domingo, 13 de diciembre de 2009

DSK 71: Primero del Ciclo de la Mierda.

Lo siento. Me cuesta un poco dibujar. Lo único que puedo hacer es el puto venado y luego ya no rindo. En circunstancias normales habría dibujado cada uno de esos fotogramas. Sin embargo, debo reconocer que me tripeo un poco el contraste.Puta tinta sepia la voy a botar-ahora quiero echársela a todo.
Se suponía que a esta tira le iba a seguir inmediatamente la que ahora será la segunda del ciclo. No rendí así que tuve que separarlas. Esa otra sí quiero hacerla bien.


Anexo:
Escena final de Salò de Pasolini (1975).

DSK 70 + ñapa



El DSK está dedicado a un muerto. Quizá a dos. De paso hoy es 13-12. Que los que deban entender, lo entiendan.

Lo que tengo de ñapa es muy atorrante:


Garabatos




Dzz... cosas que salen mal pero que me agradan. 
Debo ponerme a dibujar lo de hoy D:...

Dibujito de hoy: SS Deer.


Últimamente me cuesta dibujar. Tengo que comenzar a hacer garabatos y bocetos sin compromiso alguno para poder relajarme. Además, siento que ando estancada (en cuanto a técnica e ideas). Necesito calmarme.

Hice este cervatillo durante la mañana a ver si me facilitaba hacer el DSK del día. Respecto al contenido: es un broma personal.

De ñapa, el maravilloso Žižek analizando la estrategia discursiva de Laibach (nota para mí: descargar el documental completo):


lunes, 23 de noviembre de 2009

DSK 69: Tributo a Lévi-Strauss




Ay viejo, yo esperaba morirme antes que tú. Qué mal.

Mea culpa: estoy muy engripada, así que trabajé lentísimo y, de paso, mal.

Post data: Sí, es belga, no francés, pero el DSK pertenece a la otredad así que ve a todos esos bichos amalgamados en una sola lengua.

Actualización 23/11/09: medio acomodé la imagen.

Anexo:


Primeros minutos de la película en Youtube.

jueves, 19 de noviembre de 2009

DSK 68. Preludio del Ciclo de la Mierda.

Anexos:

Escena de Salò o le 120 giornate di Sodoma (Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1976), una de mis películas predilectas. Creo que comenzaré a aprenderme los diálogos.

Un chiste, de la misma película:

"Il Presidente Durcet: Carlo! Metti le dita così. Sei capace di dire "non posso mangiare il riso" tenendo le dita così?
Carlo: Non posso mangiare il riso!
Il Presidente Durcet: E allora mangia la merda!"

Agradeceré mucho a quien me diga en dónde puedo conseguir el guión.

DSKs varios, entre números y relleno.


Creo que no los contabilizaré. Pasé varias semanas de pleno fail pues o no tenía tiempo o me costaba dibujar. Tampoco ayuda que todavía no disponga de conexión a Internet en donde resido. Ni siquiera he podido revisar el SdZ para ver cuáles han salido publicados en las últimas dos semanas. Shame on me.


DSK 67



Fue publicado en el SdZ el 12 de octubre. Esto evidencia que me queda mucho por actualizar. Aparte, debo escanearlo de nuevo pues quedó en muy baja resolución. Intentaba imitar las xilografías medievales. Debo estudiarlas mejor. Ojalá algún día pueda incursionar en el grabado; me gusta mucho.

Actualización 23/11/2009: Acomodé un poco la imagen, pero ahora tiene una sombra rara en la esquina. De pana, si no es con mi escánersaurio, no sirve.

sábado, 10 de octubre de 2009

DSK 66. Último del Ciclo de la Úrea.

Seh, el último.
La cita es de la escena del Doctor en Woyzeck, de Georg Büchner. Usé la traducción de Manfred Schönfeld, cuyos derechos pertenecen a la Editorial Losange, que le dió permiso al Centro Editor de América Latina S. A. para la edición de 1969. Impreso en Argentina. Escena "En Casa del Doctor", Págs. 20-22.
En la primera cita, me comí un "Woyzeck" y no evidencié la omisión.
La obra es excelente. Espero ver esta noche la adaptación de Herzog a ver qué tal.

Bueno, éste fue el resumen telegráfico.

Anexos:

-Sylvia von Harden. Como para chuparse los dedos.

-"Leper Lord" de Death in June. La letra:

There We Stood,
At The Edge of The World
Snatching, The Sun From The Sky

O, Leper Lord
My Leper Lord

Make The Angels Cry

The Black Cloud Melts
As Eagles Stalk
Tearing, To Bits The Lie

O, Leper Lord
My Leper Lord
Make The Angels Cry

Espero que disfruten, pues lo que viene es mierda.

Actualización:

Al fin vi la adaptación cinematográfica de Woyzeck dirigida, en 1979, por Herzog. Algunos elementos de la adaptación no coinciden, como es de esperarse, con la puesta en escena que había imaginado en mi cabeza cuando leí la obra (puesta que no tiene nada que ver con el cómic de ahí arriba, aclaro); no obstante, Herzog y Kinski aciertan más que mis desvaríos. Excelente película.

DSK 65


No es parte del ciclo de la úrea, pero como lo publiqué en medio, ahí se queda. Y sí, tengo que aprender a dibujar secuencias de movimiento.
Puta viñeta-caja de Schrödinger que me enloquece. ¿Viñeta o no viñeta? Qué peo. ¿Con que si no hago viñeta no hay cómic? Jódanse. Si hago viñetas es sólo para hacer algunas cosas más claras. Es una herramienta y como tal me parece sumamente valiosa. Pero no es una obligación.

Aparte, no puedo con los que tratan los comics strips como un género menor. Es como decir que la novela es superior al cuento. Ya van a ver, van a ver... ¬¬

lunes, 21 de septiembre de 2009

DSK 64

A Valdo.
Y, ahora, a Yanis.
Dos úr.

Actualmente no dispongo de conexión a Internet y eso me ha dificultado las actualizaciones. Tengo un montón de dibujos que ando pendiente de subir.
Me quedan pocos minutos de conexión así que acomodaré los tags y agregaré los anexos más tarde. Discúlpenme.
Aparte, ando inconforme pues siento que pierde algo de fuerza al final, supongo que porque es un tránsito hacia el cuarto del ciclo y porque estaba tratando de mostrar algo más subjetivo que las primeras escenas. Claro, como las primeras incluían espacios era más fácil ponerme a hacer detalles y eso me satisface más. Pero bueno, cosas que iré arreglando con la práctica.

Actualización (algunas horas después, tras atragantarme con estrés):

La imagen está mejor en el link de photobucket: http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll180/NichtNoir/DSKtercerociclodelaurea.jpg

La canción citada es la versión que hace Voltaire de El Barquito de Nuez (sale en el disco "Almost Human"), que, supongo, debe estar basada en la original de Francisco Gabilondo Soler (Barquito de Nuez, de 1936). La diferencia es que la de Voltaire no incluye al mosquito. Respeto la versión de Cri-Cri pero no la escogí Voltaire por razones que algunos aludidos que me conozcan comprenderán mejor. Aparte, se adaptaba mejor a lo que quería narrar.
Fe de Erratas: Donde dice "hojas de papel", debía decir, creo, "velas de papel", que era lo que yo recordaba. Como no tenía el disco a mano, ni Internet para confirmar, pregunté y me dijeron que era "hojas". Discúlpenme esa :(.

Anexos:

Trailer de Shock Waves (1977) Dirigida por Ken Wiederhorn.

lunes, 24 de agosto de 2009

DSK 63. Segundo del Ciclo de la Úrea.


Ahorita no tengo muchos ánimos de echar el cuento. En dos días, he dormido apenas como seis horas. Por eso no pude incluir todo lo que quería. Más adelante, quizá agregue uno que otro detalle que no llegarán a conocer.
Resumo: alquimia y "Ur".

Anexos:

Fragmento del Poema Rúnico Islandés:

"Úr er skýja grátr
ok skára þverrir
ok hirðis hatr.
umbre vísi"
Vía.
Usé una traducción al español de Wikipedia pues (soy floja) me gustó como sonaba, no tenía mayores diferencias de la traducción al inglés y porque me convenía citarlo así.

Estoy un poco cansada y amargada así que dejaré tres de mis videos favoritos para regocijarme. El primero es una de las fuentes (de los referentes) de este ciclo.

Fragmento de Scorpio Rising, de Kenneth Anger (1964).

Happy Birthday PigFace Christus de Current93 (1995). Extraído de "Since Yesterday: A Peek into the Pit".

Blixa cantando Der Tod ist ein Dandy en "Dandy" de Peter Sempel (1988). Si alguien consigue este documental, avíseme por favor. Es el único de estos tres que no he conseguido completo.

Actualización. Martes 25/08/09- 03:15 am:
Ahora me siento un poco mejor así que aprovecharé para citar algo que ha sido fundamento de todo este asunto. Dejé mi libro en Caracas así que extraeré una de mis traducciones predilectas de una edición digitalizada.

Es de Historia del Ojo (Historie de l´oeil) de Georges Bataille (1928). Al igual que Los Cantos de Maldoror, éste es un libro infinito.
La traducción es de Margo Glandtz, Ediciones Coyoacán, 1994.

Resalté en negritas algunos puntos que no puedo evitar encarecer.
"Para mí, la orina se asocia profundamente al salitre y a los rayos y no sé por qué a una bacinica antigua, de tierra porosa, abandonada un día lluvioso de otoño sobre el techo de zinc de una lavandería de provincia. Después de esa primera noche pasada en el sanatorio, esas representaciones desesperantes se vinculan estrechamente, en lo más oscuro de mi cerebro, con el coño y con el rostro taciturno y sombrío que a veces ponía Marcela. No obstante, ese paisaje caótico de mi imaginación se inundaba bruscamente de un hilo de luz y de sangre: Marcela no podía gozar sin bañarse, no de sangre, sino de un chorro de orina clara y, para mí, hasta luminosa, chorro primero violento y entrecortado como el hipo, después abandonado libremente, al coincidir con un transporte de goce sobrehumano; no es extraño que los aspectos más desérticos y leprosos de un sueño sean apenas un ruego en ese sentido, una espera obstinada del gozo total, como esa visión del agujero luminoso de la ventana vacía en el instante mismo en que Marcela, caída sobre el piso, lo inundaba infinitamente."

lunes, 17 de agosto de 2009

DSK-Garabato relativo al Ciclo de la Úrea.

No pude terminar a tiempo el segundo cómic del Ciclo de la Úrea, así que hice esto. De todas formas, el cómic estará listo hacia finales de la semana... Menos mal que tuve este tiempo extra, pues todavía necesito cuadrar unas cosas.
Disculpen las molestias. Me lavaron los zapatos así que me he desorientado un poco.

domingo, 9 de agosto de 2009

DSK 62. Primero del Ciclo de la Úrea.


No apoyo la teoría que sostiene la asociación entre el accidente de Chernóbil y los versículos que cité del Apocalipsis de Juan, pues esa teoría se basa en una traducción forzada del ucraniano. No obstante, me parece que es un hallazgo poético inestimable. Por eso es que me interesa.

Anexos:


Blood Axis & Les Joyaux De La Princesse. Álbum: Absinthe: La Folie Verte (2002). Tema: "Folie Verte". Hermoso, muy hermoso álbum.

"I am the green Fairy
My robe is the color of despair
I have nothing in common with the fairies of the past
What I need is blood, red and hot
The palpitating flesh of my victims
Alone, I will kill France, the present is dead
Long live the future...
But me, I kill the future and in family I destroy
The love of country, courage, honor
I am the purveyor of hell, penitentiaries, hospitals
Who am I finally?
I am the instigator of crime
I am ruin and sorrow
I am shame
I am dishonor
I am death
I am absinthe"


Tres versiones de Apocalipsis 8:10,11. Las saqué de "Biblia Paralela".

Quería citar el original griego, pues las traducciones son muy imprecisas, pero iba a pasarme de la raya si hacía eso.

8:10 Καὶ ὁ τρίτος ἄγγελος ἐσάλπισεν καὶ ἔπεσεν ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ ἀστὴρ μέγας καιόμενος ὡς λαμπὰς καὶ ἔπεσεν ἐπὶ τὸ τρίτον τῶν ποταμῶν καὶ ἐπὶ τὰς πηγὰς τῶν ὑδάτων,
8:11
καὶ τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ ἀστέρος λέγεται ὁ Ἄψινθος καὶ ἐγένετο τὸ τρίτον τῶν ὑδάτων εἰς ἄψινθον καὶ πολλοὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἀπέθανον ἐκ τῶν ὑδάτων ὅτι ἐπικράνθησαν.

Biblia Sacra Vulgata:
8:10 et tertius angelus tuba cecinit et cecidit de caelo stella magna ardens tamquam facula et cecidit in tertiam partem fluminum et in fontes aquarum

8:11 et nomen stellae dicitur Absinthius et facta est tertia pars aquarum in absinthium et multi hominum mortui sunt de aquis quia amarae factae sunt

Sagradas escrituras (1569):

8:10 Y el tercer ángel tocó la trompeta, y cayó del cielo una gran estrella, ardiendo como una antorcha encendida, y cayó en la tercera parte de los ríos, y en las fuentes de las aguas.

8:11 Y el nombre de la estrella se dice Ajenjo. Y la tercera parte de las aguas fue vuelta en Ajenjo; y muchos hombres murieron por las aguas, porque fueron hechas amargas.

lunes, 27 de julio de 2009

DSK 61. Preludio del Ciclo de la Úrea.


Mi vida es una mierda. Ya que ya no salió en la primicia del SdZ #90, lo publicaré por aquí. Insisto: mi vida es una mierda. Dibujo sumamente lento. Paso 13 putas horas dibujando, sin parar, para un carajo.

De paso, el resultado me satisface a medias. Por lo menos hice todas las referencias que quería. Esperaba esmerarme a comentarlas aquí, pero ahora no me animo. De todas formas no les iba a gustar por allá. En fin...

Anexos variados, para calmarme:

"Smashed to bits (In the peace of the Night)" de Death in June. Presentación en Bruselas, en el 2001. También incluye "All pigs must die" y "Kameradschaft".

Escena de "Querelle" (Fassbinder, 1982). "Each man kills the thing he loves." Puede contener spoilers para los que no la han visto.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol. Oscar Wilde.

In Memoriam
C.T.W.
Sometime Trooper of
The Royal Horse Guards.
Obiit H.M. Prison, Reading, Berkshire,
July 7th, 1896

I.

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead,
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellow's got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer- blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read,
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed.

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

II

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its ravelled fleeces by.

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine,
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine!

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring,
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing,
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay,
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day,
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay.

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the spring-time shoot:
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root,
And, green or dry, a man must die
Before it bears its fruit!

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try:
But who would stand in hempen band
Upon a scaffold high,
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky?

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair:
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare:
But it is not sweet with nimble feet
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day,
And wondered if each one of us
Would end the self-same way,
For none can tell to what red Hell
His sightless soul may stray.

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men,
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen,
And that never would I see his face
In God's sweet world again.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm
We had crossed each other's way:
But we made no sign, we said no word,
We had no word to say;
For we did not meet in the holy night,
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both,
Two outcast men were we:
The world had thrust us from its heart,
And God from out His care:
And the iron gin that waits for Sin
Had caught us in its snare.

III

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard,
And the dripping wall is high,
So it was there he took the air
Beneath the leaden sky,
And by each side a Warder walked,
For fear the man might die.

Or else he sat with those who watched
His anguish night and day;
Who watched him when he rose to weep,
And when he crouched to pray;
Who watched him lest himself should rob
Their scaffold of its prey.

The Governor was strong upon
The Regulations Act:
The Doctor said that Death was but
A scientific fact:
And twice a day the Chaplain called
And left a little tract.

And twice a day he smoked his pipe,
And drank his quart of beer:
His soul was resolute, and held
No hiding-place for fear;
He often said that he was glad
The hangman's hands were near.

But why he said so strange a thing
No Warder dared to ask:
For he to whom a watcher's doom
Is given as his task,
Must set a lock upon his lips,
And make his face a mask.

Or else he might be moved, and try
To comfort or console:
And what should Human Pity do
Pent up in Murderers' Hole?
What word of grace in such a place
Could help a brother's soul?

With slouch and swing around the ring
We trod the Fool's Parade!
We did not care: we knew we were
The Devil's Own Brigade:
And shaven head and feet of lead
Make a merry masquerade.

We tore the tarry rope to shreds
With blunt and bleeding nails;
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors,
And cleaned the shining rails:
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank,
And clattered with the pails.

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones,
We turned the dusty drill:
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns,
And sweated on the mill:
But in the heart of every man
Terror was lying still.

So still it lay that every day
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave:
And we forgot the bitter lot
That waits for fool and knave,
Till once, as we tramped in from work,
We passed an open grave.

With yawning mouth the yellow hole
Gaped for a living thing;
The very mud cried out for blood
To the thirsty asphalte ring:
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair
Some prisoner had to swing.

Right in we went, with soul intent
On Death and Dread and Doom:
The hangman, with his little bag,
Went shuffling through the gloom
And each man trembled as he crept
Into his numbered tomb.

That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of Fear,
And up and down the iron town
Stole feet we could not hear,
And through the bars that hide the stars
White faces seemed to peer.

He lay as one who lies and dreams
In a pleasant meadow-land,
The watcher watched him as he slept,
And could not understand
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep
With a hangman close at hand?

But there is no sleep when men must weep
Who never yet have wept:
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave—
That endless vigil kept,
And through each brain on hands of pain
Another's terror crept.

Alas! it is a fearful thing
To feel another's guilt!
For, right within, the sword of Sin
Pierced to its poisoned hilt,
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt.

The Warders with their shoes of felt
Crept by each padlocked door,
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe,
Grey figures on the floor,
And wondered why men knelt to pray
Who never prayed before.

All through the night we knelt and prayed,
Mad mourners of a corpse!
The troubled plumes of midnight were
The plumes upon a hearse:
And bitter wine upon a sponge
Was the savour of Remorse.

The cock crew, the red cock crew,
But never came the day:
And crooked shape of Terror crouched,
In the corners where we lay:
And each evil sprite that walks by night
Before us seemed to play.

They glided past, they glided fast,
Like travellers through a mist:
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon
Of delicate turn and twist,
And with formal pace and loathsome grace
The phantoms kept their tryst.

With mop and mow, we saw them go,
Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand!

With the pirouettes of marionettes,
They tripped on pointed tread:
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear,
As their grisly masque they led,
And loud they sang, and loud they sang,
For they sang to wake the dead.

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame!
And once, or twice, to throw the dice
Is a gentlemanly game,
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame."

No things of air these antics were
That frolicked with such glee:
To men whose lives were held in gyves,
And whose feet might not go free,
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things,
Most terrible to see.

Around, around, they waltzed and wound;
Some wheeled in smirking pairs:
With the mincing step of demirep
Some sidled up the stairs:
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer,
Each helped us at our prayers.

The morning wind began to moan,
But still the night went on:
Through its giant loom the web of gloom
Crept till each thread was spun:
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid
Of the Justice of the Sun.

The moaning wind went wandering round
The weeping prison-wall:
Till like a wheel of turning-steel
We felt the minutes crawl:
O moaning wind! what had we done
To have such a seneschal?

At last I saw the shadowed bars
Like a lattice wrought in lead,
Move right across the whitewashed wall
That faced my three-plank bed,
And I knew that somewhere in the world
God's dreadful dawn was red.

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells,
At seven all was still,
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing
The prison seemed to fill,
For the Lord of Death with icy breath
Had entered in to kill.

He did not pass in purple pomp,
Nor ride a moon-white steed.
Three yards of cord and a sliding board
Are all the gallows' need:
So with rope of shame the Herald came
To do the secret deed.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

For Man's grim Justice goes its way,
And will not swerve aside:
It slays the weak, it slays the strong,
It has a deadly stride:
With iron heel it slays the strong,
The monstrous parricide!

We waited for the stroke of eight:
Each tongue was thick with thirst:
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate
That makes a man accursed,
And Fate will use a running noose
For the best man and the worst.

We had no other thing to do,
Save to wait for the sign to come:
So, like things of stone in a valley lone,
Quiet we sat and dumb:
But each man's heart beat thick and quick
Like a madman on a drum!

With sudden shock the prison-clock
Smote on the shivering air,
And from all the gaol rose up a wail
Of impotent despair,
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear
From a leper in his lair.

And as one sees most fearful things
In the crystal of a dream,
We saw the greasy hempen rope
Hooked to the blackened beam,
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare
Strangled into a scream.

And all the woe that moved him so
That he gave that bitter cry,
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who live more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

IV

There is no chapel on the day
On which they hang a man:
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick,
Or his face is far to wan,
Or there is that written in his eyes
Which none should look upon.

So they kept us close till nigh on noon,
And then they rang the bell,
And the Warders with their jingling keys
Opened each listening cell,
And down the iron stair we tramped,
Each from his separate Hell.

Out into God's sweet air we went,
But not in wonted way,
For this man's face was white with fear,
And that man's face was grey,
And I never saw sad men who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw sad men who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
We prisoners called the sky,
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But their were those amongst us all
Who walked with downcast head,
And knew that, had each got his due,
They should have died instead:
He had but killed a thing that lived
Whilst they had killed the dead.

For he who sins a second time
Wakes a dead soul to pain,
And draws it from its spotted shroud,
And makes it bleed again,
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood
And makes it bleed in vain!

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb
With crooked arrows starred,
Silently we went round and round
The slippery asphalte yard;
Silently we went round and round,
And no man spoke a word.

Silently we went round and round,
And through each hollow mind
The memory of dreadful things
Rushed like a dreadful wind,
An Horror stalked before each man,
And terror crept behind.

The Warders strutted up and down,
And kept their herd of brutes,
Their uniforms were spick and span,
And they wore their Sunday suits,
But we knew the work they had been at
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide,
There was no grave at all:
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall,
And a little heap of burning lime,
That the man should have his pall.

For he has a pall, this wretched man,
Such as few men can claim:
Deep down below a prison-yard,
Naked for greater shame,
He lies, with fetters on each foot,
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime
Eats flesh and bone away,
It eats the brittle bone by night,
And the soft flesh by the day,
It eats the flesh and bones by turns,
But it eats the heart alway.

For three long years they will not sow
Or root or seedling there:
For three long years the unblessed spot
Will sterile be and bare,
And look upon the wondering sky
With unreproachful stare.

They think a murderer's heart would taint
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth
Is kindlier than men know,
And the red rose would but blow more red,
The white rose whiter blow.

Out of his mouth a red, red rose!
Out of his heart a white!
For who can say by what strange way,
Christ brings his will to light,
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red
May bloom in prison air;
The shard, the pebble, and the flint,
Are what they give us there:
For flowers have been known to heal
A common man's despair.

So never will wine-red rose or white,
Petal by petal, fall
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies
By the hideous prison-wall,
To tell the men who tramp the yard
That God's Son died for all.

Yet though the hideous prison-wall
Still hems him round and round,
And a spirit man not walk by night
That is with fetters bound,
And a spirit may not weep that lies
In such unholy ground,

He is at peace—this wretched man—
At peace, or will be soon:
There is no thing to make him mad,
Nor does Terror walk at noon,
For the lampless Earth in which he lies
Has neither Sun nor Moon.

They hanged him as a beast is hanged:
They did not even toll
A requiem that might have brought
Rest to his startled soul,
But hurriedly they took him out,
And hid him in a hole.

They stripped him of his canvas clothes,
And gave him to the flies;
They mocked the swollen purple throat
And the stark and staring eyes:
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud
In which their convict lies.

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray
By his dishonoured grave:
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross
That Christ for sinners gave,
Because the man was one of those
Whom Christ came down to save.

Yet all is well; he has but passed
To Life's appointed bourne:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long-broken urn,
For his mourner will be outcast men,
And outcasts always mourn.

V

I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in goal
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

But this I know, that every Law
That men have made for Man,
Since first Man took his brother's life,
And the sad world began,
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were
If each could know the same—
That every prison that men build
Is built with bricks of shame,
And bound with bars lest Christ should see
How men their brothers maim.

With bars they blur the gracious moon,
And blind the goodly sun:
And they do well to hide their Hell,
For in it things are done
That Son of God nor son of Man
Ever should look upon!

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair

For they starve the little frightened child
Till it weeps both night and day:
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool,
And gibe the old and grey,
And some grow mad, and all grow bad,
And none a word may say.

Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity's machine.

The brackish water that we drink
Creeps with a loathsome slime,
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime,
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks
Wild-eyed and cries to Time.

But though lean Hunger and green Thirst
Like asp with adder fight,
We have little care of prison fare,
For what chills and kills outright
Is that every stone one lifts by day
Becomes one's heart by night.

With midnight always in one's heart,
And twilight in one's cell,
We turn the crank, or tear the rope,
Each in his separate Hell,
And the silence is more awful far
Than the sound of a brazen bell.

And never a human voice comes near
To speak a gentle word:
And the eye that watches through the door
Is pitiless and hard:
And by all forgot, we rot and rot,
With soul and body marred.

And thus we rust Life's iron chain
Degraded and alone:
And some men curse, and some men weep,
And some men make no moan:
But God's eternal Laws are kind
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks,
In prison-cell or yard,
Is as that broken box that gave
Its treasure to the Lord,
And filled the unclean leper's house
With the scent of costliest nard.

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break
And peace of pardon win!
How else may man make straight his plan
And cleanse his soul from Sin?
How else but through a broken heart
May Lord Christ enter in?

And he of the swollen purple throat.
And the stark and staring eyes,
Waits for the holy hands that took
The Thief to Paradise;
And a broken and a contrite heart
The Lord will not despise.

The man in red who reads the Law
Gave him three weeks of life,
Three little weeks in which to heal
His soul of his soul's strife,
And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand,
The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood,
And only tears can heal:
And the crimson stain that was of Cain
Became Christ's snow-white seal.

VI

In Reading gaol by Reading town
There is a pit of shame,
And in it lies a wretched man
Eaten by teeth of flame,
In burning winding-sheet he lies,
And his grave has got no name.

And there, till Christ call forth the dead,
In silence let him lie:
No need to waste the foolish tear,
Or heave the windy sigh:
The man had killed the thing he loved,
And so he had to die.

And all men kill the thing they love,
By all let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

domingo, 12 de julio de 2009

DSK 60 (Cuarto del ciclo de paranoias)


Cuarta y última tira del ciclo de paranoias.
Mi marcador murió con la primera página, así que tuve que comprar uno nuevo para realizar la segunda.
Originalmente, tenía el lagarto hipotético planeado para un breve cómic con referencias a "La última vida en el universo" (Ruan rak noi nid mahasan, 2003, dirigida por Pen-Ek Ratanaruang), A Hypothetical Lizard (Moore) y al Kurotokage, pero decidí postergarlo pues soñé con esta otra secuencia. Preferí hacerla primero.

miércoles, 1 de julio de 2009

Vale por un DSK 59


Retomaré la semana que viene el ciclo de paranoias (toca el cuarto cómic).

Esta semana, descansé, pues el domingo quedé insolada gracias a los teatreros y la diversidad sexual. Así que les dejo el "filler" de la semana: un dibujito que hice hace un tiempo.

martes, 23 de junio de 2009

DSK 58 (Tercero del ciclo de paranoias)

A veces el paranoico, para defenderse, se vuelve un Gran Hermano monstruoso.

Disculpen por la numeración. Me enredé un poco con las viñetas. Por cierto, en el SdZ publiqué una versión para dummies para probar algo (y cagarla en el proceso), así que ahora trato de redimirme. Quité las aclaratorias; por suerte, pues si seguía viéndolas me iba a ruborizar con un tono enfermizo de bilis.
El trípode tipo la Guerra de los Mundos es cuadrúpedo pues me quedé pensando en pendejadas mientras lo dibujaba.
La canción "Vamos a contar mentiras" me da burda de miedo. No tanto por lo que dice sino por su relación con la música. De pana, si fuera a invocar a un diablo (si existieran) o asegurarme que la plaga negra barriera el mundo de nuevo, la cantaría. Pareciera que se hubieran inspirado para componerla en lo que murmuran los corros, que salen en las colinas, durante la noche de San Juan.

martes, 16 de junio de 2009

DSK´s 56 y 57 (Dos primeros del ciclo de paranoias)



Primeras dos tiras del ciclo de paranoias que estoy haciendo para Die Schrödingers Katze. La primera (la 56, la de ser observado) fue más general y consistía en una especie de enumeración (muy escueta). La segunda (la 57, la de los dientes y otras cosas) intenta articular entre sí varios miedos disímiles. Quizá provengan todos de una misma fuente. Ya veremos.
Aparte, no sé dibujar, así que me estoy esforzando para que, por lo menos, cada vez se parezca más a lo que imagino. Creo que, hasta ahora, la tira de Möbius, la de Thomas Mann y la 57 han sido las únicas que me han satisfecho medianamente --en ese sentido.
Espero que la 58 quede mejor. Necesito más tiempo libre.

DSK´s 54 y 55

domingo, 10 de mayo de 2009

DSKs 52 y 53


La cuarta viñeta del DSK 53 salió de algo que me pasó. Un día, al salir de la pasantía en el MAC, caminaba regreso a casa y la acera, junto a la avenida, estaba bastante sola. Entonces, a medio camino, cayó a mis pies un pajarito agonizante. Como era de esperar, apresuré el paso para llevármelo y ver si podía salvarlo pero, a un par de metros de ahí, me tropecé con un tipo masturbándose en público y balbuceando idioteces. Obviamente, huí un poco turbada, no sólo por la amenaza real de la situación sino, además, por lo inquietante que era el símil con el pajarito en mis manos. Llevé el ave a casa, la cuidé y amaneció muerta.
Detalle extra: por esa zona hay cuanta variedad de humano que la sociedad a desechado puedan imaginarse y, al mismo tiempo, "misteriosamente", pululan los Testigos de Jehová, evangélicos y otros alienados que predican en público todas las tardes... Con altavoces. Y música horrenda... Y karaoke... Así es la vida.

sábado, 2 de mayo de 2009

DSK 51 + garabato.

Ya voy a cumplir tres semanas sin conexión a Internet. Ni siquiera he podido revisar el blog de Zuplemento :(

Iba a mandar este garabatico pa´l SdZ de la semana antepasada pero mi falta de conexión me lo impidió. Amo esta novela, a la que me condujo Lost Girls de Moore y Gebbie. Aparte, estoy engripada, lo cual hace más grata la lectura y la flojera.

lunes, 6 de abril de 2009

DSK 48 y un "vale por un Schrödinger # 49"


Había hecho un cómic pa´l 49 pero no me gustó, así que, por ahora, deberán conformarse con un comodín.

miércoles, 25 de marzo de 2009

Expo: "La vida es un cómic"


¿Odian los comics de Noir? ¿Les parecen una aberración y una idiotez? Bueno, he aquí la oportunidad perfecta para demostrar su desprecio por su vida y obra. Aparte, podrán disfrutar la obra de artistas de verdad (que sí son buenos y cuyos "comics sí parecen comics") y luego ir al afterparty en El Patio.