|
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 67 YEAR II EDITORIAL
18 days from becoming 61 and I don't know what to say. To celebrate my 60th
birthday I wrote 4 of my best poems but this time I don't feel like celebrating
or else, I don't dare to face the poems from last year. I feel, at moments, not
to able to overcome that encounter with words.. It
was a total surrender, I became one more word. I had the capacity of joining
everything that lived in me but, as in the case of words, in a thousand
different combinations. Each day I was someone else on condition of being from
the word. And
it isn't the only problem I have, today she went past me and
dropped these words with emotion: -
I can't love you because I know who you are. I
wanted to tell her: "I'm nobody in front of you, you can love me", but
I preferred to say nothing, to sink into thoughts where the future would present
me with agreeable surprises and the I told her: -
It's no big deal… And
as I remained suspended, she took advantage of the "It's no" of the
phrase and disappeared. Afterwards,
and to confess myself completely before becoming 61, I have vocational problems:
I work as a psychoanalyst, I write poems and I make a painting or so and I like
this matter passionately but, in reality, day by day I'm becoming a business
administrator. And, this being my case, it isn't a question of leaving something
aside to be able to do something else. It is about knowing how to add up
elegantly several destinies, like living the life of several persons but in my
life. And with the friends that surround me I'll end up being a film producer, a
script writer for films and plays. With a little effort on my part, at 61 I
could start my career as an actor, found an actor's school together with Antonia
San Juan and I see myself after becoming 61, delivering some conference,
reciting some verse…This time I don't only see myself painting, I also see
myself selling the paintings, eating my paella, my thick sirloin, my rebel
lettuce, among flavours I recall the crispness of cucumber, the passion of
tomato. My fried squids, my Spanish winter boiled dinner and, with nostalgia, my
favourite veal entrail. I see myself drinking my beer, my Duero wine. And
if any journalist would ask about it, I see myself, I see myself at 100 years of
age making love with women. And as the poem says, without which, life isn't
possible, "one after the other, or else, all at the same time". And I
don't only see myself making love with women at 100, but I see myself tomorrow,
the next week and as the poem goes, without which life isn't possible: one after
the other or, else, all at the same time. And
if Medicine would come to prohibit my beer, my wine, my fried squids, my painful
veal entrail, my fallen tomato, my paella, my scripts, my nostalgia, and if they
would come, I say to myself, to prohibit me to love women in flocks, and alone
or split and those infinite hams that only love from love, the farewells and the
blows and the caress. And if they would come to prohibit my witches, my love
ghosts, my fucking, my grandiose fucking of a poet in love with love, if someone
would come, I would, in four leaps and in only one stroke of dices, invent a new
medicine and OLÉ! Cesira
Cignoni recites Menassa In
the attempt
In
the attempt of giving you all my hours I
walked, like a possessed man, all the roads And
sometimes you laughed and assessed in my favour And
in your fragile dreams I was a walker, Madrid,
January 15th, 1978 Darling, The
history of man is a long story, a sort of birds among birds, all flying
and mystery, all remoteness. And
however, the world is only one. Relative only in its confines,
every system becomes relative in its limits with nothingness, flees
from itself and knows it, has no escape, but to those confines man hasn't
arrived yet. For the time being, the world is only one. Now
I try to recover myself. I'm convinced that gods disturb me less than
neurotics. If we can't be men, at least let's be gods. The worst thing of
a neurotic: their deaf way of repetition. Their mouth always open. Their
incapacity to be someone else. Their inconstancy. Any
foolishness does me well, sometimes I think that I should be more
demanding, I think that certain fluctuations of my being are absolutely
unnecessary. On the other hand I know, that what is unnecessary can
produce an irreparable damage in 100 or 150 years. I
have, at this moment, a sort of inferno between my hands. I'm the
apocalypses of sense, a definite alteration of order. I have the
possibility of metamorphosis, I'm human.
-
Look, doctor, what is happening to me is that I'm beginning to have a
different way of looking at life and love and in that new gaze I see that
everything in my life was in chains. It's
not that the beloved ones tied me to any empty space,
but that the loved ones like me, submitted by the lack of money, lived
chained to a thousand illusions. Sometimes
everything was reduced for long months to try to find the way of producing
enough money for food and those things. Sometimes,
when we made love, afterwards we asked ourselves almost full of guilt, how much
money we had squandered in that love encounter. Love
encounter that in being submitted by this question to laws that wouldn't
consider its existence, was transformed in something else. Cruelly,
I came to think that if I persisted in following that road, we would end up
without love and without money and without knowing which of the two lacks were
the worst. When
one of us could raise his head, simultaneously, he had to stand to see three or
four of his companions' heads fell. The
grotesque scene would surprise so much the one who had raised his, that the
paralysis of not knowing how to go on now, would last enough time as to see that
someone else would see him fall noisily, together with his head, before he could
use it. Without
a head or else with the head thrown to the floor, or human dignity of which so
many books speak so many things, thrown to the floor; or the pride of having
been well brought forth, being loved by my mother, thrown to the floor; the only
thing that we sometimes were eager for, was to count the smiles as if they were
work hours. We thought that someone, someday, among smiles, would feed us. We
fought for a decent salary, a pleasant leisure time, a passionate love and
everything must be accomplished in less than five years.
Afterwards, I imagine, film making will come. And
I timidly told him to conclude: -
Did you ever think of working?
(continued
from the previous issue) She
asks me: -
Do you like me? And
I answer her: -
All of you. Then
she says to me: -
I'm leaving. But
then she realises that I still haven't given her my semen. And for her my
semen is the most important thing. Her existence makes of any encounter, a
marvellous encounter. Her absence can transform a marvellous night like
tonight, into nothing. I,
that knew the way she thought of the universe, immediately after she told
me "I'm leaving" and noticed the question of the semen, I told
her: -
Come, my little baby. She
would notice what had happened but instead of coming, she would get into
the bathroom pretending to leave, but not yet, because she would quickly
get out of the bathroom and start an apparently unimportant conversation
about three or four women who, generally, would make her jealous. -
And it's so-and-so again. Did you see the tits she has? And each
time she looks at you, it seems that she will offer them for you to suck.
And did you see the mouth she has?, I imagine her sucking your ass and I
go mad in jealousy, that's what happens to me. And when at parties you
speak over the ear to that other little whore, I sense you are telling her
that you are going to suck her pussy, stay calm, you tell her over her
ear, that afterwards you are going to suck it. -
Do you imagine? -she told me, looking at my dick to see if what she
has been saying, had caused some results. Though
the results couldn't be noticed in my dick, my penis yet, they had caused
its effects. She was capable of defeating her invincible jealousy for a
bit of my semen and that was what moved me. -
I imagine -I told her - having so many desires, next week's sexual
work, with so many pussies, so many asses, such a magnificent light spread
all over the universe, I can imagine a small cabaret in London, where you
and your beloved women dance for me. And
then she would go mad and my dick would become like an iron bar again. -
Don't talk about dances, son of a bitch. How they would move those
asses as to leave you frozen, to kill you from a heart attack, son of a
bitch. Now you will have to fuck it. Fuck it, I tell you to fuck it. And
I got my enormous dick closer to her pussy, but I wouldn't put it in, I
played with my dick up and down, around it and she, all of a sudden would
ask me, would supplicate me. -
Please, put it in it, please, look how beautiful it is, look how it
opens. And
she would open it herself. -
See how it waits for you. And
there I'd introduce my dick up to the balls and she'd call me with all my
women's names, and I saw them so beautiful fucking god, giving birth to
universe. She,
in the most extreme edges of her humanity, separates me from her when she
was about to come and she would turn in the bed with her ass upwards. I,
with my dick as a new motorcycle, sucked her ass frenetically and while
her ass opened
like a flower, she screamed higher: -
Not to her, not to her. And
it was then, I think, when I told her: -
Yes, I'm going to fuck her. And
that would turn her crazier and she'd open more and more to receive love
and I could no longer hold up and told her: -
I'm going to fuck her ass. And
suddenly I put it all in and she screamed and said to me: -
No, no. And
she enjoyed as a stultified beast and I would apply small slaps on her
buttocks and she now shouted: -
Kill her, kill that bitch - and then she'd relax and say while she
received my semen: -
I love you, my love, I love you, I also desire her. I'd
tranquillise myself at last,
I never knew if she could tranquillise, but in receiving my semen
as a trophy, she'd fill herself up with love for me, and that love she
felt, tranquillised her. THE
END
1 I'm
not willing to swallow the fish hook again. Life has been done by no one
yet. And to anyone trying to begin, it would cost a relatively big work to
accomplish it. 2 What
wears out isn't the nervous cells, what wears out is what surrounds the
nervous cell, that is to say, social relations. 3 A
psychoanalyst cures more because of what he is, rather than for what he
says. 4 Move
away until I see you. Pass again to lose you. 5 About
them, this century, it is always known how they are going to react. If one
can put up with the permanent instability of their character, to lead them
is relatively simple. 6 Two
lives tying themselves to each other brutally, aren't two lives. 7 I
see a future opening in my entrails, I'm
the crazy twentieth century, I'm afraid of myself. Everything
but my anxiousness is calculated for me. When
I write, clocks break Dear
Indio, Thank
you for accompanying us along summer Thank
you for making flying possible. A
kiss Your
reader N° 11,969. THIS IS ADVERTISING
Tears
of exile author: It
contains thirteen illustrations of some of the best paintings |
