INDIO GRIS
INDIVIDUAL
MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 20. YEAR 2000- OCTOBER,
THURSDAY 12
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 Nº 20
1
December
16th, 1988
Dear
Sergio, brother:
Yesterday
I went to the School to the presentation of Poni’s book which I liked and
everything was very nice.
But before arriving, I tried to go by my own means to the school at six
in the evening.
I went out to the street and
felt a little cold. Later, standing in the corner of Porlier and Lista,
waiting for a taxi that didn’t come, I almost freeze, I felt that I wouldn’t
have enough strength to go back to the consulting room. I returned and waited
for someone from the School to come to fetch me and take me to the School and
this way I arrived very well, but I truly felt dependant. When returning, by
chance I came back with three women.
This
morning the pain was exultant and I coughed several times and that ached.
Tonight
I’ll try again, I’ll deliver a class on determination in Psychoanalysis and
tomorrow I’ll be able to tell you how I did it.
Yesterday
I could lean on the chair without
pain, today it hurts, this means clearly that the street hurts me.
Street
makes me ache. How terrible!
Now,
next week, I’ll take a holiday from December 22nd to January 9th
and I’ll stay all that time in Arganda. This time I more or less want to know
what happened to me.
Sometimes,
in those long hours of solitude, I ask myself if my loves from youth
could have given my life this direction which results so difficult for me
to travel along.
Together
with the writing of the novel I didn’t just crash into a street lamp, but I
also crashed against my own slavery.
I
am a dependant being and that unbelievably makes me gloomy.
As
if I would realise now, already in the middle of life, that I have been born.
And that that doesn’t happen without a reason.
A
man and a woman must have met somewhere.
Someone
nursed me, someone tucked me in every night so that I wouldn’t die.
Surely,
there must have been a working man so that there would be milk, so that there
would be night.
And
so, I recognise it: I also have been born.
I
also had the courage to be born, that positive thing which is crossing the
magnificent way to life. But I also had that negative thing of permitting to be
nursed. That passiveness so that she could tuck me in at night.
And
that way, she was forming me into flesh and bone, that was what she knew.
She
gave me a heart, because of that she had in excess. Three or four wishes, she
had thousands.
She
taught me how to walk in order to show her man that she also was worth.
It
was much easier with the word: one day my father arrived and told her,
“
leave that child alone” and she, looking tenderly into my eyes, told me in
turn, “child, leave me alone” and I understood everything and the next day I
uttered my first words.
Some
six hours or more have passed, I attended eight patients without interruption
and when I was ready to go
to School to deliver my Friday class, which I haven’t attended for the
last two Fridays because of the accident, when first one and then another of the
Cero co-ordinators phoned to tell me not to go because there was going to be I
don’t know what that might cause me to feel bad. I accepted without protest
not to go to School and here I am writing to you.
I
didn’t smoke any tobacco, but since this morning I have my mouth dry and I
remember of
those deserts, when not even a drop of love could be found in kilometres.
I
still don’t understand this question of the accident, because writing novels
is even much easier to me than painting and when I painted I didn’t have the
need for an accident.
It
must be that painting is still poetry, I say to myself.
Now,
in only a few more minutes, I’ll undress and try a bath, later a grass
cigarette and Negra will come to visit me, I think I’ll fuck her without she
realising it. Negra still continues to have those things of youth, if you
don’t tell her three or four times perhaps she doesn’t even realise,
afterwards, you know, it’s impossible to stop her.
Anyway,
I would like something else afterwards, considering that today is Friday and
that tomorrow isn’t a working day and you are going to come to pay me a visit
in the crystal jail where they keep me locked in, and so, I say to myself,
I’ll have something to tell Sergio, that’s
what friends are for.
I’m
still afflicted for today’s day, I don’t even dare to take my shoes off even
though they are bothering me somewhat.
The
truth is that I’m just at the time to become a grandfather, My waist aches and
I walk as a jerk 130 years old. And I don’t have to go around telling
everybody about the sublime and violent movements which I’m still able to
perform when making love. So that this time, dear brother, it’s my turn to
become a grandfather.
Something
shall not be after this visit.
New
things shall happen after this visit.
A
man shall persecute his shadow up to the end.
Only
one man shall live to tell it.
And
that is what I wanted to confess to you: I am a writer.
I
live only for leaving it written.
That’s why it’s so much, that’s why I have no rest. I feel an impulse to
do some good to
humanity and, after the accident, a lot more yet.
The Friday of the accident I talked in my class about the substantial
differences that exist between the God of capitalism and the Christian God whom
I called “our God” when mentioning him.
Immediately
after, the accident happened: mortal, from which I came out unhurt. It was easy
to realise what had happened. The Christian God, our God, wanted to reaffirm my
newly born faith, and rehearsed causing a mortal accident and making me come out
of the mortal accident, sorry for the repetition, unhurt.
When
I came out of the car which was completely destroyed, the first thing I heard
clearly was what follows:
“Man,
he has saved himself because God was driving”
How
not to believe in that providential phrase, which in one way affirmed the
existence of God and, on the other hand, it led me away from going on thinking
that I had wanted to kill myself.
This
way, it wasn’t me who had provoked the accident
but God and then it was His mercy what saved me and not my skill at the
wheel.
When
Negra arrived, we kissed in a different way than in previous days.
She
got close fearfully, because of the ache in my waist. But today when we saw each
other, it was incredible, she kissed me and embraced me as if I were a healthy
and strong young man and I felt that way, the way she embraced me. I was waiting
for her naked and she, when she saw me without a beard, she told me later, she
experimented the feeling that the accident had rejuvenated me. Afterwards, when
we were making love, she told me at least three times: What
a dick! What a dick! What a dick!
She
lay on her side, with her legs gathered together and opened and I got into her
legs. Her left leg was right over my pain.
First
I felt a great pain, then the soft movements of her leg over my pain started
alleviating me. Afterwards, even when I put my dick boldly into her pussy, she
sucked at my left tit frenetically. And before we came I
stuck two fingers into her ass.
While
we came she gave a strong, guttural scream.
My waist didn’t ache any more, but I was left without strength, relaxed,
clean.
After the good lay with Negra, all my fantasies of nocturnal orgies vanished in
front of the television.
This
morning it took me exactly one hour to resuscitate. And that isn’t old age
yet, but they are fifty years, you know, and that’s something.
The
fight between the Christian God, transcendental and ours and the capitalist God
immanent and strange to our spirit, is bloody and violent.
2
Madrid
Dear
Sergio:
My
readings of your writings have passed and the time when I was happy reading them
has passed and I would have liked to publish a hundred thousand copies of your
articles about the novel but, later, I also came to think that I couldn’t go
through life doing what I wanted and that calmed me down.
For
some days I have been telling myself no studying and no writing. All the energy
should be put at the service of others in the group so that they can publish.
That will make us really great.
Not
only have days gone by, since the accident or since the last letter, but I have
become stultified. I left so much water running that now my mouth is dry.
I
say it this way, suddenly, I would like to change my lifestyle, something
different to my parent’s life, so much calmness, so much peace until the day
of their death. I would like some movement, jeopardy, some wind, light. Money
and those things of sex. Some image, some sport, a science, perhaps managing a
soaring enterprise.
Well,
sometimes I think that my direction has changed and, sometimes I feel so
distant.
3
Becoming
60
Prisoner
Prisoner
I am of a long sentence
because
word does not bestow freedom.
I say trace and trace becomes into flesh in me,
wrinkles formed by time, pains from love.
I
name you trace and roads exist,
trace
of me and, at least, in solitude
some path, something, I’ll have known
some
step I’ll have given when beginning.
Trace
of dawn proclaims that the dream is over.
that
the universe comes, the man and the woman,
that the whole world comes to make poetry
and
life, there, life which will end, comes.
I
say tree and green forges all my reality.
It
greens the hearts of elderly women,
it places in the core of the heart of my beloved,
the
lost emerald that shines in silence.
And
it falls until it reaches its reality of moss,
green
that detains itself to allow the world
to think of itself bloomed, humid, restless,
green
of love dying over the grass.
I
say to say and bubbling of waterfalls,
of
world, make words meaningful.
The
woman who saw nothing in me, when speaking,
suddenly
saw only one light in my gaze.
Gaze
of wild animal, jungle cornered by light.
Woman,
to say woman, opening that destiny:
To
ennoble crying, to put love at the top,
put gazelles in the way a traveller walks
sounds of water and birds in his song.
Hurt
violin climbing between your legs.
I say violin, beloved, I say hurt violin
and
a spectral howl makes of the soul
a silenced and quiet desperate melody,
open
your eyes to the sharp emptiness of love.
I
say railroad and I travel without ever stopping
always
producing noise from east to south.
and engines and workers and vintage celebrations
and
deaths which will never find its destiny.
I
say western train and the plains creak,
a
silver bullet traverses the eyes of night
a
white horse dies of thirst in the desert
and
the woman with the golden curls dies of love.
Horses.
Imagine! Horses tied to themselves,
trapped
by the speed of liberation and of flying,
to fall as rocks from the mountain to the river,
to
reach the bottom of things without holding the fall.
I
say pig, worm, snake and bird
and
sex is dazzled by itself,
opens the legs, opens the legs and speaks,
it
says about the sea things sort of bluish green.
It
crawls, it crawls before flying.
And
when it crawls, it enjoys, and when it flies
and when it falls,
its smile is of mother-of-pearl or of silver
and
it crawls in pain
and it enjoys life.
And
it flies and undoes in kisses and in lights,
sex
of love, I say to it, living from life.
Poem,
freedom, war against famine,
sweetness
of saying I want to live within desire.
I
say death and even if I do not,
silenced
poet, I will die anyway.
That is why the word sentences us,
when
we speak to enjoyment and desire.
Without
freedom, prisoner of the word
with
the joy of having been a man,
with the soul thrown onto the winds,
without
leaving traces, my body shall die.
|
“This novel is a monument to desire, not to its satisfaction and desire doesn’t fit in moulds norms” Leopoldo de Luis |
“ Menassa transforms eroticism into a real encyclopaedia of sexual relations”. Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía |