Nº 42. YEAR 2001- MARCH,  THURSDAY 15



Indio Gris



Madrid, July 26th, 1978


It took me a lifetime to learn your names, a lifetime to forget them, a lifetime to remember in an instant, all instants.

In a man's life there aren't many things that happen by chance, not even the fact that your names are reunited in one sole letter.

With each one, at least, a love story,
with each one, at least, a story of hatred.
                                                         And nevertheless we could never speak well
of our edges,
                    who is who,
                                       whose thing belongs to whom.
And this way we passed our time going off at the tangent,
                                                                                 to clash, what you may call clashing,
we never did.
This, in Cero Group, isn't a virtue, but rather a symptom as we all know.
                                                                         Clashing for the sake of clashing is neither good.
I don't know what the proposal must be,
                                                       to chat, to write to each other, to start telling each other, little by little, that we are psychoanalysts and writers and that we all in general have our expectations.

I don't very well know if you know my desires, I don't know if I know  yours, in general I don't very well know if desire exists.

And it isn't, as you may come to think, that desire doesn't exist because of an intention to oppose fashionable theories, but because all existence presupposes a god, a marvel of the being, beyond man.

I mean to say that to solve crossword puzzles is an entertainment, and that psychoanalysis is a science; that's why it can't lack transformation spirit.

Any method that doesn't transform itself in the transformations it produces, goes rusty, becomes useless, cruel, a paper father, a dry mother.

Sometimes, I recall the sea, some fierce phrase against the waves, some unforgettable phrase.

I recall those days in which our only task was looking for the sun.

I recall  our tremor in our findings
and, nevertheless,

I would like to start everything from scrap.

To start losing memories slowly to be able to swim, to be able to understand that beyond the Oedipal constellation, desires are attainable, not in their function, as in dreams or in symptoms, but in their social content.

We must know that a group is the beyond of the Oedipal constellation, therefore its desires are always a modified reality.

Madrid Cero Group Editorial is a fact, its foundation took place yesterday, July 25th, and in reality this decision of ours was one of the reasons for this letter. I want to tell you that one of the reasons for this letter was or would be in  some place, the proof  of the state of the method and the method said yesterday that these decisions equally concern everyone, also us.

A decision among eight is a great decision, even if it might be to disagree.

I don't care for the direction the grupal phenomena may take, they continue to impress my being day after day.

Waiting for your answers
I salute you, with the salutation we may conceive for each other.

PS.: I'm finishing my new book which will be called CERO GROUP; THAT IMPOSSIBLE AND PSYCHOANALYSIS OF THE LEADER., where throughout the 350 pages, the ingenuity of the current scientific methods  and the old age and antiquity of many of the ideological methods dominating our relations are exposed.

A writing, which slowly touches everything, couldn't have been conceived by only one man. That we are a group is more than a statement. Don't make me believe that I'm the writer, though I might say it myself. First because  myself doesn't exist. And second because the novelty of our writing, and it's not only me saying this, the new style that many critics mention is due to the fact that the writing is grupal. And we'll find out in due time what it wants to say about us.


Madrid, July 30th, 1978


WE ARE A CATASTROPHE AREA, without family, almost without money for the requirements of a reality like this, without our childhood memories, not that we aren't decent people, but because we are foreigners, and this in Europe is serious, very serious.

Without health care in a country where Medicine is behind about 50 years on our conceptions of Medicine, and I don't exaggerate. Without assets, so that for this reality we don't offer any guarantee, being as we are more women and children than men, that, in any other place, would be highly beneficial, considering our personality, here in this country where we must go on living, women don't exist legally, and children are born with a high percentage of stupidity that make them a burden more than a joy.

Forceps are almost a common practise in most childbirth because most Spanish obstreticians are against screams, and a way of hurrying the birth here, is similar to the conception of the vile tourniquet or the electric chair. First the mother is anaesthetised with total anaesthesia (something that we have always opposed to in childbirth), and as if this were not enough, because of haste the anaesthesia is applied before time, and therefore the normal physiological regulation of the act of giving birth, becomes insufficient and that's when these crazy men, with the woman already anaesthetised, can't think of anything better than applying forceps. As you can imagine, in Spain the rate of mutilations during children's growth is incredibly high. They make an improper use of antibiotics, they prescribe them for anything and take them away without reason, without ever considering the evolution process of the bacteria that is being attacked with the antibiotic. Therefore there are abundant reinfections and wrong treatments.

Many doctors prescribe antibiotics for child summer diarrhea achieving in many cases a worsening of the child's condition. I haven't yet found out how they treat the polemic bronchitis, but I imagine that they might stick a red-hot iron in the child's ass. And let's not talk about education, where there are still teachers who stubbornly teach the best way of submitting oneself.

I don't want to exaggerate, but I think we did everything wrong, excuse me, I'm in condition of saying that this time I was wrong, and that my error, let's face it, with the help of all of you, lasted from August 22nd of '76 through July 25th of 1978. It's impossible to start all over again, considering that we can't return to Argentina and another country is for us unthinkable due to our means. So let's stay in Spain, but the way we did so far is impossible. 

Spain is, if something, the place chosen by Buenos Aires Cero Group for their cultural expansion. This means, not more and not less than                  creating in Spain a space which enjoying certain connections with reality, strong enough as not to doubt of our knowledge, a space like that one in which the fundamental modifications of our lives were thought.

In one word, it was a sort of conquest of a new territory and that wasn't  an evil doing, or because somebody wanted to seize any power, but by a grupal decision, by which one of the most important thinkers of the group was designated for such a quest.. This situation must come to an end, the meeting force must be grupal.

For all this not to be a vane perfume, Madrid must accept, beyond all growth, the dependence with Buenos Aires Cero Group - our true brothers - and Buenos Aires Cero Group has to realise that for conquering, it's necessary to have men, money, help, ideological collaboration and who knows how many other things, and to know that only after some years there will be positive results.

I estimate around 10 years, working very hard and together with your ideological and economical collaboration, for us to be able to see the project of August '77  completed for 120 families (enlarged) here in Spain, our hospitals, our schools, our ways of love, our ways of being born, or else  our own ways of being born. I wrote once more be born, when I should have said die. It's clear, death doesn't exist, it is also a construction of our desires. For this to become true we must build our lives with our own desires. We must be that imagined machine.

It's about explaining in the best possible way, which would have to be our way of functioning editorially. And this isn't all, I want to say to you that   based on  that model of functioning that we propose for our Editorial, we could start thinking of the social security services for all the members of Cero Group who are away from Argentina.

My plans, I want you please to understand, are neither preposterous nor scandalous nor megalomaniac, they are absolutely necessary plans.

As I can perceive at this stage of the events, it isn't an economic problem, nor mine, or of any of us who live Madrid, 500, 1000 or whatever wouldn't suffice, it has to do with the survival in "health" of all the movement, including Buenos Aires Cero Group. Only a pact, a clear project among all, a permanent collaboration among all the members wherever they live.

An idea, a word, that will allow us to found what we had in mind and we were prepared for.

Among this disarray of ideas I have, I think that we have to do something first, to create if not a maternal/infantile hospital, at least as a minimum, a small psychoprophylactic team of our own. With the necessary legal connections to be able to develop the treatment of pregnant women and the first years of the child's growth, done entirely by our professionals. Between the immediate examples, we could say that between 15 children of less than 6 years old and 10 about to be born or being born, are enough children  for the well-being of a good paediatrician and his family.


MADRID, 1978


We knew everything
                              about war,
                                             we feel nauseated.

The mortified fleshes,
                            the chests covered with blood,
the souls,
                             drawn out of their places and thrown away
forever in the emptiness.
Since then we advise
                                 no more roots,
never again for us,
                                    the illusion of owning.

We carry death with us,
                                         we are humans.
The caricature of the unspeakable.
                                                       A war of words,
against biology,
                                                    against modern physics.

We are
the great alternative,
                                 the non-atomic sex.
The truth,
the perfect symptom.
                                    I am
the only one who doesn't change,
                                             death goes by,
and even though,
                              I keep myself young.
Shit goes by,
                       and yet
                                    I keep my scents,
my virginal ass,
                           my wife, undamaged,
my passports and love,
                                         in order.

Poet all my life,
               I didn't need of my body
                                                        to live.
To the voracious claims of justice,
                                             I kept giving words,
I am for that reason,
                                 the only piece of the system
that is complete.

My body 
                  doesn't exist.

This time,
                 to come,
                               we have for prestige.
We are 
                 the sewer cleaners,
                                    the stingy people,
the last searchers of lice,
                                      the laughingstock,
the ones who emigrated without knowing,
                                                          the foreigners.

We are,
                 my love,
                                 the swell of shit
                                                      against antiquity.

The ones in charge of touching
                                    the ass of the enfant terrible,
of the beautiful and tiny porcelain cups,
and to your queen's pose,
among the highest treetops.

We are
               the barbarians,
                                      we come,
to say it in someway,
                               to prick balloons.




 "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

Indio Gris