|
Weekly
magazine through Internet
Indio Gris
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2003 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 138 YEAR III EDITORIAL YEAR
2003, JANUARY 1st When
the characteristic of the problem are drawn to life, everything gets
complicated. In
wanting to write, to write something there which would allow me to know that
another year has gone by, even for the things and the people we love, with
surprise I found that my computer wouldn't let me write, if I couldn't be able
to give it my identity. I
looked with desperation in my memories and I didn't find the least sign which
would indicate me the road to my own identity. Initially I doubted of my
computer. "Isn't she stupid! I said in a loud voice, to ask me for what
doesn't exist". I repeated the operation and nothing, she, with a voice at
the same time remote and metallic, repeated in various languages, "Your
identity" and I think that one of the times she even asked for it saying
please. At this point I came to think, intrigued, "Why could it be a favour
for the computer if I have or find an identity? And then I started to consider
it human, not any identity, it has to be the correct identity, an identity
possessing 25 digits. And I had no other choice but to understand everything. To
be able to write in this computer I have to have 25 fingers, something like
telling me that something was missing in me or, to put it in a better way,
something was more than enough in me: the way of thinking of the year that had
gone by, that piece of soul which still belongs to the past and I can't
surrender. Or me, perhaps it was me who was a surplus to be able to achieve
certain questions. I surprised myself by saying; I have to get away from me. To
be able, now, to surrender myself to the mechanism that took the whole humanity
a century and a half to put into motion. And then man writes, sings, makes love
or war according to the countries, but him, when all of this occurs,
isn't there, he had to be left aside in order to love, to write, la la
lara, la la… Doing
well the things that must be done in each case and paying for what must be paid
for to make the mechanism work, no one would have any identity. The identity
would be the road which either the woman or the man have decided to produce as
their own life. I
am almost dead A
sort of
DARLING, When I see you blue, lively, hoisting your own words, I
see myself writing my smile on the water. I promise it to you, when the loud noises of love
sound, I'll be by your side. This time I'll make the survivors and the dead
accompany me, especially those dead persons which died, in Aragon's poems, of a
clamorous violent death: the executed because of an equivocation, the executed
witches, the dead absolutely transformed. An open ash, a great companion death.
-Look,
doctor, I'm almost dead, my body aches all over, as if everything had died, when
everything is blooming more than ever, but what happens, doctor, is that she
doesn't love me, she loves her mother, loves all her mother's mutilations, her
ignorance. Everything is going well for me, like I had thought when I was young,
but she doesn't love me, so I can't enjoy what I have obtained. When
you sink in the humble sarcophaguses of rage, nothing will hold us together any
longer. Lark of death, I'll be able to flee. You'll see, I'll leave in some
verse not to come back. I leave you so that you can tranquilly die of sorrow and
of foolish things, arguing with your mother about the real colour of vegetables
with the passion of one who is about to conquer the world. -
We'll continue the next time.
You
invented my body piece by piece. First the tits, little adolescent tits ready to
discover the universe. Afterwards, two discreet buttocks which soon were
transformed into an ass, when your dick of Galician designer separated, forever,
my innocence from the future. The last thing was my pussy, invisible crack of my
name.
Don't
come, said poetry to me, that I'm already by your side, and I didn't pay
attention to her, I went on looking for her. I'll
write until before I get tired. I'll
make love to the point of a slight tachycardia. I'll
earn enough money and, on the other hand, I feel happy that my way of thinking
ideas needs of the world of ideas. I'm
not interested in the conclusions about the being, only about the labyrinth of
the being. From the being, only what is the preparation to be. To
create a new exit is more than going out through some of the established exits.
To break a wall of the labyrinth. To produce light out of doubt, that is virtue. Indio Gris THIS IS ADVERTISING
|
