INDIO GRIS Nº 43- Einpersonen-zeitschrift zur ansammlung von müll

INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 43. YEAR 2001- MARCH, THURSDAY 22
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

We were at the scaffold.
This time it was the turn for hanging.
A perfect white rope around your pearl-like neck.
Broken hearing.
White and scented murmur that reaches the shores of the soul,
and there, precisely, dies.
No one was equal to anyone.
One by one, we were dying because of our own dreams.

While I'm writing, a thousand conceptions of the phrase and of the
world and of life, mix up in my mind, more than encouraging me
to keep on writing, they call me to rest, to rest lying on the own centre of death.

I love no gesture, because I'm different to all gestures.
Because I own a crazy and poisoned dick and robust primitives colours
in my gaze, perfect and almost definite ones.

In a thousand directions, and I state well what happens to me,
I set off in a thousand directions,
Because a thousand are the directions of the illusion in my gaze.

I neither have love for me.
I don't even love my verses.
Everything is a condemnation.
Certain small bubbles of the sea at dawn.
Certain chanting rocks.
I am a man poisoned by his own blood.
The drama is perfect.
A man almost killed by his own creation.
A sort of modern and quartered god.
A true son-of-a-bitch.
A stubborn man, making the world believe that his information is the
indelible details of life. The rest, simple manias of tedium or of fleeing.
I am a unique man, split and multiple.
I adapt myself to nothing.
At the same moment of the atomic explosion,
I remembered it as vividly as the burst,
my mother kissed me in the lips.

I don't feel like writing anything that people would like me to write.
Everything is more complex this way, because lately people ask for anything.
It seems that I could move towards any direction as there will always
be someone with me trying, though he may not know how to, to do
what has been chosen.
Before the pleasure of action, they will make me feel, in all cases, the
responsibility of the action.
A hole where great amounts of shit can fit, it's also a story.
There were always leaders, and they were always obstinate and stupid
and they always believed too much in their own plans and some of
them even came to be capricious and tyrants, and foolish and vicious
and nevertheless the famous humanity remembers them in an incredible
way, and places their names among stones and unforgettable ornaments.
And there was always shit among the flowers and little, kind and
humanistic men who in order to improve man's condition, were capable
to kill 500,000 people in only one gesture.
The two previous lines seem to lack sense in the text for me, as if
someone different to the writer I know would have dictated me those
two lines which have now produced this point of no return, this
incalculable deviation.
My son pretends to kill me with a faked gun. My daughter, laughing,
tells me that I'm still alive and that I can go on writing.
In reality I don't know what to do. And I burst into tears.

I dedicate this book like the flowers or the birds are dedicated to the sun.
To the songs.
To all who died for their country, and also this time, to the ones
who haven't died yet.
To me. I dedicate this book to me.

A book I wrote slowly through the nights.
Which I slowly corrected alone, among children's games.
A book which I took to the printer, escaping among the smiles of my beloved ones.
To all the animals of the world.
To the one who asks for bread, and to the one who refuses to give it.
To Cero Group for having allowed me such solitude.
To the "Enlarged Family" Community, Carbonero y Sol, for having
exposed its beauty in front of my eyes.
A family, that like many other families, and in spite of all the efforts,
couldn't put a stop to my solitude.
To Carlos Gardel and to Hegel, because of man and woman they say
the same thing.
To Spain, destroyed land, God's land, because of wanting to conquer
what is unconquerable.
Especially to Madrid, because in spite of all the obstacles that are
placed to any Latin-American to live there, I have been resisting for two years.
And if it would be all about comparing, the word jungle appears in
front of me, small, known.
Wandering and unsettled woman. Always at the reach of a hand.
If after reading this book someone persists in being my friend, I
dedicate it to him.
Names, I don't want to give because we all suffer.
And in that suffering, we were all enemies.
Everyone, severe lovers of the past.
Hungry dogs.
We only dared to ask for a little bread and sex.
And she became god.
Universal donor.
Flesh and martyrdom.
I also dedicate it to her.
turbid and melancholic, for her to tie the dedicatory to her neck, and
walk me around the world.
In general, Thanks to all of you.

Turns of the wind or else,
gusts of tiny corpuscles speeding towards death,
diverted our destiny.
We are, since two years ago, foreigners to everything.
We will be losing the warmth of our gaze as days go by,
that heat, burning in our eyes, when we lived in a land
whose scents in mid spring, smelt the odour of our body.
We were, before the catastrophe,
before the burst in a thousand fragments, normal people.
Doctors, lovers of freedom.

Writers, lovers of freedom.
In brief, we were in general
sordid lovers of freedom.
Ladies and gentlemen, parents and children,
we had an ensured future.

We said to each other that a bit of craziness, couldn't harm anybody.
And we locked ourselves in large, solitary bedrooms,
to tell each other that craziness was contagious,
and we laughed and looked for the sun,
between the legs of our women and we were happy.

And while we were happy, we realized that looking for the sun,
was like stubbornly meeting the night.
To love the sun was also to love the stubbornness of its dialectics.
Appearing and disappearing.
Luminous encounters to sink later
deeper and deeper each time, in the emptiness of the night.

Some unexpected absence,
some body
putrefying, all of a sudden, under the sun,
marked the passing of time.
From deception into deception,
we were taught that we owned nothing.

Why talk?
we were told then.
Why ask?
And they started to lock us in our own bodies,
and in our own body
they started to mark with fire their tables of the law,
and tied by the incredible illusion of not dying,
they almost killed us.
A strong and frozen nocturnal whistling forever.
An unquestionable endless night.
A sudden and mortal detention,
-unsustainable for our body-,
in the hands
where we had placed our lives,
not to die.
To be slaves was clearly not enough.
And then, came the tremor,
a cosmic tremor,
beyond our reasoning,
beyond our madness.
Beyond all the words that had been pronounced
and without knowing what to do,
trembling among the rubbles,
it was our turn to set sail.
and setting sail it was,
to burst into a thousand fragments of liquid gold across the world.
And setting sail it was,
not able ever to return to the same place,
not able ever to return to the same time.

If we look for something,
we look for everything that is missing to us,
not only the unconscious.
Not only the warm scents of our childhood.
not only the brief fluttering of a prohibited desire.
We want to have between us,
all our life.
A body made to resist the contingencies of the destinies.
A word, closer to the blood than to the words.
We want to have between us,
-like the Aztec flower growing in the desert,
like an uncertain light in the middle of darkness-
some unforgettable verses.
We know, nevertheless, that living
is always a delirious project.
everything is right and everything is wrong.

Woman, man,
debate their being with the few words they know.
A sort of small prayer in the middle of a crowd.
A small god on the verge of dying
against the immensity of atomic particles,
growing everywhere.

The bleeding silver buffalo on the verge of extinguishing,
the last herd of light, on the verge of being executed,
at the edge of pronouncing his first words:
We are here. We were what in man dies:
solitude.

"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