"No és la mort si la rebutges... ho és si l'acceptes." The Crow.

"Antiguamente la gente creía que cuando la gente muere, un cuervo se lleva su alma a la tierra de los muertos. Pero a veces, sucede algo tan horrible que junto con el alma el cuervo se lleva su profunda tristeza, y el alma no puede descansar en paz; y a veces, sólo a veces, el cuervo puede traer de vuelta el alma para enmendar el mal."
Introducció a la pel.lícula The Crow, dirigida per Àlex Proyas.


30 d'octubre: la nit del dimoni. Una nit salvatge i una jove parella a punt de casar-se, és brutalment assassinada. Un any més tard, ell, l'Eric, torna: desperta de la tomba i un corb el guia. Un corb que és el nexe que uneix dos móns: el dels vius i el dels morts. L'anti-heroi venjatiu, matarà als botxins.
Recreació gòtica de llums i ombres, basada en el còmic del mateix nom.

"Un día perderás todo lo que tienes. Nada te preparará para ese día. Ni la fe, ni la religión... nada. Cuando muere alguien a quien amas, conocerás el vacío... Sabrás lo que es estar completamente sólo, nunca olvidarás y nunca perdonarás. Los solitarios no suelen hablar nunca de una manera tan íntima y tan exhaustiva como lo hace James O'Barr en este libro. Así que, por lo menos, aprende del cuervo esta lección: piensa en lo que puedes perder."
John Bergin, Introducció al còmic The Crow de James O'Barr.

James O'Barr crea The Crow des de l'estòmac, des d'on neixen les passions. D'allí surt la violència d'una ànima en pena, sacsejada pel dolor, el patiment, la mort, i, per sobre de tot, l'amor. Un còmic fosc, violent, envolvent, mots de Baudelaire, Rimbaud i Poe, i un anti-heroi que reclama venjança a una ciutat.

"We walked the narrow path,
beneath the smoking skies
sometimes you can barelly tell the diference
between darkness and light.
Do you have faith in what be believe?
The truest test is when we cannot
when we cannot see."
Jane Siberry. It can't rain all the time, in The Crow Soundtrack

Tanco el calaix, després de rellegir i reescriure unes velles paraules: "No és la mort si la rebutges... ho és si l'acceptes." The Crow, 29.10.07

Il.lustració escapçada de The Crow, de James O'Barr.

Per llegir i escoltar abans d'anar a dormir.

Recordo que el primer relat que vaig llegir d'ell, va ser El Gat Negre. Des de llavors m'ha acompanyat, inclús diria que més d'un cop m'ha bressolat abans de dormir-me. El mestre dels contes de terror psicològic sempre m'ha admirat. La seva capacitat d'embolcallar-me amb unes falses aparences que cauen, desvetllant aquell horror que s'arrela i que no es pot expressar amb paraules, no ha minvat amb el temps. Així que, si he de parlar d'escriptors de capçalera, Poe, que camina per aquella corda fluixa entre la genialitat i la bogeria, i la seva obra, hi tenen un lloc.

The Raven, publicat per primer cop el 1845, ...

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."

'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;

Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow

From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore.

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,

Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me---filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,"

'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door.

This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door;---

Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,

"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before,

"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lattice.

Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore.

Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore."

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.

Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.

Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,

Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,

Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.

Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore.

"Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door,

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered;

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before;

On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,

Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster

Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore,---

Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore

Of "Never---nevermore."

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore --

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore

Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,

But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er

She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee -- by these angels he hath

Sent thee respite---respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!"

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--

On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:

Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me I implore!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn,

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore---

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted---nevermore!

... de la veu de Vincent Price.

Il.lustració escapçada de Gustave Doré, per The Raven d'Edgar Allan Poe.

Foscor.

Heolstor, genip, sceadu.

Tot és cobert per l'ombra de la foscor més pura: deorc. Les aigües del pou del destí, on les tenebres desapareixen, mostren una llum i un planeta. A cada gir, l'envolta abans àcida i anòxica es torna oxigenada, fent, així, sorgir la vida de les aigües, entre focs i col.lisions. Una vida mutant a la recerca d'una forma, entre girs d'aridesa i de glaciació extrema. Naixements i morts successives donen pas a la diversificació d'éssers. Una espècie capaç de dominar el seu entorn, explora, conquereix i evoluciona devers la seva pròpia extinció. Temperatures desmesurades configuraran noves vides a cops de terres i d'explosions, des de les entranyes primigènies. La llum canviarà, creixerà i minvarà, absorvint el que gira al seu voltat, fins la seva total i absoluta absència.

Deorc... heolstor, genip, sceadu.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

Darkness, de George Gordon Byron.

Imatge escapçada del manga Hellsing, escrit i il.lustrat per Kouta Hirano.

Video escapçat del YouTube: Darkness- SadieDammit

Obertura.

El pas del temps fa marcir les flors, caure les fulles i polir la roca. Aquest continu moviment acumula dies i nits, llums i ombres, vides i morts, no s'atura. Però les lleis establertes es poden desafiar. Una nissaga trenca la voluptuosa marxa del temps i fa ressó de la seva essència. La solitud cau sobre la immortalitat dels fills del drac. Lamia, empusae, vrykolaka, ekimmu, gul, rakshasa, jigar-khor, ch'ing-shih, jikiniki, khu, lilith... el poder de la sang deixa un rastre de fascinació.

Lenora de Bürger (1773). La novia de Corinto de Goethe (1797). The Vampyre de J.W. Polidori (1818). Lord Ruthwen on les vampires de Bérard (1820). L'adaptació teatral de Le vampire de C. Nodier, autor també de Smara o los demonios de la noche (1821). La Guzla de Mérimée (1827). Varney y el festín de la sangre de J.M. Rymer (1847). Les nebuloses vampires com Ligeia, Morella... d'E.A. Poe, la baronesa Aurelia d'E.T.A. Hoffmann, o Clarimonde de La muerte enamorada de T. Gautier (1836), o Esdenka de La familia de los Vourdalak d'A. Tolstoi (1840). El Viy de N. Gogol (1835). Carmilla de Sheridan Le Fanu (1872). Com no, Dràcula de B. Stoker (1897). La tumba de Sarah de F.G. Loring (1900). Una historia de vampiros auténtica de F. Hartmann (1909). La habitación de la torre d'E.F. Benson (1912). Entrevista con el vampiro d'A. Rice (1976). Salem's Lot de S. King (1976)... I més autors, i més novel.les... I més pel.lícules, sèries, còmics, manga i animes.

Tanco el calaix, després de rellegir i reescriure unes velles paraules: Obertura, 18.09.07.

Il.lustració escapçada de l'adaptació manga de Vampire Hunter D, novel.la gràfica original de Hideyuki Kikuchi i il.lustrada per Yoshitaka Amano.

Escrits al final de la nit.

" El rei dels somnis aprèn que un ha de canviar o morir,
i pren la seva decisió."
(Neil Gaiman. The Sandman).

Quan la nit s'acaba, aquesta febre baixa de manera estranya. Començo a intuir les primeres llums del dia i sé que tot ha de continuar o morir. L'elecció és meva. Malgrat odiar aquesta cruïlla, la covardia em pot, em domina, com una dona, com l'alcohol o com aquesta herba que no deixo de fumar. No sóc qui llença sorra als ulls per fer-se senyor de la nit, ni qui es queda amb els somnis d'aquells que dormen tranquils, ni tan sols sóc amo del que cada nit veig desfilar per la meva ment. Res d'això. Aquest cap no descansa i la meva mà no s'atura en aquestes hores fosques. Continuo escrivint i dibuixant, veient-ho tot en blanc i negre, entre la beguda i el fum, entre les olors que em porten la buidor de l'altre costat del llit i els records que ressonen entre imatges que, distorsionades, conjuro a mitja veu.

Il.lustració escapçada de The Sandman, el rey de los sueños, de Neil Gaiman i Alisa Kwitney.