MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nļ 26. YEAR 2000- NOVEMBER, THURSDAY 23
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
INDIO GRIS Nļ 26
is November 8th, 2000, 24 hours have passed since I arrived in Buenos
Aires and I found a real garbage treasure: Four huge folders full of letters
addressed to my sister Norma from Madrid since August 23rd, 1976, a
day after the beginning of my voluntary exile. I start my recollection with
Madrid, August 23rd, 1976:
I couldnít sleep and I couldnít sleep and I couldnít sleep. I got the
phone number of a friend of the Swedish in Barcelona and I called him at twelve
midnight. He greeted me as if he had always known me. I told him that I was
going to Barcelona with Olga and the children on Friday and he answered that he
would find accommodation for me for a few days, and that I had found him at home
by chance because he was vacationing out of Barcelona, but he would wait for me
because he is looking forward to
I was dying, thanks God that I thought of phoning these people. Iíll never
forgive the moving causing these five days that I had to spend alone. Iíll
never forgive it.
send me copies of Grupo Cero magazines, issues 0 and 1 and my books Yo
Pecador (I, a sinner) and PSICOLOGIA
ANIMAL Y ARTE (Animal Psychology and Art).
Madrid, September 13th, 1976:
donít know what this is all about, I know that I still maintain my
equilibrium. Jorge and Pepe arrived today in Spain. I know that we are more now,
but I still donít know what for.
Iím not angry,
Iím not sad. Iím attentive, split, waiting for the adequate moment. Today
and the previous days my face is very beautiful.
go out what is strictly necessary, I write almost all day, but day after day
Iím receiving new phone calls at the hotel, day after day Iím knitting my
small, incalculable net. As usual nobody understands anything of what Iím
doing, but I do it well.
living as if I were earning a lot of money and I donít know why but that will
be good at the time of reconstruction. Living with dignity, money suffices me
without working for five months, living badly perhaps it will last for a year. I
choose five months living well and if that isnít the figure, some God will
costs me a lot to reach people. Everything is too slow here, the cultural
climate of Madrid is provincial.
Madrid, September 14th, 1976:
whole day went by since yesterday. Everything
spins in this mad, corrupted city.
I was a beggar, today Iím a king, always coming from nothingness. Is it
name sounds bad in Spain.
Still Madrid, September 14th, 1976:
the 13th and the 15th there is a hand-written letter which
Iím sending you together with
is clarity when the one who fears is the other. And here, they fear me. Then I
decided to rent an apartment with 3 bedrooms, a small living-room and a sort of
terrace-balcony like the one in Viamonte street in Buenos Aires, a third
bedroom instead of a maid-chamber. It has two libraries, a sort of desk
and a telephone. We will talk on the phone, how good! This will be my address
for the next six months in Madrid, so is written in the contract signed today. I
donít have the keys yet, it may be a swindle because I already paid.
months only, and however, I know that centuries will go by. Give our address to
all the people you bump into, though I may not answer all the letters, I need to
receive letters, itís the only thing I need.
the bedroom window, which we still donít have but possibly
will have tomorrow, you can see all Madrid, it is as if the rest of the
people lived in the plain and one
on a hill. Under my window the Seine doesnít flow
but the Manzanares does and the Manzanares really doesnít look like the
Seine, but it does look like some of the ParanŠís affluents. And I always
wanted to own a small house on the ParanŠ bank. And I know that a small house
on the river bank is not an apartment on 16th floor but itís still
hundred people dance an evil dance, perfect even in the sacrifice. They dance in
the head of he who allows them to dance. Inattentive, not
knowing what to do, I walk
this fierce feast, this great circus through the continents. Iím a possessed
person, I have an inner voice that says to me
all the time: write everything and I think that my best 20 years, that is
to say my next 20 years will be dedicated to writing.
am the ocean without a rudder, everybody is drifting over me.
wish that this Spring the toast in your birthday will be for the future.
day I become a little crazier but nobody will realise it, nobody. Following
advice from my old friends, in a Christian country nobody can doubt of a Turk
who prays. In the middle of exile I feel that changing religion is simpler than
four walls of the hotel room, fall over me and nevertheless I feel like a king.
Iím king of my soul, empty, serene, able to stand any sortilege. Spell of
oblivion, I am the one who gets sad
when Summer parts.
am a child dying of cold. I am a small fish at the verge of being engulfed by
the waters. If they knew how small I am, they would crush me like a small
cockroach, but it is also true that loving flowers does me good, each time I
pass in front of flowers I drop a curtsy.
will sing, donít doubt it, under my feet of a mad dancer. Words like rocks,
hard rocks, thrown with no piety against the enemyís vital cores. What a turn
of a screw Iíll give to the world, darling, what a turn of a screw!
name is feared here where our ancestors were everything. And if my name is
feared, my name is desired and that is good for all of us.
gambling twice to the same thing makes one a professional. Iím a professional
of the soul and this, at last, is a truth.
you may see, Iím quite crazy, enough to be able to bear this distance that
separates me from my loved ones.
kind of a jerk may have come up with this idea of my journey? And nobody answers
me, I myself, barely answeringÖ
Madrid, October 23rd, 1976:
I do the best I can but I also realise that the best I can isnít yet enough
and I dream of a peaceful life walking down the streets. I know that everything
will come out well, but sometimes I canít bear to wait.
Madrid, October 26th, 1976:
Iím going to die from sorrow. I need some books with me.
hasnít changed a bit, but I feel a little calmer, somewhat recovered.
Madrid, November 10th, 1976:
I NEED MY BOOKS MORE THAN BREAD. Please send me some copy by air-mail. I donít
know how to ask for my books.
Buenos Aires, November 16th, 2000:
in a couple of hours, I will go back to painting, it can be said that since a
year and a half ago I draw small faces that with a certain movement seem to have
a body. But during that time I didnít paint much. The canvasses are already
travelling, I hope to have time to finish this issue before next Thursday.
go back to painting makes me feel a sort of illusion. Each time I return it
seems like the first time. So long, Iím going to paint, if any of my strong
lovers appears Iíll tell her that because reading is the fashion, I paint.
Sheíll think that Iím strange and wonít bother me.
Buenos Aires, November 21st, 2000:
have stained six canvasses and Iím already saying good bye to Buenos Aires,
once again, the day has to come in which I donít have to say good bye nor
arrive in any place because my country will be the world.
Madrid, June 2nd, 1997:
make attempts in vain to normalise myself and each time it is easier to recover
my lack of equilibrium.
from Buenos Aires, I was already in MŠlaga and now again in Madrid, I donít
know the direction of the cardinal winds. I live as if I controlled the
universe, my body, the stars, juicy businesses, but in reality life gives me
everything and takes away everything, it is also true that I have enough work as
to make enough money to be able to spend sufficiently and pretend in front of
myself, that working is not so necessary for me.
here I am, perfumed offspring of a century on the verge of dying, I stop on the
summit of what I donít know and catapult myself to a future that is uncertain
but at the same time generous, and I stop and think from that deviation (an
uncertain future) our life.
do as if I were flying, I mean to say that the whole world sees me flying, but
that is an illusion, I continue sitting in my chair, punishing the typing
I see myself knitting history and I feel like a true historian, capable of
inventing any feeling or earthquake or revolution or war or misfortune or beauty
or odd unknown dimensions, everything to make things happen as they happen,
other times I realise that Iím a small puppet in the hands of a cruel wind.
I think it over well, Buenos Aires has another destiny either than money, at
least for me, I donít want money from Buenos Aires, I want everything from
Buenos Aires. A whole city between my arms. What bravery, what simplicity, what
thinking of our old age I feel as if I had less creative strength
but with a great organising strength, I have proposed to myself that we
should all live an honourable old age and that means money, a lot of money. That
is the only possible dignity for old age. To be able to buy care, love, friendships, sunny afternoons, always opposing
Spring to the limiting seasons, to be always able to show a bill so as to make
others say: Yes, Sir; this way Sir; what can I do for you, Sir ?; Sir, suck my
balls; Sir, caress me.
my power will also grow and Iíll surround myself with jerks that will try by
all means to stop us from getting together. My love, my love, I always loved
power only to get together with you and now my power brings us apart, turns the
face towards night, because there, immersed in the most slow and underground
saying, nobody will be able to discover our love.
poetry smiles to me not from far, but at
a distance enough for me not to be able to hold
it completely and poetry smiles and runs away in that smile that already
doesnít belong to me and we will meet again if poetry wants and some day
itíll come unexpectedly, and Iíll have everything ready for the moment
poetry, the mad one, wishes to return.
this way Iím waiting the whole day for poetry to return and when it returns
Iíll hold it by the neck and bump its head against the dictionary
and Iíll remain with the sensation of having done some good to
the phone, while I write to you, I control: first year classes in School,
International Congress of Psychoanalytical Clinic, Book Fair in Madrid, two
revisions of small things and the print shop where Carmen is hurrying the
machinist so that he can hand in today Juneís LAS 2001 NOCHES for a second
revision, because I want it to be at the Book Fair for the weekend.
I feel like someone is running after me and I run for him not to catch up with
me, as if it were me who he was running after, some other times I feel more
tranquil than a linden and I
donít remember anything and I have nothing to say about the future and enjoy
not knowing from whom to defend myself and I realise that life is various lives and skipping some
stops I predispose myself to put learning into practice.
some will tell me that I never
tuned a guitar well and Iíll tell them that itís true, and some will say of
me that I was the music of the Twentieth Century and Iíll tell them that it is
others will say that I could never
totally love a woman and Iíll tell them that it sounds very real and other
thousands will say that that not everything I gave them turned them crazy and
Iíll tell them that it sounds very real.
will say that I gave everything to poetry and I wonít say a word and
many more yet, will say: what is happening to him now is because he wanted to
eat up poetry, now poetry persecutes him searching for the part that is missing.
me, some will say, without knowing what to say when they see me flying between
the crossed legs of the world, without words.
me, my dead mother will say wrapped up among clouds
split by the sun, poor me, light lover of the abyss, there I go without
any apparent thought to know myself author of my own novel, tearing silence of
the poem or untied fog or fierce solitude and stories where the maiden faints
before joy or those splendid afternoons where it looked as if the sun was going
to burn everything and nobody escaped from the solemn moment of love. Frosts
reddened by desire, jumped into pieces, small clamours of a flesh made of fire,
in the air, they looked like desolate stars allowing the imprudent child or
blind lovers to touch them.
I didnít exactly see the universe folding over me, but it was something that happened in your mouth, a movement like deliriums racing, thousands of gazelles, millions of voices claiming for freedom to fly, some madness for the poor daily feelings.
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.