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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 60 YEAR II EDITORIAL She
told me with juvenile ease: -You
are the only one who makes me realise that I can't fight my desire. 10
years ago I had no desire. Now that I have desires I can't handle them. I can't
very well stand having those desires. If
we wait another 10 years, still and silent, I will have desires and I will be
able to handle them, but nothing of what is mine will have to do with you. I
didn't mean to tell her anything but I said to her: THERE WAS A CURTAIN THAT DID NOT OPEN
LOVE, DARLING, LOVE She
knew all the crafts, Always
in the silent expectancy, Journeys
of moons over moons, neck
of emperatiss, fold
of the wind over my skin. Madrid,
January 21st, 1978 Letter
to our dramatist Teófilo Larriera Dear
BUBI, Reality
plays, plays with us. I live in the same house with 16 grown-ups, 4
adolescents and 5 children. Time goes by, families grow. Man flies in this
end of century towards the centre of his being, nothing will stop him. And
if I exaggerate it is to be able to talk about our possible
transformations. Before
continuing I want to tell you that your letter made me cry. The new
politics thinks that the world should be governed by great artists. I
want to tell you that your place in the movement after my Christmas card,
in which I abdicate, is among the most privileged ones. By
today's standards, you are among the few of us who have demonstrated to be
great writers and for the time being, nothing else. Don't worry,
everything will be all right. everything will be different after the
February conversations. We will talk about the next 10 years of our
lives, an entertainment which I hope will be for everybody. In
the new morality, the judges have changed, today the one who couldn't
yesterday can now, the beginning of the revolution of the senses is
inexorable.
Reason will lose its senses. Man will finally wander his own
desert. To
ambition, I ambition a profound change in modern ethics, ethics, as we
know, favours
impotence and early death. If
they let us, we can live 200 years, and don't worry, go on writing, we are
already in our track, now the only thing we must do is to pedal. Time:
our time. The limit: our writing. And for the mock to become historical, I
propose you and I propose myself to be the maximum power, I mean, the
first words of the next decade. Madrid
will do you good, because living in Madrid had done me good. Dreaming is
not bad. Death,
my dear Teófilo, doesn't exist, she is also a construction of our
desires. To
talk, what a wonderful thing it is to talk. And nevertheless, writing will
be, so the grand ones say, the new god.
I
want to tell you that this time we have fallen on our feet. I'm
not asking you too much, I only ask you for 20 years of your life, the
next ones, I only ask you to write for us for 20 years, I only ask you to
write the play of the end, the scenography of the end of the century must
be another. The famous theatre of cruelty is the product of the philosophy
of pain. To end up with it, will do us all good. A little more human. Less
Christians.
Your
theatre has the charm of revolutionary events, of the aesthetic bursts,
this time and never more. Your theatre has a scent of grandeur and it
concerns us. P.S.:
The present Jesus Christ would have shared the cross, although, truly, not
yet, the glory.
Today,
a psychoanalyst asked me:
I
undressed myself like birds do. And I sat down, like the father of my
father, at some time, sat in the desert. I
crossed my legs one over the other and extended my gaze. I wanted to be,
before those two women, the present and my ancestors, the only things I
had to offer. This
time I said: -
I don't want to leave aside any detail, I want to see you two,
nude. Not tied to your garments, but to your marks, to your own skin. I
want your bodies like the waves in the sea. Tall, nude, with your sexes
oriented , precisely towards me. They
were in silence, with their heads down. As if they were ashamed by my
words. First I thought that I had exceeded myself, then, reacting, I told
them: -
Come on! Naked like the manure in the fields. Or doesn't love exist
in the
Green Galaxy? -
My Lord, both said in unison, don't mention love in our presence,
we are its worshippers. -
And then?- I said, while I started to walk the room furiously-, and
then what is happening to you that you're unable to let your body crackle
nude in the mist? -
The time of biology- they answered in unison- is not, my dear Lord,
as you may think, the time of your reasoning. -
What? Is it that your bodies do not desire my body?- I said
furiously. -
It isn't your body, Sir; which has the limit of blood, but ours.
Today, we can't undress, we are having our menstruation. Bored,
I tried to fall asleep, but Kipuskia, with an energy in her that was
unknown to me, stopped this time my disintegration. I thought I understood
that she told me: -
No more tantrums. To bear, many things must be borne, so stop
disappearing at any moment. And if we haven't held before the conversation
we are going to hold tonight, is because after this conversation, you will
only be able to dream three times, because the fourth after this
conversation, it's called death, which means, trip to a faraway future.
Where not even my thought has ever arrived. Can you imagine?, my child,
the year 31,977, any October. -
All right -I told her- I understood. I have to remain awake for
ever. -
No, interrupted Lipuskia, at this stage in your life, before the
death's journey, you will sleep three times and only three times you will
dream. And when waking up, your journey to the unknown will have started. To
tell you the truth I didn't like much what Lipuskia had told me so then, I
replied. Without much confidence, I must say, because her speech had
sounded sincere, mine wouldn't have sounded the same way, but anyway, I
replied: The
dialectic that is born between your legs terrifies me, where the unknown
is called death and not, as I think in my little thought, that what is
known should be called death. Because she, death, nests on the contours of
our gazes, the most known. And
ending the phrase as if it were not important to me, I told her: -
Look, baby, beyond the near future, in the faraway future, we'll
find other men like us. What do you think we're going to find in the
faraway future? Monsters, perhaps, unique beings of so many words
over them, so much radiation? What are we going to find?, may be
clay and copper. -
Well, clay and copper were already found by our ancestors, and
certainly also yours. -
Souls? Of course, certainly souls is what we are going to find in
the faraway future. Come on, baby, stop fooling around. The
man is here, and will also be there. Relax now, and tell your friend that
I don't like my dick being bitten when I'm talking. The rest, baby:
SUGGESTION, POETRY. Yes,
this way, this way I want you to suck me. Till all the calcium of the
world comes out of my sex. Vitamins for the poor misguided beasts. -
Pleasure for our Lord, in the infinite sparkle of his gaze. -
Who is the one that kisses my feet so desperately, when it is my
mouth which yearns for that madness? -
Sir, we know what we're doing, her name is what your desire
indicates each time. And we will be with you, my love, and she in us… -
Wait baby, that you look just like the Mother Superior of my
neighbourhood's chapel. -
You won't abandon me now, will you? -
That she at last doubted, made me feel cosmic for an instant ( for
all it lasted) an immense power over almost everything, also over her. And
then, I drew her to my side and caressing her hair I told her: -
Look, baby, the faraway future is me.
Madrid,
May 25th, 1978 Thunder
over the waters of a pond, High
currents make my being sway from one side to the other. To
modify our feelings slowly, ANOTHER WEEK OF SOLITUDE…
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