INDIO GRIS

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION 
Nļ 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


INDIO GRIS Nļ 20

1

December 16th, 1988
Dear Sergio, brother:       

Yesterday I went to the School to the presentation of Poniís 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 didnít come, I almost freeze, I felt that I wouldnít 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 Iíll try again, Iíll deliver a class on determination in Psychoanalysis and tomorrow Iíll 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, Iíll take a holiday from December 22nd to January 9th and Iíll 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 didnít 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 doesnít 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 wouldnít 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,

ď leave that child aloneĒ and she, looking tenderly into my eyes, told me in turn, ďchild, leave me aloneĒ 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 havenít 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 donít 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 didnít 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 donít understand this question of the accident, because writing novels is even much easier to me than painting and when I painted I didnít 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, Iíll undress and try a bath, later a grass cigarette and Negra will come to visit me, I think Iíll fuck her without she realising it. Negra still continues to have those things of youth, if you donít tell her three or four times perhaps she doesnít even realise, afterwards, you know, itís impossible to stop her.

Anyway, I would like something else afterwards, considering that today is Friday and that tomorrow isnít 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, Iíll have something to tell Sergio, thatís  what friends are for.

Iím still afflicted for todayís day, I donít even dare to take my shoes off even though they are bothering me somewhat.

 The truth is that Iím just at the time to become a grandfather, My waist aches and I walk as a jerk 130 years old. And I donít have to go around telling everybody about the sublime and violent movements which Iím still able to perform when making love. So that this time, dear brother, itís 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.
Thatís why itís so much, thatís 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 ďour GodĒ 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:

ďMan, he has saved himself because God was drivingĒ

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 wasnít 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 didnít 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 isnít old age yet, but they are fifty years, you know, and thatís 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 May 5th, 1989

Dear Sergio: Almost six months have gone by since the previous letter and many things have happened. It doesnít hurt any more, Iím not afraid of the street any longer and this question of God diluted in the concrete publication of the novel.

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 couldnít 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 parentís 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, Iíll have known
some step Iíll 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.      

ďThis novel is a monument to desire, not to its satisfaction  and desire doesnít fit in moulds  normsĒ    

 Leopoldo de Luis

ď Menassa transforms eroticism into a real  encyclopaedia of sexual relationsĒ.   

Juan-Jacobo BajarlŪa


Indio Gris