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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 65 YEAR II EDITORIAL Today,
at last, after 40 years of trying, I feel that I'm living in the poet's house: A
portable computer, a must in these times, and a bookcase, constantly looking at
me, inciting me to read, to mix with other men, to be drawn by other verses, as
it always was. I
stop producing the Indio to become the Indio, although grey, and I declare
myself victorious. Defoliated
rumours of time They
are instants that smell rotten, I
let my hands fly The
expected Apocalypses was this page. In
the midst of a war, In
the midst of drug the
poet has been born. Here
I am, I am the possible example. I
am the disquieting fits of the language, I
am humane, terrestrial, full of din, Men
wait for a soft caress in flight this
time we also made love in Buenos Aires This
time we also made love in Buenos Aires. To
the street, to the street, she shouted when we kissed. To
the street, to the street, you could hear through the window Based
on my habit of interrupting pleasure to multiply it, DARLING, Surrendered
to a destiny which provides me with the best, the greatest, I write for
you not to think that richness and fame have separated me from you, oh,
goddess of the purest spells; completely real mirage. I
call you dear, because this way it will be known that I love you. And
nobody will go around saying that our relationship was vane or that our
kisses were not the purest of love. And if I submerge my hands in your
womb it is to define the situation with the utmost clarity. Man goes back
to earth and in the earth thousands of stories which have never been
published are consumed. That's why I'm writing to you, for the serpent of
doubt to nest forever in our hearts. A poem so that our bodies may be
immortal in that silence of love, or such a great love that at some time
may be immortalised in a poem. Oh,
darling, darling, how many times I have crumbled in your lips. Sometimes,
simply carried away by the hours of the day I would fall over you,
beloved, from great heights, always in the precise centre of a phrase.
Without knowing yet what it meant, but sensing obliquely, some ending. I
was always in lack for words, there was always something unspeakable
between us. It wasn't sex, but the bloody and cruel history that makes it
sing. Our stories weren't made of flesh, though they were engraved on our
body. At
dawn, your arms would break against the rain and an infinite weeping would
hold us to die. At dawn, light would tear to pieces our solitude.
I
have known from your mother that you would like us to slightly touch the edges
of terror before the end of the year. I
want to tell you that family is such a concrete fact that having no family is
like living in a city without water. It is impossible to live without it, you
either carry it in the outside or you carry it in the inside; I mean: now, to
avoid such suggestive terms among us like inside and outside, that family is
present in us like the form of an ideological and social model or is
consolidated like an unconscious ideological model. I'll
be, "I promise" before the event between us, in love with the verb,
the perfect rage of a gaze. Your enamoured mother dazzled by your beauty,
alienated by being able to transform you according to her din, in her lack, her
man, her desire or, worse still, her envy, her despise, her remoteness. Before
the end of the year, my little one, I want to let her know that we won't be
alone, together again. Time, by then, will have split our reason of being. A
well of silence, the time between us, my desire, tearing her brutally from my
arms, impoverished now by her absence. Move away her gaze from mine, for the
time being impoverished by her remoteness and crush your gaze, darling, against
what won't exist
in your dawn, not even after the great events. Against what won't be your
way, not even after the most beautiful poems. Mutilated
because my body is another body, having lost prestige, even for your gaze
detained by the horror of my being, impotent of being my body and my word, my
shape and my sense. Your frozen gaze, forever, in a corner of the soul. Because
of the horror of my being, impotent to be exactly your threadbare image in the
black mirror of death. In the dead mirror of the black silence. In the dead and
black silence in the mirror. In the silent, black mirage of death, where your
hips start dancing in a Macomb rhythm. Black
of magic, open, silent, to the spectral sound of drums, delicate and arrogant as
an open rose put in its place. Insolent, in love with yourself and yet, before
desiring, you embrace death not to ever die. You are damned! Your silence is
black. Your silence is the signal
of what was left in your body from that embrace with death, not to ever
die, not to ever desire, not to
ever be other than your voice. And
not wanting to go further or, on the contrary, I want to tell you that for you
to cry, to become severely ill or fall in love with some unknown man, will be
worthless for you, unless you can understand that your resistances when our
relation is simply a conversation, they are always exaggerated. I
remember that the first time I had the courage to tell you, surrounded by
precautions, that chatting with you was pleasant, you started to cry in the
style of Sicilian weepers, you interrupted the encounter before time and trying
to hit me in the head with your bag (blow which I avoided by stepping backwards
and applying a direct blow to the jaw), you told me furiously: -You're
a bastard! The
next day, you came back dazzled by the possibility of being able to feel and
express those feelings. While
you undressed, you apologised for what had happened the previous day and with
your hands at the edge of silence, you told me: -
You're a son of a bitch. I don't know why I'm telling you, but it does me good
to see you suffer, I want you to know that. I'm the worst of all, I have mange.
I go through life hoisting my failure, your failure, doctor, do you realise?
Nobody can with me. I'm the ardent flame of desire and I don't go on because I'm
afraid that you might increase your fees.
(continued
from the previous issue) I,
exhausted, lay on my chest and she feels that she has succeeded in making
me turn round, without almost resting she opens my legs as much as she can
and she sits between my legs and starts playing with both her hands with
my buttocks and she feels happy and recites in a loud voice, while she
goes on playing with my buttocks, poems in various languages, as if there
were several women playing with my buttocks on the verge of becoming an
ass, I truly feel that I can't stand it any longer and precisely in that
moment, she asks me: -
Do you like poems? I,
before answering, had already felt that life was returning to my body and
then, I told her: -
I like you, baby. That tongue you have, baby, those exquisite
little tits and that ass. What an ass you've got, baby, you turn me crazy. She
exercising pressure with her hands on my buttocks already open, told me: -
You have a nice little ass, too. And
I experienced an unforgettable shuddering. And she started speaking to my
ass and while she talked she licked it in a fabulous way and I started to
think that I would lose my virginity. And she said to it: -
Ah,
little ass! What I'm going to do to you! She
continued with her tongue time after time and my ass opened like a poppy
and she introduced her tongue in and out and did it one more time and I
felt as if I were in glory and she, while she sucked, tried to penetrate
me with her fingers and I said: No,
no, no - in a very soft voice and she, at last, penetrated me and I felt a
great relief and she cried desperately from emotion. (to
be continued in the next issue)
1 I
tied my verses to sordid sewers, I
stood straight and while I talked to the teacher, I twisted the neck of
any word, thinking that that way I would grow up. And
a grown-up man needs something to take after him. A gesture, a woman, a
piece of writing. Others
will do the new thing, I mean that someone will have to do the old thing.
To that I want to dedicate myself. 2 There
was a time when you could talk of interior strengths. Now the only
strength is that of money, meaning, all energy is exterior to the subject. 3 Each
time, each day that goes by, she comes more modern. Today when I tried to
kiss her she drew me apart tenderly, and told me: the other day's kiss was
marvellous, let's not spoil it. 4 Today
I haven't written a single word. A
dead day, I say to myself, a piece of mortadella thrown to the dogs. 5 After
each summer, when she returns from visiting her parents, she thinks once
more that people can be owned or left. If
she isn't still mad, one of these summers she will accomplish it. 6 He
told it to me sincerely: "I don't want to be mortal, I want to be
free" and I, with a trace of nostalgia, because of my own youth,
advised him to undergo psychoanalysis four times a week. Dear
Maestro: Unavoidable
place to start making questions about any question. I
think that the work of interpretation that is shown in the
psychoanalytical sessions of Indio Gris is unparalleled. The
verb "to rain" is impersonal grammatically speaking, because if
from psychoanalysis we state that enunciation, that statement has a
subject of enunciation, that is why I thought that the psychoanalyst of
the last session was masterly. There
is a double debate in the psychoanalytical field, one referred to
formation, terminable or interminable?, which opens two currents of
opinion, two ways of conceiving knowledge. The ones who conceive it like
an accumulation of knowledge, and which conveys a who knows, and the ones
who conceive knowledge supported by significance, that is to say knowledge
as an infinite pleasure, where the analytical pact, a significant
articulation, in the end produces more knowledge than any knowledge coming
from the participants. A
high-hierarchy executive without his place in the company is no
high-hierarchy executive, his intelligence when he is active is different
to when he is retired. And it isn't because he is old that he is no longer
intelligent but he has stopped to be tied to the significance that allowed
him to exercise his knowledge. Knowledge
must be exercised like power, with the only condition of not using it. Knowledge
is supported by significance when I foment that I know, I transform
knowledge in knowing, it is like when the psychoanalyst thinks that he has
the power when
power really belongs to transference. Another
debate that has arisen is about the psychoanalyst's body, if his/her real
presence is to be present or if his/her real presence is made of symbolic
presence, that is to say a significant presence. To
pose the question the way it is being
posed
makes it stop being a psychoanalytical question, because they are
posing it from the position of the analysed, and from that viewpoint the
psychoanalyst is such because of the analysed, their impasses should deal
with the rectification of the way of thinking the
psychoanalyst-psychoanalysed significance. To
equivocate the present body with the presence of the psychoanalyst means
not to differentiate the thing of the word that names it, not to symbolise
presence and absence, inasmuch absence is one of the strongest forms of
presence, and still not to differentiate absence from lack, where what
functions or does not function depends on if there was or not what there
should have been, but that there is something that had never been, that
there is something that never happened and that was the beginning. Thank
you for this entry that is indicated by a writing hand, where I enter,
through the cover of Indio Gris. Thank
you for listening. I
love you Amelia THIS IS ADVERTISING
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