INDIO GRIS
INDIVIDUAL
MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 44. YEAR 2001- MARCH, THURSDAY 29
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
INDIO GRIS Nº 44
1
December
1978
PSYCHOANALYSIS
OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
2nd
FRAGMENT
And
a synthesis is also a pact with someone.
A conciliation of the letter with politics.
"I is zero" has no
explanation.
It can't be reduced to something that has an end.
Nor to the universe.
Padlock of the opening, "I is
zero", is the staging
of what is just beginning.
We are in the era of the tremor.
He
who speaks gets a forfeit.
He who writes is a solitary.
We are in a stage
where reality mixes with action,
the rest, for the time being, we
should know,
psychotherapy for the inexpert souls,
for the ones who without wanting it,
and as if bearing a misfortune,
sustain the dominant ideology.
The
Great Ideology,
the one which comes printed in the
proteins of the milk.
And action will then mean, radiant
transformation,
verifiable
in the field of social relations,
where, as we have already said, the
ethic of the powerful is developed.
Considering Psychoanalysis, Marxism,
Poetry,
we say that they are only instruments
of knowledge.
Among us it isn't necessary to
salvage anyone.
Rifles, religions, poverty,
are the patrimony of a murderous
dialectic.
Where what is legalized is slavery
and the death penalty.
And a love, codified in the field
of fidelity and security,
clearly speak
of
the effects on man of a dialectic,
which doesn't accept, not even in its
transformations,
the existence of more than two terms.
Where one has the gift
and the other one, the desire.
A theory built by indigenous people
foreseeing the discovery of the
specular possibility.
A religion built on the fear of
death,
results in a pro-slavery society,
where pleasure has always to do with
death,
because desire is owned by he who
doesn't know,
he who owns nothing,
he who has no doubts,
in the end
desire is owned by a perfect idiot,
condemned to death.
Where knowledge has to do with power,
since he who is able, because
of power, doesn't desire and knows.
As we may see a theory of pain, in
every direction.
We oppose everything.
Nothingness is also questioned.
From drugs,
we still accept some of their medical
uses.
Drugs, in general,
promise a resolution through faster
ways than the habitual ones.
And though it's true that what is
habitual
should
not necessarily be a model of life,
it's also true that there doesn't
exist a drug known
to have solved the problem of time.
We say that any drug, including
alcohol,
when it tries to be more than a
skirmish of knowledge,
becomes
sterilized, it rots, exactly the same,
as the beloved dead woman between
one's arms.
Necrophilia is prohibited in all
cases.
And about the current sexuality we
think
that it's organized on the pillars of
supply and demand.
Heterosexuality and homosexuality are
clearly
forms of a dialectic where the
feminine and the masculine
(finally two union organisations),
rule the destiny of humanity.
Love, as we may see, doesn't exist.
Claims exist for the time being.
Nothing happens yet to man and woman.
2
December
1978
PSYCHOANALYSIS
OF THE LEADER IN EXILE
3rd
Fragment
Today
I become 38
and in becoming 38,
the only thing I see clearly is
how people kill each other everywhere.
To stand for an idea,
since some centuries ago,
is deciding who is going to be killed,
or else, if one is a common citizen,
is to decide who is going to kill you.
A perverse world, I insist,
where everything has to do with death.
For the time being I want to take no decision.
To Kill or Die. Two ways of living in
which I'm not interested.
38 years and I question my life once
more.
How do I want to live? What is
living?
And this way I go through life
feeling that
I don't want to be a drunkard,
and I don't want to be a drug addict,
and I don't want to be a scientist,
and I don't want to be a poet,
and man and woman
seem to me too little for mankind.
And monogamic families make me sick
and also faggots.
To defend in general, I defend no one.
Religion is sinking among substantial figures.
Mathematics overflow their
possibilities of transformation of what is
as time goes by it will become a
dogma.
The sun is extinguishing.
Atomic energy escapes all controls.
Hiroshima is forgotten.
Russia recedes.
And the famous paper tigers
are about to eat part of the rice.
Humanity is taking a disconcerting
course
and that is running me over.
What would I like? I'd like to get on well
with someone
and even though I write,
that
the fluctuation of intersubjectivity
is too familiar for the great world.
That is what it seems to me.
I prefer to be confident on my
strength of work
and however my writing is
sanguineous,
vital, difficult to sell.
I don't care for literature,
and I don't know very well what life
is.
Sometimes I think
life has not yet begun.
To be a breeze or else a gust of wind
are for the time being
the so natural ambitions of any
passion.
Man is debating in his self, he wants
to be but can't.
He can and when he can, it doesn't
interest him any longer.
The eyes, the mouth, the anus, an
open soul,
or else a close heart,
are yet the limits of such
impossibility.
Holes that are too small
for
man to fall through them into the being.
Blood and shames, marine milks,
turbulent breasts for the thirstiest
mouths,
opulent semen ascending through the mother-of-pearl walls of
your
cell],
are yet only onomatopoeias of what is
human.
An attempt, futile like many others,
of capturing with the name what has
been named.
My time doesn't correspond to any
chronology.
My time, more than passing by,
bursts.
More than passing slowly,
showing the little man that life goes
by,
time is an invention of the cruelty
of man
against his own dreams.
A precise limit: the night.
A
secure beginning: the morning.
As if time were a figure that can
divide itself.
A possible form, and not,
gales and dark snow, hunger and rage,
where its existence is always what I
was.
Reality is only what I say, and time
a way of continuing to believe that
reality was always there,
waiting for me, -precisely me- since
yesterday.
MENASSA IN BUENOS AIRES |
from April 16th to May 13th |
THE
COW WAS ALWAYS
A LITTLE CRAZY
MONOLOGUE
BETWEEN THE COW
AND THE MORIBUND
A
book by MIGUEL OSCAR MENASSA
"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."
5
A
PASSIONATE LOVE
AN
UNLIMITED DESIRE
AN
UNQUESTIONABLE TENDERNESS
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 |