INDIO GRIS

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION 
Nļ 17. YEAR 2000- SEPTEMBER,  THURSDAY 21
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2000

WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES 
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN, ARABIAN, PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN

INDIO GRIS, IS A PRODUCT
OF  A FUSION
THE BRIGTHENESS OF THE GREY
AND
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE  OF THE 
XXI CENTURY

Indio Gris


INDIO GRIS Nļ 17

1  

I want nobody jerking off or simulating to do so during working hours, nor even me. 
In this very moment my life changed forever.

2

1985 persecutes me: This issue of the groups, I donít know if Iíll have enough strength, I donít know. I have to be able to find out for how long there will be food. 
Only a weak or sick soul allows to be dragged in such a way by external reality. So letís continue studying.

3

Sunday, June 14th, 1985: Yesterday I said to myself clearly: The only thing that really requires a limit is my passion. My anxiety is the most  irrepressible of all the things that surround me.

I donít know if Iíll be able to do a little less of everything that Iím doing.

4

Irritating way of walking that of vultures without food.

5

In two days time Iíll be  delivering my first classes on Lacanís work and feminine sexuality at the School.

Nobody no longer knows how to curse what is loved. Nobody no longer knows how to love what is cursed.

Perhaps Iíll know something about what dirty intentions will make me stop writing someday.

6

Today, finally and not yet finishing 1985, I feel I can become a great painter. Perhaps, some social failures are excessive and they only take the form of failure to force my pace towards painting. I want to make an exhibition of 40 paintings of 1 metre by 81 centimetres. To find myself once more at least in colour.

I hope that the issue of the money doesnít turn me into an idiot.

Darling, my darling, Iíll never stop. There is no pain that can stop the dammed heart of my song. Iíll write till the end, I canít stop.

 7

 Iím waiting for my father to die and my father has died. I only have to occupy his place.

 Phallus you cannot be nor have.

Iím fascinated, your absence does me good. Your absence is the hole through which my verses will reach the confines of some universe.

8

Today she told me with a certain sadness: the scenes of pure reality are more terrible than any madness. And I answer her: I hope I can defeat all my passions with my intelligence.

Itís poetry, not nothingness,  what captures me in vertigo.

9

May 1st, 1985: Taking advantage of the holiday I conversed with the people in my surroundings and I provoked great passions against me and my ways when I told them: In the same way in which sex and gambling has been  driven to paroxysm, writing and work must also be driven to paroxysm.

10

Never a love affair reached so far,
never an illusion was so propitious.
A guttural voice calls me from the shadows:
gambling, losing, gambling, losing, is also dying.

11

Thursday, May 2nd, 1985: Iím a little afraid that things might not result the way I so anxiously expect. Iím busy with the economic and family commitments and I hope to solve everything with my work. Terrific!

12

Though many people might say Iím going very fast, I still trust that my methods are always  half speed.

Firstly to make everything last more, but also to have time to correct the direction of the machine whenever necessary.

13

And I also ask myself, who knows! if I really want to change the world or what I want is to be able to earn some money, enough to change my family.

Might I also be a mean servant of the State ideologies? Group, sex, family, these concepts, depending how they are managed can become so anti-revolutionary as alcohol, designed  drugs or love.

14

Everything was spectacular and grandiose at the same time when she pulled out my heart and threw it to the dogs.

 15

 What is social is possible without any selective affective tendencies (a love for someone or something), but with an increase of complications or coldly, that is to say, in an antisocial manner.

 16

 The incentive of money in exchange for work or some other type of submission (sexual or social) is well seen even by the poor, even by revolutionaries.

 17

 Sometimes itís me who hopes for a miracle to happen.

 People are very frequently close to foolishness and madness and donít charge anything for that.

 Why me? the wretch asked himself.

 18

 Sometimes my audacity gives me the thrills, said the wretch to his wife and when his wife asked him why he said that, he answered her simply: Iíve just bought five kilos of shit and now we have no money to pay the rent.

 19

 I am the acoustic eye, I write and speak at the same time.
I donít know if someone will be able to use my unconscious knowledge but it happened to me.
 There is something of saying which is in walking, there is something of  walking that is in all saying.

 20

 The wretch looked at me in the eyes and told me boldly: The diversity of music only interests the very young and the experts, the rest, us poets,  always love the same music. What we like to see changed are the disguises of the music, the faces of the music, the names of the great masters of the music.

 21

 She arrived and told me: the only thing Culture does with the citizen is to make him stupid. The rest is  Lacanís algorithms that wonít go very far.

 Freud says it clearly: Fair distribution of the produce in relation to work or total destruction.

 As what he said didnít sound totally bad to me, I said nothing to him.

 22

 There are days like today which seem to have no end.
   
     They are days with  a thick fog in the throat at the edge of the abyss.

Those Freudís days facing the anguish of not being able to know exactly until further on.
 Those unforgettable days of Cesar Vallejo confronting death with the crunch of bread.
 Those days of sad beer when a poor, mediocre or very sentimental poet realised that nobody will read him in the next century.
 Those days when the soul breaks to allow words to reach the poem, and also those days when the poem abandons us, definitely, to invent the soul.

 There are days like today which seem to have no end.

 They are days like those of war when the wife of an enemy enamours me.

 23

 Madrid, April 18th, 1991:

 Poem for the living
 Tribute to gabriel celaya

 It was an extreme pain,
simple,
open to desolation.
I had seen a poet
dying of poverty
and it happened in Spain.

Afterwards I felt nothing,
furtively, I broke
the most beautiful flowers of my garden
and transformed them
into wrought iron bars.

  Sheltered from the journalists,
they did not take photographs among bars,
I manufactured my first verse:

After me,
no poet
will die of poverty.

I donít swear it, I write it,
I stammer it in the mornings,
I draw a thousand paths of glory
and I sell them in instalments
so that Iíll never lack
an interest in my favor.

 I mumble fervently
 I also let him die
and the verse condemns me
to realise that
thereís no time left
to pay tribute.

And it is because of those
simple things of life,
that I declare war to you
and without doubting I say:

A man alive is worth more
than the picture of a man.

24

 I have to live by my own means, to be my own exploiter. I think I already said this another day. I have to be able to put my papers in order. Leave the ďandĒ aside a little and occupy myself a little more of the contents. 

 25

 She arrived and told me very seriously:

 -I made him pay each sexual abandonment with a social abandonment. So it was and I could care less dying in that revenge. Because I wanted to commit suicide in each abandonment, in each abandonment I killed him. That was my desperation, in killing him I killed myself and condemned me to another abandonment. I couldnít  separate myself from him, but the only thing I felt for him was hatred.

 And it was then when I felt hated by a hundred thousand jealous and vindictive women, transformed into hyenas and then I wanted to explain her I donít know what  and I could only say: We continue the next time.

26  

Since two days ago I canít get away from the newspaper; live from flesh.

September 13th, 2000

The covers of todayís newspapers made me somewhat gloomy.

Mr Blair resorts to  a war law to achieve some peace in the war against gasoline.

Brussels lifts sanctions but warns. If you fool around too much we will increase of the poor.

Denmark is about to say no to European sexual insufficiency.

The Commission warns: Dignity, liberty, equality, solidarity for friends, for enemies, the Law.

Russian military take over the power station that left them without light.

Our Rato, though, asserts that Spain is doing well and for his Spain thereís no crisis. The minister advises, in the same speech, that the only way out is to decrease consumption and to keep away children and animals from gasoline.

We want to remind that apart from the Chilean and Argentine military there are military of the same characteristics in all countries of America, including those in the North.

A runaway declares that he doesnít trust his persecutors.

The direction of the PSOE reveals why it didnít win the election: 16 out of 26 spokesmen are more than half of our voice. 

The number of illegal immigrants held up in ďpateraĒ (which are small rafts built by people from Algiers and Morocco trying to enter illegally into Sapin, raft representing their own homelands). Terrible, isnít it? And later they take hold of these ďpateristas (illegal immigrants) who according to the newspaper are the inhabits of ďpateraĒ.

The Congress rejects the absurd idea that a Spaniard continues to be a Spaniard in foreign lands. How funny! Isnít it?

Half of humanity lives with 386 pesetas a day, that is to say two dollars, but we have decided to spend 500 million dollars to stop AIDS that we ourselves help to spread, I couldnít see clearly which of the ministers made this last statement.

The World Bank advises in order to fight poverty: alms, charity from powerful peoples. How nice! Isnít it?

Congress rejects a plan  against school discrimination of immigrants and at the same time editors sell 15% less text books than in 1999.

The Health Department negates that there is health and the organisation of transplants has produced a deplorable rejection, the oneirocritics say.

A hundred children and women poison themselves with lead when the Dutch Parliament approves marriage between homosexuals without giving any advice on how to distinguish, without mistake, a homosexual person from another one that is not homosexual, in the meantime an illegal company quadruples its sales.

Genetics disqualifies the concept of race because only a 0.01% of the genes work on that. At the same time a young lady who seems to be very well informed, says that it is surprising how all those genes can function correctly together, when she canít even get on well with two persons.

To know a little more about man and this is scientific, we have to spend great part of the food of half of humanity to study the chimpanzee genome.

The community will give books free to 140,000 school children  and at the same time leaves 8,000 three years old children in the street.

The president of the bank of the balls warns the markets that they are wrong when they bet on investing on the dollar rather than on the Euro, when the Euro has only lost 25% of its value in one year. Trust is the base of our European form of production and I give you an advice, the president said: Austerity, loss of workerís purchasing power, fasten belts more like dictators from the third, fourth or fifth world advised, speeding up of dismissals  and recommend to the citizens in general, to go out begging in the streets.

A cluster of mad people, ministers, bank managers and the hierarchists of Internet, go around all of the streets in Europe shouting:

HE WHO DOESNíT HAVE, DOESNíT HAVE

AND HE WHO HAS, FUCK HIM.

And to say good bye till next Thursday Iíll tell you that Valdano has very clearly said:

-The appreciation that we have for wise men is maximum.


Indio Gris