MALEFIC TIME BLOG (part III)
LUIS ROYO & ROMULO ROYO
A JOURNEY FROM 2010 TO 2038 (part III)
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 abaut the creation process.
The harmony of chaos
- Luis Royo
New York, where are your neon tubes?... Forgetting times of Russia, that Moscow of the crazy speed... I drag the interstellar worlds that came from U.S., its plains of redskins, the sword... May continue being a corner for lust, maybe a nice part... Coven at night, with heat in the bowels and the sky made of ceiling. Do we keep hiding it or no longer?
Everything else remains there when I peek ... Gray sky. Ears plugged by words hanging from bitterness. Papers and canvas on the floor. White hairs that say goodbye.
Come with me to the chaos altar boy, leave the velvet, the golden and silk, and you'll see the other side...
Is in the books ... announced a long time ago.
It sounds like music in my head, not to you, but I think soon it'll ring a bell to you.
Is in the books.
We know what is wait for us.
Is in the books,
I Chin announces it,
Aztecs knew it,
Sphynx hides it,
Malaquías said it,
Juan wrotes it.
Is in the books.
Is in the books.
Is in the books.
We know what is whait for us.
We are ready.
- Luis Royo
Within a few days they want to take me to the streets. To a place in Madrid where they meet strange people who like comics, paintings, drawings and that kind of stuff. I am afraid, It's quite a while since I've been in crowded places, or I did recently? I don't know. They say that the outing is about a book... what book? For some time, they have talked to me about books, buff, even about books I do; one day I have to review carefully my past to put a little order, but now it's not the moment, here in the fallen skyscrapers New York there's no time for anything.
I hope to have Stains and Hats company in the outgoing, otherwise I will break them a few paintings, I'll throw all the writings I could find on their computer to the trash and burn a lot of pages of this stuff.
In addition, I'm fed up with them wanting me to take with me my pencil, that's enough! I spend my life with them! One day I'll throw them also out of the window. I Don't know if take them or I'll better get my old Astra in case the unpleasant white coats, which have up to the hilt with their questions. Oh, and they must know, I'm not taking anything they say until they change the recipe for absinthe, beer and cigarettes.
- Romulo Royo
Today, under a bright moon, Gray-Haired, Hats and other madman, David, we went to see an exhibition at the gallery Soledad Lorenzo, have left it cold as ice. I see that there's art that still separates the public, some of the artists drown in their ego, do not communicate, is not even his claim, that art is aimed at an audience that is as decadent and thinks themselves elitist. This author chooses only a complex art that is not even complex, not enough for me. It is empty, without soul, only good for him. A bad installation, meaningless.
I'll tell you something friends, today we have taken a few drinks at Malasaña and I have felt protected, with my little family, despite our disputes these days ago, today we communed with ideas, I felt partly understood and I think they did too, we have been gathering getting wet lips over beer and words. Yes! to you, though invisible to my eyes but palpable in my soul, I say we've talked about freedom and dreams. These nutjobs have also spoken of fears and hopes, I have seen Gray-Haired tired, but in his eyes shone fire and energy, I've seen in Hats insecurity, but at the same time hope and strength. And I've felt myself pessimistic, but also full and stronger than ever.
(I've told them about a dream I had years ago: It was as the moon, behind red clouds and a gray atmosphere that surrounded it and were giving way to its breakthrough hit, it ended hitting the ground. This perhaps was a signal, maybe it was the strength of Malefic.)
While we were all four in a pub drinking beer, I saw, no, I thought I saw Baal, yes! you heard right, Baal!, he was behind the glass, in the street, a huge imposing figure in the darkness of night. His veins, through dark blood was flowing, under his tanned skin, betrayed the millennia that he had bearing life, while other places made of rock became dust. But there he was, immovable, unstoppable even with thousands of defeats behind his back. Even now he's there with us. I can see him as the three move their lips and speak about our stigma, our condemnation of the art, but also our freedom.
We went home, knowing that at one time or another the sun's going to poke its rays of light. Once in the study it seems that Tina asks me not to continue writing at this hour of the night, Tina is my faithful cat, whom is expecting me when I arrive and calls me when I don't sleep. I must close my eyes.
I bid you farewell under this night and the moon.
The Finger on the Sore Spot
- Jesús Vilches
It's funny how much can you take from a single joke. A joke! Bored in the study I said to myself... I'll have some fun now that these two are gone! I wrote without thinking and upload a couple of photos that were at hand. I thought they would kill me. However, this strange space has become the confessional for three nutjobs.
Not happy with that, I can admit not without some emotion, that it seems that there are people who follow it. The madness spreads, it's on the street, and fuzzy echoes of all this shit start to roll around. They give us names (or dare or try to...). Some of them pointing far in their comments (using male intuition), others think that is a product of a meticulously ultra-studied marketing campaign (JUUUAASSS!! White-Haired is by my side now and have no fucking idea what I'm doing now. This were out of control months ago!). In the social networks you click in the comfortable use of the "I Like It" button; But how can you like this?! The world is going to hell, down the toilet! Our country fair is going to blow up!! (Footnote: The translator wants to kill the author as the original was untranslatable, he knows and he laughs) Does anyone not getting it yet?! Well, someone is: Judith does. She seems to discern what happens. Has the range of vision to see beyond all this madness and its misty horizons. We've recruited the first crazy outside these four walls.
We live the last years of this nonsense we started building millennia ago. Come out to the street, bare yourselves, get drunk, make love to your partners as if it was the last day, hug firmly your friends, punch your boss, stop asking salt to your neighbor you like and tell her that you've spent months behind her. Start a conversation with the pretty boy who has sat next to you in the subway. Laugh hard, give a kick in the ribs to your doubts, do that what you said, "never will", slit open your chests and bring out your heart without fear, say what you've always wanted to say to that person you've always wanted to know it. Live the present because the future is not what it was! (What a great sentence!) Because before you realize you'll contemplate the rooftop and you'll miss the killer glare of pigeons. In its place will be winged fighting creatures fighting an ancestral battle to give meaning to our lives.
So, from everything that is said around what most bothers me is that someone could think everything is a lie. A lie! That there are no three crazy men locked into a studio looking to give shape to the nightmares. A lie! That I don't exist, neither Gray-Haired nor Stains. That everything's a crude publicity gimmick, that we're pirates and have hijacked identities and scoff, having a great time throwing rubbish on the web, and that based on weird business interests someone has decided not to stop us yet. HÁ!!!
Do you want proof? Do you need evidence? ... To stick your fingers on the Sore Spot?
Well. Evidences. Here they are.
No, no one has broken apart one table football, no one forgot to pick up the box of Playmobil, nobody has let the Pokémon free by accident...
We are three little madmen looking through a window in time to New York of ashes. Believe it or believe it not. That's not my problem.
- Jesús Vilches
"Luz... She does obsess me. She did it even before I knew her story. I confess that I ignore more than I know, and I doubt most of what is said of her or all of the damn things that are around her."
Once I put these lines in another one's mouth. As on many earlier occasions, I now think that I was writing about myself.
"Is not only that this girl was enigmatically beautiful. There was something about her loneliness, her anguish, in everything that seemed to haunt and torture her." "(...) I looked her just curious, to not feel alone. Soon I realized that Luz was unlike anything I could have imagined about her."
Gray-Haired caresses her with his brushes and that turns on the envy of the American. I need to merge in her troubles, talk with her, silently watch her fears and doubts. Only seven... nineteen, nineteen years old and all the weight of the world is on her shoulders. She's strong... but not so strong. She's fragile... but not so fragile. She doubts, yet still wants to seem harmless. Unknowns, definition. She needs to know who she really is. She looks for her identity and I am in the midst of her whirlwind, trying to draw in lines of words, sometimes nonsensical, sometimes with too much sense.
"Everything in her was fascinating to me, terrible and as irrepressible attractive as vertigo is before the abyss."
Luz is the most delicate and strong creature I've ever known. Her eyes preside my nights and sometimes I steal her name to sleep. Stuck in a presence that absorbs me, that limits and releases me. I know she needs me, and I need her. She burns through me somehow, however she hasn't yet born. I imagine her with the same intensity with which he carves her skin. Her presence here and now is a desire of fate. White-Haired told me that maybe she was always waiting... for me. Thinking that Luz has waited all this time for me makes my heart beat fast. To think that we've been unwittingly predestined, led to a meeting by a more powerful hand, that wants something specific from our union. Without I'm giving to her she's incomplete. But I, like the American, also envy Gray-Haired... because he can touch her. I'm just the invisible spectrum that take notes, who hurts crying tears of blood, suffering with the uncertainty of fate, who lives her and dreams her to complete her. But always away, always absent. It's not allowed to touch... nor love ...
Am I talking about Luz? Everything is fruit of my obsessions and my obsessions are confusing, sometimes. Yes, I think I'm speak about Luz, I think...
- Luis Royo
I think the American is jealous. He has been able to make tea for Luz, but I don't think he's been able to caress her skin like me. I have been able to slip by her groin gently with the delicate hairs of a brush, I could entertain myself in the corner of her lips, I could enjoy the shape of her ear ...
I've seen it in his eyes... American has seen the veins of Luz multiply wielding her sword, but he hasn't been able to spend hours sliding these hairs over each of her fingers.
He tells how was entranced watching her during hours while diving on piles of books, but he couldn't walk through each fold of her panties.