INDIO GRIS

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION 
Nº 27. YEAR 2000- NOVEMBER,  THURSDAY 30
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 Nº 27

1

November 20^th, 2000

Since I was granted the diploma of Honorary Professor at the Inter-American Open University, I feel as if I were without a sense of direction, as having arrived from very far away.

Something like this hadn’t happened to me before. I’m speechless or in another way, all the words wanting to come out at the same time, the result being a categorical, general paralysis.

I can’t write. I write foolish things, I attribute myself honours when I know very well that in this century all honours will be for poetry.

2

If I accept all the recognition I should have to travel  from Madrid to Buenos Aires and back at least four times a year.

In this case, my place of residence would never be known.

Where my best pages, where my greatest loves.

I must admit that this time painting drifted me away from writing. I painted frenetically until I called Madrid to have large easel transported from Arganda del Rey to Madrid, to my consulting room in Madrid. While I painted I couldn’t imagine for myself any other thing than painting.

In the sixteenth oil-painting I felt I could no longer go on and began writing. When I write life is distant and it’s always the world that moves. When I paint I am life itself and the world stops to watch my movements. Sometimes when I reach words I am debilitated and as I go on writing words themselves revive me. When I paint I reach the canvass full of energy and when I finish painting I’m debilitated.

 Painting is many times like making love, writing is never alike to anything.

3

I have been reading the letters from 1976 and 1977 and I didn’t like them. At all, I didn’t like them at all. Not only because of what they said, but also because they were badly written. I don’t know, today I’m going to sleep, tomorrow I’ll try again.

4

I want nothing to do with tomorrow, only fifteen minutes have gone by and shame brought me back again to the computer and I try to decipher my cowardice: As I had a strange feeling left from the letters of 76,77 and 78, and I couldn’t take anything from them, then I wanted to stop writing.

From the letters, what shocked me the most was first, the grandiloquence of the phrases in general, even in the love ones. Secondly, what shocked  and in a certain way bothered me, was the confidence that I myself had in my writing when, in reality, considering the written and published work so far, in those days I was just beginning on my way to become a writer.

And afterwards, to make things worse, my pain was the pain of those first years of exile.

5

Twelve midnight in Buenos Aires and here I am, alone, writing. Something strong must have happened in my life.
Here I am, alone, writing.
I hope the telephone rings, that some wretched may need me for something and may have to call me.
Some woman telling me:
- I am that voice running away from itself, but I can no longer bear it, I would like to remain in this page.
Today I suffer from contradictory tendencies but I think I should go back to the letters. 

6

Sometimes I’m afraid of asking myself what matter I’m made of. Sometimes I’m even afraid of not asking myself anything.

Twenty paintings in twenty days, some of beautiful composition, some nothing and others, in general, correct. It could be said that I have been twenty days locked up painting, however in those twenty days all kind of things happened to me. I was a celebrity and rotund and they granted me honours as doctor and poet, they gave me a diploma  as a psychoanalyst and an advice: to do for the world what I have done for myself. Afterwards while I was painting I also ran our company in Madrid by phone and I efficiently collaborated in the conformation of the 40^th issue of our magazines of poetry “Las 2001 Noches” and of Psychoanalysis “Extensión Universitaria”. I wrote issues 25 and 26 of El Indio Gris  and presented two books: La Poesía y Yo ( Poetry and I) and Poeta Condenado (Condemned Poet).

I supervised the two institutions which I psychoanalyse in Buenos Aires: Grupo Cero and Encore. I helped in the production of three study programmes, I ate three asados (Argentine grilled meat) on my house terrace in the intersection of Córdoba and Callao and had lunch twice with people of great knowledge and culture and I spoke for two hours without interruption about the future of an illusion.

Afterwards I also had those empty frozen afternoons and one night I woke up sleepless thinking about what sort of matter I was made of and it looked natural to me to fly more, even though I spent my whole days locked up painting.

7

Example of letter

Málaga, July 27, 1997

Sometimes I’m amazed of myself, with the things I do  or would be able to do to make the machine function, that I cannot very well define neither its functioning nor its attributes and on the other hand if it produces something I still haven’t learnt well what.

Nevertheless I must recognise a delight when I see it, listen to it or  imagine it functioning. I feel myself included in a movement superior to my strength, to my own thoughts, that’s why I never ask it where we are going, who is travelling with us.

I meekly accept its road map and its loves. Ready to share it with anyone who might love it, it behaves sweetly with me and when we aren’t making love we smile looking at the moon in unison with the singing of foreign birds, to speak about exotic and warm countries, where the water of the sea is a nightmare of pain, horrible and spectral howls mark constantly the noise of love.

Don’t stop on the edge of hours like that horrible French character.

It falls in my arms, it falls in the absence of time of my heartbeats of love and desperation for finding, who knows, the trace itself of each poem engraved in marine skin, distant light for your nocturnal eyes, each poem like the trace of some children’s story in the look of humanity.

For each woman there will be a poem in my verses that can contain her entirely, and for each woman the flower will be different and another the poem.

Then we will shoot useless scenes. A corsair, dressed as a clown, dying of old age and sadness, in the Princess hospital. We will produce a documentary film to demonstrate that fire arms and their improvement should honour an ethical rule that would say something like this:

We invented fire arms to avoid by all means that a million black ants might eat an enormous white elephant in fifteen minutes.

Tell me where I am, tell where I am and we will make love without knowing each other. Blind to kindness of nature, I prefer to be, when the fog of desire pierces us.

And what transforms itself into a vane illuminated presence is a hidden feeling.

A kiss always dies in the kiss itself, a real great love dies the same night it is born.

A true lay is never recalled.

That’s why I love you, alien, my white and so distant alien. I love you because of that world that opens when I lose you. I love the wings you gave me to fly far away from you, oh, beloved.

Nights of madness where the memory of your skin is all the memories.

And how you extended yourself over my life without me realising it, your sharp skin enlightened shadow of blinded lights, your skin, lover of mysteries without solution, mad, obstinate, blind lover. Your skin was the motherly lap for the great millenarian poets.

When there was singing, when the music sounded in unison with the music, when all violence was a bleeding violin, it was your skin that sang.

On each turn over yourself, over humanity, in each turn of a page, in every new encounter you were someone else, and again someone else, but you didn’t dance, you showed yourself like disappearing all the time, like not wanting to be entirely in any place, not loving  any reality, any time.

It was then that I kissed your lips tenderly, your lips, the stars, the one hundred not done accounts, the salary of fear that we will never collect in cash, the public stations, the trains burnt with the heat of midsummer, tassels of wheat, how those golden wheat tassels moved slowly to the rhythm of the movement of your lips. I asked you to kiss my eyes and you moved your buttocks capriciously.

Soon I said to myself, it is the influx of the sun over the beasts, now we will look for each other like beasts to make of love beastly things. And I will bite your neck as if you were an animal in heat and you will move excited and crazy, trying to make me think that you want to save yourself, that it would be better to leave it for next summer, and it is then when the flowers fall off the table, the donkeys stop carrying the heavy load, to kick in the wind their old sorrows, everything trembles in us as if our bodies were the essence of tremor, and we still have ahead a crazy day and we will fall again at sundown and the next morning will light up in each afternoon.

Having lived these loves in open sea makes of time curative salts. It wasn’t  that I had to lose my youth to gain time. As there was no other alternative but losing my youth, I loved the night intensely, I embroidered together each word with hundreds of words, I said this and that, permanently, and I was never in a hurry to arrive. And this way I spent a great part of my life and when I went into the sea I did it with respect and I never got close to volcanoes and the caged animals and the caged  women and the caged men and the caged children made me sad and when I learnt that someone hadn’t had his piece of bread, I rapidly abandoned everything I was doing and put myself to think if the issue of someone else’s hunger could have a solution.

Beloved, beloved, where are you, I know that you are leaving furtively, without attracting my attention, as if you had never been there. Like the small inner flame that the world allows us, that sometimes fades away, without it being possible to sense any wind, not even a light breeze.

Flame of love, I say to myself, is put out with love.

Indio Gris