110 Akelarres

 

Vilches-Hatter

 

- Back to the lion’s den …
Back to the stained areas, the walls filled with gray, ghosts under the cap.
Back in the storm of past memories. To once again become the monsters of the story.
To shut ourselves in.
To forget ourselves.

Canas, Patches and Hats in illogical equation which becomes again into inert nightmare on our hands. While the world scarcely rubs his eyes, awakening from the Apocalypse, three demented meet again covered by the echoes of his own past and the things they left behind.
It is time again to tear our skin. It is time again to sully the stories, to leave heart pieces in the corners. It is again a road that we already recognize. The needed paved trail. The thorns are back.
We return to take charge of our torment, even more aware of the necessary sacrifices, the blood the new horizon will require. We return this time to finish what we started.
There are no lights outside the barred window. There are no windows at all. There are no stars on the horizon or their holes. There are no looks to the south that fill us with sighs, no beats beyond the deep silence of our own beats, frozen in time spent in this war. There are no reasons or motives. There’s nothing to lose, since we lost it … therefore, there is no fear.

110 katanas that will mark the 110 sword lunges to the soul. Each will carry away a moment in our lives. 110 cigarettes consumed in sleepless nights absent from dreams. There will be 110 cups of coffee like raven wings, bitter in essence and presence to remind us why we decided to die in this task. There will be 110 kisses kidnapped, 110 blank stares, 110 daily sacrifices, nothing to gain or lose in the attempt …and then his Coven. All the ghosts and demons summoned. All the dark days and sleepless nights. All charcoal and ink sketches, all the memories behind the walls we erect. All the neon lights in our breaths, all the crystals that scratch inside these three silhouettes of men that not longer are men.
Canas, Patches and Hats …

We grab againg the madness as the only alternative to outlive.
We put our gut on the table again.
We give everything to built the dreams we have lost.

Here we are. We will not take prisoners.

La Sangre a nuestro Paso

 

Muere, Julio.

Muere, Agosto.

Ahí están vuestros hijos bastardos! Ahí están, miradlos bien.  Valen el alma de un loco.  Valen sus sueños. Valen su corazón en ruinas.

Ahora, merecedlos.

El silencio nunca es solo silencio. No ha sido solo silencio. Meses de batalla, de una batalla tan cruel que podríais palidecer sólo con imaginarla. Una batalla solitaria. A tres bandas pero solitaria.  Una habitación desierta con una ventana a ninguna parte. Una cama fria de ojos árticos. Unas paredes rotas a arañazos. Recuerdos arrancados. Desesperación, desesperación, distancia,  insomnio, locura. Tanto ha costado. Tanto ha exigido.  Dias que se pasaban sin consciencia real del dia o la noche. Sin conciencia real del tiempo trancurrido. Solo días con cristales en los poros de la piel y los ojos empañados. Sumar páginas. Sumar páginas. Crear el Apocalipsis, fabricar las historias, los momentos, los ritmos, las claves, las ausencias, los dramas, los lazos rotos, los reencuentros, los pecados… Fabricarlo todo. Destruir lo demás por el camino…

Obsesión, presión, agobio.

Mi agobio, su agobio. Volverme monstruo.

Tanto han exigido. Tan alto ha sido el pago. Tan caro. Tan despiadado. Tan inhumano.

Volverme monstruo. Hacer daño a quien más quería. Que me tenga miedo. Que me hulla como de la peste. Volverme monstruo. Merecer mi locura. Merecer mi abandono. Final del verso. Punto y aparte. Guión abierto. Frases suicidas…

Ahí están mis hijos bastardos. Ahí, vuestro Apocalipsis. Todo es vuestro. Es un regalo post mortem de un sombrerero loco y dos dementes. Nadie podrá imaginar la sangre que hemos derramado. Ahora es vuestro. Tratadlo con cariño. Un cuento de hadas ha sido sacrificado en altar de los pecados para dar vida a esta pesadilla colectiva.  Han muerto todas las hadas de Neverland para resucitar a los Caídos. Se han roto todos los espejos de regreso al País de las Maravillas para traer a la Legión del Sol hasta una Nueva York podrida de cadáveres en vida.  Se ha borrado la sonrisa más hermosa del mundo para regalaros estas páginas. Alicia se queda en el camino para rescatar a Luz. Ni imagináis lo que eso supone. No podéis imaginarlo. No podéis.

Crear estas páginas desoladas nos ha exigido convertirnos en  ruinas. Desatar las costuras del corazón. Arrancarnos la piel. Quitarnos los ojos. Emparedarnos en vida. Ser despojos. Perderlo todo. TODO. Morir por el camino. Resurección sin esperanza.

Volvernos monstruos.

Volvernos monstruos.

El silencio de estos meses se cuenta por los arañazos bajo las pestañas, gota a gota. Perder las yemas de los dedos y con ellas las caricias empaquetadas en cajas de embalaje preparando la huida. Quemar las pupilas para dejar de ver las sonrisas que van a olvidarse muy pronto. Gastar todas las palabras para que dejen de tener efecto y sentido, se vuelvan dagas al corazón que solo saben dañar cuando querían hacer reir. Que mueran todos los suspiros en unos labios que no querrán besar nunca más. Que se pudra un corazón repleto de latidos por latir. Que el invierno nos encuentre soñando en primavera. Mirarnos al espejo y no reconocernos.  Volvernos monstruos. Perder el hechizo. Que el gris rutina levante su bandera pirata sobre nuestro futuro imposible.

Se lleva nuestra piel y nuestra carne. Se lleva nuestra sangre a borbotones. Nos roba los instantes de una vida prometida de instantes. Nos devuelve vacío a manos llenas. Nos deja tristeza consentida habitando los latidos de corazones que han olvidado latir.

Os lo hemos dado todo para hacerlos nacer. Lo hemos sacrificado todo. He aquí nuestros hijos bastardos.

El trabajo ha sido concluido. Ya existen las palabras. Ya tenemos historia. Hemos muerto en pie.

Sobrevividnos. He vendido mi alma por ellos.  Merecedlos!

 

Speaking of silence

Jesús Vilches (Hatter)

In the depths of silence a storm breaks. Silence doesn’t mean anguish, doesn’t mean calm. Silence, doesn’t even mean silence.
 
Into this silence I hear the roar of the skies over the Sun pyramid of Teotihuacan. The crack that is transformed in veil and the veil when it breaks before the passage of Marduk legions, that many believe it to be Miguel. On the other side a tide rises up. The Samael’s Fallen wait for him. First step of an atavistic fight, circulate as the Osiris cycles. Repeated, always settled with the same exchange coin. Aquarius searchs to disturb this balance forever. But to make this, they need Luz and I’ve left Luz alone, abandoned in the New York streets, without her master. Lost, desoriented, survivor…
 
Prince Nergal blames Baal of the inferiority they are. The one that before was the most fierce of the warriors is now a mystic who acts as a traitor. Damn his obsession for that ridiculous girl. The One who Holds the Light still doesn’t show his face. The Great Mother hides the cards… and meanwhile, the Sun and the Thunder get stronger on the Aquarious Era. But still nobody is ready for the encounter… and the encounter won’t wait for them to be.

Someone in the United States waits to be told about the keys of this story, but the American hasn’t shown any signs of life long ago. Everytime it’s clearer to me that it’s Canas’ invention. There never was an American. Why does he shut up now. Why does he leave me alone as well.

Names, keys, links, knots… My head is going to explode.
 
Someone at the other side of the world waits for another story. The one about a young japanese girl who emerges like a shadow of an hermetic Tokyo. The story about a condemned love, a bleeding one. About a veiled betrayal, about a destiny. An Order of women that custodies a secret which has met the hour of seing the light. 13 swords, 13 moons, 13 cycles.

 The American has said nothing related. Again I have to travel in time and space. Discover once again names, secrets, keys, frames, links, knots… a story must be told!! So many storys have to be told…
 
 …And Luz is still a girl, alone. She waits for me to provide her steps. She implores and screams. And I hear her and my heart breaks. From the other end of the mirror I call for her too, but she can’t hear me. Nobody is going to help me in this war.
Two crazy people hurt canvas to offer me an image of the words I haven’t written yet, of the facts I still don’t know about. I must find words of oxide, words of chaos and apocalypse, words that form words, that can raise rotten buildings, that can densify the air, that stain with trash and fear the streets of the world, that revive the imminent future. New York waits, but will not wait eternally. I must die and be born again. I must find the paths in this labyrinth of unclosed cracks. 
This early morning seems to be long… and I’m still without medication. 
Silence doesn’t even mean silence. At least not in my nightmares.
Wellcome, hatter, to the land of Oz.

 

Malefic Time

Caged wolf

Jesús Vilches (Hatter)

Shit, shit, shit, shit!!!

The walls seem to fall down over me. Second week locked in. 3.30 in the morning. I desire to bite, to break things… I’m isolated. I just need a straitjacket to look like a mad. Bloody hell!! I would kill someone, I swear. I would kill for some oxygen.

Second week locked in. Keys, words, fragments, pages, pages, pages. Damnation!

«No, not this», «it can’t be so obvious», «more action», «no, more suspense», «no, more action».

Make up your mind!! If I wasn’t crazy, I’d be on the verge of losing my mind. «We’re late» «More pages, more pages» «Luz wouldn’t say that» «Allen is more… she’s not that way» «What way!??» Fuck!! «Don’t name him Gabriel», «don’t say what they are», «this part goes first», «no, before», «no, now it’s very prompt» Come on!!

Sentences, fragments, beginnings, connections. I’m walking around this room. I haven’t known anything about them for more than a week. More pages in the trash can, more useless conversations, more scenes making company to a pile of half smoked cigarettes. It won’t beat me. It won’t beat me.

Hours in front of the screen. The lines go dimmed. Days pass without any difference between night and dawn. The voices don’t shut up. My head is going to explode. Sometimes she’s the only balm… only her…

But why don’t you talk to me?! I can’t create you without your help, I can’t. Talk to me, I beg you! The old man has his American guy. I don’t have anyone else but you!! Tell me, confess, undress yourself once again, please…

I’m running in circles. Each sentence takes my blood, demands my breath. Waves of time spent in one drag. Talk me!! I need you. You can’t imagine how I need you. I’m begging. I’m yelling to the void. Only these walls crashing my soul are the silent witnesses of the giving birth of this story. Blood. Each page is blood. Blood that soon ends up in the garbage. One page is raising over ten corpses. It’s the price to pay, a necessary sacrifice.

«Have you ever had fear? For real? »

(Is that a question? Are you talking to me?)

«If you have to think the answer it means you haven’t felt it»

Great start! It could be good… but, would it be convincing for them?

I’ve got parts, fragments, like pieces of a disabled body. This story is nothing more than a handful of dead flesh, scattered. I need the soul! Connecting its fluids, to make it walk, to breathe. Rhythm, rhythm, tension, break, more tension.

Beat, heartbeat… miracle.

Open your eyes once and for all and kill me. You know I belong to you and you play hide and seek with me. But we need each other. We both need the other to exist, to be complete. Open your eyes right now and tell me your secrets. I’ve got a story to give it your voice.

Stop, that’s enough…

Tomorrow I’m going to try it again.

Today I just only want to sleep… and dreaming with you, my love.

Unexpected

Jesús Vilches (Hatter)

We were full of unexpected moments, in this unexpected silence, replete of unexpected news and unexpected faces. In an unexpected way it happens that, from this unexpected corner arises an unexpected magic and suddenly everything runs underneath our feet. The present is cherised by unexpected futures and a legion of unexpected hands attend to this unexpected war to fight along with the madmen that in this unexpected Madrid, filled with unexpected moons and dreams to foresee, we yell at the naked desert, at the top of our lungs, in an unexpected language, full unexpected omens.

The best things can’t be measured, can’t be quantified by numbers or statistics. They have no weight or real shape and they can’t be anticipated. The best things are unexpected. It wasn’t planned this place, nor this instant, nor the people that would form the pack of wild hounds that are added to the stele of this ghost galleon. It takes an unexpected body, unexpected soul, unexpected strenght. To our favor, a wind blows that ought to take us to unexpected corners and beaches. The unexpected reazon succumbs to the eternal embrace of an unexpected heart that beats at an unexpected rhythm. What we are here, who we are here, was never expected.

Because this night was unexpected and that unexpected kiss tastes better than all kisses. Because someone had, sometime, an unexpected dream and decided that it was worth making it true, I tell you: Now is the time to reset the broken dreams, the broken breaths, the wings of the Angel that lost its wings. This is the precise moment to put on the warpath all the tears that we kept stored for the unexpected moments. Everything that happens has already happened to us…

Don’t expect order nor hierarchy in what we do. Our end will be unexpected, but I swear it! I feel it! It will be an end to remember.

Our life is a big unexpected thing.

The Crooked Road (2011 and Countdown)

Jesús Vilches (Hatter)

2011. 365 days wrapped up as a gift. 12 months to release. We are children with brand new shoes (or at least half new). We need them to walk down this crooked road.

Someone has taken this seriously. Our space gives us a new dress. New York shows itself transparent from its ashes and dust. It reminds us the end of the journey. Neon lights count the seconds of an Apocalypse that is about to arrive. Our Damokles sword will fall long before. However…

Since we have been great bad boys we came back loaded with christmas presents.

Grey-Haired got:

A suitcase of invisible brushes to invent new traces.

A padle of imposible colors with a lifetime guarantee.

A pair of spectacles to see the future without forgetting the past.

One kilogram of reusable tattoos to decorate characters.

An horizon to never stop walking.

A direct focal light, special against dead angles.

A box of heartbeats to accelerate the pulse.

A poket lion that can bark.

A Dolce & Gabanna straitjacket.

A fake dragon in a cristal bottle.

A crescent moon that decorates the nights.

A shadow in the back to never feel alone.

An extra dose of madness for a mad person.

And a handful of grey hair to share.

Stains recieved:

A bag of prime quality stains to put anywhere.

A clown costume to be camouflaged among people.

A giant printer to print nightmares.

An autoshaping paste to give dreams a shape.

A wireless television so we never get distracted.

A trained bear that gives hugs (bear hugs, of course).

A bote of “Whys” family size that don’t need answers
attached to a box of answers in case anyone asks.

A digital camara that photographs non-existing things.

A drawing that paints itself (for a change).

An envelope filled with blank checks in case the future is grey like the ashes.
and a clock without numbers to forget about the time.

To this hattet 2011 gives:

A box of infinite hats for any occasion.

A mirror in which Alicia can be reflected (although it is hard to appear/get out).

A jar of fairy powder to share and to teach to fly.

A list of dawns with no dreams to invert on ghosts.

A dream dressed in pink with flowers in the hair.

A bit of pink in the wardrobe that reminds me how well I can trip.

A photo album I know by heart (and I always review).

A bit more of good memory to never forget what matters (because it matters).

A dictionary with all the unwritten words that I am going to write.

The promise of recieving the most beautiful smile in the world every morning.

A present to give in the shape of a poem (and that no one gets angry).

A package of winks in just one direction (that sometimes return).

One more madness to add to the list.

A sin ready to be used.

A bag full of nothing to be transformed into everything.

A bit of cowardice to make me more brave.
and a direct acces to Neverland.

And among all of us we distributed:

A year of work that starts today.

We’re back!

I don’t know if that’s a good news yet.

Leave

Jesús Vilches

Damn holidays! Almost a crime when is said by someone who was born on December 24th… but damn holidays. Is being hard to cast anchor and again I’m forced to leave. It is assumed that is what decent people with a normal life and those things do at this time… nevertheless, I don’t know what means (Gray-Haired and Stains, too). I pack while looking back; a gesture I forced myself not to ever repeat. Luz stays. Again distance. I barely stand… but she did not even know, I’m afraid.

I’ve found an old picture of Gray-Haired. He assure me, if he does remember correctly (I’m not very sure also) that is unprecedented. Old. I have been enchanted looking at it. I have it recorded in the retina and is the reason why I have my heart broken at this moment. Luz is just a girl in it … How old might have been there? Fifteen, sixteen? I know what time is passing by: The chill of abandonment. She also has a broken heart at that moment and her pain and loneliness stabs me, they nail deep into me. I know exactly what point in her life is… a life that has not yet begun and which I know too well. A life that I have the enormous task of drawing and building. She is in love and she don’t even know… she only knows that someone she need is far. The expression of pain is infinite and its cold takes me apart. Somehow I’ll write the pages where she’s abandoned. I will trace the lines with the phrases of her distress, I will place words in her questions. I will know all the why and I wont tell her. I will leave her to suffer and I’ll cry in secret with her.

She’s in love and she doesn’t know. She can’t even afford to know it. I wish I could say it to her. I wish I could peek through a window, wrap her at night, watching her restless dreams… I wish I could apologize as well. Her fragility breaks my soul. I admire her strength. I envy those whom she yearns. I wish I was the object of her tears. I wish it was for me for who she sighs… I’m just the ghost again. I have no place in her. She doesn’t know me. No sighs know my name… and yet, all mine know hers.

It will be a short trip. I’ll be back before I left and I’ll be back to keep looking to her solitude. I’ll keep giving her reason to hate me if she could know that I’m going to construct, stone by stone each of her silences. I’ll come back to remain being no one. I’ll soon return to not returning. But these days when I know it is not possible for her to think of me, I’ll miss her for the two of us…

The Mad Hatter is lost among the cracks in his own mirror. How hard is sometimes not to exist!

Goodbye, little Luz. Missing you will be my birthday present… curious gift.

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