Darkness that pours from the wounds
enclosing like a mud, sticking to the skin
embracing like an ominous lover
the madness deep inside
that cannot be removed by ghosts of the past
that inhabit the manor of the soul
The black door, always on my mind
when I try to fight the demons
grinning widely, forcing themselves into life
that seemed lost, yet keeps breathing
the angels on the horizon
how to reach them when the murk binds so much?
I am tenebrous maiden that breathes the eternal night
Eclipse my name
Well, from where I should even start? From when Vampire Chronicles shaped me and my book taste? From where the Interview with the Vampire shook me and left me speechless and made me a fan of the creatures that drink blood at night, hunting for dark-hearted victims?
I guess it happened during my first year at high school when I read mostly Batman comics and delved in DC and Marvel universes, eating it with a huge dose of black metal music. I picked the Interview with the Vampire randomly – and I was already lost. I started listening to gothic music, as my mind was in there, where Siouxsie and the Banshees fit well. I started imagining I am a vampire, which made me met a special kind of people, but that’s story for another blog entry.
I deeply feel Anne Rice and her characters, even if I know the author kind of treat her fanbase like it was her enemy, forbidding fanfiction and suing its writers. I think that copyrights became too important lately, when the most important is sharing and imagining.
But truly, Lestat, Louis, Armand and Marius – old beings, only the same shape making them human-like, angels with battered wings, the beautiful of face and dreadful of the soul – who love art, music and life, of all. The elegant and gentle predators, filled with red blood they drink every night, their eyes glistening like gems, their skin like made of glass, their history vast and spacious, the un-living yet craving for every single breath…
That’s why I love Anne Rice. Her vampires are different. Her vampires are her vampires, simply. And even if I am not a fan of all books from the series, I love that universe, vampire laws, Theatre des Vampires, their mythology and children of the millennia.
Here, I created still growing Anne Rice website – THE COVEN
It’s my tribute to most inspiring author that entered my reader’s life. Maybe not pefect, because nothing is perfect – but close to what in my own secret garden of mind I tend to make feel like perfection, translating every flaw into my own language.
But there is a rotten egg I must to throw. Don’t read Blood Canticle. It’s bad. It made me furiously go all over my room and even over my ceiling (aka Floor Jensen). Reading it was one of those hard times when someone you admire, suddenly makes a cruel and public joke on you.
when the stellar torments bloom under the blackened moon
the hell awaits in all its glory
the bruised hands lift the cup of twilight
and the pain turns into bliss
the angels came to bring the rapture
with eyes bloodied and bodies twisted
the agony is the wine we drink
and the gods bow before morbid malady we bring
*drawing by me, my own messenger of hell.
Sometimes it’s good to be alone. But the Rider doesn’t like loneliness, even if it seems that it is the other way around. The Rider looks at his grey homestead, the clock frozen in time, the faded flowers in front of the house, and he wonders. He very carefully pours the grains of his sand through his fingers. And he sees the void, even if the sand is still there, still and motionless as stone.
Emptiness is never good. He sees the void where the heart should be and tries to replace it with a substitute. A substitute for feelings, a substitute for imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, and then the Rider feels a bit of joy. He can enjoy, oh yes. Sometimes he thinks that it is a true human joy. Then, however, it comes to the sad conclusion that it is completely the opposite.
When he rides his horse, white as snow, the stars dance for him in the sky. They dance and dance until they are tired, they will not sleep in their heavenly beds, until the Rider reaches his next man and does not let his sand fall to the end. But all the time he thinks about his sand, which does not pour over a millimetre. It makes him sad. It pleases him. He does not know how to pick up this strange feeling in his skull that makes him regret some people and regret himself.
His work is not popular among mankind. Everyone would never meet him, but most of them feel relieved when he stands next to them and doesn’t explain absolutely anything. They can go where their lives have always led them, and the Rider is the gate to what people call the afterlife. It is also frightening, especially when you believe in burning pots. But finally they see and hear clearly, and for these few moments of absolute weightlessness, it is worth sacrificing the temporal shell. Which about they don’t care anymore.
Cats. Cats are good. Sometimes, he catches myself imitating love for them. In the rhythm of the non-ticking clock, cats, living cats, murmur him a lullaby to non-sleep. These cats, so soft, so unbearable, so…perfect in their conceited way of being…sometimes the Rider has the impression that they give him a piece of the life they emanate. And he sees more and more distinct grains of his sand.
Sometimes, different individuals are passing through his domain. He wants well for them. He knows what they did in their lives, do now and will do in the future. But this knowledge seems empty to him, the same emptiness that surrounds him from all sides. He doesn’t want emptiness, only life. He wants life. He wants it so much.
He scratches the cat behind his ears, the cat purrs. A horse snorts in a black-and-white stable, white snowball in a colourless field of still life. The Rider sighs.
As her face turns at the moon
the pale skin covered with moss and blood
her love for him reached through the forests
to exhale into the sky, leaving black muddy drops
The root, the bone and the stone
her mind lost and her heart too
The feathery owl soaring into the night
her voice ringing hollow in the void
The flowers tangled into the owl shape
the mandala of life, the veil of oaken branches
deri, banadyl, erwein
She was lost before anyone knew
loneliness her name
Threads of starlight in my hair,
midnight on my left shoulder,
dusk on the right.
Under the moon and in eternal night’s embrace.
Welcome to the night court