Dreaming Peace

I don't want to stop dreaming anymore,

I can't forget the truth,

I stay with him,

get to the end and come back.

The violin of devil, sonata of evil,

song in second from the most beech.

I don't want to forget and lose,

get to the end and come back.

Mägo de Oz- The Violin of Devil

     Few nights ago, I could not say how many, the sky cried terrified and in the fury of the storm I plunged into myself seeking refuge from the cold torrent of icy water that the sky was flowing. And so, immersed in myself, maybe spoke to myself, perhaps what many call God as not a few great philosophers and men of faith presumed to have found in the austere solitude of a hermitage; I do not know either and I know that I will not ever have the certainty of being just that Secret Master residing in the consciousness of which talk The Hermetic Doctrines or some personal demon who with stubborn certainty did his work with rejoicing, bringing from the past anguish, sorrow and torment so atrocious that neither the science nor the magic of my desecrated mind have managed to purge. I do not know how to name it. Even discerning the dark realms of the occult and experimenting with the sciences of Goetia¹ and Necromancy2 I did not know him by name but something true and certain is that his imposing presence had not ever faced, neither his powerful and yet melodic voice, my heart had squeezed. If I had been a benevolent God, in so terrible tortures

to me  I would not ever have been involved, speaking of love, that forgotten force motive of the movement of the universe, deformed with cruelty by mankind. Life-creating force that for me has been nothing but a heavy shackle, the source of all my evils.

     God or unnamable demon make me face the sins and mistakes by which life had become for me in something as gray as the clouds that unleashed its lightning with unrestrained fury against the earth on that dreary night. Forced me to remember with dreadful terror, the tenderness and divine peace that my true love in this life gave me how a food of the soul in a cold night, thanks to my selfishness, passion unleashed, cruelty full of pride and intolerant rancor, rested placid, sheltered him in other arms and that God made me see the fruit of my seed lovingly calling the man who now took care of she and guided her steps with tenderness. The love of two people whom I had rejected.

     There was more sorrow and pain when I found myself leaning on a stiff bed, submerged in a chemical lethargy, imagining other paradises where the grief was less intense but He, gentle took me by one hand and invited me to stand up an follow him, I do accept with submission. I contemplated with my dilated pupils like that woman by whom I reached the limit of my actions and emotions, enjoyed her life, now secured between material prosperity and social recognition, sharing the mattress empty of mutual feelings with other men, who took her as a pride trophy and herself was granted that place; then subdued by the pain of the heart turned into pieces, I wished with all my being that every orgasm that experienced her beautiful body, was a thousand and a million times more intense, pleasant and glorious than the one experienced the last time I shared her bed for make the love would not ever again receive fullness, coarsened by pride, fear or the voluptuousness of desire. I cried like a child of an orphanage, abandoned of everything that had once invited me to live. Turning my back on the abominable vision, I tried to sing to disperse the terrible memories. In a heartbreaking and broken thread of voice, from my heart came verses that I remember with stormy clarity:

Resist more this that kills me,

the absent sound of your voice,

the ruins of my heart without calm,

this are the condemnations of my soul.

Lust unleashed by your body,

suffering every night that I don't have you.

Alone imagining your figure,

I can't quench such infamous sadness.

Gluttony, by your lips I was devoured,

not ever quenching the infinite hunger,

of your sweet honeys for me forbidden,

I don't know to who, now promised.

Greed, because I want you just for me,

to not ever let you go of my side,

because if your love is not mine,

Better dead, I cannot stand it!

Sloth or rather tired,

because my desire to fight was exhausted,

not receiving more response than complaints,

reproaches or disappointments I’ve won.

Vanity deformed,

looking at a dirty glass,

the reflection of a tortured soul,

despised of fake morality sown.

Fury and wrath consumed me.

I don't deserve more than your redolence?

It's a merciless and cruel punishment

to keep me at your feet pleading?

Envy sick,

of those who without knowing conditions,

your soul keeps sheltered

and I, waiting to see your beautiful face.

Pride mine that I will not abandon,

call me when you depend on me,

because today and not ever

you will find who, like I, loves you.

     I ran through this world of infernal memories, the grief of which made me feel as the most corrupt of Saint Peter successors or an infant rapist who had taken as a victim at the innocent, tender and unhappy reflection of himself in a dimension where time and space were altered to shape an even more cruel world on the surface of my consciousness. Cause this immaculate maiden to than I offer my life in an impossible crusade against the hardships of life, to my eyes, at that moment of dantesque lucidity, it was nothing more than a simple mortal.

     Then the indefinable entity that guided my steps through my mind disturbed by infamous memories, smiled satisfied as I looked at my face distorted by anguish and grief. At that time I defined it just as "He".

     Yes, was a God, there was no doubt in me, the same being who guided the diaspora according to The Old Testament: jealous, spiteful, vindictive and cruel; He whispered in my ear:

-Well you do have deserved!-

     It was true, the cost that I have to be paid for letting me overcome in former times for the love and passion that I knew would not correspond me, because it had ever been based on the ambiguity of a non-reciprocal utility.

     We continued walking through that universe created by the torment of my mind alienated by the ungrateful memories, the medical drugs and that God of indefinable aspect stepped forward in front of me taking me by the hand. I followed him like a child under the good guidance of his father; then the black mists that covered everything became shred in the nothing. This God, perhaps created by my conscience, whispered of my ear in a soft, melodic, sweet voice with a faint air of mocking irony, if not rather, a disguise of a cruel horselaugh:

-Here begins the true sorrow!-

     I opened my eyes in a cold sweat, the torrential rain continued out of my room and I covered just my modesty with a cotton piece; I took from the bureau a blade of sharp steel that I had warned in case of the soul pain was unbearable, with the hope and certainty that the heartbreaking caress of the cold steel on my skin would wane a little, just a little the terrible pain... but it was not like that:

     On the other side of the glass, beneath the torrential and icy rain, a slender silhouette of black hair and dazzling eyes of love and tenderness, sobbed and mourned her pain in solitude. I ran to her to take her in my arms and kiss her from head to foot trying to comfort just a little her infamous suffering. He allowed me to go to her but the doors of my room did not give in to my daring efforts, I hit the windows and broke my hands in disturbing squeaks but not ever gave up down the fragility of the place for where the sun greets me every morning.

     

     I cried with impotence and sadness to see the slender muse of the liberation of my loneliness, to cry disconsolate and was tearing her own skin hoping that the poison that was infecting her heart would escape.

On a January night

fell the tempest of a dream,

a dream that mitigated

the cold of a winter raw.

Bounded in a white room,

lying in a soft bunk

and beside me, wrapped in tears,

an angel that in my darkest fantasies,

unabashed I admired her.

The venom still ran through my veins

and in those of that divine entity,

the pain of a penalty maybe the lost,

from the sky where came from.

Her beauty wings,

white as pure snow,

that some demon, perhaps internal,

merciless has ripped off.

And seeking to comfort her,

to seeing embodied in woman,

animated, I approach.

Being a sinful man

lie would if deny

that from this moment,

In my mind, to lust subjugated.

I stripped and kissed her

in every corner of her sacred being,

not one of her hair,

escape of my lascivious touch.

And in my volatile imagination,

I made her mine, again and again,

without respect to her holy condition,

nor of her thin body of compassion.

With laborious tenderness

I took her in my arms

and at the end of the fantasy,

I could not do more

offer her some water.

That earned me her favor,

situation that not ever can be paid,

just like a glimpse of faith

for if the Creator did not exist,

To my arms not ever sent her,

although time has passed,

that angel incarnated in woman,

whose kisses taste to honey.

  

With such a soft touch

like the clouds of which,

for an infamous error,

fell into this hell,

where love is grief.

Now I just want,

have the cunning of Luzbel

to not let her go back to heaven

and like Lilith, build a paradise

for that angel by a mistake fallen.

     Desperate I cut my arms, legs and face, hands and chest but the closed door did not give up just a little, nor the in the windows crystals before my fists shattered and that damned God, smiling before my regret and pain played in his languid fingers with the key of the door that I separated me from the longed for peace.

     I woke up in a cold sweat, my eyes flooded with saline tears that mingled their diamond drops with the crimson liquid that flowed from the furrows created by my blackened claws, turning into watery rubies. Once again I was confined within the walls of a house of madness; The slender and tender Venus with black hair that in its glorious torment rose in syncretism to the immaculate Ishtar³ shrine visits me time to time as well as my anguished biological family. Meanwhile I hope to leave one day of this prison disguised as sanatorium, just one day, so that once again, that God, take me by the hand to another stormy dream and not ever again, allow me to wake up.

 _____
1.- Goetia or Goëtia (Medieval Latin; anglicised as goety /ˈɡoʊ.ᵻti/) is a practice that includes the conjuration of demons, specifically the ones summoned by the Biblical figure, King Solomon. The use of the term in English largely derives from the 17th-century grimoire The Lesser Key of Solomon, which features an Ars Goetia as its first section. It contains descriptions of the evocation, or "calling out", of seventy-two demons, famously edited by Aleister Crowley in 1904 as The Book of the Goetia of Solomon the King. Goetic Theurgy, another practice described in the Lesser Key of Solomon, is similar to the book's description of Goetia, but is used to invoke aerial spirits.
2.- Necromancy (/ˈnɛkrəˌmænsi, -roʊ-/) is a supposed practice of magic involving communication with the deceased – either by summoning their spirit as an apparition or raising them bodily – for the purpose of divination, imparting the means to foretell future events or discover hidden knowledge, to bring someone back from the dead, or to use the deceased as a weapon, as the term may sometimes be used in a more general sense to refer to black magic or witchcraft. The word "necromancy" is adapted from Late Latin necromantia, itself borrowed from post-Classical Greek νεκρομαντεία (nekromanteía), a compound of Ancient Greek νεκρός (nekrós), "dead body", and μαντεία (manteía), "divination by means of"; this compound form was first used by Origen of Alexandria in the 3rd century AD. The Classical Greek term was ἡ νέκυια (nekyia), from the episode of the Odyssey in which Odysseus visits the realm of the dead and νεκρομαντεία in Hellenistic Greek, rendered as necromantīa in Latin, and as necromancy in 17th-century English.
3- Ishtar was the Mesopotamian goddess of love, beauty, sex, desire, fertility, war, combat, and political power, the East Semitic (Akkadian, Assyrian and Babylonian) counterpart to the Sumerian Inanna, and a cognate of the Northwest Semitic goddess Astarte and the Armenian goddess Astghik. Ishtar was an important deity in Mesopotamian religion from around 3500 BCE until its gradual decline between the 1st and 5th centuries CE with the spread of Christianity. Ishtar is primary symbols were the lion and the eight-pointed star. She was associated with the planet Venus and subsumed many. Important aspects of her character and her cult from the earlier Sumerian goddess Inanna. Nonetheless, she was different from her predecessor in several notable ways. The Babylonian version of the story of her descent into the Underworld is similar to the Sumerian version, but also contains several notable divergences. For instance, her assistant in the story is the male god Papsukkal rather than the female Sumerian Ninshubur. In the standard Akkadian version of the Epic of Gilgamesh, Ishtar is portrayed as a spoiled and hot-headed femme fatale who unleashes the Bull of Heaven, resulting in the death of Enkidu and Gilgamesh rejects his demand that he become her consort. This stands in sharp contrast with Inanna's radically different portrayal in the earlier Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh, Enkidu, and the Netherworld. Although various publications have claimed that Ishtar name is the root behind the modern English word Easter, reputable linguists have unanimously rejected these putative etymologies as entirely false.

Sanguijuela III: Angustia y Sangre (Parte 1)

Noche de pasión calienta el viento,

luna llena que ilumina el firmamento,

solo tú y yo en ésta gran inmensidad

y el sonido del silencio en el camino,

una tenue luz me hace soñar.

Focos negros que sonríen muy contentos,

abro una ventana a la eternidad

y el eco de tu voz alegra mi alma,

por eso y por muchas, otras tantas cosas,

yo sé que nunca, yo, te dejaré de amar.

Javier Batiz-La Primera Noche

Iniciar éste escrito con una maldición no es lo adecuado por ese motivo me las he ingeniado para comenzar con otras palabras y una vez logrado expresar esa inquietud, pienso hacerlo:

¡Maldición!

En ese momento fue una sensación reconfortante admitir tanto mis defectos de carácter así como las inconsistencias en la espiritualidad abandonada; ha sido difícil aunque en gran parte me hayan ayudado a sobrevivir todos estos años, también es difícil -en otro contexto- darme cuenta que he estado tan ensimismado en las cosas superficiales de mí existencia sobrenatural -término que queda en duda- En verdad que el paso del tiempo me es indiferente, sólo destacable por algunas situaciones importantes dentro de la historia de mí país y que por desgracia me tocó “la suerte” de presenciar -por lo menos las que se produjeron por la noche- De igual manera, soy como un buitre que presiente la muerte y acecha su comida antes de que ésta muera. Un simple y vulgar carroñero.

Más desagradable y desdichado es el acto de sentirme atraído a lugares en donde se gesta la muerte biológica de alguna o algunas personas y sienta cargo de consciencia, cuando en realidad bebo la sangre de gente viva y no de cadáveres, aunque hay algunos que sólo están o estaban robando oxígeno a más seres vivos. 

Duele, duele con horror el acto en sí, el hecho es inconcebible hasta para mí a pesar de estar y haber sobrevivido -sí existiera el término “Sobre-Existido” sería más correcto- en éste estado por más de cuarenta años.

¿Llorar? ¡Los hombres no lloran! 

Por lo menos eso me enseñaron mis padres y conforme pasan los años sobre mí, me doy cuenta de que todas éstas costumbres, “tradiciones” y dogmas sociales, cada día son menos aplicables… de facto, nunca lo fueron; crecí con esas ideas marcadas a fuego en cada rincón de mí personalidad y cada uno de esos dogmas a los que me aferré para “sobrevivir” se van sumergiendo en la mezquindad total, no por el acto de desecharlos por voluntad, sí no por ir perdiendo practicidad real, sí es que alguna vez la tuvieron.

No presumo de ser un individuo vanguardista, ya no. 

.·.

El 3 de octubre de 1921 se creó la Secretaría de Educación Pública para cumplir con los postulados del Artículo Tercero Constitucional y proveer a la población de una educación gratuita, laica y obligatoria. El responsable de éste proyecto fue el Lic. José Vasconcelos Calderón, quien asumió la titularidad de esa Secretaría el 12 de octubre de dicho año; por ese entonces, yo no prestaba demasiada atención a lo que se desarrollaba en la política del país, consideré más prudente -en ese entonces- dedicarme al buen desarrollo y crecimiento de la hacienda familiar, sobre todo al “correcto progreso y evolución” de mí espiritualidad, mermada por los años de juventud en burdeles y bebiendo destilados caseros.

No mostré interés, aunque tampoco ignoraba éstas situaciones. Como ya relaté en otras páginas, aún no era un cadáver parasitario, sólo un “joven” depravado, hipócrita, asesino, egoísta y vicioso, estaba por enrolarme con Los Caballeros, aumentando mi fortuna y cosas diversas… por demasiado que estuviera en contra de mantener en México un “Estado Laico”; la verdad es que me enfoqué más en el aumento de los bienes materiales, mí existencia dio un giro inesperado poco tiempo después, pero eso ya lo expliqué y sería repetir la misma historia, así que regresemos al contexto:

Durante los últimos años de esa década -años 60 del siglo XX- me sentía casi emocionado y a la vez agitado, como todo el mundo durante esos años. La Guerra en Vietnam, plenitud de La Guerra Fría, la situación de los misiles rusos en Cuba, movimientos estudiantiles en todos lados pero en particular en Francia, es obvio que en Estados Unidos y lo más importante, aquí, en México.

Estoy cerca de cumplir 115 años como Muerto en Vida y no presumo de ello, más allá de lo “romántico” que pueda parecer vivir por toda la eternidad, no envejecer y toda la acumulación de esos beneficios que desde hace algunos años se han hecho populares. Si, los bienes materiales casi llegan por sí solos, si, no envejezco, si a bastantes cosas más pero a excepción del conocimiento y la experiencia, sólo estar consciente de que para sobrevivir necesitar matar es incómodo para mí mismo, pues a pesar de todo, sigo siendo un individuo… o eso quiero pensar; ésta situación es verdad que se asimila con velocidad pero te endurece aún más el ínfimo resquicio de alma que queda en ti, en algunas ocasiones llegas a disfrutarlo. Torturar las emociones de tus víctimas, incluso el físico, haciéndoles “creer” que hay esperanza para ellos, más tomando en cuenta mis antecedentes y reitero, no me siento, ni sentí orgulloso de ello después de cumplir quince primaveras pero esa parte humana que repruebo por completo, continuaba provocando satisfacción ante dichas situaciones, supongo que era algo similar a intentar dejar la adicción al tabaco moderno para un mortal. Ya me había mudado a vivir en una vieja casona cerca de El Palacio Negro, no era el máximo lujo pero me otorgaba comodidad y cercanía a un lugar con alimento disponible; por lo menos para mí, no era ya tan inaccesible esa prisión, ni la seguridad del mismo lugar tan ineludible como presumen ahora, pues yo entraba y salía de allí “como sí fuera mi casa”, por las mismas condiciones y naturaleza del lugar tampoco se extrañaba a nadie, ni era sobresaliente un cadáver nuevo cada tercer día. Pero algo cierto es que ese lugar fue una sucursal de El Infierno. 

.·.

Una cosa que no mencioné y es importante para mí aún hoy por todo lo que representa y representó en su tiempo, continúa siendo la única “cosa” que ha hecho mis emociones exaltarse en realidad, la voz inigualable e incomparable de La Bruja Cósmica Janis Joplin pues en sus canciones, en su voz, encontré lo más parecido a un reflejo y empatía con el género humano; en su trabajo me identifiqué. Tal vez debido a lo “desgarrado” de su voz o la cruda y fría manifestación incuestionable de la realidad -sólo en forma emocional- Por medio de su sonido logró llevarme o más bien, traerme de regreso a esa humanidad que hacía varios años decidí hacer a un lado.

Hoy veo con tristeza, en lugar de manejar poesía en la música -en eso consiste la idea de incluir una voz- es tendencia actual recurrir al sexo explícito en lugar del erotismo... puedo mencionar mil detalles y ejemplos pero sé que es inútil, sabiendo que éste documento no saldrá a luz y sí ocurre, quienes lo lean no lo verán de ésta manera, más bien como algo cotidiano, hasta cursi o ridículo, nada de qué alarmarse. 

.·.

Esos años, ya a finales de esa década, me di “el lujo” de socializar un poco, supongo que influenciado por la corriente social, El Flower Power estaba aquí y puedo decir que a mí, independiente a la condición en que sostenía mi existencia, me contagió esa manifestación de alegría al disfrutar vivir… o existir, la añoranza de libertad... en forma bastante esporádica visitaba a varios conocidos en los represivos lugares que originaron los legendarios “Hoyos Fonky” o en los alrededores de alguna escuela. Pero esa alegría injustificada era opacada las noches de “antojo” en que salía de mi refugio para acechar toda la noche a mi presa en turno, asustándole y llevando su sistema nervioso al colapso para que la sangre tomara un “sabor especial” a la hora de ingerirla.

Mi refugio no se encontraba lejos, tal vez nueve o diez calles, bastante cerca de lo que sería después El Parque Recreativo Francisco I. Madero, era la madrugada del 3 de octubre de 1968. La Ciudad se encontraba bajo una atmósfera extraña, demasiado lúgubre y no era para menos pues hasta hoy se sigue recordando la infame tarde del día anterior y espero tome un valor real el lema “2 de Octubre no se Olvida”. 

Eran ya las tres de la madrugada del día 3 de Octubre y ajeno a lo que ocurría en la urbe, me mantenía oculto en las sombras como el depredador nocturno que ya era, esperando ver tarde o temprano a alguna jovencita trasnochada caminando a casa pero no había jóvenes en la calle, sí no familias enteras buscando parientes y a la vez, patrullas e incluso camiones militares recorriendo calles y avenidas. Aún desconocía el motivo de esa alteración del ambiente, ésta ciudad nunca gozó de algo que pudiéramos llamar “alegría”, en los barrios populares aún menos, teniendo un lugar tan tenebroso y horrible en las inmediaciones, en definitiva, El Palacio Negro de Lecumberri aún hoy contagia su atmósfera lúgubre, incluso a varios kilómetros de distancia desde su fundación hasta estos días, ya haciendo bastantes años que es El Archivo General de la Nación pero que a toda persona sensible que circule por allí le abordarán una serie de escalofríos injustificados. La muerte estaba en el aire. En algún momento puedo asegurar que vi a una mujer joven, demasiado blanca y delgada -mejor decir pálida- como la toma de una vieja fotografía o película en “blanco y negro”, con dicho tonó de piel resaltado por lo que parecía ser maquillaje, vestida de igual negro caminando por la calle, con el oscuro ropaje asimilando -o parodiando- los estilos de moda o uso recurrente entre los jóvenes, un vistoso Ânkh en plata colgando del cuello sujetado por cordones y hablando con varios espectros o dirigiendo su atención a la prisión con gesto de prisa, angustia y congoja. Quiero suponer que era la Muerte misma o algo bastante similar pues esa noche y las cuatro siguientes, las espectros de las Putas que me acechaban cada queda, no aparecieron y siguen sin querer hablar de lo ocurrido con ellas durante esas turbias noches. 

.·.

Desistí a intentar mantenerme oculto como el cazador urbano y experimentado que ya era en ese entonces debido a la concurrencia de gente en las calles pero no por eso me alejé de las zonas oscuras, ya fuera por costumbre o instinto, entre esas breves “escapadas”, vi a otra jovencita correr a una sombra provocada por un gran edificio, era notable que ocultándose de una patrulla policíaca que venía varios metros atrás.

Sin dudarlo y también con el hambre acosándome, caminé rápido hacia ella con disimulo, se veía cansada y bastante lastimada pues no fue gran esfuerzo alcanzarla y revisar con agilidad la situación, encontrar el momento adecuado para atacar y devorarla sin provocar un sufrimiento o agitación excesiva; a esas alturas, ya no me interesaba tanto satisfacer mi sadismo, necesitaba alimentarme pero no llegaba todavía el momento límite de perder el control. Entonces le miré el rostro y casi decido dar la vuelta sobre mis pies, no por temor o algo parecido, sí no por todo lo que me transmitió al sólo al cruzar su mirada con la mía:

Era una mujer que tenía diez y ocho años con exageración, también bastante delgada pero de piel morena, un tanto seca, deshidratada, casi gris; se notaban visibles varios golpes en el rostro y brazos, así como desgarraduras en la ropa y una mochila rota, vacía pero que a pesar de ya ser un utensilio de utilidad obsoleta, se mostraba con claridad apegada a ésta y también un par de zapatos bastante desgatados por el uso diario, a leguas hacía notar su cuna sencilla remarcada por la condición en que la encontré. Contrariando la aparente intención de ocultarse, se acomodó al pie de un poste de luz varias calles fuera del barullo suscitado en avenidas principales y comenzó a llorar en silencio, el mayor que se podía permitir en su condición. Por algunos instantes me dio la impresión de escuchar más que el susurro del viento mezclado con el andar de los escasos peatones o autos policiales rondando la zona, incluso camiones ya fueran de volteo u otra tarea, no eran tal, sí no el susurro de un cazador acechando a su presa y no, no era yo… parecía que tal vez los murmullos podían originarse en las cloacas o los muros que soportaban por obligación a su atroz vecino de panóptica arquitectura.

Por extraño que parezca, aún más para mí mismo, logré someter el hambre no humana y conmovido por aquella escena, me hice visible saliendo de entre las sombras de las construcciones y acerqué a la joven mujer. 

El tiempo sigue en movimiento,

mis amigos se han ido,

yo sigo en movimiento

pero nunca encuentro la salida.

Iniciaba en una radio perdida entre las casas aledañas, a una hora no adecuada para escuchar “Ese tipo de ruido infernal” -decía la gente remilgada de aquel entonces- con la transmisión de Kozmic Blues de Janis Joplin:

-¿Qué ocurre niña, como te puedo ayudar?- pregunté en voz alta mientras cruzaba la contra esquina para no acercarme de manera abrupta.

Sólo levantó la cara y me miró con tristeza, más remarcada y conmovedora por su silencio; en sus ojos vi reflejado todo lo vivido esa tarde, tomando un lugar protagónico bengalas, sangre, balas, dolor, guantes blancos y más muertos que los menos de treinta aceptados de manera oficial. Escuché en el cielo pasar varias avionetas con sobrecarga pero no presté mayor atención ya que se encontraban demasiado lejos y me era imposible dar un vistazo; sólo atiné a sentarme en la acera a un lado de la joven y abrazarla para intentar consolarla, tranquilizarla un poco. Intento recordar lo que vi en sus ojos sólo logrando evocar las palabras ya citadas, no puedo decir más por la poca salud mental que queda en mí y por respeto a su memoria… y la de los caídos esa tarde. Todo reflejado en sus ojos plagados de ternura, tristeza, añoranza, más dolor, angustia y desesperación; mostrándome reflejado en su brillo las carencias de su entorno, sin más alimento que algún pan rancio y agua con enfermedades letales, desde una simple gripe hasta el extraño “Mal de Orina” y sobre todo su padecimiento, extraño para su tiempo no tan lejano, incluso en la época actual: Cáncer en la Sangre, de manera adecuada llamado Leucemia o mejor decir, Leucemia Aguda Mieloblastica, lo que de manera desagradable explicaba su desgarbada y opaca complexión así como los remarcados moretones. 

-Pequeña- dije con la voz más cálida y serena que pude -Ya terminó, éstas a salvo-

-¿Por qué no morí, por qué fui yo quien logró escapar?- me respondió sin mirarme mientras sorbía los fluidos en su nariz, por casualidad yo portaba un pañuelo en el bolsillo y se lo pasé, ella sólo extendió el brazo para recibirlo, sin devolverme siquiera una mirada continuó -Gracias… No sé quién es usted pero supongo que me entregara a la policía… no quiero siquiera ver el rosto de quien me dejara en las garras de esos cerdos-

-Éstas equivocada- respondí -Conmigo estás a salvo, nadie te dañará, mi casa no está lejos, allí puedes resguardarte hasta que todo se tranquilice-

Entonces me devolvió la mirada diciendo:

-No sé quién es usted y tampoco tendría forma de pagarle éste gesto-

-No te preocupes por eso, ponte en píe y camina a mi lado como sí fueras mí pareja para evitar la atención de las patrullas-

Le ayudé a incorporarse y comenzamos a caminar hacia mi refugio diurno sin contratiempos.

.·.

Cuando llegamos a mi “refugio” lo primero que hice fue encender el radio y escupiendo las bocinas a Mamas and the Papas, estas cosas siempre llegan tarde aquí y en ese tiempo me resultaba confortante la censura, ya que esto se transmitían a horas en que nadie podía escucharlas y prestarles atención.

Cuando la luna esté en la séptima casa

y Júpiter se alinee con Marte,

la paz guiara a los planetas

y el amor dirigirá las estrellas.

Tal vez ésta melodía reflejaba la absoluta necesidad de cambio y sentir de los jóvenes de aquella década ya legendaria, tanto que sus himnos -ruido infernal le llamaban- continúan haciéndose eco, más de cincuenta años después.

Don't Stop me Now

I’ve noted, many of those who visit this web page and my followers in the various social networks accessed from countries where Spanish is not spoken and although my English is very poor, for not to say that sucks and a bit more. Anyway, I hope you like and above all, manage to read. If you have any comments or suggestions, leave it in the commentary box and above all, do not forget this was a job for a conceptual book.

* Story published in the anthology "The Dead Rockers Society" by Café Literario Publishing House

I’m the master of toys

And all you, girls and boys,

Are welcome to my wonderland.

I’m the angel of joy

and I’m here to paint the void.

Welcome to my world,

to my dream factory.

Avantasia-The toy master

It was more than Rogatian could tolerate. No more than a month he tried to hang by the neck with a necktie in the shower of his house, but when the pain was insufferable and the view is clouded over, only for survival instinct managed to untie the knot in his neck. No that afternoon, he had it all ready and there was no turning back. Ruvalcaba Rogatian was a Heavy, a Headbanger, a Metalhead “to the bones” and while listening the song he considered homonym: The Toy Master from the third album of Avantasia, he remembered all his life before giving it up. A long and sad movie running in instants while injecting twenty milliliters of pure Novocaine in the cephalic vein. This occasion will not allow something as absurd as physical pain prevented him from meet its goal of fade out this world.

His love life had been a failure, like all he had done, thought or tried to do: he tried be a musician “singing” in Death Metal band and all failed because of a “problem of skirts”, tried be a painter and even has talent, it is impossible to "eat" of that profession in Mexico. Fell in love with Mary, she was a younger than him, only had one defect: she was married. Also fell in love with Ursula, equally she was younger than he, they had a little girl, only in the medium pregnancy period Glory appeared in his life. Both fall in love.

Five years of relationship with Ursula had turned insupportable and the little Abigail came a little late. Rogatian leaves Ursula and the unborn Abigail for loving Gloria; everything was fine the first two years: passion and spilled honey to worldwide; however his perspective, Glory turned out to be "like beans, crumpled to first boil". Not that Rogatian was a “sweet pear”: almost manic depressive, jealous, insecure and compulsive smoker… but knew how to love, with the passion and dedication of an authentic warrior, a warrior that was delivered to Glory unarmored. If he had been a professional wrestler, could have said that front of her, “He lost Hair and Mask ". Karma was claiming back with interest worthy of World Bank and The International Monetary Fund as a bodily. That does not matter at all for while Rogatian was about to kill himself, Glory drank coffee with a man whom she met on the Internet. Life had not offered anything and did not intend to wait to deign to repay it somehow, either continue to receive crumbs of love.

Listening to his beloved Metal, the only thing about the world had never left him alone. While Novocaine takes effect, listen to songs like Black Chamber by Blind Guardian, Heal Me of Gamma Ray and Hazme un Sitio Entre tu Piel by El Mägo de Oz; he was lost and defeated in the black chamber, no one can heal him or who would make a site between the skin.

A Punk good old-fashioned thought -There's no future- Only have remorse of conscience never having attended a concert of Blind Guardian and a little not take Abigail to the chapel. Wobbly comes once more time to the shower, environment his last minutes with Painkiller by Judas Priest, Death version and when sounding the last riff, Rogatian also gave his last breath, this time without any pain, or remorse and satisfied to die like a star that never shine.

.·.

For some strange reason opened his eyes, he scary to look back and see his body hanged by the neck with the tongue out, his eyes in blank and a viscous stain on his jeans at the height of the genitals that grew larger with each passing endless instants. Contemplated himself with curiosity, fear passed and became resignation, sighed and stood said aloud:

-Well, have to start with the eternal wandering reserved for suicidal-

Left the bathroom, crossed his room and headed towards the backyard, somehow feels less weight, although tired. He opened the door, it was strange, it is all the same, the gardener, the white Volkswagen model 97, until garbage cans, as if nothing had happened, however by the window he could see clearly his lifeless body.

The doorbell rang and Rogatian without reasoning that "it was not there," said:

-I'm going!-

He came to the door, tried to open and his hand went through the lock, he leans back smiling and what he saw when he turned whatsoever was not surprised:

Four hooded black silhouettes wait with patience, one supported in the old “Vocho”, one sitting on the stairs, another on the floor and the last, the thinnest and low in stature standing in the middle of the courtyard.

-Do you think did the right thing? - asked this last with a soft and beautiful voice.

-I did what I wanted and if it was my will, was the right thing-

The hooded man who was sitting on the stairs laughed and replied:

-Liber Al Vel Legis. Aiwass word is not unknown to me-

All were erected, they walked towards and surrounded him forming a cross with Rogatian at the center.

-We come for you! To take you to the place where our own kind rested and are full extent free, far away from the flesh chains and this world ruled by Sabaōth- said one of those who had remained in silence with a raspy and dissonant voice. The last, the quietest of all, extended his hand pointing toward the wall.

The cement flattened and the paint began to lay off a dim light which it was enlarged until the point being blinded.

.·.

When Rogatian opened his eyes heartfelt rested and relaxed, thought about it when a voice behind he said:

-That, good friend, is the unequaled sensation to discard the flesh, I also search it like you and just I was a little more… "Exhibitionist" and throws me to the underground railway in my country-

Find strange, Rogatian turns around and almost had a heart attack... if not for already be dead; Ingo Schwichtenberg, the Helloween ex- drummer was sitting under the shade of a tree.

-What are you doing here?- asked the suicidal to the other imbalanced.

-Well I felt alone, not bear to the loss of my father, also not being fired from the band, so I decided die out- Ingo replied stillness -Go ahead the trail, someone else awaits you. See you later-

.·.

Without a moment hesitation the words of the legendary drummer and his hero, Rogatian began its journey in the direction indicated. It was a path of upturned earth and hot which seen many traces of heavy boots. He looked up and saw a group of black clouds they neared threatening. On one side of the path there was a man of black and curled hair, tall, thin, with tattoos on his arms; he was wearing a leather vest, cased jeans and worn tennis, the classic stereotype of lazy in the early 70's in the twentieth century, he conversed with another man, with appearance of Hippie, chubby, of wide and strong arms.

Bon Scott and John “Bonzo” Bonham shared a Jack Daniels bottle in a brotherly conversation when they saw Rogatian and they headed to him. Being in front of them and recognize Rogatian smiled, looked on the path route and said:

-This can’t be, I don’t kill myself and are only effects of Novocain put up a "bad trip"-

-You’re mistaken, you're just dead as my friend Bonzo, Charles Baudelaire and I-

-Don’t suck! You died before I born-

-Yes and he too- replied Bonzo -Our thing it was an accident-

-But a happy accident that has turned us in legends- Bon Scott replied with a smile and taking a long gulp of whiskey bottle -Our graves now are cultural heritage; our detractors must be spinning in their cottony clouds by the courage-

-If they could still shitting, would suffer from diarrhea- Jhon said laughingly -Continues your way, find someone special that you, awaits further on-

-Who is it? - Rogatian asked curious.

-Only I can tell you is someone who really sang, not like me- answered Bon Scott, he took another deep sip of the bottle and handed to Bonzo. Rogatian sighed when saying goodbye to Bon Scott and John Bonham.

-I'd like to talk a little more with them- thought -Know its outlook on life would be fairly interesting-

.·.

Rogatian continued to walk long time bathing in the water of the storm. He wept unable to say goodbye to the pains and sorrows that had plagued him until the end of his life, however, it is received at the entrance of hell for some of their heroes had earned his holocaust. He not was a neophyte in terms of Rock refers and when he reached the wall announcing the legend "Abandon all hope who enters this place” associating with the mythology of "The Cursed People" and obviousness with The Divine Comedy. The very slim hooded and the first to speak when he died was waiting at the gates of the abyss. Rogatian smiled, there was no doubt it was only a matter of confirming to hear the voice that never would equal either on earth, either in heaven... or hell.

-Hi dear!- said whereas the hood off his face -Your welcome!-

Rogatian placed his right knee on the ground, lowered his eyes, with hard and solemnity exclaiming a powerful battle cry:

-God save the queen!-

Freddie Mercury looked young and athletic, there was at any sign of his terrible illness, was shaved, long black hair reached his shoulders; completely stripped the hood that covered his body revealing a simple white pants adjusted and a black cotton shirt. He approached the newcomer and extended the long and delicate hand to help him to get stand up.

-Do you know that might be taken as a homophobic comment? - Freddie answered with its charismatic and particular smile.

Rogatian relies shyly on the Rock Star hand and blushed of shame said:

-I’m so sorry!- dropped gaze realizing look straight his face -I think it's time to fulfill what I said some time ago-

Bewildered, the magnificent singer asked:

-What did you say?-

-Well, on one occasion, whereas I got drunk with friends listening to Queen I told: If I had known Freddy Mercury "I suck his cock" so sir, get off the zipper-

Freddie Mercury gave a loud laugh and giggled long time, while Rogatian kept solemn silence and despite everything, ready to keep his promise to air.

-Do not worry, honey- Freddy answered and grinned roguishly -I do not want at this moment, maybe later-

The suicidal could not avoid make a grimace at the same time of relief -No Fart! A promise is a promise- told himself.

-Before you reach the end abode tell me, Why did you do it?- asked Freddy with the unique tone of voice quiet and soft.

-Wherefore I’m cowardly and weak, I can’t stand the pain of life, the sorrow of love, well as being loved and not be able reciprocate. The failure in everything, materially, mentally and especially in spiritual-

-Do not it was cowardice- Freddy answered in friendly and conciliatory tone -It was a lapse of madness and despair because of the pain, survival instinct as paradoxical as it is heard-

- I know something about your life and I know you can understands me-

-Yes, I also suffered too much for love and the two ways you mention. My beloved Mary Austin endured everything to beside me, my pain of love, of loneliness, the mask should to hold as a public image against a repressive and hypocritical society. This beautiful woman tolerate me everything and never replied. She loves me like no one loved me, but I could not agree-

-That is terrible, a hideous pain, more than to feel the neck breaking or die for suffocation-

-It hurts to so much as dying from Bronchopneumonia- Freddy smiled bitterly and continued -I went a man of excesses, I be lying if deny having abused alcohol and hard drugs, also I abused of sex. But do you know what? I do not meant a deliberate promiscuity, just a little love unfeigned, both physical and feelings-

-I comprehend- answered Rogatian -Maybe our preferences may be different, but as humans beings seek the same thing-

-There is the problem!- interrupted Mercury -People like you and me, do not fit within the human society. Our sensitivity leads us away from the cold and vacuum which infects society... It is the collective A.I.D.S. of all mankind. It seems that the entire species is infected with this, it is sad but the epidemic is spreading in ours, in "The Cursed People" -

-Exist a cure for this terrible infirmity?-

-Maybe yes, when in reality all understand that love is not only receive, if not also give. Mourn that does not represent weakness, to understand that though individuality is essential for the existence, happiness is to share the beauty that exists within each one, no hatred or pride, not the ambition and hypocrisy, is the joy of living and sincerity of the human, as it was told Jesus Christ, Krishna and so many others-

-Throw out haughtiness and foolish pride… and think that nobody deserves you-

-Or otherwise, believe you do not deserve anyone. At some point I came to feel as well because of the taboos of society in which I lived, luckily times have changed a great deal within a matter of sexual freedom but broke out the pride, apathy and indifference. The woman was released from the chains maleness and turned cruel-

-But that does not take away the beauty- Rogatian replied wistfully.

-I not judge to Ingo neither you so made, did the right thing for them, their time came at that moment, however if had lived one more day and they had realized that it they still love, even if had a broken heart and shattered mind, the simple fact to find out that loved somebody could have made their gray lives will be painted of colors-

-Believe me, I tried but before long back the pain increasingly louder-

-Yes, I understand- Freddy gave him a big squeeze on the shoulder -There are times in life where stay ravaged by an endless number of situations, disappoint all because it seems to you can do not continue and you are not what others think or assume that you are-

-It is worse when think about the person you love, your partner or whoever you fall in love with boundless passion- Rogatian continued -Raining tears from your eyes and there is no one to dry, do not even who gave a handkerchief, do not even a word of comfort-

-It is terrible dear. The fact feel you far away from home, alone, although sleep in your bed- Freddy lowered his head saddened, as if remembering something too sour -You are wondering: What I did wrong? And you realize it that too much love will kill you, if you do not clear your mind and put the feet on the earth-

Rogatian raised his face, take a deep breath and gave a fraternal hug to the legend.

-There are some who never find the exit for that. The question is: Is it worthwhile to stop loving just because it hurt?-

-Being honest darling, I have the firm conviction than by love is worth losing power, to crawl, supplicate and shriek, either only by a look or a kiss... or for the simple reason to know what it is love-

-If not hurt does not work, is not real-

-Follow me- Freddy said stepping forward until arriving at a few meters from the black and cold gates of hell which Dante described in excessive detail, he pointing upwards, toward the towers guarding the entrance -Going through this doors, no longer shall save you, inward, none shall tuck up you, will no longer have more tears with which cry-

-Now I’m here, I teased. Maybe not even my nightmares approaches a little to what awaits me inside but I’m willing to go, I would rather burn all eternity in hell to continue suffering hunger for love-

-Dear- Freddy headed to Rogatian softly -Would you be willing to erase everything and start again?-

-Not today, today all that love is lost. I don’t want to live, I don’t want freedom! Not worth living with a broken heart. I know, I have only the guilt-

-Do not you feel so bad, win or lose, is the risk you take in love, the truth is that it can happen to anyone; there are people everywhere searching and can do not find ever-

-It seems that everything is decided for people like us-

Freddy smiled, turned his back on Rogatian and pushes the hellish doors while to their last questions:

-Who dares to love forever when love is dead?-

-I dare- Rogatian answered with a firmness that he was unaware of himself.

-Are you willing to dry your tears and those of others with your lips, to keep on loving and turn to love?- Freddy asked as darkness was the only thing visible to the front.

-Yes I am, whenever I look back and see what I've done, I don’t regret it, Whatever I've done for love!-

-Who wants to live forever?-

Rogatian stepped into the darkness without even doubting it and when he passed beside Farrokh Bulsara, screaming with all the strength of his spirit:

-If is for love, yes, I want to live forever!-

.·.

Rogatian opened his eyes. It was a dark and warm place, he feels peaceful and protected, comforted; while near him, it sounded Blind Guardian version of Spread Your Wings, forgetting all the pain in the belly of Abigail, willing and waiting patiently, filled with so much love that someday kill him again, looking for someone to save him, searching for somebody to love, without fear, without pressure or haste, because the show must go on being he an immortal.