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Indio Gris
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2002 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 102 YEAR II EDITORIAL INTERVIEW
WITH THE POET MIGUEL OSCAR MENASSA Carmen
Salamanca: I have been reading "I, the sinner", which we will
publish in The 2001 Nights in the month of May, and my attention was drawn by
the fact that the preface, which is the first poem, begins with the phrase we
mentioned in the last interview of the Surrealist Manifesto: " To set off
on the roads / where the hearts which know of love nest…" Miguel
Oscar Menassa: There the guy is very surrealistic, but later in other books
he says: "Set off to the roads, imbeciles, never protect your own
bread". Let's say that Menassa was capable of abandoning surrealism. In the
71 Manifesto, which you had been reading the other day, they are still
surrealist. But of course, the problem is that that has never been explained
appropriately, because it's necessary to set off to the roads if I don't feel
any pleasure where I am, but if I feel pleasure where I am, it is a bad advice
to set off to the roads unless that setting off to the roads implies to make new
roads where people could set off, if not it has no sense. One thing is to think
man is that dissatisfaction, that scantiness, already dead since he is born, but
man also finds his satisfactions. When man finds some satisfaction, I don't say
that he must stop there, that he must die there, but yes, that he takes pleasure
in it. CS:
Of course, it is not a questions that we all become nomads, it must be referred
to some other kind of road. MOM:
I think that Breton in that moment described what you have just finished
reading. CS:
In the sense of uprooting? MOM:
In the sense of escaping from the centre. But for sure, escaping from a centre,
another centre is generated. The fact that it isn't on the margins doesn't mean
that it isn't central, because if it is in the margins and it isn't central, it
is once more the logic positivism, but for the theory of value, for the historic
time of the theory of value and for the unconscious time, it isn't necessary for
it to be in the centre to be central, therefore not all that exists in the
margins is marginal. CS:
"We carry with us the leper. The one who isn't infected with it / blinds
his being in front of the scandal of the flesh". Does it refer to
psychoanalysis maybe with that question of the leper? To poetry? MOM:
To the flesh. It says: "We carry with us our flesh, the one who isn't
infected with flesh, catches a disease of the flesh". It is a whole theory
about psychosomatic diseases, without meaning it, but as 27 years have gone by
since the publication of that book…Did you see how the theory about
psychosomatic diseases is? We carry with us the leper, that is to say, we carry
with us our bodies. The one who doesn't catch a disease of the flesh, he blinds
his being in front of the scandal of the flesh. The one who doesn't vaccinate
himself (in this way you may understand it), gets infected with smallpox. And
what do you receive in the smallpox vaccine? An attenuated virus of smallpox, to
put it someway. If you don't vaccinate against the flesh, the flesh is stronger
than you. Don't look at me in that way, the flesh is the specie. And you should
know it. Why does the specie win over man? Because the specie is never ill. It
isn't that the specie doesn't get ill, it produces disastrous consequences, but
it doesn't matter to it, it isn't saddened for it, it doesn't stop producing
children because retarded, Mongoloid, drugaddicts, sons-of- bitches, murderers
start to be born. It doesn't stop producing children where children execute
elderly people. It doesn't even stop discarding the old things. That is why if
one gets stuck to the specie, one dies relatively young, because once one
produced children, one already fulfilled the obligation, it's over, if that man
or woman doesn't produce a psychic individual, it's over, to the garbage bin. It
is a great advancement that we owe to medicine, not only to psychoanalysis or to
the cinema, that woman older than 40 years can become pregnant. I remember when
I studied medicine (not so long ago, the last century), an aged primapara was a
thirty years old woman. What does that mean? A woman who got pregnant for the
first time at thirty, was primapara, because it was the first time that she got
pregnant, but aged because it was considered that at thirty it was not
convenient for a woman to have children. Instead nowadays that age has been
increased up to 40 or 50 years old. That is to say, that they have obtained that
woman can serve longer to the specie, therefore the specie takes more care of
the woman for a longer time. You are laughing. CS:
That captures my attention, if she is fertile for a longer time so the specie
will take more care of her. You have some very revolutionary theories for
everyday life. What is the flesh? MOM:
The flesh, the real human flesh are phrases. How would flesh weigh if they are
phrases? Goethe says: "He who possesses Science and Art / also possesses
Religion; he who does not possess nor one nor the other, / posses
Religion!". The first saying is well, while there is Science and Art, let
Religion be, the matter changed into "Well, let Religion be!" In
such solitude, Darling, I
tell you that we have lost everything, that nothing is left from those The
example has to be brutal. Unforgettable
encounters at the margins of peace, We
were open, open and without food and nobody loved us enough. I
hope to go back to my youth years, where money and love were the I
am like a commercial employee, but with the intelligence of not having
The
client I was waiting for, Ernest, the boxer, as their pals called him,
was doing fine with me. His life clearly didn't turn better yet, but his
relation with me filled him with illusions and he had abandoned his desires to
commit suicide several years ago. He had to finish his medicine career and now
he exercises his career with the support of a sort of psychotherapy, he tries to
be a writer and between his children, his wives, his lovers and some urgencies
in his work, it seems he would turn mad at moments. When the bell rang, he
caught me in these reflections. I opened, I greeted him kindly and I was greeted
kindly by Ernest, who, however, brought a grimace in his face. He dropped
himself quickly on the couch and started saying: -
Today, finally, I'm desperate. Things cannot be fixed just like that.
Everything seems spectacular, illusory, a lie. I will never end having family
problems. This will take long. I think I should face the matter in some other
way. I don't really know how to stop those questions where I always have to take
care of somebody. That is to say, I ask myself doctor, am I not taking care in
them of my own neurotic childhood? There
was a silence and I intervened briefly to say to him that it wasn't wrong, that
if some situations were repeated so much in his life, he might think that those
things were his things. -
I'm very nervous but my children are very angry. I understand that I
cannot solve any of the situations I'm immersed in. Everything is spontaneously
risky for my talent and, on top, I carry very little money, almost nothing. I
feel that my life has taken me through places that I wouldn't think of
traversing. Man darkened by pain by his transit to the true route of
derision. Without
anything to say, fed up of everybody using me, I don't know what to do. I have a
man with a question in the middle of my chest. This
week I had encounters of all sorts and it is a stage in my life in which I can't
stand no one's behaviour. Nor from my children, nor from my women, nor from my
students. Something has been transmitted badly. On the edge of this abyss I only
happen to exercise on the experiences the
knowledge acquired for having survived to the first personal experiences. Desperate
and blind swarms, groaning turns, arid and saddened gallop. Tenuous silent
madness. Don't you see, doctor, that the road of my soul always goes straight to
emptiness? And
I, to demonstrate that I had been listening to him, asked him: -
What emptiness, your
mother or God?
The
only thing she recalled of our meetings was my smell. No
pleasure, no word was left in her memory, only the smell of my body. She
told it to me in the following way: -
Strange mixture of nature and human flesh. A drop of sweat and the
rest, expansion of the soul, that is the smell I recall from you. I
gave my verdict: -
For the time being, total madness. And
she, before going on smelling my body, told me: -
There is something
greater in the most mediocre thing for whom knows how to take it.
1 A
lot of ambition and little capacity for work is bad and makes people ill,
though a lot of capacity and little gratification, not only sickens
people, it is also stupid. 2 Overcoming
the drama of solitude, a man can be as great as he wants to be. To
open the field of death, that shall be what is necessary, when in the end
dying is what happens to all of us. It must be a big business, I say to
myself, to open something that has to do with death. Buried,
unburied and hidden parsimoniously to our own nothingness of being,
wrapped in the laughingstock, stopping running to bump suddenly into the
life of myself though it may belong to another, in another. Being,
I say to myself, being, a little food and some poetry and we will all be
better prepared for the next century. INDIO GRIS THIS IS ADVERTISING
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