|
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 68 YEAR II EDITORIAL I'm
also surprised, no one could have imagined it like this. After a few minutes I
started to think that the computers had gone out of order. Some defence
programme had become mad, the people responsible for immunity had been paralysed
as happens with cancer, with AIDS. Only
five minutes had gone by and I had seen the impact of the plane against the
tower in twenty different channels, the spectacular flames, the deafening fall
of the towers, already a thousand phone calls had been made from relatives and
friends in my country and from far away countries, asking me what would happen
to the world from today on, when I began to think something terrible: How what
had happened (cancer, AIDS) could have happened if the individual wasn't
involved enough for that to happen. Evilness seemed to come from outside, but it
was from inside, the individual defended himself from the outside and what was
killing him lived
in him and
I don't want anybody
to take offence at me giving as an example the construction of an anti-missile
shield to defend myself from exterior attacks, when I cannot still defend myself
from internal attacks). I'm
also amazed, nobody could have imagined it like this. In the United States, the
children of the streets whose small bodies sustain infantile prostitution; the
drug children don't come from the poorest classes as in the majority of
countries, but they come from the bourgeoisie, from the small intellectual
bourgeoisie. I'm
also amazed, nobody could have imagined it like this. How could it be possible
that they were not able to stop the second plane if eighteen minutes had already
passed since the first impact? And how could it be possible that no engineer in
the world could have warned the fire-fighters, the policemen, the nurses and
doctors, that that building wouldn't stand the impact and would cave in ?, if
now, after it had happened, they are capable of saying that the collapsing was
produced by the impact and the flames. And
finally, without understanding much of this question, I ask myself: how could it
be possible that the Pentagon's computers
malfunctioned? What is left for us, ordinary mortals, if the powerful,
the demigods of war kill themselves or cannot defend themselves. A
poem, my love, that I can stand no longer. Return
to man, return to man. The
little poem refers to the failure of the new technology, it becomes necessary to
return to man because we have realised that the human error is always less
spectacular than the error of the machine but this, well thought, is also a
foolishness. And
it's philosophy again, dear Editor, a poem, my love, that I can stand no longer. Poem
to read THE
WAR The
war, The
war, I
realise I have to vibrate in unison, but I don't know what with. A
poem, a sole poem to withdraw from me: Today
I am happy, you can see it in my eyes. I
feel as if I were tensing a chord that does not exist. What
an atrocity! What a dream. I
am already on the other side, my love, And
I am already lost. I don't know where to return. The bombs over a How
should a man be? I ask myself and nevertheless she sustains firmly her
hopes. In
seeing her so crazy, so glad and in spite of the bombs, which are severing
my legs, I say to her "I'll return…I'll return" and I become
breathless and the bombs leave me breathless, I'll return my love, I'll
return.
But I don't know where the return roads begin. While I keep waiting
that some light may open for me, I have started to love solitude.
I want to write a verse now, now that I'm surrounded by beasts, by
carnivorous beasts.
I have my feet tied up, my hands, my mouth, my brain, I don't know
what happened to me, it was an air of madness. In
a way, not even being able to be close to myself. The
"erotic" novel I'm writing and which now I can't conclude, has
to do with
a dead son, it can't be elaborated. From
the father's point of view, a son can never be separated from his father. When
a son dies, a part of the father dies forever. Something
from me has died forever. It
was a shooting star that I touched when leaving.
Today no psychoanalyst in the world could work. We have been reading the
newspapers, watching TV and we thought a thousand times of dying and a thousand
times in resuscitating. We became so tired that we couldn't work. She
didn't want to accept, under no circumstance, that I would cut my hands in front
of everybody. Your verses, she told me, are like daggers of fire and madness. As
open daggers in a thousand falls of volcanoes. Daggers
like enamoured infinite dragons, Your
verses, Then, shall we continue the next time, doctor?
One more time, as so many times, I feel totally repressed. Nobody
allows me to talk but partially. Nobody allows me to write what is
necessary to write. Now
I'm locked alone at home. It's 4.30 in the afternoon of a fresh and sunny
day. I
like to be alone, but noxious ideas keep coming up in my mind and that's
what I cannot stand. I like solitude, nobody touches me, nobody looks at
me and, what is more important, no one contradicts me. I'm immensely happy
being alone. My
mother and I, what solitude. I
hope to come back to life, to be born again. The
exaggerated jealousy, the tough moralities are not good things for a
moribund. She
loves her father. I'm the one who has to say no to her. To
educate the beasts without living with them, I
can say it seriously, at this exact moment of the encounter, I like
everything that is happening to me. Even working seems charming to me
lately. To produce admirers of my silence, day by day, results to me
attractive. Today I'm happy and I say it with extreme simplicity. I fly around you, broken white camellias, torn by bombs and I break down, laugh is now a grimace.
Immersed
in a time where madness I
look for you -up to the end- Letter
to the Editor: Today
I'm going to show you a hallucinating plot: Your
eyes are blind. Altered
by jealousy, Indio Gris THIS IS ADVERTISING
Tears
of exile author: It
contains thirteen illustrations of some of the best paintings |
