes when i make claim to…what? it’s not about the act of revelation, it’s more about the…temerity? the poison in my blood to say i made this i own this i am owned by this, connection, connection, connection.

i stood behind the ancient cloth, an arras, i stood and felt the heat pour out of the machine, felt the vibration, felt the world blink, felt it stumble, felt a heartbeat, felt two heartbeats, felt the lightning passed from hand to hand across time across blank days and eyeless months, felt the right to say ‘i win, i won’, my hand on the cold iron, the same place but now mine again. brief impermanent glory, brief impermanent love.

heart of silver

blood and stone

sing of lost gilead’s

cinderblock throne

After the candles have burned down, after the goat’s blood has cooled. The black robes are getting clammy. Where was the bathroom? And your keys — are they in your jeans in the spare room you and the other acolytes used for changing? Asking for a ride after the Sacrament of the One Whose Eyes are Always Open is, in a word, cringe. Tonight is a not a blood orgy or you could just crash on one of the many inflatable mattresses. You’re never invited to the blood orgies.

Who was that back there? The chanting, the pounding of fists on tasteful taupe carpet. You were so focused, so in it. But now you land back in the same bones, a soul tumbling down the stairs. Laundry and groceries and hangnails and bowel movements clatter in your head like discarded marbles. Hunger in your gut and lust in your hips, fine. But why all these other states, these other shapes that grasp the mind and bend it and gnaw at it like sandpaper? The same brain that can occasionally glimpse the Lines also has all these opinions about toilet paper and coffee and the wrong fork and the right shoes. How do you get back to being that intermittent Receiver/Transmitter? And do you even want to?

And is this why you’re never invited to the blood orgies?

Oh good, your keys are in your jeans – helpfully clipped to the belt loop by a silver carabiner. By the time you slide into the busted front seat of your Hyundai, the dark singer will be gone, a memory — a stranger. No certain path from here, no streetlights on the way back. This is why you pray for luck over skill, every time, every time. The impossible turning of the coin that lands on heads and heads and heads again, just when needed. Because you are most usually nothing, and the moments when the trees fall away and the moons shine down always a gift — or maybe a theft.

Hmm – the car battery is dead. Could someone give me a jump…or a ride?

I broke Jonas’ sword and I don’t know what that means.

I wanted to do it, felt the hunger in my gut. Like breaking down a door or snapping a twig or putting your fist through spring ice. Easy, eager, energy, the satisfaction of it. The casual power of breaking.

I knew what it could mean. His skill is my skill, his sword my words. I had to show I wasn’t afraid, throw the shining blade in the pit, like Calvin, like Caliban. I am more than these.

And then I slunk away. Left him in the woods, in the snow. Rime is still asleep and he is miles away from their hideout.

Am I punishing him? Am I punishing myself? It feels like a crime but I’m not sure of the victim.

The evidence is hidden down in the shining pages, no one will ever know.

Whipped here, driven like a dog, tied to the table and beaten. This is not a confession, I’m already gone. I’m gone again, you’ll never catch me.

gray fingers on red

the cockerel is dead

black blades sing

a doggerel spring

read out the words

i’ve stolen the verbs

hold me close, love me silver

gold is dross, witch deliver

Hard to note this without undoing the statement, but I seem to be going mute. At least online, in the many glowing boxes, in the quiet rectangles. I’ll have a thought about a movie and just not say it. A friend will post a memory that I share, but I won’t comment. I’m definitely not writing any stories or poems.

Maybe my relationship to speech is changing. I’m a passive reader, observer, scroller. The itch to step up to the microphone fading. (which I already know is a half-truth)

Is it the will that is fading or the belief in the form? I’m no stranger to the left and right, the hand just so, the sentence hanging in the air to convey just enough of the meaning – a tiny steam vent from the reactor core. Is the system critical so there’s no longer any point? Or is it just the simple exhaustion?

I don’t know.

All I can see is the evidence splayed out on the table. A line graph going down. I filled forums and tweets and tumbles and page after page of chatter and matters magical and mundane. I don’t feel panicked about it, more like a vague concern. Which could mean that this is simply a season and it will pass – but the global climate change of my brain is also possible.

Maybe I’m already counteracting the poison with these fingers and the click-clack of the keys.

The chest rotted. I should have sealed it with oil or wax, but I thought I would never need it again. We buried it deep, Captain Barak and me, on a hill with three oaks. I thought I would never need it again. The chest fell apart as I hauled it out of the earth, the bottom gave way. Everything I left inside trying to sink back into the ground or like it was trying to get away from me.

It’s all covered in dirt and rot. Mold, that’s the right word. My old boots and tunic are useless, chewed up by the mold. But the rest is fine, steel waits. That’s what Barak said at least. ‘Steel and stone pass through our hands over and over, father to son, father to son. They wait.’

I can clean the armor and the shield. And the sword. Beach sand will serve. The leather wrap on the sword hilt is rotting, I’ll need to replace it. It feels strange, the sword in my hand. Like the pen and the ink, I wanted to forget the words. I wanted to forget the sword’s words too.

It surprises me how bright the paint on my shield is. Yellow and red.

It is strange to write again.

I stared at the page for some time, my hand on the pen. My hand holding the pen. The pen IN my hand. See, words are strange. Slippery. I think it would be easier if I could write in stone-cast, the language of the Dwarves, my mates. Too bad I can only speak and sing it, but I know less runes than a child would know. Stone-cast is simple. Tie rope here. Put fish there. A storm is coming. The food is ready to eat. Sleep now. Wake now. Pass the ale.

But the words of my own tongue are not so simple. But still I find them. They step out of the shadows, out of memories, as I need them. I don’t like them much.

But it feels like duty. There’s a word I used to hold tight in my fist. The writing, pulling the words they taught me back through my mind and onto this page. It’s part of what the Dawn wants. No, demands. Slippery. The dream was not a request, it was a command.

The angel fell into the dark woods. Its wings snapped like sailcloth in the wind. It hit the black earth and lay still. Then it tried to push itself up but the earth held it. Root and stone like hungry mouths, pulling the angel down. I can see it with my waking eyes. The angel pushed itself up, free for just a moment – its face mad with pain and rage, it choked and then golden blood coughed out of its mouth in a rush. It sank into the earth and there was nothing left, not even a drop of the shining blood.

The Dawn sent me that dream. After ten years I felt His hand on my face and I knew it was a truth. A true command. I woke with tears on my face and a pain in my heart, horrible. Horrible.

It is his will that I carry His light again. That I leave my mates, the ship, and the sea. Tomorrow we land and I will go, I will dig up the trunk we buried, Captain Barak and me. And I will take what sleeps there and I will go.

Where I do not know. The Dawn calls me to follow so I will go east. The sea is ready to forget me. I have business to the east.

The Dawn commands.

I will find the angel’s grave. I will pull him up. And I will burn. No, destroy? End. I will end it.

Ten years, nearly eleven. Why now? Why me?

I do not know.

Sing with me, O Muse

for I have no room within,

of the man with three names

sea-cradled, the tempest seeker,

the deserter, breaking the golden sun

across the black earth in despair,

running to the end of the earth

and across the waves, hiding his folly

and shame inside his changeful heart.

One name from blood

one name from glory

one name a jester-story

wrapped around a stone and turning

like the globe and all the waves

crashing down on the shore of Today

blinking seafoam from his eyes

uncertain which name is his

but knowing that the path ahead

may devour them all.

The Dawn always finds you

and its fell companion, Hope

is not far behind.

Sing with me, Muse

for I am so lonely,

sing of the shadowed forest

and the shining wings that fell there

like a comet, like a promise.

Sing of the path ahead, twisting

and turning like a serpent

through the forgotten trees of Night.

this time i said

let me just empty myself out

become

an outline

a scribble of a man

that way

it can all just pass through me

clean as air

pass through the

space i have prepared

and this time i said

call me a coward

i have paid this bill before

how easy it was

like clearing out a drawer

not much to toss

quick and orderly

and it worked

well enough

but now i am only pencil lines

on the page

empty space bound against empty space

it worked this time i said

it worked i said

it worked