A JOURNEY FROM 2010 TO 2038 (part VI)


Read the first part HERE



In 2010, the Malefic Time website began to post these texts on the blog. Do these days seem like a coincidence? We will reran the texts that were published in its day about the creation process. 




 MALEFIC TIME on the streets 

On the streets

-The Gray hairs.

Malefic, in the street.APOCALYPSE

Malefic goes to the street, the news already arrive to this strange refuge of Ciempozuelos.

Malefic is out there, in print shops, in musical notes, on the coordination tables, on hundreds of papers, press notes, color proofs... What a strange and fascinating world, that dimension where things exist without existing. Where the unreal is more real and has more weight than what we call real.

In a few days I will have to leave, Malefic requires it. We will have to introduce her, talk about her... She will be with you.  Then, with the Spots, we'll go back to the workshop again, we'll gather lots of papers and canvases that we left unfinished, of notes and drawings that were only left in that, of words and words that were only notes and unconnected events, and we'll keep them definitively in the boxes or pile them up to set them on fire. Spots says that some of them could be sent to those who live this Apocalypse with us.

Later, back to the shelter of this psychiatric hospital. And when I can control the hatred that I process, I will walk with the American again, and again become a slave to his stories and lies. The Spots, with the brush in the hand, will understand all that this escapes to me and will begin the nights in the air, tortured by the beers without taking, by the talks without knowing, the trips without doing, the kisses without receiving, the laughs without living... The dark circles will appear but black that never and in the smiles of the others I will hang my time and my clock.

Malefic is going out on the street. MALEFIC TIME on the streets of New York.


Apocalyptic Echoes... 

-Antonio Sediles

Come to the light!




I see god 


-Luis Royo

Or I haven't seen it, I don't know yet. But others have made me feel the weight of their boots, their imperatives, their orders, their narrow-mindedness, their desire to select. Others take good care of crushing our self with what they call their word.

I don't believe in HIM, that doesn't matter. I see that under His despotism they force us to hide, that under His gaze they tremble and obey, that under His dogmas the human being dies.

His images are spread all over the world. Even beauty nests in them at the hands of the geniuses of history to deceive us. They bought everyone in their name, made prisoners, bloodied the earth. The mantle they invented of Him still covers us mercilessly without letting us see our heaven, leaving us only to imagine an inhuman and, of course, sacrificed heaven.

Here, in the workshop, the spirits are decreasing day by day, the energies are not only scarce, they are already lacking. When we look into each other's eyes (we avoid it as much as possible), we see in the other the abyss of despondency. The retreats to the clinic have intensified these months, nobody says it, we all keep quiet. I don't even say hello to the American. But what has battled against us during this time is now twisting in agony on these tiles.

We have broken hundreds of drawings, but even so, the first installment of MALEFIC TIME is about to be finished. There will be days left to organize, to select, to review, but at last the machines will start working, the blank papers will be stained with their stigma, the walls will be covered with the dry pigments of darkness, the words will let us see another way. Sounds will make us dream in black. Everything will walk on the path of the night, where no sunglasses are needed. Everything will look at the distant Moon that smells feminine. APOCALIPSE will stop being a nightmare dream within these tortuous walls of the workshop and will look for the breath of fresh air from outside.


He visto a Dios

They tempted us with the world, and we left the horizon behind.

We were shown beauty and we added desire.

They pointed out the unknown and we began to think.

We discovered the flesh and we rejoiced multiplying.

I gazed at the moon surrounded by darkness and peered into its den.

I hooked inside myself and found hundreds of them.





Yesterday I seated with Baal for a while 


Yesterday i sated with baal

-Luis Royo

Yesterday I seated with Baal for a while. I'm turning the page about what we drank together.

It must be hard to see things in that way. Well, it's not that he has no hope, at least he has some for the world, but for him... I think they stayed far away. A lonely being this Baal. He has not and does not want any army nor cheers, he occupies his time looking at a point he doesn't look at, he walks alone, he hides alone. On his back he carries the burden of Irkalla's defeat, with him the weight of time travels, for the future he only has the hope of Luz and she's not in his way.

Sometimes he looked so old, sometimes full of life, sometimes he didn't even exist. At the end of the evening I grabbed from him what I'm writing down here:

It comes to my mind times in the lands beyond the stars. They're coming, and my mouth is full of saliva impregnated with glories and failures. They're coming, and I can masticate the darkness, the drawn goals and the battle-inked skies.

My memory takes me to that distant place and time, where I woke up with red tufts of hair tangled over my eyes. Where the bed didn’t find the cut of its ending. And where the injuries sucked the sweat of desire.

It comes to my mind the woman who knew how to love more than a hundred warriors of the night and keep the glass full of senses when she gave it to me to drink it. She comes to make me feel the absence of her red hair.

Lilith, it's coming to my mind the times when you filled those lands and these ones. Now that I'm over these lands, I can see the men and women have forgotten the night, have forgotten the moon, have forgotten the fertile.




Under panties 

-Luis Royo

It's been long ago since I don't lean out the window. I haven't had the strength enough for it. Back to my endless issue with the windows. Time of dark corners.

More than a year here, gazing at the night over the city after a long working day. More than a year of confinement in this place with bars in all its windows. Eighteen years waiting for this time to come and now while I'm staring at the night, I really understand why I always postponed it, why I always found an excuse to put it on ice for the next year.

Month after month looking with the last cigarette at the city lights turning off. Gray images are covering the studio walls. Studio?... voluntary jail that has aged me ten years, that has eaten a hundred kilos of my energy, that has melted three-quarters of my brain, it has made me spill 2 buckets of tears, it has enraged me, it gets me down, beats me down, it defeated me. Of course, I understand now why for eighteen years I had not found the time for this madness. The fear to live this year made me look to another direction.

Eighteen years that have added piles of papers with notes, images and writings... Malefic Time invading and waiting for its moment. The shitty 'American', who I don't get to throw out of my life to which he has stuck like a limpet, has been weaving all this tangle of events and has been vomiting this world of characters and beings. Sometimes it takes me a lot of hard work to remember some of his many messages in bottles. I lost some images and writings over all these years; but even so, his story has a weight of a tombstone... and now here we are with his mess in this jail of paintbrushes and demons.

Stonemason instead creator, as Buonarotti said, getting from the marble block the figure that hides inside of it. We don't choose what happens, we don't create a story, nor an image. We aspire it with an effort of the same air not a tuft of hair is formed fortuitously. A word that has been accompanying me, pressuring me, crushing me during years, until the last comma is written in the air and it only has to be found.


Under panties

Some drivers aren't working in my head. After so many years without legs, chained to a drawing desk, I still need to start again with every project. The drivers that could take advantage of years of profession, technique, experience, are failing... And I see myself furious here looking at the night behind these bars. No wonder those with the white gowns say that something is failing here, inside this body. By the way, there are more of them every day, be careful. They're invading us, I see them everywhere... the city is full of these guys in white gowns - am I saying city? The whole world. Be careful: they're obsessed with the idea of updating our drivers in their way.

Eighteen years viewing a pair of panties. Imagining and drawing the panties that caress Luz. And now, in this jail which we call studio, these panties do exist, even its colors... and even if it may seem something else, I'm not interested only in her sex beneath them. Underneath them is all the feminine meaning of life, all the dreams closest to nature, the harmony, the center of the universe.

I'll come back to my bed as I do every night on a warehouse without windows that smells like oil and varnishes. I'll clench my teeth irritated looking for those obsolete drivers that don't work right in my brain, I'll wonder again for the millionth time what am I doing choosing a life like this one with my age and I'll fall asleep exhausted and depressed. The countdown has started. The air travels with radioactive particles. The earth shakes off our dribble. The seas play with our arrogance. People cry their oppression... Malefic must go on.





-Romulo Royo

When the first sunshine cuts the avenues like knifes and reveals the breeze that runs through them, it is harder to note the cemetery of objects that the New York streets have turned into. Objects transformed into masses of iron. In one of them a shattered Ford Mustang can still be noticed. Before an infinite palette of gray and ocher, ironically twinkles an antique light poster of blue neon. It draws a molar tooth.

The scene is wrapped in a deep silence, suddenly it breaks with a sharp sound of steps hitting the wet floor. An overly lean figure can be distinguished, embedded in a dark coat.

I snuggle behind the low wall under a storefront before me, it holds a dusty broken crystal, I hear how this being draws nearer. Shrunken like a nut, with the head leaning on the knees and the heartbeats at one thousand times per hour. Trying to keep the breathing, the hand's shivers. I curse myself for keeping me on foot for so long behind this crystal, hypnotyzed by that strange figure. I hope he hasn't seen me; these seconds seem eternal. I notice his presence. The way he walks near me and I sigh when I hear those sharp steps getting further.

buff, another day more.




Read the seventh part HERE

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