THE HOWLING is about a man in his seventies who is dictating a letter for his son -both in different prisons- since the latest one killed his own mother in the presence of his father. Atonement, madness and the lack of communication are presented as the main pillars of this lament.
A cell.
A young man. He only writes, listens, sees. He is numb.
A man in his seventies. He dictates, speaks, reads, dreams, remembers and thinks.
HE DICTATES: It is brighter in this wing…
a brief pause
HE SPEAKS: No. The right spelling is b-r-i-g-h-t-e-r...
a brief pause
HE SPEAKS: That’s right ... It’s brighter in this wing... Wait. Cross “brighter” out... Cross it out... We’re going to change that word for “luminosity”...
This is it. It’ll sound better. Don’t look at me like that, boy. This new word will add a different aspect to my writing. I know what I mean. Let’s have a look at it.
HE READS: ...I do not recognize my own hands. I have forgotten the sun again. I have stopped painting clouds on the ceiling in case the sun might appear up there sometime.
I don’t know which my fault is. I know that I repeat the same things in every letter I write to you. I must insist. I don’t want the false testimonies to kill me. I’d like to remind you this: when I woke up, I found her by my side. She was naked and breathless. I want you to remember how you closed her eyes, and leave her there as a broken doll.
HE REMEMBERS: The following week, a weak man with a cartoon voice told some lies on my behalf, while a fat shabby man shouted the truth on my behalf with a lout voice.
HE DREAMS: A young angel-faced lady carried me here in a carriage drawn by two blondish winged horses. To arrive in time, the forest opened in two halves as the sea did in front of Moses. My friend the astronaut was telling me from the moon that the carriage seemed a very thin torch in a dark closet. The angel-faced lady promised me that God would welcome me at the end of the journey. But I was just welcomed by a tiny bat instead.
HE REMEMBERS: Sounds of keys. Sounds of shoes. Metallic sounds crashing against metallic rounds. Sounds of cold water over my back. Sounds of my body crashing against the tiles. Sounds of plates crashing against the floor. Sounds of people saying no. Sounds of people saying yes. But the sound of yes was worse than the sound of no. Sounds of her asking me why I didn’t do anything, why I fell asleep. Sounds or laments to finish in a long, neverending howling. This howling is still holding my neck, day after day, as her...
HE READS:. ... You should know that I can remember all of this in a very blurry way. Son, you closed her eyes and I felt cold...
HE REMEMBERS: You whispered in my ear: thanks, dad, I owe you a favour. And I stared at your angel-like face and you answered: some days I’m to the limit, dad. Some days my hands don’t obey me. Some days I behave like this. I don’t mind if he can be my father or she can be my mother; if that one is a human or a beast. My hands are my master. The howling orders them to act, not me.
HE SPEAKS: And here comes the darkness...
HE THINKS: ... the burning darkness.
HE READS: ... But, you know what? There is more luminosity in this wing...
HE REMEMBERS: When I pointed at you in front of everyone, the man who was lying on my behalf was breathless. He grasped my arm violently and told me: don’t you realize, you idiot? You fucked it up!
HE SPEAKS: Boy, did you know that the resentment of a child can prosecute you as the worst plague? I know you don’t care about this. You’re here to write this letter and get the money.
HE READS: ... When I pointed at you, son, you looked at me for the last time...
HE THINKS: That look is as worse as the last look of a mother to her son, a son who left her breathless, naked and as a broken doll in his father’s arms.
a brief pause
HE DICTATES: ... Now everyone calls me Abraham. I don’t know why. But I don’t mind. Names are useless here. Numbers seem to be more efficient. Most of the questions start by how much…? My fingers tremble. I wish they didn’t shake. I wish I could write to you. I am told that my hands will be healed or at least relieved ... And you, do you feel more relieved? I am not at all.
HE THINKS: I am told that the howling will disappear from my neck little by little, but it will be replaced by her voice. Her voice will stop my heart one day. When this happens, the howlings that you will hear in your neck will be hers and mine.
HE SPEAKS: Thank you so much, boy. You should improve your spelling, ok? But don’t worry. We have time enough to do that. I’ll help you.
A siren. Voices. Metallic sounds against metallic sounds. And howlings.
A young man. He only writes, listens, sees. He is numb.
A man in his seventies. He dictates, speaks, reads, dreams, remembers and thinks.
HE DICTATES: It is brighter in this wing…
a brief pause
HE SPEAKS: No. The right spelling is b-r-i-g-h-t-e-r...
a brief pause
HE SPEAKS: That’s right ... It’s brighter in this wing... Wait. Cross “brighter” out... Cross it out... We’re going to change that word for “luminosity”...
This is it. It’ll sound better. Don’t look at me like that, boy. This new word will add a different aspect to my writing. I know what I mean. Let’s have a look at it.
HE READS: ...I do not recognize my own hands. I have forgotten the sun again. I have stopped painting clouds on the ceiling in case the sun might appear up there sometime.
I don’t know which my fault is. I know that I repeat the same things in every letter I write to you. I must insist. I don’t want the false testimonies to kill me. I’d like to remind you this: when I woke up, I found her by my side. She was naked and breathless. I want you to remember how you closed her eyes, and leave her there as a broken doll.
HE REMEMBERS: The following week, a weak man with a cartoon voice told some lies on my behalf, while a fat shabby man shouted the truth on my behalf with a lout voice.
HE DREAMS: A young angel-faced lady carried me here in a carriage drawn by two blondish winged horses. To arrive in time, the forest opened in two halves as the sea did in front of Moses. My friend the astronaut was telling me from the moon that the carriage seemed a very thin torch in a dark closet. The angel-faced lady promised me that God would welcome me at the end of the journey. But I was just welcomed by a tiny bat instead.
HE REMEMBERS: Sounds of keys. Sounds of shoes. Metallic sounds crashing against metallic rounds. Sounds of cold water over my back. Sounds of my body crashing against the tiles. Sounds of plates crashing against the floor. Sounds of people saying no. Sounds of people saying yes. But the sound of yes was worse than the sound of no. Sounds of her asking me why I didn’t do anything, why I fell asleep. Sounds or laments to finish in a long, neverending howling. This howling is still holding my neck, day after day, as her...
HE READS:. ... You should know that I can remember all of this in a very blurry way. Son, you closed her eyes and I felt cold...
HE REMEMBERS: You whispered in my ear: thanks, dad, I owe you a favour. And I stared at your angel-like face and you answered: some days I’m to the limit, dad. Some days my hands don’t obey me. Some days I behave like this. I don’t mind if he can be my father or she can be my mother; if that one is a human or a beast. My hands are my master. The howling orders them to act, not me.
HE SPEAKS: And here comes the darkness...
HE THINKS: ... the burning darkness.
HE READS: ... But, you know what? There is more luminosity in this wing...
HE REMEMBERS: When I pointed at you in front of everyone, the man who was lying on my behalf was breathless. He grasped my arm violently and told me: don’t you realize, you idiot? You fucked it up!
HE SPEAKS: Boy, did you know that the resentment of a child can prosecute you as the worst plague? I know you don’t care about this. You’re here to write this letter and get the money.
HE READS: ... When I pointed at you, son, you looked at me for the last time...
HE THINKS: That look is as worse as the last look of a mother to her son, a son who left her breathless, naked and as a broken doll in his father’s arms.
a brief pause
HE DICTATES: ... Now everyone calls me Abraham. I don’t know why. But I don’t mind. Names are useless here. Numbers seem to be more efficient. Most of the questions start by how much…? My fingers tremble. I wish they didn’t shake. I wish I could write to you. I am told that my hands will be healed or at least relieved ... And you, do you feel more relieved? I am not at all.
HE THINKS: I am told that the howling will disappear from my neck little by little, but it will be replaced by her voice. Her voice will stop my heart one day. When this happens, the howlings that you will hear in your neck will be hers and mine.
HE SPEAKS: Thank you so much, boy. You should improve your spelling, ok? But don’t worry. We have time enough to do that. I’ll help you.
A siren. Voices. Metallic sounds against metallic sounds. And howlings.
