MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 30. YEAR 2000- DECEMBER, THURSDAY 21
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
GRIS Nº 30
Madrid, July 28th,1978:
letter for you, a breath of winter in this inferno. Madrid is like a crematory
furnace, 40° in the shade, 100°, 120° in the sunshine or under the sun.
speaking, life is an illusion. It is difficult to accomplish everything
correctly. Sometimes my whole life gets lost among
insignificant papers, insignificant bureaucratic procedures.
Madrid, September 18th,
one's birthday, also has a relative existence, it also depends on
in Madrid, September resembles our September. There is always a sun, always a
breeze, in Madrid in September. I often don't know where I live in September. I
definitely don't know who celebrates his birthday, in September.
Aires is for me a remembrance, I recognise it.
toast with you, I embrace our hearts once more, because at 40 one can do with
the heart what one wants.
is, after all, a beautiful place to live. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! meaning that
life still smiles at us.
day that passes by writing becomes more and more difficult for me. 500 pages
enclosed in a folder must be, without doubt, a mistake. They must be undoubtedly
a stupid plan. A great talent locked in poverty. A frozen eagle sunk in misery.
Skies and sarcasm and little hurricanes, locked in a memory. When I feel human,
I lack everything, I'm all anxiousness, yearning. Happy Birthday.
Madrid, October 21st, 1978:
I got up in a perfect state of health. We could say that life smiles at me. The
publication CANTO A NOSOTROS MISMOS TAMBIEN SOMOS AMERICA ( Chant to ourselves,
we are also America), in the print shop, has done me good. It is a book written
on the 1st and
2nd of September of '77, I couldn't stand it at home any longer. I
decide in this happiness to go on publishing all my writings, however it may be.
in Madrid, at least for me and the people surrounding me, the famous time for
living is about to begin. A time in which families ( it could be any type of
family) can host visits and visitors can be hosted properly.
this is clear, is a country which is going decisively towards its
democratisation and this doesn't mean a thing and means a lot, because although
certain values will enter the stage of Europeanizing
( in all cases meaning decadence), on the other hand our poetry appears
in this process, as the only poetry that is being written in Spain (so say some
Spaniards and some
Arab friends) that can successfully oppose past resentments as much as
indifference created by an apparent lack of moral values.
If we are all decided, I could publish before the end of the year, apart from Canto…(Chant…) two more books. A poetry book of about a hundred pages, "EL AMOR EXISTE Y LA LIBERTAD" (Love exists and Freedom) and another book about philosophy, poetry and other subjects of about two hundred pages, "GRUPO CERO; PSICOANALISIS Y POESIA; ESE IMPOSIBLE" (Cero Group, Psychoanalysis and Poetry, that Impossibility) what would make three books in less than a year. Here in Europe, something unusual which will undoubtedly bring its consequences.
interviews in newspapers and
radios show me how Spaniards and some young Argentines are realising that
we are neither one nor two nor a thousand persons, but rather a movement. And a
movement, though nobody realises it, has its ideas, its way of living, its
a more appropriate correspondence to the situation of living so far away from
each other, will do us all good.
on my part, leaving aside some aspects of reality, will be occupying myself
more each day in this question of the correspondence which is for the
time being, the only mean which we can count on to collaborate with the famous
each other should be more than an obligation, a right.
little reality doesn't harm anyone. After two years of living in this foreign
country I start feeling that living will be possible. Little by little people
are recognising my effectiveness in reality. All the children and all the
adolescents attend public schools or institutes.
say good-bye with the conviction that if we are read, we will be awarded an
Madrid, October 22nd, 1978:
I have only one illusion left, making films. I calculate that in 25 years more or less I'll have finished my first full-length film.
November 18th, 1978:
you like to visit Europe?
listen to tangos and remember my city, but without
knowing very well what such things mean.
Clung to the ambiguous laws of the past,
A patio, some wisteria, A crooked stone pavement, Little cardboard stars among the kites.
I remember everything, baby.
The sky and Troy.
The furious hop-scotch and your swan steps and your frank,
deliberate fall into hell.
you like to visit Europe?
throw the windows wide open, to let the morning tranquilly run
through the house.
I don't wait for answers from the wind, nor the crazy scent that the
winds from the ocean bring.
I write because writing is an art.
A way of spending life as any other. And if I don't hope from the
wind the snores, nor from the highest mountains the famous signal.
If I don't expect love words for me. If the encounter is always
fierce, multiple, then I'm a group
A morning of scents against the scents of the past.
A constant, excessive perspiration. A permanent bile.
A tango and its sway, can you imagine?
The vertigo of a backward step and its memory.
you like to visit Europe?
I write slowly, without startling. As if I were
surrounded only by immensities.
I would like to hold a long conversation with you in the dinning
room of Carbonero and Sol.
I listen to flamenco, because flamenco has something from tango.
Some illusion half accomplished. A discovery and its beheading.
Trying a second page is trying to take away from the morning all its
Since a week ago I have gone back to painting. If you would see my
last paintings you would notice some change in me.
I'm able to paint human faces. I mean that I'm able to paint gazes,
smiles, austere gestures or general distraction.
My birds of last year have become eyes and faces. And in one week
I have progressed years. I'll send you photographs.
you like to visit Europe?
and Sol is a unique experience. Owen and Fourier would
What is Utopian is Utopian for a type of reason.
A measure of what is true is a measure of what is fantastic.
A reasonable fact, and this was known to the ancients, out of what
is called a context, loses its reason.
Experiments can be done according to prefixed laws or one can
experiment precisely on the same law.
A sort of a red-hot experience, but in green.
I have my coffee, I roll my own tobacco with my own hands, 1978
vintage, and I listen to tangos.
November 19th, 1978
die, to live, to love eternity and also the sun and the rainy days and your wet
hair in an evening when you were 17 and the unforgettable glow of your eyes.
don't you write to me? Is it that you want me to expulse you from the movement?
policy, the policy of Cero Group considers man and his possibilities of
creation. I ambition a community where man, woman, can live with pleasure and,
why not also with pain, but live 200 years. That is all that I ambition, as you
can see, a foolishness.
Madrid, March 1st, 1979:
have read your letter hurriedly, crazily, simply.
have read your letter as one reads the wall posts of the parties one loves.
tenderness, I have read your letter with tenderness, with ease, with the full
spirit of life.
the anxiety of knowing that whatever you say will do me good.
Oh, madness and its reasons, an endless number of turns around the same
thing, without anything looking like a lie, all true.
writing impacts me and I ask myself why, precisely your writing doesn't appear
in any publication of Cero Group in Madrid or in Buenos Aires.
willow trees border my contours, I'm a moor and its circuits of reference, a
sort of permanent summer and its fruit. Nocturnal thistles for my skin of child
you for conceiving, between us, a meting at the edge of the jungle, surrounded
by natives frightened by the precision of our dialogue.
in unknown precious gems, I jump once more: Any
old age is a failure of the intelligence.
say, when intelligence is not able any more, then we'll have to expose the body
and we'll start to grow old.
is a model (sometimes they criticise us that) and, also, spinning desperately
around the stellar spaces, is a model. And drinking mist and remaining perfectly
embalmed in a memory, is also a model.
with this small letter, where what I want to tell you though not at all evident,
is the great joy that your letter produced in me, I'm sending you the last book
I have published: GRUPO CERO; ESE IMPOSIBLE Y PSICOANALISIS DEL LIDER (Cero
Group, that Impossibility and Psychoanalysis of the Leader), for me an
AN UNLIMITED DESIRE
AN UNQUESTIONABLE TENDERNESS
book written by Miguel Oscar Menassa
To get along with your partner in the Holiday Season
and during some of the working days
“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”.