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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 74 YEAR II EDITORIAL
I must admit that my hands tremble when I write. From fear and from pain. The
World persecutes me with bacteria, with bombs, with cold-blooded murders, with
angry Gods, the World persecutes me with its hatred, with its thirst of
vengeance. On television, to keep me frightened and without strength, they show
me quartered dead, desolate children dying for lack of love, one or other
headless soldiers. Mothers jumping out of the 25th floor window with
a child in their arms because they are bored of not making love during such long
time while living with the same person. Besides,
I'm a little gloomy with the question, in which war are my verses participating?
What army love me? I
have decided it today: if they go on like this, I prefer ignorance. No more
news, no more newspapers, no television, no more conversations referring to war,
to hunger, to desolation. No more information about drugs, that every week lets
me know of a different drug. On
the other hand, war permits everything that is generally forbidden. To kill,
destroy, lie, desecrate, buy evil, extort, cheat, betray… and above all, in
the war, NO FREEDOM, NO JUSTICE. We'll
make love when war is over, two lovers said to each other. she was one of the
women raped by the enemy army. He, the case of his rifle as a souvenir. None
of the two ever knew that what they had helped to build was what was killing
them. None
of the two knew that war enslaved the whole humanity and that it was unjust to everyone. Now
they are dead and however, nor the man, nor the woman when they lived in love,
had realised that love as war, enslaves the lover and is unjust to everyone. She
sang to love in the desert and he was an American soldier. When
war burst out, he became gloomy, -Kill
me, I'm your enemy. She
closed her eyes and a companion of the soldier killed them both. I
started to realise that I wasn't free. Nobody
tolerated that at 61, Nor
even myself, at 61, And
afterwards, on Sunday afternoons, And
I lifted myself as those who can fly She,
knelt down praying The
lights were there and we were all blind. No
one could see beyond their love. No
one could feed the hungry, So
were the phrases she recited And
no one tolerated that our love And
the worst of all One
day she told me clearly:
DARLING, I
have to put into practice old desires of publishing and spreading my
writing all over the world. That's
what I should do before my brain is eaten by the Andean
consequences of the seas open to the unreasonableness of the snakes
dazed by the electric moaning of the earth and the hope of seeing us
return repentant. Darling,
when the scrolls of time alight on my temple, I'd like to write a poem
that would say as follows: I'm
in me, even covered by illusions. Mirages
and lagoons of crystal-like waters, Sea
water, sea water, Sea
water, sea water…
She
always used to go up the stairs and when she arrived to the door of my
consulting room, she made the sign of the cross before ringing the bell, as if
it were the second time she rang the bell. I recognised her ring by its long and
persistent sound. This time, I decided not to open for a few minutes to see what
her reaction would be. She began to ring the bell with an insolent persistence
and, at the same time, she kicked the door and gave little howls of desolation. -
You abandoned me once more, jerk, son of a bitch. I
opened the door calmly and asked her softly: -
What is the matter with you, Clotilde? -
Hello, doctor, I thought you weren't here, it's the same for me, I was
thinking that if you didn't want to open the door I'd go to the hairdresser's,
you see? what is sometimes impossible on the inside, is possible on the outside. She
bent her head and while she crossed the limit of the corridor and the door of
the consulting room, she murmured in a soft voice: -
Son of a bitch, you'll pay for this. -
Yes, Clotilde? -
Nothing, doctor, I can't stand these shoes any more. Would you allow me
to undress? -
If you want to do it - I told her- but you have to know that I'm blind.
That I can only listen to you, but if you want to undress… -
I didn't know that you were blind, pardon me. When did it happen to you? -
One day, when I was small, they gave me a kick in my balls and left me
blind; afterwards, the first psychoanalyst I had, lover of dramas, told me that
I wanted to marry my mother and that after I tore apart my eyes confusing them
with my balls, with which I had sinned. But God is always just -I told myself.
And I started to accept my blindness as something natural. Later, considering a
friend's advice, a surgeon, I dedicated myself to psychoanalysis where, because
the gaze is the field of love, it's better to be blind. And as from then I was
normal, because I had been able to transform a mutilation into a virtue.
-
And none of your patients have noticed that you're blind? -
Well, have you seen how neurotics are. They see nothing, only their past. -
And I, how did I notice it? -
Excuse me -I told her- but you didn't notice it, I told you. -
And why did you tell me? -
Because I love you. -
And how can you know that you love me if you never saw me? -
What you see in me, that I never saw, but what you show me of you while
looking at me, that I have listened entirely, which is the same as seeing. -
You were like a god to me. How did it enter your mind to fall in love
with me and on top of it to confess to me that you were blind? I don't know, I
don't know if I'll be able to love you now. God, yes, do you realise? But to
love a blind and enamoured God… I don't know, I don't know… -
We'll
continue the next session.
When
mirages ambush in the places where love wants once more to put together
some forgotten rubbish, I remember you with your protruding teeth, wrapped
in the dusk of your crazy dreams of not wanting to remember for no one to
penetrate the mystery of your being. Having
been forgotten by your mother, you never wanted to listen to any voice.
1 You
have to be informed before giving an opinion. Beasts! 2 A
bloody beast of the mere illness. The century is agonising, not me. Little
by little, I'm going to liberate myself from everything, of almost
everything. Not from love, but yes from its intolerance. 3 Truth
is alien to itself. Green branch lost from pain. 4 The
bourgeoisie has its charms, but intellectuals have always spoken about
that. No
one has ever seen a bourgeois, nor even a worker, talking about the charms
of bourgeoisie. Its charms have to do with its capacity to produce
illusions. If you pay your taxes you feel normal, if you accept all social
rules you could feel like the king of the world, the owner of all the
sewers. To love God in the exact centre of bourgeoisie, sometimes is being
God. Everybody can love God this way. God
never generates in the bourgeois the anger of not being able of being one.
So the one who is misplaced and asks for his place is God. Not because, as
some philosophers say, god is dead, but because the current society has
privatised him. That is to say, depriving the majority of people of that.
That, God, belongs only to some, the rest according conceptions has to pay
for everything to continue exactly the same. 5 There
is and there is not everything everywhere and it's good to know that. 6 Today
I said it to her without beating around the bush: Look my dear, we have
the highest peaks of thought and we didn't have a penny. I hope that when
we reach the highest levels of money, we have some thought left. 7 Ghosts
are mistaken for problems. Death to the intruder. LETTER
FROM THE EDITOR Alienated,
tortured, dead and nevertheless I feel free, ecumenical when I write my
verses. A
sort of modern manna, symbolic. Verse for all souls, for all iniquities a
good poem. Intellectuals will surely come to tell us that man needs some
bread, some shame, some dignity. But we know that if it were a question of
fire, it would be the fire of passions. Not the passions on fire, but the
passions on fire burnt by the fire of the symbol, of poetry. A century of
life triturated in this simple verse, falls defeated.
INDIO GRIS
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