INDIO GRIS No. 34 Individual Magazine of garbage collection

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 34. YEAR 2001- JANUARY, THURSDAY 18
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001

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

What is killing me, love, when nobody kills me.
I have to bear some madness in me to be able to continue.
I understand without quite understanding and that this might happen to all men and each one in particular causes me a bit of rage and a bit of laughter.

-I am somewhat defeated, the wretch said, without vitality, without strength. I do all my things but this way, without energy, without strength.
I dare to say this because lately I have known many people that with this question of depression want to stop working.

That I'm never, never, never aroused by a particular woman means that my nerves aren't very well.

Half is what I use of everything.
I don't know any machine, completely.
I don't know any work, completely.
I know any life, completely.

I've also been carried away, many times,
by intuitions, by great headings of news.

There were things that I had to go through in life,
of which I never wanted to know what they were about
and there were exquisite meals that I never tasted
and meals which I ate almost everyday,
of which I never wanted to know how they were made
and there were times when I spent
the whole day cooking for others.

When it was time for success, I succeeded half way
and I never reached the bottom of any abyss.

I never let myself be loved to the end
and, in my case,
I loved her madly but only at times.

And there were circles that broke their limits
and squares that opened to the sea.
and everything looked natural to me but half way,
I also doubted that there might exist:

-I saw her, the wretch said, I loved her and I killed her, just in case her love could chain me.

I'd be happy if in something I could put some moderation.
I have already lived 60 years intensely, now it's time to live moderately.
Only with the women that desire me.
Only with wealthy friends.
Only with well-written poetry.
And so, moderately, I'll become old.

I feel a little depressed but it is also true that I want to deceive everybody in order to be left alone, living my experiences of creation. I have to stop saying that I'm depressed. I have to separate myself from the people that don't love the Cero Group project and to say courageously:

-I must live, the wretch said, as if I were under surveillance. My passions must be secret.

I don't really know what I want, I don't know what I want, so I have a certain difficulty in obtaining what I want, that I don't know what it is.

To take care of my work whichever way, to do of my work, for some time, my life and, afterwards, I'll have some life.

He who can't, to the garbage can, shouted the wretch, that love will arrive soon.

If I can go on thinking that what we're doing is good (correct), what we're doing will be correct.

But it happens that I, sometimes want to abandon myself. I am too, attacked sometimes by childish moralities.

Something that can hold itself without my efforts, that'll be good when I grow old.

I'd like to begin with my social essays. Some love in politics and some politics in love.

She does everything possible for me not to listen to her, and of course, I don't listen to her.

Later, in subsequent years, she'll say that she was cured because I listened to her as no one had done before.

-I have to stop with love affairs, the wretch said. I have to let poetry advance over all of us.
Let knowledge destroy our morale.
If I wouldn't have read the great poets I'd feel like an extraterrestrial.
Though I must recognise that I don't any longer feel nor a genius, nor a jerk. I have started to grow up.

I am somewhat scared or a lot,
I live as if I were frightened,
as if I wouldn't have paid my taxes,
as if I had looked at what I shouldn't
or I would have taken possession of my work.

What a bad time I have had, how bad,
crouching the whole day to avoid
the bullet which would hit directly between the eyes,
if I hadn't lived crouched these last years.

It was the part of the sewers that jutted out,
with my head at ground level I knew love,
with my head twisted to see the aggressor arrive,
I discovered her legs of brilliant nudity.

I wanted to kiss her mother-of-pearl and delirious buttocks,
and my lips kissed the sidewalk with fervour.

The beautiful woman made fun of my things,
she pretended to be dancing over my head
and threw me a kiss with her hand when parting,
indifferent,
as if I could grasp any kiss.

Afterwards, at a trot, she moved her hips intentionally,
Telling me, perhaps, that if I loved her I should follow her.

I asked the first passer-by
if he could help me to get up,
and the poor man, tenderly asked me, why?
is a love dream perhaps worrying you?
It's a limitless love I told the footman,
a love that while going away wants me free.
free of feet, of hands, of words,
all for love.

A gigantic wave that the ocean cannot abandon,
A gigantic wave that the ocean wants to abandon.

"I am tense, I have appetites, hungers of millenniums and now they'll want to content me with some piece of cheese, excrescence of some pastoral cow, or the same cow beaten to death and quartered on the table, recalling ancient rites, where men ate each other, and that was love.
               I stab my small knife mercilessly into the cow's heart and the cow moos, it tears itself with passion in front of the murderer. I, with surgical precision, separate grease and nerves and I give my beloved one a morsel from the cow's burnt ovaries.
               -We're free, she says to me, while she entertains herself with the noise of her teeth trying to chew the burnt parts of the universe. Later, lighter, making a mirage of everything, a lie, she says to me with ease:
               A magisterial cow that moos and murders all the time lives in me. Sometimes she seems in pain, but nothing matters to her, she knows that she was born to be beaten to death, and then she shits everywhere and the mad flowers eat what is essential of shit and grow rapidly towards the future."

A 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”.

Juan-Jacobo Bajarlía