INDIO GRIS
Weekly
magazine through Internet
Nº 53. YEAR 2001- MAY, THURSDAY 31
POETRY,
NARRATIVE, PSYCHOANALYSIS,
SOME LOVE, SOME POLITICS.
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 53
THE
INDIO GRIS, IN BECOMING ONE YEAR OLD, THANKS:
Menassa ( indiogris@grupocero.org
), Carmen Salamanca (editorial@grupocero.org)
Cristina Fernández (
grupocero@grupocero.org ), Ramón Chévez (grupocero@grupocero.org)
Fabián Menassa (pedidos@editorialgrupocero.com
), Manuel Menassa (grupocero@grupocero.org),
Translators:
Rena Schenk ( renaschenk@hotmail.com
), Nadia Ainouche (nadia84@terra.es),
Claire Deloupy (aulacero@arrakis.es),
Rosalba Pelle (rosalba33@hotmail.com
),
Mára Bellini ( marabellini@via-rs.net
), Cesira
Cignoni (elliotem@fibertel.com.ar)
Alejandra Madormo ( alemadormo@hotmail.com
),
Montse Rovira ( montse.rovira@attglobal.net
).
1
We
have already become one year of age, it's inevitable, 52 weeks stand for
something, a year has gone by for a magazine in Internet, with content, to
which nobody gave a year's life when it was born. I'm glad, above all,
thinking that this year I will be able to make known the magazine I have,
based on the 52 previous numbers that testify its success.
INDIO
GRIS,
WEEKLY
MAGAZINE THROUGH INTERNET
POETRY,
NARRATIVE, PSYCHOANALYSIS,
SOME
LOVE, SOME POLITICS.
2
The
rhythm we were able to achieve during the first year was of 720 sessions per
month. It is our objective to reach 720 sessions daily in this new year that
begins and that would be to place
Indio Gris in the air, that is to say, in the eyes of the world.
3
We,
the Grey Indians, are those who fight for the construction of a future which
will be lived by others.
We,
the Grey Indians, are those who enjoy constructing a future which we shall not
live.
After
becoming 60, you can turn into a Grey Indian, because after sixty, there's no
future for anyone unless it is shared. At sixty there is much future for
others deriving from me, and if I don't want to become jobless, I must work
for others.
Before
becoming sixty, you can turn into a Grey Indian because before sixty there is
no future for anyone if several don't collaborate for that future to exist.
And
if one is a young worker, college graduate, one can turn into a Grey Indian
because there can't be any future for any young person, without world, without
cultural heritage, without teachers, without streets, without lights. Because
there are no balls in no youth without the wisdom of a man belonging to that
youth, castrated by time.
4
With
some women, said the wretched, I end up making love because I can't stand how
they talk. Not so much because of what they say but because the way they say
it.
5
It
was easy to get rid of her. I told her that I desired her and she never set
eyes on me again.
6
If
I'd start worrying, like the neurotics around me do because of the life we're
leading, I think I'd abandon everything and would return to my country,
because I've never had one for me.
7
The
only thing that interests me is to live 200 years, the rest interests me
because it allows me to live 200 years.
8
How
terrific! I'm out of any reality and, however, I posses some reality.
9
Poetry
has broken the word,
it has extended the phrase up to the infinite,
it has embroidered, without thread and without needle,
the heart of the broken voice.
There
was a sense
which opened in a thousand pieces,
there was a love so great
that nobody could love
and there was, my love, my beloved,
great cruel lovers
who made love
with words.
10
Today
is Saturday, May 26th, a day after in all senses. The Madrid Book
Fair was inaugurated yesterday and that looked like a desert. Grupo Cero
Editorial sold 7 books. We could say 50% of everything that was sold
yesterday.
The
organisers, whom in some way I respect and in part I appreciate, are being
obstinate in believing that it isn't correct to sell books in the Book Fair.
They are like hysterics, you have to show yourself at your best, (for example,
a small editorial like ours which already has 120 titles published and sells
editions of a thousand copies each, that
are sold about half in Madrid and half in Buenos Aires, and publishes and
distributes 250.000 copies per month of two magazines free of charge, must go
to the Fair, after paying the corresponding rent and after having promised the
employees overtime payment or some other favour and must show itself, just
that, show itself), but not show that you want to sell what is shown.
The
final result of this operation is that the women and men who are in the
stands, pretend to be cultured and rich and that they aren't interested in
money and so the prospective buyers in order not to be accused of being
materialistic, stroll by Retiro and, far off they see a book which will not be
bought by anyone because in the Madrid Book Fair it is almost prohibited to
sell books.
11
Suggesting
news from a paper: "A judge from Barcelona prohibits a "gay
man" to approach another man at a distance shorter than one
kilometre".
We,
from the Indio Gris , want to ask the Judge two questions.
1
- Does he have it so long?
2
- Why is one gay and the other a man?
PS:
we realise that the one to blame is the journalist, so we ask him a question:
Why
do you think that the present society tolerates feminine homosexuality better
than masculine homosexuality? Why?
12
Today's
news headings are: "Ibarretxe leads the Democratic Union, but
Anasagasti…etc." As some of us know, the "but" shapes the
remaining of the sentence before its appearance. To see it in the example:
Ibarretxe leads the Democratic Union but is worthless, but this isn't what's
important, but that isn't what interests us. We don't know if in the
journalism schools these things are taught, that's why we advise journalism in
general (also Cebrián and Ramirez) to attend, at least for free, our good
manners workshops.
13
Today
I woke up thinking that I have already done many things for the world. Now
I'll do some things for myself: a love, a verse, a dream.
Stop
it Menassa, search in the right path and you'll find what is found in the
right path.
14
On
Saturday I almost die from laughing so much. The people from Babelia are now
publishing a weekly poem (by the way, awful) trying to imitate Cero Group, but
the poor devils haven't realised yet that Cero Group publishes two daily
poems. One unpublished, written by one of the members of Cero Group Poetry
workshops and another one already published by the renowned poets.
I
don't want to disturb anybody but without knowing how to write, without
knowing how to select good poetry and doing it only once a week, I don't think
those poor God's creatures can surpass me in something. And if for the time
being they pretend that they're spending more money than us, we, in due time,
we'll also pretend.
15
Walking
through our city's streets, Madrid, and seeing so many desperate people,
crazy, lonely to death that, we must admit, makes us afraid of living
tranquilly, happily, knowing that everything will change, at least for us. It
makes us feel ashamed, afraid, among such violence, pest, iniquities, to write
delicate poems where love can achieve almost everything.
Among
such misery, to love beauty seems to be a moralistic thing, the chained rhythm
of words between each other, producing poetry, to go on in love with love, of
its shapes, of its way of reigning.
We
recognise to be chained, like words, to our desires, to our encounters, to our
way of conversing.
I
am the small light that returns from death,
the
small animal chant of the stars,
the cursed bird that will die singing.
Back
away,
let nobody touch the invisible treasure that hides in my verses.
Back away,
this woman's lover is me,
the absurd melancholic poet,
he who polishes this ivory from ancient times.
Back away merchants,
take your dirty hands off the true body of love.
She belongs to us,
this century, the true dance,
Poetry will dance it in us.
16
This
is almost advertising:
The
members of Cero Group workshops have presented in the Madrid Book Fair, 12
(twelve) novelties. If you can find another workshop like ours we'll return
your mind, if not consult us.
17
I
close this first anniversary number with an idea that is superior to me,
I need two million pesetas every day, of every month, so that
Cero Group can also have its own newspaper.
I
can imagine the paper tycoons, when they hear about my dreams,
shitting themselves from pure fear.
18
|
MENASSA
IN MADRID RETIRO BOOK FAIR June
3rd:
LETTERS
TO MY WIFE June
10th:
MONOLOGUE
BETWEEN THE COW AND THE
MORIBUND STAND
4 |
19
CERO
GROUP PSYCHOANALYSIS
Free
admittance with prior registration
From
10 a.m. to 2 p.m.:
Submission of reports and discussion forums.
From 3 p.m. to 4 p.m.:
Projection room (videos, recitals and lectures)
From 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.:
Encounter groups.
From 6 p.m. to 8 p.m.:
Submission of reports and discussion forums.
From 8 p.m. to 10 p.m.:
Events: Recitals, presentation of books, theatre
performances
and celebrations.
Junta
Municipal de Moncloa
Plaza de Moncloa, 1 - 28008 Madrid
Información: 91 542 33 49
20
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."