#lulowritesdown

[maga-magallanes]

Let’s Take a Minute...

...to appreciate what I was able to create when I was fifteen and... Surprisingly nowadays I cannot. 

[maga-magallanes]

Adira’s Wolf Moon Review - Esp.

Adira's Wolf Moon es una saga fantástica postmoderna escrita por Melina Lema (mel-mellow.tumblr) entre los años 2012 y 2015 (hasta donde sé). Tomó conceptos y referencias de un equipo de trabajo del cual yo formé parte en una época que se llamaba La Tríada, fundada en el 2011 bajo el nombre de Escritoras Jr. y con una disolución desconocida. Es decir, yo renuncié a mi puesto en la La Tríada luego de haber llegado al capítulo 4 de mi obra personal llamada Libro 19, una remasterización de la saga de Silver Warriors. Pero eso es tema para otro artículo.

Tuve la oportunidad única de apreciar desde cerca (y desde la experiencia propia) el trabajo EXHAUSTIVO al que una persona se expone al momento de decir "quiero escribir un libro". Es un universo caótico lleno de correcciones, detalles, cosmovisiones y debates argumentativos.

Esta obra comienza de lleno embarcándonos en la Alemania del 2010 con una licántropa gruñona llamada Adira, protagonista de nuestra historia y narradora en primera persona de los hechos. Tan sólo un par de renglones más abajo se nos presenta su literal antitesis inmediata: Gloomerly. Desde el primer momento esta historia hace un excelente y muy hábil guiño a la cultura general, creando una amistad bizarra entre los personajes más enemistados en la historia de la literatura fantástica. ¿Una mujer lobo y una vampira en busca de aventuras? ¡Es una premisa que no puede fallar!

La diversidad de personajes comenzó de manera tambaleante, apuntando hacia lo menos esperado respecto al típico arco argumentativo en una novela juvenil. Alexander y Marcus, con su aparición y protagonismo en los primeros capítulos le dan frescura y credibilidad al primer libro. Personalmente me gustó aquel recurso de romper con el típico grupo de adolescentes estereotipados. El alto, el bajo, el lindo, el feo, el gracioso, el oscuro. Para la época en la que esta obra fue escrita (2011) las novelas juveniles pasaban un mal momento al verse envueltas en tantos estereotipos vacíos para atraer a los adolescentes y hacerles gastar dinero en libros. De hecho, Los Simpsons supieron explicar muy bien el proceso anti creativo y marketinero de un libro estandarizado en el capitulo 492 de su Temporada 23, The Book Job. Muy recomendado.

Los perfiles de personalidad llevan muchos matices, profundidad de historias paralelas que de verdad juegan mucho con la verosimilitud de los personajes. ¿Habrá existido Lily en la vida real? ¿Christian habrá sido inspirado en alguien que la autora de hecho conoció?

Y aquí es cuando la trama comienza a tastabillar un poco respecto de su concepto raíz: Pasan los capítulos y se nos siguen introduciendo más y más personajes, uno más bello que el otro. El Quinto Problema con su banda de Rock, Los Leyendas, todo el reparto de La Universidad. De aquí, de allá, de un país, de otro... Y Adira de alguna manera queda eclipsada por estar rodeada de personalidades tan fuertes. Su carácter como protagonista no es precisamente "agradable" para el lector, pero la autora lo compensa muy bien con una sólida historia de origen que nos posiciona entrando a la Fase #3 en el camino de un héroe: La Rectificación. (Si quieren conocer las fases del Camino de un Héroe según la composición de La Tríada comenten y hago un artículo aparte). Adira es popularmente conocida por sus enemigos como La Chica de las Mil Vidas, doy puntos extra al argumento por el nombre épico de leyenda que me encanta. Ese apodo popular es debido a su capacidad de conservar sus recuerdos y conocimientos adquiridos a pesar de morir una y otra vez en trágicas guerras o conflictos.

La rectificación en la historia de Adira es justamente este giro en su forma de comportarse y en la construcción de su persona fuera de la máquina de guerra que ella misma se ha forzado a ser una vida tras otra. El conocer a Gloomerly, luego formar una manada -o familia- junto con el resto de los Toledo, tener amigos de verdad en la Universidad y el regreso de David (su único interés romántico relevante), etc.; Todos estos son acontecimientos aislados que fuerzan a esta ruda protagonista a exponerse, a humanizarse, a salir de su zona de comfort y sociabilizar, a acercarse de alguna manera a su condición de ser humano y justamente ESO es lo que nos arrastra capítulo tras capítulo para ver qué mas habrá. Qué tan inmersivo es este universo y qué tan lejos está dispuesta a llegar Adira alrededor de este mundo moderno en el cual ella no encaja. Junto con su humanidad llega el clímax de desentrañar la causa tan misteriosa y tan importante por la cual ella y muchas otras manadas licántropas luchan.

Respecto de la gran revelación de Azrethar: El asunto de los portales mágicos para explicar el pasaje de un mundo al otro me pareció una decisión un poco apresurada que dejó flojo un arco argumental en la historia que es clave. ¿De dónde vienen todos estos seres fantásticos?

Esto me lleva también a una fisura conceptual que como autora (y ex-consejera?) noté. La magia en el universo de Adira. En comparación con el resto de los grandes conceptos que venía trabajando la novela en sí, este asunto de "la magia por la magia" pudo haber sido trabajado desde una perspectiva un poco más Rowlingniana: Dale un método a la magia y ésta cobrará vida por sí sola. Los humanos adoramos la sensación de poder lograr todo si de alguna manera lo "automatizamos", lo... "metodizamos". Le da veracidad. El universo de Adira nos presenta herramientas de sobra para explotar de una manera inagotable este asunto de la magia y lamentablemente nos deja siempre con ganas de un poco más. Los poderes de Marcus, la Academia Lesthia, la relación de Samuel con los dragones, la mera existencia de Alexander... E incluso una vez dentro de Azrethar, cruzamos el portal y esperamos ver magia en cada esquina cuando en realidad se explota el argumento racial de las especies. Esto es un recurso colorido y muy útil sobre todo porque todos los universitarios provenían de aquí. Y sin embargo, ahí nos dejan con ganas de más.

Una vez en Azrethar se nos presentan los idiomas, los continentes, los pueblos, los reinos de una forma avasallante y -en mi opinión- poco orgánica. Cuando pasamos a Adira's Crescent Moon o Adira: Luna Menguante esperamos que se nos respondan aquellas preguntas tan magnéticamente atractivas que como lector uno hace. ¿Quiénes son los Vulcas? Si hay un reino de vampiros millonarios ignífugos y sexualmente activos debería haber en alguna parte del continente vampiros de agua, o vampiros de tierra. Y si hay un reino vampiro, ¿El reino de Tumma será el reino licántropo?

Por último, el universo de Adira y el sexo. Tal vez sea porque éramos muy jóvenes al momento de escribir sobre personajes tan adultos y en tramas que involucraban contextos que jamás vivimos hasta aquel entonces, pero la falta de sexo nos quita un poco la profundidad a los personajes. Uno de principales problemas (me incluyo muy fuerte) al escribir durante la pubertad es la falta de acercamiento hacia el sexo. Víctima de la época, en la novela los matices carecen de diversidad. Es decir, era 2011 y no había llegado aún esa revolución sexual cuasi feminista y sólo tenemos a Ryan y Darren como los únicos representantes de la comunidad LGBTQ. En pocas palabras, Azrethar es muy grande como para ser tan heterosexual. La falta de sexualidad en un mundo fantástico que es regido por la diversidad cultural es un error casi Tolkiano pero completamente admisible y real.

En conclusión, los disparadores son excepcionales y están todos muy bien trabajados. La clave para darle un cierre apropiado a la historia mediante una "generación siguiente" a la que se nos presenta es la creación de Thamer. Thamer es tal vez el único en todo el universo de Adira que podrá contar la historia como se nos está transmitiendo a nosotros y, como el mayor de una manada de pequeños hijos cuyos padres serán leyenda. Los gemelos de Melissa, luego Estigio, la exagerada pero válida camada de doce herederos del reino Vulca de Atsil... Todos ellos nos dan la esperanza de que la historia va a continuar junto con su crecimiento y expansión. Y honestamente, espero con ansias que así sea.

[maga-magallanes]

At last I had the opportunity to take my drawings to a digital platform with the help (indirect help) of Jetxe, who left his old drawing tablet in my house for years and we brought him back to life along with the help of Sophie, my sister. So, I used to be an excellent archery shooter during 2017 and I dropped out of that hobby for lack of money, but that's how I looked back then. I had made the uniform by hand with what little I had. And, in that year, I had red hair. Regarding the vague background execution, #sorrynotsorry but after this experience I realized that I am a better landscaper in the traditional way. Special thanks to CUDA.

[maga-magallanes]

I have been privileged and blessed to have you in my arms every day. Talking, playing, laughing, loving you. Having the opportunity to love you is such a valuable thing ... You are my great treasure, you have changed my life. Lifetime! When I see you, I see my whole life. You are part of my past, my present and my future. When I see you I can see the adults we will become, I know that I will love and respect you as I do now, with everything that makes you up. Every bit of your being is my complement, my path, my mission. My mission in this life is to preserve this love and make us live forever immortalized in these words. Because no one has ever loved a man as much as I love Gonzalo Jabkowski.

[maga-magallanes]

I have known this platform for years and it always seemed to me the most open and beautiful community in which any miserable person can publish their art. I feel comfortable, I feel part of something, in fact I SPEAK with people.

I had a previous account called LaStrageDiCupido that I decided to close only for the purpose of romanticizing my maturation on social networks. Yes, that happened. 

Besides, it would take me forever to remove trash until I could give my account a new face.

Please check.

[maga-magallanes]

The Godson’s Vote

Here I find myself treading the asphalt between life and death, death is the end. She looks at me and lies to me, she promises me that I will be able to find them, see them, disturb them, talk to them.

Will I ever be free? Free of my honorable lineage to which it corresponds, who with his maddening melodies accompanies you to persecute me.

We live in the dwelling place of death. She waits for me every day, the paintings in the living room observe me with a harassing mood. I am writing to you because you and I share more than you realize.

Two younger brothers walk the same timeless, infinite path. There is no time that separates me from his mistakes and his actions, his unspeakable efforts to conquer the life that finally succumbed to him. Its mirage makes me shudder. Tell me, will I end my days being like you? Is fate really that imminent?

Every day my body is used, my stomach is empty and it roars in disgust, my hands are tied with chains. Oh ... The chains, the humiliating survival that I am conditioned to exercise day after day.

You lived a life without happiness. Happiness that was taken from your hands ... as tied as mine. Papers that were signed, bricks that were stacked, the sun went down and a change forsaken us with a pale white night. A white night that covered this beautiful city with a blanket of plague and violence.

My heart has crossed the river, she saw in her dreams how you also went away from us. Tell me, are you happy beyond? Have you come to see the golden coast, splendid drawing on the horizon? Are the others there with you? Is that why we are all so alone here?

I am writing to you with a promise. Two younger brothers who walked the path crossed the river ... And together they saw the sun fall on the fresh water. When everything ends, we will all be together watching the sun fall on the fresh water.

Free hands clapping at sunset, wet sand under our feet, abundant food on our table, fire in the sky, fire of life and never of death. Never again death. That place exists, we were there at birth like them before our creation.

I am writing to inform you that soon we will all be there to see the sun go down.

[maga-magallanes]

The Slum Angel

With your eyes blindfolded and your shirt well pressed, you will fly to see you go up. Dance, my life, inhale that perfume of the holy slum. Hairs and fungi grow from his back. The nape of his neck has scabs that itch, but he laughs confidently every time one more grows. Why is there more and more?

   This is my city. It has hands and feet just like everyone, but it prefers to crawl, thus germinating that dirty smell. It's that greasy hand, that oozing heart of pain, the baby's tummy roaring with hunger, that three-legged dog. It germinates and grows. Oh my love, your walls used to not be that high.

[maga-magallanes]

The city center is upholstered with feathers. Their faces in the mirror look gray, flat. As abstract as flying silhouettes, they throw their own reflection on the pavement because they want more. On his knees on the great avenue, he will bleed rivers of tears when his hand touches the broken pieces. The feathers of the wings of the most beautiful angel will fly. Adapt. And she will cut off her wings to give them to you.

The Slum Angel

[maga-magallanes]

Fallacy & Circumstance

It is a heavy black fur coat the weight that each culprit carries on his shoulders. Why do I believe that a sinner is a strong person? Since that weight is placed on us, we must learn to carry our behavior with character and grace, concealing our darkest confidences, even of ourselves. Right or wrong, that is not a simple task. It takes a lot of vigor to carry a disembodied man hanging from our backs. To this day I am revived to know that, at an approximate value, almost nobody is free of crime. Regardless of age, regardless of ethnicity, upbringing or unconsciousness. That's right, guilt does not forgive.

  I look to my left, I see it interspersed with the leaves of the garden. The closer it is, the less I am able to see it, but I perceive it. She enters through the only door from which she knows she will never be thrown out. We all allow guilt to reach our hearts through nostalgia, don't we?

  It captivates me with its reminiscences, those so intoxicating aromas, those novice kisses, that sweetness. She is standing behind my back, I can feel that breath running down my neck, while she whispers the damned words, worthy to finish conjuring those who do not want to be revived because, she is the owner of the life of both, not only mine . Its name evokes our past. Yes, I remember. The fault lies with a consort named Death and that is what he was.

 I dare to endorse the neutral identity that he had then and I reproach myself. Oh, immortal guilt, I myself gradually corrupted such light and confidence with my fictions. I whip that weight off my back, repeating how fresh and fresh my character is. Well no, girl, you had a brain yesterday as you do now, just like a heart. The only thing that seduced me to the lies was the dantesque and overwhelming of the day to day. The first time you wanted to show someone how special I was, but what was there to show? Bushy eyebrows, ripped jeans, video games, and books. How is everything at home? My father tried to commit suicide, my grandfather is dying, my mother is a violent and alcoholic chimera. I have no room, no computer. I just like to draw. I use my older sister's clothes, which of course is much more beautiful than me. There was only emptiness before you appeared in my life, you make it beautiful and complete.

  Words I should have said and didn't say. Fallacies, fallacies, fallacies. Four years were useless trying to regain a confidence that had died giving birth. In vain then purgatory! Those years behind his shadow, like him, would never return.

  What kind of lesson is one that ends without free absolution? Guilt. She stretches out her heavy hand without haste, does not point me to the path where I came from but the path to where I am going. Give me that relief, walk next to me dragging that heavy black fur coat. Therefore, prisoner and police, only we ourselves decide when our interlude ends and we have purged our sins. Blame, join me and take me on a good path. That is a rain of needles that we invoke ourselves, from which our torment is released when the lesson is complete.

  Like a grim reaper she will accompany you, she is silent and gentle but she will torment you. I will look out of the corner of my eye only to find those darkness, that calamity will conquer me little by little with its devilish, playful verses. She only seeks to make me think, even if in that stretch our hearts finish breaking. It bleeds, oozes, suffers ... but it beats.

[maga-magallanes]

From the dark tree two monarchs are born, capable of ruling over the minds of all men. They sit behind our ears and with their songs spawn their bacilli in us, so deliciously low, so captivating, so virulent. Overabundant with power, they can still only alter reason. And, like a cancer, there is no plague because we do not infect anyone. Only one of the three fruits is capable of reaching the heart. The living room stands up to welcome the firstborn. The plague, the blackness, the bitterness. The blame.

The Deaf-Mute Twins Part III

[maga-magallanes]

The Deaf-Mute Twins Part II

  Apathy and envy are two deaf-mute twins, of uncompromising temperament. Exasperating not having anyone to blow up with, since it's not anyone's fault. We are not even able to blame ourselves, because it would not be true. How dangerous it is to be born empty and to be a container that never ends up filling. This is what so many years of misunderstanding feel like. A sad queen of a kingdom without people.

  A throne built with the blood of two icy skinned twins, my entourage of headless papers, the funeral pathos that envelops my crown with an aura of poor redundancy. Diamonds and jewels pearly of contradiction, that's how it feels to be young. By choosing my journey before the journey chose me, I became an executioner. I cut off the heads of my sisters, before waiting to see how time took care of that. I decided to dirty my hands in the name of an ignoble cause

[maga-magallanes]

The Deaf-Mute Twins

  Damage has never before been purged. From my person, from my hands and from my mouth, there was never such relief. It is fickle, light. The pain of others can sometimes be like a feather, at least as I see it from my consciousness. And as far as empathy is concerned, no, I'm not a woman who practices it. That brings me to our middle daughter. It is neither the greatest nor the least, it is apathy.

   Perhaps haughtiness is born from apathy. That involuntary arrogance can become a very cold and lonely throne, where we unintentionally position ourselves there. Years go by and nobody surprises us, nobody lives up to us. Who could be our first vestige of empathy, feeling identified with someone different from ourselves. Who could have gone through what we went through.

[maga-magallanes]

The Bartholomew’s Giant Part IV

   I was grateful that the nightmare hadn't continued. My strength was shattered and my heart still did not want to believe the injury I had suffered. I looked for a way to cover such a desecration with a veil and justify that lack with the sad excuse of the love that I felt. I dressed. I hugged him. How pathetic. - I want to be your girlfriend, I want us to be together. - I already have a girlfriend, this cannot be known. But in the future, I promise that we will be together.

   How much lie, how much dirt. The low shutters of his dining room let in a fine halo of white light, which illuminated our interlocking hands. He got up from the couch, sat down at his computer desk, and started playing, ignoring me. As if he hadn't told me anything relevant, as if he hadn't done anything remarkable.

   What the hell had just happened? They used me, they insulted me, and although it seems incredible, what I suffered the most was having been abandoned just a few minutes later. What was I to do so freely now that the damage was done? I left his apartment, guarded by the graffiti on Bartholomew Miter Street, who seemed to look at me with pity. I got to the train tracks, and despite coming home that day, a part of me still hasn't come back.

[maga-magallanes]

The Bartholomew’s Giant Part III

   I had infinite love and affection for him. I wasn't stupid, so I knew very well what was about to happen. "This is about to happen," I thought. "How lucky I am that it is him." As children no one notices the difference, only games and mischief are of interest. Little did I know that this step towards attraction and desire would be so abrupt, since puberty had done great things with us.

   He was precocious and adorable, he had a couple of pimples on his face but a beautiful smile, the most beautiful I had ever seen. I loved his gaze, his tousled jet hair, I loved his stupid jokes, I loved his honest heart that loved me just the way I was. I wasn't sure what would happen to me that afternoon on Bartolomé Miter Street, but I knew I was aware. Unfortunately.

Without kisses, without words, with absolutely nothing more than a glance. So improper, so unrecognizable. Immediately I knew that this would not be the shadow of what I imagined.

  He pulled out my 30 Seconds to Mars T-shirt and tossed it to the right of the couch. I also remember that despite the heat I had worn a black basic shirt underneath, because my bodice was white and I didn't want it to show. I don't remember where that shirt ended up.

  It is difficult for me to remember exactly what I said, but imagine the comment of a frightened girl trying to handle the situation with a nice natural nervousness, mixed with fear. Suddenly, now the only garment that kept my torso from being completely naked was my bodice, I covered myself with my hands.

  In many ways I said "no" and that we had come this far with this episode. What else do I remember? I was hunched over, terrified to death, covering my breasts. I feel his hands undo my white bodice. The only ultimatum I can think of is: - Leave me right now! Or I swear I'm leaving this house. - without having the keys, of course.

  Like screaming underwater, my words were nothing more than a mumbling in her ears. He pushed me to see me fully exposed, I felt tiny and vulnerable. He touched them, bit them, mistreated them. I was left like an old rag, lying on the couch face down, almost in a fetal position.

[maga-magallanes]

The Bartholomew’s Giant Part II

   My path begins to stray from this point and this is where I get the reasons I needed to corrupt myself. In this story, it is summer, I used to be fourteen years old ... and I will never have them again. On Bartholomew Miter St., a few blocks from the train tracks, lived the first friend he had ever made. Everyone believed he was ugly, but since our eight years old I had been… well, obsessed with him.

   At such a premature age a person does not usually understand what is happening or why things just happen. But he and I had grown up together, and seven years of friendship were behind us. Memories full of mischief, travel, talk, even fighting. When we graduated we went different ways but that did not prevent us from continuing with what we had started, it was two years in a row without living in the same institution.

   I arrived at his house that afternoon, Bartholomew Miter Street's graffiti saw me enter, the air changed. He and I greeted each other with a hug and the first third of the afternoon was spent playing Marvel vs. Capcom. It was hot, the plants in his yard dancing with the filthy hot smog that the city gave off. Given the least expected moment, he sat on top of me and watched me squarely. I shouldn't have worn the 30 Seconds to Mars T-shirt trimmed with scissors that day.

[maga-magallanes]

The Bartholomew’s Giant

   Let's talk about rancor. That word for me symbolizes many things, it takes many forms ... As a metaphor, rancor itself is only the root of a dark and gigantic tree. Its main fruits, in my opinion, are nothing more than three. Like the past, the present and the future; like yesterday, today and tomorrow.

   We have the first, one of the most experienced by people to date, the mistrust. An infamous and illegitimate daughter between rancor and the effect that other people can have on us. We speak specifically of pain here, of course. I remember the first time in my heart I felt distrust, his name was ... Wait a minute, I won't say it.

   At a very young age I had already tried the zigzags that loyalty makes in a young friendship ... Immaturity and blindness when we are children always play a key factor in the cruelty that one has as a person. We can mature ... How can we not?

   In this story, it is summer, I am fourteen years old and I am a tender and innocent precocious girl.

Since I was eleven or maybe much earlier, I have represented that peculiar creature that instead of drawing princesses, drew spaceships; In my last year of elementary school, I tore off the uniform sleeves and did not even wear the graduate jacket to pose for the school picture.

   That confident and resplendent personality nurtured such security, so much self-esteem, so much determination and maturity ... I always knew who I was in this life and I continue to feed that force in myself. An impossible being to influence, unprecedented. That was my base on which I would build my identity. In this story, it is summer, I think I was fourteen years old and I am a girl.