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INDIO GRIS
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2001 WE
DON'T KNOW HOW TO SPEAK BUT WE DO IT IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
INDIO
GRIS, IS A PRODUCT INDIO GRIS Nº 55 YEAR
II EDITORIAL Speaking
was the most fascinating experience of my life. I could feel how a tremor ran
through your body when listening to me. Now, just after Thursday noon, I'm
preparing myself for our encounter. I sleeked my hair, I washed my teeth, I came
to think that when I'd read my poem aloud to you, you'd know everything about
me. I smiled showing my white teeth to the camera, which reunited us in an
immortal photogram. You
listened to yourself enrapt. I stopped looking at you and sang: I'M
THE SINGER I'm
the singer, I told her smiling, I
know that it isn't decent to love life so much, Nevertheless,
you and I could Though
truly, nobody wants it, Madrid,
February 4th, 1977 I
write to tell you that everything is going wrong. The
law, In
certain positions, my beloved, Your
weeping, The
law, Madrid,
February 11th, 1977 Seven
days without writing to you and it was due to pain. I
lost all of my days, all of my planets. Let's
blow up its foundations. Madrid,
February 20th, 1977 After
all, your love does me good. I
promise not to ask questions about your truthfulness. Your
cries to the air Madrid,
March 23rd, 1977 A
month and days without writing to you. Only
the moon and its four winged masks, A
month without writing to you and without writing to my friends. A
real month Only
poetry and revolts of the taste, were possible. Only
the lying of your eyes fixed in my eyes,
35 years of age married
woman.
Today, she arrived nervous, lost, opaque. -
Today I want to talk about the quarrel I had with him on Saturday
about some nonsense. It was a historical quarrel. He didn't allow me to
express sadness and I had a fit. Later I was cold and distant, I was
someone else. At some moment he started to cry, and I, not to be less than
him, did so too. Afterwards, we were once again distant. THERE ISN'T,
THERE ISN'T, THERE ISN'T… He
tries several times, but I don't know what happens to me. A barrier,
something very strong prevents me from being with him. I am as if I were
anaesthetised, I look for excuses. I say that his lack of sociability
kills my desire. I
have to make an effort, you know doctor, to save my marriage. But what
happens is that he never needs anything and besides I don't want to be the
only one. Why
didn't I split when he was going around with another woman? Because at
that point, I craved for him like a mad woman. That's why I didn't split. (In
reality she stays with him because she feels like a little thing and when
he desires her exclusively, he turns into a little thing and then she
cannot desire him. If they continue like this, they will end up each one
disguising as the other. She fears and desires at the same time -that
maddens her- meeting, some day, a man, a macho. That is what never
happened to her. The idea of meeting a man, even though this man can be
her own husband, fascinates and maddens her at the same time. She is
afraid of losing in such an experience, all her money, her true
love.)
Yesterday
night everything was terrific. I wanted to make love to both of them. And
both were once more separated. She (the other) went to sleep to my bed.
The Other (she) wanted to depilate her legs in the kitchen. First I made
sure that the one sleeping, was asleep. And then I told the one who was
depilating herself in the kitchen, to bring me a coffee to bed once she
finishe
I lay down, being careful not to make any noise when I took off my
clothes. I rolled a pot cigarette and waited. When she came with the
coffee, I told her to sit by my side and we started to smoke. The other
one was sleeping.
While she, with almost unnoticed movements of her body, sat with
her legs open, enfolding her knees with her hands, on top of my right
foot.
That way, each time she moved to hand me the cigarette, the big toe
of my right foot got slightly into the thick mass of her sex. The other
one moved as realising what was happening, but kept sleeping.
Using both feet, pushing and pulling her towards me, with my feet
hooked under her arms, I was able to change her position. Now her mouth
lay warmly on my genitals. Her long hair caressed the other's bare
buttocks with each movement, who, in the mean time, slept.
Having achieved that position, I flexed my legs and let her mouth,
anxious to suck, in front of my buttocks.
And everything was brief violin sounds disappearing in the night.
The pleasure was different to other times. This time silence was
pleasure too.
Any man would do the same thing I had just done! Having my ass
sucked by
the other while she slept.
Coffee was cold. She, half asleep, told me that she had dreamed of
making love in a terrific way: -
I'm exhausted, she says to me, I had many orgasms. -
What a coincidence!, I answered her, the same thing happened to me,
and we embraced tenderly one against the other and fell asleep.
El
País, Thursday June 7th, 2001
And, who acquits the jury, the American people, justice? El País, Thursday June 7th, 2001
El País, Thursday June 7th, 2001
That
a'boy! El País, Thursday June 7th, 2001 In
not being able to bomb it,
El País, Thursday June 7th, 2001
And,
with their hands busy, they masturbate with the El
País, Thursday June 9th, 2001
Babelia
defends animals because they don't have writers to
HE
(OR SHE)
IS ME Buenos
Aires, 7/6/01 Dear
friend and poet: I
have just received two of your books: Letters To My Wife and Monologue of
the Cow and the Moribund. Two autobiographic books, full of poetry and
enigmas solved by an ageless fighter through whose blood only fervour and
the will to battle endlessly, circulate. Or, as Guillaune Apollinaire
would say, that poetry which flows like lava and becomes transfigured into
ardent reason. Two immense books written by the same poetry, by a poet
whose name is Menassa and who is able to descend into the Labyrinth,
disguised as a ruminant to annihilate the Minotaur. Because he is no
longer Theseus, the distructor of that devouring monster, but a cow that
seems to come from a matriarchal age where it elided all inconveniences.
Or, like Engels wrote, where udders fed and
rebuilt the world. Because,
really that is you: a father-udder who builds everything with his superb
poetry, which at times cleans the world up of an ancient discouragement
and, on the other hand,
he multiplies in letters where his beloved is not the woman who
makes her curves clink, but his same passion that identifies woman with
poetry itself. Undoubtedly,
they are two autobiographic books, but in code, where the beloved is you
yourself, and the cow is a pure game of indulgences that protects and
nurses the world. A labyrinth of codes to decipher to reach the highest
peak, as an intense Rimbaud recalled one day. If this one wrote I, he is another
one, you have made real: he (or she) is me. A
friendly embrace,
Juan
Jacobo Bajarlía PS.:
In the dedicatory of Letters To My Wife, you have drawn a couple that in
Enriqueta's opinion are you and Olga, or me and Enriqueta. Another enigma.
Madrid,
June 12th,2001
To
Juan Jacobo Bajarlía:
Dear Maestro:
I felt touched when I realised that to talk about my last two books
you have used the sayings of two highly qualified poets, of the old man
Engels and besides I consider it charming to have transformed myself into
a cow, exterminator of evil and at the same time, while the cow
exterminates all evil on the surface of the Earth, as if I were my
beloved, I dedicate my best verses to myself.
This
reminds me that a few days ago in the book fair, when I had to dedicate
The monologue between the cow and the moribund to Olga, I wrote
that I would make a confession to her: the cow is me. Thank you for existing,
Miguel Oscar Menassa PS.: In reading again your book on avant-gardism in Spain and America to send it to print, I considered it a necessary publication for those who sail in Spanish, though in two different cultures. Thanks again, |
