MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nļ 25. YEAR 2000- NOVEMBER, THURSDAY 16
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
THE JARAMA INDIAN
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
What a horror!: 25 minutes speaking and he hasnít said a word yet. Heíll end up earning very little money.
strengthen yourself that the world is coming. Everything that has been sowed and
watered and taken care of, will grow.
disaster, my darling, a real disaster. Following diverse indications to obtain
my connection, I made such a mess that I almost throw my small laptop through
Argonauts are a bit selfish, they can teach nothing to no one. Everything is
learnt through sailing. Modern Argonauts are similar to primitive men.
have come to doubt myself when I happened to say: Here I am, pals, and I donít
understand a shit and if I donít shout for help it is because Iím very macho
when I dance tango, but I realise that sitting here Iím opening a future which
is unknown to me. Iím 60 and I canít believe it, any jerk knows more than I
that, on the other hand, should dedicate myself to writing. Iím bewildered,
each time that I feel like writing I have to switch on the machine and it always
takes time, I always have to wait.
I have to recognise that with this matter of garbage collection, having to pass material written in notebooks in previous years I have very little time left to write about what is happening to me at the moment, that to tell you the truth, the things that happen to me are really worth watching.
I cannot write much, except the immense four poems I wrote for my birthday, it can be said that I cannot write. Something is held up in me, something is perfecting itself. Tomorrow Iíll be able to write more.
Tomorrow is today and nothing is happening. I take a notebook at random and I find the date September 11th, 2000 and Iím ashamed of what is written: Iíve reached the practical conclusion , the individual says, that I prefer all the people surrounding me, well, almost all of them, rather as clients than as friends. Almost all of them means that some of them I donít even prefer as clients.
The measure may be economically more profitable but, also, a man of my age should have a friend, a lover who has nothing to do with his work.
Indio Gris is not only part creation and part pleasure, it is fundamentally, the product-effect of various works.
Iím once more in the yoke. The first client already gave me a bad look. It is also true that I was rather absent-minded and I didnít realise that he was looking at me that way.
You can kill yourself, said the wretch to his wife, tonight Iíll write your epitaph.
September 9th, 1991: What happens to me isnít so strictly linked, as I used to believe myself, to what is happening to my loved ones.
Didactic example: That I earn, for example, $ 15,000 monthly has nothing to do with my mother dying one of these days, nor with one of my children becoming stupid, nor even with my wife being loving to me.
That I earn $ 15,000 monthly, has to do with the fact that after 30 years of work I have achieved a certain comfort, certain joy.
Today I got up less selfish than other days, I got up with a collaborating mood. Iíll work for Grupo Cero up to six hours per week.
If I have to tell him all that he has to do, I have a real idiot in front of me. If the idiot, on top of it, is a candidate to become a psychoanalyst of the School, I think that in 100, 150 years, that might kill me.
Open spring, extreme madness. Atrocious winds wanted to take everything from my side and if poetry remained with me was because I loved it.
September 10th, 1991: Since more than 22 years ago, Iím a psychoanalyst doctor. And here in Spain more than 15, when I reach 25 years in Spain (around 2001) I want to be absolutely rich. Though I may not manage well with some of my children, with some of my clients, Iíd like to be absolutely rich.
Absolutely rich means having work and the certainty of being able to do it correctly for another 100 years more.
If I remain well seated where I am, in 10 years time Iíll do the world great trick.
And Iíll be only 61 years old, the rest up to 122 years will all be for poetry.
After me, no poet will die of poverty.
I must not trust my pains, I must not trust my family, I must not trust, even though I recognise that trust is the basic feeling of economic growth in bourgeois societies.
Reading Freud: The patient is urged to direct all his attention to the idea of reference, but not as he had done so many times before, to ponder, but to observe clearly and communicate to the doctor without no exception, everything that he might happen to think about it.
The advice Iíll give to all people today, will be that they train their dogs better instead of complaining the whole time about the training of someone elseís dogs.
On my part, as Director of the School Iíll try to finish with all what love has instituted out of place.
To make a new world means to change oneís being in order to live worlds which havenít been lived.
September 16th, 1991: Everything I touch with my hands, trembles. For everything to turn out well I have to stay in my watchtower, in my solitude. It should be easy for a man like me that has always been a solitary. But a solitary exists because he goes around saying it and, in my watchtower, in my solitude, that is not spoken of.
To take care of what I have, to take care of what I have and then I ask myself, what do I have? Vices, materialised errors, 51 years lived loafing about, some poems and, up to here, the fulfilment of all my obligations.
I have, I have, I have, Iím already fed up. I have to be able to assume what I have to assume. Poet, Father, Director of a Psychoanalysis School. 51 years old heterosexual man, that is what I have to assume, what I already am for having almost made it.
And I ask myself how those beings should be. Example of poet, example of father.
Poet: the one to whom his extreme sensibility doesnít take away his effectiveness.
Father: is a man condemned to death from the beginning.
A man of 51 is drive, all drive for he should have no illusions.
A psychoanalyst is someone who can listen to those differences and point them out, only that, point them out and not to attempt to change them nor to make them equal. Sensible and mortal, his effectiveness depends totally on his wish to be that.
The full word always performs an act, after it one of the two individuals is not the same any longer.
There must be an act different to indoctrination to attribute to it the effect of Psychoanalysis.
Transference, I imagine, must be sustained in an imaginary plane. In the love of transference there will be a power that only sustains itself through not using it.
It isnít a question of Eros love but of passion-love, only comparable to a psychological catastrophe. The loved object as the ideal of the individualís ego.
The desolation of my soul demolishes me. Things never come out as I would totally like. Someone in me leads my steps wrongly. Since early morning everything is already diverted. Coming back to the drawn course already requires a work beyond my strength.
I donít know, I donít know if I simply was a jerk. Someone who didnít finish evaluating his failures, someone who wonít recognise his successes.
When I say that I have hopes left it isnít that I have hopes left, it is that I still have some blood in my veins, that is all my passion, that little blood is all my hope.
Always some woman, shouted the wretch, takes away from me some part of being, some part of power. Nothing important happens in me without any of them betraying me or killing me or cursing me or loving me excessively. Sometimes I have come to think that without women around me I would be invincible or, at least, several of the current masters should have to suck my balls.
Now that I feel Iím getting old, I realise that the solitude I feared, when growing old, is not possible any longer. On the contrary, I would say that I want that solitude which I before dreaded. Now I know it, solitude for a cultured man doesnít exist or when it exists it is vice or height, never suffering, never a wait for nothing.
The only definite thing is the body, that meant that the drive is prior to the ego, prior to the narcissist libido.
In the loving relationship there is a coincidence between the object and the ideal of the ego.
The human being can only see his complete form, the mirage of himself, out of himselfÖ
In love one loves its own self, the ego itself made up at an imaginary level.
When a love dies it is replaced immediately by a thousand images of myself.
The ideal of the ego has been transformed into the ideal ego.
MENASSA IN BUENOS AIRES
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.