—As you all know, dear protagonists, I spent last summer in Aude, southern France, in the heart of Languedoc between Cabardès and the Mediterranean coast; a land with a rich heritage, as evidenced by the famous fortified city of Carcassonne, the historic-artistic city of Narbonne, the castles of Cathar Country like Peyrepertuse and Quéribus, the abbeys of Fontfroide and Lagrasse or the Romanesque sculptures of Master Cabestany that adorn some religious buildings... The numerous friends and acquaintances I found there, the pleasant and carefree life, the numerous artistic, culinary, and scientific manifestations, everything kept me. I never felt so happy as when I gave myself entirely to my passion for wandering through the streets, stopping to see the exhibits, enjoying meals and observing people who came out to meet me, with the idea of making a horoscope or taking a walk in the Black Mountain or Regional Natural Park of Narbonne in the Mediterranean, contemplating its virgin and preserved landscapes, or practicing some water sports and resting on the fine sandy beaches of the six coastal towns of Aude... The ornate alleyway leading to the *** Gate is the meeting point for a crowd eager to enjoy life; the most elegant hostels are generally located here, and foreign representatives live there; it's reasonable to suppose that there was special animation and greater movement than in any other part of the city, giving the impression of being more populous than it actually was. The interest in living in that place makes many people settle for a small dwelling, smaller than they deserve, so that many families live in the same house, as if it were a beehive. I often strolled along this avenue when one day, suddenly, I noticed a spot that differed from the other than strange manner. Imagine a small cottage, with four windows, in the middle of two beautiful and tall buildings, whose first floor barely rose above the low walls of neighboring houses, and whose roof, in poor state of conservation, as well as the windows, covered in part with papers, and the walls, discolored, showed the total abandonment in which its owner had left it.
Suddenly, I noticed without looking that someone had placed themselves beside me and was staring at me fixedly. It was Marcial !! Old friend Marcial ! Hahahaha ! If the streets of Buenos Aires could talk ! Hahahahaha ! How are you, what do you do here? Yes, Marcial, my dear companion from youth, in many ways so similar to me, I found him later after more than ten years of wandering these lands.
He told me that he had settled here a long time ago without explaining the reasons for his departure (I wasn't going to ask), that he was doing well and I didn't doubt that he was also interested in the mysterious house. I was surprised when, upon communicating my strange impression of that deserted house in that so frequented part of the city, he smiled ironically, although he soon clarified everything.
It was his property, he was restoring it, and it wasn't deserted because he himself lived there and knew how to spend his best moments there. He emphasized strongly that from inside it wasn't what seemed outside, that everything was very lively, so... Come! I'm waiting for you tonight and we can remember old times and share our favorite topics , come, Pedro and José will also be here with their wives, do you remember? Like in the old days ! ... The wines here are excellent, I'm waiting.
Impressive ..... my eyes spoke gently and affably, what good fortune ! Thunderstorms shook the air on the night I went to Marcial's mansion , the old trees of the alley seemed abnormally large and twisted, and prodigiously thick and feverish the rest of the vegetation that adorned the buildings. I wish God had pushed me to let them share that visit with me, even if it wasn't some of you, so I wouldn't have had to bear the secret alone for so long, out of fear of being thought crazy or the world going mad at the demonic implications of such an event.
The dinner went on in the best way, old friends, dear and jolly memories of adventures and pranks we'd pulled off individually or collectively; jokes that weren't well-known but no less effective, as always spectacular were José's pantomimes and Pedro's eternal political disagreement... all accompanied by local cooking and better seasoned with their wines.
The storm announced in those thunderclaps was raging, and the gale was dragging black clouds and torrents of rain and hail when the wall clock struck eleven. Pedro and José, along with their wives, were discussing how to return with such a tempest. Marcial offered that they stay, spend the night in the upper rooms, and then leave after breakfast. They accepted with good humor.
Dear friend, said Marcial, I won't believe you've come defying the storm and gale with chivalrous heroism only to conform to a weak and insipid tea. So, let Mademoiselle Margarita prepare a good Nordic drink that will counteract the bad weather and our excuse for lingering by the warmth of the logs...
The Frenchwoman Margarita, who was Marcial's companion not only because of her language but also due to other qualities, appeared and did as requested. The mulled wine steamed, the fire crackled, and there we were, once again rearranging the world in our conversation.
Sometimes, when the laughter from remembering our loving adventures subsided a bit, we'd hear deep sighs coming from the upper rooms, followed by stifled laughter...
Marcial... do you hear that too? It sounds like the voice of an old woman, but... the tone is piercing, the cadences so varied and the gurgles so sharp, that I haven't even heard it from many singers I've known in Italy, France or Germany. It seemed as if she were singing with French words, which however I couldn't distinguish well, and I must admit that there came a moment when that crazy and ghostly song put my hair on end and then sighs and laughter ... _Jajajajaaaa ... ! Friend .... take, drink, enjoy and let others enjoy too, maybe someone will complain? Has anyone run out of the stairs into the harsh night? I think it's been a long time since you've concretized, jajajaaaa !! _Funny .... jah ... fill the cup ... You know ? You have your part of reason, human spirit is exposed to the most surprising requirements. It constantly fears itself. Its erotic movements terrify it. The saint, full of fear, turns away from the voluptuous: ignores the unity that exists between this person's unconfessable passions and hers. _Then Clement, the libertine monk from Justine by Marquis de Sade, when he confesses the unconfessable saying : “There is no more vivid sensation than pain; its impressions are certain, reliable, never deceiving like those of pleasure that women constantly feign and almost never experience” speaks to this, or not? _Oh Marcial and his fiery imagination ... ! I respond to you with Lacan when he wrote in Kant with Sade: “Physical experience demonstrates that pain is a cycle longer from every point of view than pleasure, since it is a stimulation that provokes it at the point where pleasure ends. No matter how prolonged it may be supposed, it has however its term: it is the disappearance of the subject. Take old green one .... jajajaaaa !! _Let's go friend to the pharmacy and surgery, the practices of autopsy, knowledge of tumors, ulcers and abscesses found in the body show the reverse of horror that beauty covers, why not the other way around ? The horror that hides inside is nothing but the exaltation of the beauty that shows itself ..... You said it when you made your saint speak ... _How would that be ? _I have known people who during their life inflicted pain and pleasure with equal enthusiasm .Who doesn't dream of satisfying each spasm of lust, feeding every depraved anxiety ? _Of course, taking the theme of pain .... _No, no .... precisely the certainty of pain, opposite to the uncertainty of pleasure, is realized in the body of the other and in one's own giving account of that same life .... A momentary silence overwhelmed me, leaving me thus perceiving strange voices that the gusts of the storm brought with their wailing whistles. Oh , already ...no doubt -said Marcial at last- that the storm, the fire of the chimney and the mulled wine contribute to awakening in our interior sinister fears but , following our conversation , also reminds us that those perverse stories, which we loved so much in our adolescence , would not resonate with such intensity in our soul if in our own interior there were strings that vibrated resonantly ; but perhaps verifying it yourself will help you , look ..... - You are mistaken, friend -I interrupted-. The strange whistles and cracklings of the chimney really make me shiver, and the song that the storm sings in such a plaintive way seems so sinister to me that I am now going to end the conversation ... _Wait, observe, please ...... he said for the last time while I was winning an unusual somnolencia and the flames opened up giving way to a Dante-esque scene ; it was strange the fixity with which I observed the chimney. The growing storm must have influenced me to fall asleep at that moment , since in the brief time I slept I suffered apocalyptic visions . There were José, Pedro, their wives and French Margarita .... Margarita lost herself in the alcohol of all kinds that slid down her throat, the pills were destroying her mind, she danced next to José's wife Ana with that hard and crude music. She saw in Pedro's glasses reflection as if in hell, his wife Isabel took out a knife and began cutting Ana's clothes. Her mind disappeared for a few moments, traveling to hidden sites in her mind, where Ana was naked, standing on a wooden cross, opened her arms slowly being nailed with iron nails. Her legs tied with barbed wire. Wearing black, Margarita dragging her face, increasingly pale, trying to live her life consumed by her desired pain, holding a drill. Margarita kissed her new friend slowly, feeling every centimeter of her skin in her fingers, Ana was eager to start playing and that's why she looked at her eyes I want you to destroy me, I want you to leave me beautiful scars she said. Slowly under the eyes of Isabel, José, and Pedro, Ana saw Margarita begin to pierce her thighs, she saw it with pleasure, her cut flesh slowly excited her, then Isabel took some candles, slowly breaking them on her friend's body. A fine crystal rain fell on her body You won't walk again after this visit she said. She reclined on her body and rubbed against each other between kisses and cutting crystals that pierced their bodies. Between the blood, Margarita was cutting Elena's navel, and in the enormous scar she caused, she introduced her hand, caressing her viscera...... Horrorized, I see Margarita's face turning towards me saying No, not my friend, just to stay alive (no, no my friend, it's just a matter of staying alive). Stay alive..... Then only were the strident, slippery shadows of viscous madness chasing me through interminable and bloody corridors of purple and flashing sky...... If heaven is merciful, some day it will erase from my consciousness the scene that I witnessed it and I'll be able to live my last years in peace. Now I can't sleep at night anymore, and I have to take narcotics when it thunders. Good... nights?
PD: This post is inspired by the masters of horror written, your perverse imagination and the happy but now unfortunate comment of
@feferto
en
http://www.poringa.net/posts/relatos/2875678/Tras-la-puerta.html
Suddenly, I noticed without looking that someone had placed themselves beside me and was staring at me fixedly. It was Marcial !! Old friend Marcial ! Hahahaha ! If the streets of Buenos Aires could talk ! Hahahahaha ! How are you, what do you do here? Yes, Marcial, my dear companion from youth, in many ways so similar to me, I found him later after more than ten years of wandering these lands.
He told me that he had settled here a long time ago without explaining the reasons for his departure (I wasn't going to ask), that he was doing well and I didn't doubt that he was also interested in the mysterious house. I was surprised when, upon communicating my strange impression of that deserted house in that so frequented part of the city, he smiled ironically, although he soon clarified everything.
It was his property, he was restoring it, and it wasn't deserted because he himself lived there and knew how to spend his best moments there. He emphasized strongly that from inside it wasn't what seemed outside, that everything was very lively, so... Come! I'm waiting for you tonight and we can remember old times and share our favorite topics , come, Pedro and José will also be here with their wives, do you remember? Like in the old days ! ... The wines here are excellent, I'm waiting.
Impressive ..... my eyes spoke gently and affably, what good fortune ! Thunderstorms shook the air on the night I went to Marcial's mansion , the old trees of the alley seemed abnormally large and twisted, and prodigiously thick and feverish the rest of the vegetation that adorned the buildings. I wish God had pushed me to let them share that visit with me, even if it wasn't some of you, so I wouldn't have had to bear the secret alone for so long, out of fear of being thought crazy or the world going mad at the demonic implications of such an event.
The dinner went on in the best way, old friends, dear and jolly memories of adventures and pranks we'd pulled off individually or collectively; jokes that weren't well-known but no less effective, as always spectacular were José's pantomimes and Pedro's eternal political disagreement... all accompanied by local cooking and better seasoned with their wines.
The storm announced in those thunderclaps was raging, and the gale was dragging black clouds and torrents of rain and hail when the wall clock struck eleven. Pedro and José, along with their wives, were discussing how to return with such a tempest. Marcial offered that they stay, spend the night in the upper rooms, and then leave after breakfast. They accepted with good humor.
Dear friend, said Marcial, I won't believe you've come defying the storm and gale with chivalrous heroism only to conform to a weak and insipid tea. So, let Mademoiselle Margarita prepare a good Nordic drink that will counteract the bad weather and our excuse for lingering by the warmth of the logs...
The Frenchwoman Margarita, who was Marcial's companion not only because of her language but also due to other qualities, appeared and did as requested. The mulled wine steamed, the fire crackled, and there we were, once again rearranging the world in our conversation.
Sometimes, when the laughter from remembering our loving adventures subsided a bit, we'd hear deep sighs coming from the upper rooms, followed by stifled laughter...
Marcial... do you hear that too? It sounds like the voice of an old woman, but... the tone is piercing, the cadences so varied and the gurgles so sharp, that I haven't even heard it from many singers I've known in Italy, France or Germany. It seemed as if she were singing with French words, which however I couldn't distinguish well, and I must admit that there came a moment when that crazy and ghostly song put my hair on end and then sighs and laughter ... _Jajajajaaaa ... ! Friend .... take, drink, enjoy and let others enjoy too, maybe someone will complain? Has anyone run out of the stairs into the harsh night? I think it's been a long time since you've concretized, jajajaaaa !! _Funny .... jah ... fill the cup ... You know ? You have your part of reason, human spirit is exposed to the most surprising requirements. It constantly fears itself. Its erotic movements terrify it. The saint, full of fear, turns away from the voluptuous: ignores the unity that exists between this person's unconfessable passions and hers. _Then Clement, the libertine monk from Justine by Marquis de Sade, when he confesses the unconfessable saying : “There is no more vivid sensation than pain; its impressions are certain, reliable, never deceiving like those of pleasure that women constantly feign and almost never experience” speaks to this, or not? _Oh Marcial and his fiery imagination ... ! I respond to you with Lacan when he wrote in Kant with Sade: “Physical experience demonstrates that pain is a cycle longer from every point of view than pleasure, since it is a stimulation that provokes it at the point where pleasure ends. No matter how prolonged it may be supposed, it has however its term: it is the disappearance of the subject. Take old green one .... jajajaaaa !! _Let's go friend to the pharmacy and surgery, the practices of autopsy, knowledge of tumors, ulcers and abscesses found in the body show the reverse of horror that beauty covers, why not the other way around ? The horror that hides inside is nothing but the exaltation of the beauty that shows itself ..... You said it when you made your saint speak ... _How would that be ? _I have known people who during their life inflicted pain and pleasure with equal enthusiasm .Who doesn't dream of satisfying each spasm of lust, feeding every depraved anxiety ? _Of course, taking the theme of pain .... _No, no .... precisely the certainty of pain, opposite to the uncertainty of pleasure, is realized in the body of the other and in one's own giving account of that same life .... A momentary silence overwhelmed me, leaving me thus perceiving strange voices that the gusts of the storm brought with their wailing whistles. Oh , already ...no doubt -said Marcial at last- that the storm, the fire of the chimney and the mulled wine contribute to awakening in our interior sinister fears but , following our conversation , also reminds us that those perverse stories, which we loved so much in our adolescence , would not resonate with such intensity in our soul if in our own interior there were strings that vibrated resonantly ; but perhaps verifying it yourself will help you , look ..... - You are mistaken, friend -I interrupted-. The strange whistles and cracklings of the chimney really make me shiver, and the song that the storm sings in such a plaintive way seems so sinister to me that I am now going to end the conversation ... _Wait, observe, please ...... he said for the last time while I was winning an unusual somnolencia and the flames opened up giving way to a Dante-esque scene ; it was strange the fixity with which I observed the chimney. The growing storm must have influenced me to fall asleep at that moment , since in the brief time I slept I suffered apocalyptic visions . There were José, Pedro, their wives and French Margarita .... Margarita lost herself in the alcohol of all kinds that slid down her throat, the pills were destroying her mind, she danced next to José's wife Ana with that hard and crude music. She saw in Pedro's glasses reflection as if in hell, his wife Isabel took out a knife and began cutting Ana's clothes. Her mind disappeared for a few moments, traveling to hidden sites in her mind, where Ana was naked, standing on a wooden cross, opened her arms slowly being nailed with iron nails. Her legs tied with barbed wire. Wearing black, Margarita dragging her face, increasingly pale, trying to live her life consumed by her desired pain, holding a drill. Margarita kissed her new friend slowly, feeling every centimeter of her skin in her fingers, Ana was eager to start playing and that's why she looked at her eyes I want you to destroy me, I want you to leave me beautiful scars she said. Slowly under the eyes of Isabel, José, and Pedro, Ana saw Margarita begin to pierce her thighs, she saw it with pleasure, her cut flesh slowly excited her, then Isabel took some candles, slowly breaking them on her friend's body. A fine crystal rain fell on her body You won't walk again after this visit she said. She reclined on her body and rubbed against each other between kisses and cutting crystals that pierced their bodies. Between the blood, Margarita was cutting Elena's navel, and in the enormous scar she caused, she introduced her hand, caressing her viscera...... Horrorized, I see Margarita's face turning towards me saying No, not my friend, just to stay alive (no, no my friend, it's just a matter of staying alive). Stay alive..... Then only were the strident, slippery shadows of viscous madness chasing me through interminable and bloody corridors of purple and flashing sky...... If heaven is merciful, some day it will erase from my consciousness the scene that I witnessed it and I'll be able to live my last years in peace. Now I can't sleep at night anymore, and I have to take narcotics when it thunders. Good... nights?
PD: This post is inspired by the masters of horror written, your perverse imagination and the happy but now unfortunate comment of
@feferto
en
http://www.poringa.net/posts/relatos/2875678/Tras-la-puerta.html
8 comentários - Rester vivant
Gracias gente pero ahora estoy medio mufa ...... un abrazo .
Gracias por compartir.
Angie te deja Besos y Lamiditas !!!
La mejor forma de agradecer la buena onda que se recibe es comentando, al menos al que te comenta. Yo comenté tu post, vos comentaste el mío?
Compartamos, comentemos, apoyemos, hagamos cada vez mejor esta maravillosa Comunidad !!!
no pretenderà que me disfrace de radiografía , no ?
Abrazooooo ......Jajajaaaaa !!
( Gracias capo ! )
Gracias , como siempre y ...... vendrà la tercera y ùltima parte , si llego .... jajajaaa !!
Un abrazo .
Te felicito, prometo releer con calma el texto y tratar de comprender algunos rincones que obscuros me parecieron.
Muchas gracias.