Writing

The Vaults Screenplay

An oval mirror. About the size of the upper body. I did not notice it the first time. It reflected the black greyish mass of the fading alcove down the stairs. The atmosphere of this place was damp and cold. The arched walls and bare domes stood unnoticed, the visitor must acknowledge them if they are to be at all.
The textures of the architectural construct resemble a carcass, there is something unsettling about inhabiting a space such as this, but it did not occur to me at the time.

Recently I dreamt of it, and returned with a vague sense of premonition. I remembered the golden cradle that was the room above,
a small church, but an opulent one, every corner illustrated, every surface crafted.

DARK

The vaults, deformed and remote possessed the abyssal character which could never be reproduced by conscious effort. Mystery, as any other form of natural phenomena, would grow effortless in the appropriate neglected scenery. With an attentive eye, the remnants of the crypt could be traced. The coffins were long gone along with the purpose of the room, but the memory remained in the filled in chambers.

As my eyes adjusted to the dusk like (or dusky) lighting I could see soft spots fading, the last remnants of light in my retina. Then:

Avalé dans le noir

A bizarre pointillism spread through and I could distinguish salients in the dark. I settled in and thought of the Dolorosa that stood in the upper floor. I pictured her in the void. (CLICK)
What cruel artefact would insinuate the promise of salvation from inherent misery?

(CLIP 9)
Her deceit was now laid raw. Her features, no longer bejewelled appeared vulnerable to decay.

Incognita del ser eterno.
Her animation lays in the eye of the beholder. That eye that projects a phantasmagoria of its own anguish unto the hollow sockets of a creature of simulacra.
The faithful adopt an idea of presence without questioning its vessel. (That is faith, to believe without seeking any logical understanding.)

The lips are precise, the eyes full of sorrow. A sorrow for circumstantial tragedy. Familiar and wanting.

As voluminous as oneself the sculptural body stands before you in a broken stasis. The mourning is then eternal, the heartache timeless.

I turn around, I can no longer be discerned on the surface of the oval mirror, I am fused with the black.

(The turning necks reveal eyes and mouths, dismembered in the lack of her.)(?)

A bare neck. In soft penumbra, the contrast is so muted it seems to be veiled by a mass of water. It is petrified in its gesture.

Nature Morte.
(VERY SLOW TRANSITION)
The features are concealed, but if they were to be discovered; the eyes, the mouth, the jaw, all would fade in the lack of her. There would be nothing to be recognized, the unity would be dismembered in abstracted flesh.

Her essence is performed.
These faces feed the grand omen.
“Omen. An absolute.”
I picture now baroque lit up chandeliers.
An enigmatic character.
A plot.
The word atonement.
The concept of sin.

And a confession, maybe in a letter. Crime performed out of love.

CLIP WITH THE HANDS
The sculptures are living in staged enclosure.
Compact specters, memorials to a lost effigy.

A cryptic gesture, understood as composure, could suggest delicacy, but its purpose might be different. Assuming there is a purpose. The enquiry generates in itself a parallel with the potential of a mystical circumstance: for the unknown to be known.

“You are not what you seem.” (He says, I don´t know what he means by that.)

Her downcast gaze repeats itself endlessly, every performer mirroring the previous, predicting the following.
The reincarnation proceeds at the hands of profane creatures. The effort for illusion is cyclical and permanent.
The phantom breathes the breath of the inanimate.

Des yeux ouverts pour toujours.

Death And The Maiden Screenplay

You never knew her. And so you wouldn´t know of course, of her brightness of character and inbuilt melancholia. She seemed doomed from birth. My adoration was no coup de foudre. That is to say it was not love at first sight, but rather a love which arose from a prolonged sighting; victim of an eye willing to look until exhaustion. This was my eye, as I saw her for the first time.

The oval of her face appeared as a vision, as strange and unexpected as the moon on a moonless night, a rarity, something out of a fevered dream. She seemed so ageless, that her timeline could not be traced or even questioned, she was both childish and millenary. A woman of myth you might ask, no, a woman of flesh, tender and bloody, engrossed in her material existence.

Her jaw was a veil of unutterable monologues on the nature of life, her wisdom lay concealed in absolute silence, and so she kept all those feelings in her heart.
What a blissful memory that of her pupil on my pupil, her hand, months later, on my hand. I thought I might unleash some hidden passion palpitating within her, unreachable as it may be. It never came, only her broken spirits stood before me after much effort. And I saw then a sadness I had never known before, a frustration so grand it lay monumental, crushing her breath and flooding her thinking.

Our meetings happened mostly by chance, easing the solitude natural to both of us. She would be found in a crowd, close to a churchyard, roaming through the market square. Even in absence her memory would come forth. I always intended to produce some gentle release, a sigh of contentment. These attentions were so alien to her I could not perform the care I wished to give her. I was the face of impotence (helplessness). She on the other hand was a beacon of hope, not to herself but rather to me. Back then I knew of the ephemeral nature of this intimate agreement, but I never expected its painful closure.

She had an aversion for the ecclesiastical. Some kind of quiet repellence. I never enquired much about it for fear of her discomfort. I was fascinated by the gruesome tales of martyrdom. The performance of atonement, the adoration of the pilgrims for these vacuous magical objects. As to the moral side of it, I would never engage. I had no interest in it. I cast my gaze back to an evening in my chambers, long gone now, when she confessed to me that she wished to die.

(I don´t know what she envisioned in that moment, but she said she believed she was immortal. I also in her expression perplexed worry, I began then to suspect her being victim to madness (or that she was mad) I smoked in silence. She said she wanted to escape her fate. I answered that there was no such thing as fate.)

After this I suggested she stay in my spare bedroom for a few nights. She accepted. We would bid each other goodnight with warm affections, and parted ways in our path to oneiric realms. This was our custom until she came to me at the latest hours of the night. Her candlelit figure awaited my response from the threshold. She asked if she could come in. Dazed and intrigued I sat down and pulled my bed cover to the side. Her curls came down dropping around her waist, chestnut locks cascading over the white attire. Her appearance was, in intimacy, supernatural. She approached me quietly, I saw her bare feet.
She knelt down and from above the dusk only offered me a muted and vague portrait, as if I was spying on some pious damsel about to engage into prayer.
I stretched my hand and felt her cheek on my palm, burning as if it was flushed, she closed her eyes and arched her fingers around my knuckles.

I don´t know how long we stayed in this posture, but eventually she got up. Spectral insomniac, she irradiated heat, and I was imbued with a corpselike temperature. She lifted her nightgown uncovering her sex, in bleakness it stood a domed triangle. I opened up the bed and left an empty space for her to lie down. I embraced her incandescent body, it was as if she had been embalmed or covered in morning dew. Her thighs, invisible in the nocturnal sphere we inhabited, reddened under my touch. (It reminded me if the first step I would take as a child in the immaculate snow.) I put my weight on her. Immobile aside from her gentle spasms she submitted to my touch. I I put my mouth over her breast (j´ai avalé ses seins) and felt it hardening under my tongue. I felt an almost cannibalistic urge. Her flesh nurtured me so. I put my hand over her pelvis and she broke her silence with a prolonged moan.

Ce que j´ai ecouté dans la nuit était plus similair au soupir d´une victime asphixié qu´un son lascive. J´ai resenti un sorte d´évanouissement suppurer dans mes pensées. Le desir pour un phantom si virginal, la corruption de la peau. Ce lieu profound, caché des yeux attentifs, son abime.

What I heard in the night was more similar to the sigh of a victim of suffocation than a lascivious sound. I felt a kind of fainting fester through my thoughts. The desire for a virginal phantom, the corruption of flesh. That profound place, hidden from attentive eyes, her abyss.

Plus je songe, plus je plonge.

The more I dream, the more I sink.

Mes doigts on rencontré l´objet plus effrayant, un hymen intact. L´impossibilité de cet evenement m´a rendue muette. Cette chair tender renversais du sang. La rougeur de cette rancontre s´est étendue dessinant sur son ventre une fleure deforme. Une anomalie étrange, un cauchemar.
Était il possible que ma dame, qui avait accouché un enfant, qui avait vecu en deuil, soit une vierge? Elle pleurais. Mes sentiments on tourné vers l´obscurité qui nos entourais.

My fingers encountered the most horrifying object, an intact hymen. The impossibility of this event rendered me mute. The tender flesh poured blood. The redness of this encounter expanded over her belly drawing a deform flower. A strange anomaly, a nightmare.
Was it possible that my lady, who gave birth to a child, and lived in mourning, was a virgin? She cried. My sentiments turned toward the obscurity which surrounded us.

From then on we made no mention of this event. Her image stayed with me and would reappear in the evenings always hazed,

Penumbra dolorosa.
Presenting her open mouth in a rapture of extasy and pain. Hysteria seized us both, I understand that now.
Her suicidal reverie grew inti a solid conviction. The beyond approached her as the rising tide and she obliged with her big melancholy eyes.
She made her proposal at the beginning of the spring. Since then I lived in fear of loss and madness. I was to take her life: a mere executioner. We planned her murder thorougly, in those days she began to wear a mauve dress which imitated violets and obscure skies. I could lose myself observing it, a landscape of doom, a token of remorse. A relic of my own. What is it to adore someone? To be devoted? To harvest desire? To enact posesion?
I will never discern the unique details of these sentiments for they formed my personal orage. The amalgam that procured my will to assist her into the grave. (Poem)
We went to the countryside on her last day. I remember how for once she seemed bewildered at the insects, the scents and the sunlight’s caress on her bare chest. Her awe was of the most genuine kind, fr she knew she would soon be relieved of the chaos of existence and become a substance to feed to all those creatures. She stood in a field of poppies and sat on the grass, her gown surrounding her, an imperfect sphere. She was a rare individual my Mary, her frown exquisite, her voice a distant vapor.
That evening I stabbed her to death. She died in my arms, I picture now the exact moment when I realised I was alone in the room. Her body stiff and heavy as iron, she sunk within me. The trauma of the crime was not as unbearable as I thought, nor the gruesome sight of her yellow tinted corpse. She appeared before me a sleeping venus. An uncanny phosphorous nymphea. Her visage became an impression which could have been carved or painted rather than witnessed. It is as if the lack of anima had created a fictional figure. A life sized alabaster object. I cradled her into a trunk and there she began to rot placed within it like an aged fetos. She had been a miracle to me.

Was she just a figment of my imagination? Or a creature who only exists in a realm that is not of the present or the past but rather something completely different? A place that requires a leap of faith since it can never be understood or demonstrated by human logic. She disguised herself as my equal seeking someone who would be willing to condemn herself to a life of misery only to release her. There is a certain kind of selflessness with its core at the matter of sacrifice which demanded fragility and equal strength of mind. And so nothing will prove the truth of what happened because her existence only depended on the naïve and trusting nature of my intentions.

She is to become yours as you become hers.

Cherish the faith of the faithless for it is originated by a genuine wish to believe, rather than expectations or prejudice. Dogma only enslaved the illuminated. What I have left now is just a drive fuelled by chronic remembrance, and I know now I only want to live for the wish of recollection. Once I can picture again her blind eyes envisioning heaven, and the pulse on her wrists, the texture of her smiling face. Once I can recall this in its entirety and relive it like a dream, I will renounce actuality in favour of my fondest memories and depart to the unknown with no fear for what lies beyond.

L’au-delà (The Beyond) Screenplay

Dear Julia:
I know you think me foolish and impressionable but I have grown very stern. My studies concern a substance you will not acknowledge. It is your right.
I am only writing to ask wether you had a chance to read Buchanans papers, I am referring of course to the parcel I sent you a few weeks ago. Did you receive it? Did you acknowledge its contents?
I have been involved with a new social circle, we share our pensiveness on the beyond, there is only one more woman aside from myself. She rarely speaks. She is much older. I am curious about the nature of her intentions, her countenance is of an ambiguous kind. But never mind that. I will be at the manor in three days. Picture my apartment a nocturnal orb for it has become a place of shade, I draw my curtains, I live in permanent dusk.

Dear Julia:
Your indignation is so dramatic it rather amuses than offends. I am flattered you gave it a read. I met a sceptic gentleman recently who shares your disgust for what is socially considered The Occult. However he found Buchanan reasonable for his scientific effort.
You call him an idiotic dreamer.
You are funny.

Dear Julia:
My migraines have gotten worse.
I live in an ever expanding haze, confined in this room. With its green walls it seems like the depths of a pond, nympheas floating languidly on the ceiling. I am a watery creature, a tadpole if you will.
My appearance must be bizarre, alas no one is here to confirm it.
I hear voices in my sleep, soft spoken. They don’t seem to speak to me, but rather engaged in foreign conversations. One of them sang, I could not discern the words. These immaterial character fill in the void of my silence, drifting in and out of consciousness. I am often eager to utter something, yet I do not dare interrupt them. I am too polite.
How tender is this murmur, might it be my fever? Do not dare suggest I am going insane, these visits are too pleasant. Mesmeric even, lullabylike.
I hear my piano now, it is faint enough to be a thing of the imagination yet I wish to believe.
Some phantom has been taken with my home. Or do I perceive a parallel dimension, or do I dream, am I awake, am I here at all?
Or have I sunk between my pillows?
This letter is the only proof.

Dear Julia:
When I was ill your attentions were of the most sweet kind. Yet now that I am well and write to you about my spiritual beliefs and my political concerns you punish me with your silence. I guess a convalescent woman will always be adored, yet an ardent one is repudiated. Stunning. A dying lady, gorgeous like a sight of the ocean. If I am too cruel, tell me so. If you don’t say anything I will believe you agree with my statement.
I visited Edwards grave today, brought him sunflowers. Snatched from the earth, their colour still lively enough to raise a smile, yet ephemeral like Edward was, like we all are.
Slow peril, that is our lifespan. We will become forgetful, blind, hysterical. We will become things of wonder. And after that: lucid dreams, dancing spirits, lovely ghosts. Phosphorus, sinuous like a sea salted breeze. We will be ethereal my dear. And I long to know that ethereal nature before I become it. And I wish to witness unknown occurences. And I wish for a society were the estranged people unite against the empire. I send you all my love, I will not be rude.

Telegram from Marion:
Father is ill. Not to worry. Doctor is here. Do not come to Scotland. No need. Love. Marion.

Telegram from Theodor:
Imminent return. Dinner party Thursday. The Brasserie. Bring research. Discussion will follow.

Dear Julia:
I am concerned about my father’s health, however Marion said it was not so bad as for me to travel. How fragile and feminine I become once in a while.
What an obscure evening and what an obscure occupation. I will not tell you what I am doing, you would disapprove. Have you heard of the body snatchers in London?
Awful business, but fascinating nonetheless.
I must leave you now, my candle is almost out.

Argollas, óxido de polemn.
Ambar ennegrecido.
Heridas en la hiedra.
Ojo volante, diente immense.
Vigilante verso,
Marino tuerto.

Anonymous telegram:
Brand new specimen. Unknown origin. Taciturn drowsy eyes. Gray. Question mark.

Anonymous telegram:
The enigma of Atlantis.
You interested. Question mark.

Anonymous telegram:
The body snatchers. Awful business.
Fascinating nonetheless.

Dear Julia:
Have you ever noticed the blush on the cheeks of the faithful?
That it is well located, narrow and almost crimson. Like the petal of a red dahlia. Their flesh seems more beastly and then again anyone imagines it untouched. Yet it shows, it shows the embodied climate.

I speak of it as if you did not possess this feature, and yet now I picture you in my minds eye, and there you are tainted by your believers blush.

Dear Julia:
After the séance I might depart to the seaside. After all nothing is keeping me here. I have heard of a French town by the sea; on a cliffside overlooking the beach an eccentric astronomer has built a neogothic castle. He is an advocate for the abolition of slavery and is extremely spiritual. I imagine in such a landscape I might witness some kind of marian apparition. The holy Mary floating above the water, like a mermaid of the gretian tales of old.
Her eyes two pearl like ovals.
Her anatomy a vapor.
Her fingers expanding in brilliance. Imagine! The Virgin Mary.
My reverie overwhelms you I’m sure. Just be happy we share the faith in this sacred woman. You fancy her a saint, I envision a Martyr.
God is merciless Julia. Remember this. Since my Jan has been gone I see it ever so clearly.
Yet men are the real tyrants. That is men, not women.

Dear Julia:
Yesterday I dreamt of a blue moon.
In my dream I stepped outside of my home into the fog of London, expecting as it was scheduled in my lunar calendar: a moonless night. And yet that holy dark was pierced by a blind eye floating vacantly in the sky.
It was as if I was gazing at a perfectly round pebble at the bottom of a stream. Bathed in the substance of fiction, tinted by mouldish flora.
It seemed to belong to the abyssal rather than the earthly.
It seemed vigilant, as if it were watching me.

Dear Julia:
I do not agree with you at all.
And what an awful thing to say.
I am sure you would not say it out loud.
But I will not argue with you. We spent two years arguing and look how that went.
I might end up in purgatory but you will have to cheat the gatekeeper to ascend where you long to rest. It is only pleasantry, do not take me seriously. You are almost angelic, but not quite.
I enjoyed that epoch of my youth. I longed to be somebodies muse, however the reality of it shocked me. It was somewhat perverse. I will not go into detail.
Cremation is transcendental enough, yes. But mine will be an open casket. The dearly departed must have a visual place of their own. Inspire tender feelings and petrify their acquaintances.
I hope rural isolations suits you, I hope you play melancholy minuets, read gothic fiction in secrecy. Take care fo your garden. Between the cherries and the rosebuds there are bodies you know. Look for the hand rising from the ground. It summons you and your purity of thought.

Dear Julia:
We have just arrived at the manor. The trip was bewildering. Everyone dressed in black garments, sharing fleeting gazes, mute as if we were made of marble.
The carriage could have well been a sarcophagus in movement. The itinerary was veiled by the dense darkness of the night, once in a while a ray of moonlight would illuminate the passengers: and they were above all taciturn, no other word could describe it.
Between eve and sleep I thought of us as skelettons dressed in flesh. A memento mori maybe. It was brief.

VIGILIA.

What peculiar companions and what a poetic calling. We were imbued by the tide of the evening. Inhabitants of the frozen deep.
Awaiting.
Just like the modern Prometheus awaited his maker in the artic mountains.
But we drift, we enter the cycle.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me these events have already happened.

L’aude lá.

Myosotis, ne m’oublie pas,
L’etrange azure de l’aude lá.
Tendres pensées,
Remorse grêlant.
Les paupieres exquises
Petrifies mid clignotement.
Un crane de douceur
Chantant ses memoires:
Ne m’oublie pas,
L’etrange azure de l’aude lá.

Dear Julia:
I may not recount for you all the events of this night. Nothing concerning the séance that is.
But I dare write to you on the matter of the atmosphere in the room.
Even though there was a fire burning, the scent and temperature were not dissimilar to those of the outdoors when the landscape is dormant beneath the snow.
I was overcome by a hypersensitive state with no precedent.
The last remnants of light in my retina, a perfect daguerreotype of the flames I was staring at before. The portrait of a tempest.
As I felt this freezing cold settling over me, I felt embalmed, like a mummy or a corpse prepared for its very own autopsy.
The overall attitude was solemn.
The medium looked at every visitor as if she were rather envisioning a double behind each of us.
We kept our eyes on the table.
Then she said:
Be weary of the realm we are about to contact. Its inhabitants will appear familiar to you, but they remain strangers.
Let us commence.

THE END.