Dream The Crow Black Dream
An Oneiropelago Story
For Hannah
--
1978
I am woken again by the filth water filling my nostrils. White mud, black ash, cover my uniform.
Choking, I shake myself awake with a burst of energy, yet swiftly lethargy takes me again. Ebon and ivory female hands coax me back into the dirt.
I lie in the mire, my fatigues heavy, my ceremonial sword rusted. My gun is so deep, it's strap on my shoulder has cut a groove into my skin.
My eyes are thick with dirt and sleep, they hurt with a pain I am unused to. But every day I turn to watch you.
Your voice is just as I remember. Flawless, beautiful, a tinge of amusement. I look up to see you, but you are gone. I see the last wisps of misty blonde hair, the final scent of your perfume, but you vanish.
When we are together, I cannot see you.
When I see you, I am alone.
And when I am alone, the sadness wells up.
Sadness becomes despair.
Despair becomes hatred.
Hatred becomes trauma.
And the trauma burns me.
Waves of pain flood me from my knuckles to my clenched teeth, and I roar. I roar amongst the fires of my loneliness.
I writhe, and the waters take me again. I burn, I drown, I fall into the darkness. It takes me hours to claw back to the surface, my lungs bursting from the pressure.
And I lay in my silt bed, and it all begins again.
Every night.
Every night I burn.
Every night I call your name.
Every night I burn.
Every night I fall again.
--
1980
"He's just lying there. Every night."
"It is Despair. He is lost in it. Lost in the mire."
"Is that his wife?"
"Not real. His despair. She is gone. He is here."
"He needs to leave. We need to rescue him."
"Ha! You're still a stupid Green. Ain't that right Rap--"
"She is right."
"WHA-"
"Creativity trumps stagnation. He needs to continue living outside this dream."
"But how? We don't exist?"
"No. But we can inspire."
"Yes. And you were always good with inspiring the dead. Rebirth and all that."
"Crows. Yes! Crows... Now everyone think corporeal thoughts..."
--
1981
...My eyes are thick with dirt and sleep, they hurt with a pain I am unused to. But every day I turn to watch you.
But there is another.
She, they. A crow? All shadows and fire.
A crow? Or a woman? Or three?
I see a small clown. A rabble in rags.
And a tall woman in all black, masked. Parasol. Shrouded in shadows and fire.
"Don't look. Don't look," the shadows breathe.
Whispering, she pulls my attention away from your voice. In my mire bed I stare.
Her ivory figures play with my hair.
"Don't wake at night, to watch her sleep
You know that you will always lose."
I bite my lip. She is right. Every time.
But I lov--
Her finger touches my lip.
"Don't talk of love," the shadow lady purrs, murmurs.
"Don't talk of worlds that never were. For the end is all that's ever true."
She is right. There's no end here. Always the same.
Fingers, feathers wrap around my hand and lift. Strength. Burning, painful strength. I want to look at you, but can't. I won't.
My jacket and straps tear, rotten, and sink.
My skin, muscles, burn. In the air, in her flames.
I burn.
I scream your name.
I burn.
Every night, the dream's the same.
I burn.
Waiting for you.
My only friend.
I burn.
Waiting for the world to end.
I am reborn in the fire of my pain.
The swamp burns, colourful flames in the black and white stagnation.
I love you, but you are gone.
I need a new face...
"Just paint your face" the shadows smile.
Yes. White, cold like here without you.
Black, the scars I bear. My eyes and lips.
I am new, yet exhausted. I have work to do.
The water clears around my firey silhouette friend. Filth burned away.
"Slide back down, and close your eyes.
Sleep a while. You must be tired."
I spread my wings, my arms, and fall into the clear, deep water.
I open my lungs.
Scream the animal scream
I close my eyes.
Dream the crow black dream...
--
"Is he gone?"
"Yes."
"Are... Are we gone?"
"Spent. Yes. All used up."
"Good."
"Sleep. Rebirth will happen. It always does."
"Eventually."
"Raphaella?"
"Yes?"
"Will your crow be happy?”
"Oh, I didn't make *him* into a crow. Now sleep..."
--
1981, Berlin
James looks at his work, fingers stained with ink.
Black on white. Darkness amidst infinity.
A comic. A revenge fantasy.
A woman is killed. A love is broken.
A man is returned. To kill the killers.
He is no longer a man.
He is The Crow.
--
Author’s Notes
James O'Barr, born in 1960, trained as a US Marine in 1978, following the death of his girlfriend Beverley, caused by a drunk driver.
An Oneiropelago Story
For Hannah
--
1978
I am woken again by the filth water filling my nostrils. White mud, black ash, cover my uniform.
Choking, I shake myself awake with a burst of energy, yet swiftly lethargy takes me again. Ebon and ivory female hands coax me back into the dirt.
I lie in the mire, my fatigues heavy, my ceremonial sword rusted. My gun is so deep, it's strap on my shoulder has cut a groove into my skin.
My eyes are thick with dirt and sleep, they hurt with a pain I am unused to. But every day I turn to watch you.
Your voice is just as I remember. Flawless, beautiful, a tinge of amusement. I look up to see you, but you are gone. I see the last wisps of misty blonde hair, the final scent of your perfume, but you vanish.
When we are together, I cannot see you.
When I see you, I am alone.
And when I am alone, the sadness wells up.
Sadness becomes despair.
Despair becomes hatred.
Hatred becomes trauma.
And the trauma burns me.
Waves of pain flood me from my knuckles to my clenched teeth, and I roar. I roar amongst the fires of my loneliness.
I writhe, and the waters take me again. I burn, I drown, I fall into the darkness. It takes me hours to claw back to the surface, my lungs bursting from the pressure.
And I lay in my silt bed, and it all begins again.
Every night.
Every night I burn.
Every night I call your name.
Every night I burn.
Every night I fall again.
--
1980
"He's just lying there. Every night."
"It is Despair. He is lost in it. Lost in the mire."
"Is that his wife?"
"Not real. His despair. She is gone. He is here."
"He needs to leave. We need to rescue him."
"Ha! You're still a stupid Green. Ain't that right Rap--"
"She is right."
"WHA-"
"Creativity trumps stagnation. He needs to continue living outside this dream."
"But how? We don't exist?"
"No. But we can inspire."
"Yes. And you were always good with inspiring the dead. Rebirth and all that."
"Crows. Yes! Crows... Now everyone think corporeal thoughts..."
--
1981
...My eyes are thick with dirt and sleep, they hurt with a pain I am unused to. But every day I turn to watch you.
But there is another.
She, they. A crow? All shadows and fire.
A crow? Or a woman? Or three?
I see a small clown. A rabble in rags.
And a tall woman in all black, masked. Parasol. Shrouded in shadows and fire.
"Don't look. Don't look," the shadows breathe.
Whispering, she pulls my attention away from your voice. In my mire bed I stare.
Her ivory figures play with my hair.
"Don't wake at night, to watch her sleep
You know that you will always lose."
I bite my lip. She is right. Every time.
But I lov--
Her finger touches my lip.
"Don't talk of love," the shadow lady purrs, murmurs.
"Don't talk of worlds that never were. For the end is all that's ever true."
She is right. There's no end here. Always the same.
Fingers, feathers wrap around my hand and lift. Strength. Burning, painful strength. I want to look at you, but can't. I won't.
My jacket and straps tear, rotten, and sink.
My skin, muscles, burn. In the air, in her flames.
I burn.
I scream your name.
I burn.
Every night, the dream's the same.
I burn.
Waiting for you.
My only friend.
I burn.
Waiting for the world to end.
I am reborn in the fire of my pain.
The swamp burns, colourful flames in the black and white stagnation.
I love you, but you are gone.
I need a new face...
"Just paint your face" the shadows smile.
Yes. White, cold like here without you.
Black, the scars I bear. My eyes and lips.
I am new, yet exhausted. I have work to do.
The water clears around my firey silhouette friend. Filth burned away.
"Slide back down, and close your eyes.
Sleep a while. You must be tired."
I spread my wings, my arms, and fall into the clear, deep water.
I open my lungs.
Scream the animal scream
I close my eyes.
Dream the crow black dream...
--
"Is he gone?"
"Yes."
"Are... Are we gone?"
"Spent. Yes. All used up."
"Good."
"Sleep. Rebirth will happen. It always does."
"Eventually."
"Raphaella?"
"Yes?"
"Will your crow be happy?”
"Oh, I didn't make *him* into a crow. Now sleep..."
--
1981, Berlin
James looks at his work, fingers stained with ink.
Black on white. Darkness amidst infinity.
A comic. A revenge fantasy.
A woman is killed. A love is broken.
A man is returned. To kill the killers.
He is no longer a man.
He is The Crow.
--
Author’s Notes
James O'Barr, born in 1960, trained as a US Marine in 1978, following the death of his girlfriend Beverley, caused by a drunk driver.
In 1981 he started work on a cathartic violent comic where a dead lover avenges his wife's violent death.
The Crow was a huge success, despite the work only filling him with more anger.
The 1994 film adaptation featured a soundtrack by Goth bands chosen by O'Barr. "Burn", written and performed by the Cure, features lyrics inspired by the protagonist's rebirth, lured away from quiet death by a crow, who leads him into a burning but righteous path of redemption.
No comments:
Post a Comment