INDIVIDUAL MAGAZINE OF GARBAGE COLLECTION
Nº 8. YEAR2000 THURSDAY, 20th JULY
FUSIONED - DIRECTED - WRITTEN AND CORRESPONDED BY: MENASSA 2000
WE DON'T KNOW HOW TO TALK BUT WE DO IT
IN SEVERAL LANGUAGES
SPANISH, FRENCH, ENGLISH, GERMAN,
ARABIAN, PORTUGUESE, ITALIAN, CATALAN
INDIO GRIS, IS THE PRODUCT
OF A FUSION
EL BRILLO DE LO GRIS
EL INDIO DEL JARAMA
THE FUSION WITH MORE FUTURE OF THE
I wanted to know about time and since then I lived secluded.
I hope I have found the appropriate size and type of letter for my ambitions,which are not few.. Yesterday I bought a portable computer, which in others writings was given to me as a gift..
To be writing results impressive to me.
Something I must have understood, some part of me I must have left in the road, to be able to understand.
EYES OF SUGAR, HONEY, ETERNAL PAIN.
I am in me, I am in me and nothing is enough for me.
I can no longer say I can't, and the man who accompanies me calms down, collapses.
Stay quiet, Menassa, because growth must pass.
December, 11th 1991
I had a terrible day today. Early this morning someone called me Argentine to nullify what I was defending.
I isolate myself even more?
What a delirium of solitude!
or should I say
There is something that I haven't understood.
something that I haven't understood at all.
I 'm no longer Argentine,
Spaniard I can't be, either.
Poor Indian, impoverished Indian
without a homeland to defend,
without flag to wave,
without soul to bend.
December 16th, 1991
Today we released to press the Nº 1 issue of EL INDIO DEL JARAMA magazine
Seven years desiring and then, something happens, I am happy.
Communication with everyone towards everyone, that will be our new power.
In relation to the Mastrich summit, we have obtained what the poor people obtain. Let's watch out.
I don't want others to do to me what is done to everybody.
I don't like what they do to creative artists.
I don't like what they do to women.
I don't like what they do to elderly people.
I don't like it, I really I don't like it.
The world does not fall..
It's me who is dying, shouted the wretch.
And nobody listened to him.
Yesterday I was told that El Indio del Jarama magazine is the test mark for the raison d'etre of Europe.
Things come to unapproachable extremes.
Life was pleasant the whole time while living with her alone, and we got pleasure whenever she felt like it.
An ideal life to write but I couldn't completely..
We made love, we ate something. Now, we were about to have a cup of coffee. We couldn't initiate any conversation, we were calm, contented.. The telephone rang, untimely .We rapidly got rid of the phone calls and went back to our business.
It has been a difficult day, today, we hadn't been able to start anything, but we were there, we looked like as if we were made of stone.
Aroused, yes, but holding back with all our strength our ambitions to fly , the desire of transmutation.
She walks in front of the typing machine several times. At one time she comes out of the bathroom nude, making gestures as if she were caressing herself without really doing it, and then disappears into the kitchen.
She comes over, half dressed, as if she were nude but with a silk hanky tied round her neck, carrying two cups of coffee and a small cigarette. She smokes and invites freely, she acts as if she doesn't notice anything. She answers the phone and pronounces disconnected words.
It seems to me that while she talks, she is showing me her tits suggesting a ménage a trois.
She, me and the phone:
I act dumbly because I'm ashamed of feeling those things and I pretend to write. I look at my dick from the corner of my eye and I remove, with a prolonged caress, a tiny pot leaf fallen by chance over my dick. \as the leaf resisted to be removed, at first I felt as if I were going through a coronation ceremony.
Glory to the dick.of the century, and right away I wet my middle finger with saliva and got the rebel little leaf stuck on my finger, and I didn't eat it out of modesty in front of my wife who pretended to write as I did before, on the other side of the desk.
Today I 'm defeated, the machine is better designed than me.
There are hopes for everybody except for me, shouted the wretch, and the whole world listened to him.
Each day that goes by I feel more passionately that I want to become a great writer. A truly grand writer. Writing eight hours per day, everyday of the week, every month of the year. That is what I want for me another 40 years, only that.
I fucked her three days in a row without stopping to think and my dick had erections at any moment up to the zenith. At the beginning of the forth day she made a commentary or two, about this fact..Something like : What a tremendous way of fucking! and also a light observation about how we got on much better sexually in Buenos Aires than here. I felt that she attributed to me a lack of sexual appetite in Madrid which I deny to have, as I cannot either accept that Buenos Aires might have a beneficial effect upon my sexuality.
But I behaved in a cowardly manner. I said nothing to her.
From that moment on, sex among us changed of dimension. The dick, my famous marine dick disappeared and my hands, her hands, our tongues started to acquire a spectacular dimension.
We enjoyed ourselves like pigs doing it, though not wanting to recognize the fact of a sexual transmutation in us, we went around the house as if we were angry, as if pleasure were a damnation.
POLITICAL ECONOMICS NOTEBOOK- OCTOBER, 1001
Doing is better than saying. Accomplishing is better than promising.
The only privileged people are children, if they continue to be children.
Today I'd like to tell in detail about the economic life of a psychoanalyst, director of a Psychoanalysis School. Without being afraid of my colleagues, of the Ministry of Finance.
My current economy (1991) at least with reference to income and outflow, is as follows:
INCOME A BUNDLE, OUTFLOW ALL OF IT; more than in a company, a primitive sewer. What comes in goes out. There's no assimilation, there's no process. No one can say: time has gone by, we have grown up.
I was 51 years old a short time ago, and I hope that after 55, I can earn the same money with half the work. If, on the contrary, society demands from me to continue being a full time worker, I'd like to invest in business which work well or produce money away from the field of poetry.
And even if I can, I tremble, I don't know if out of fear of not being able or this time precisely, fear, horror of being able.
Not everything is solved thinking about Oedipus. There are many things in childhood that remain in childhood.
I'm also a chronic moron and I see myself in a few years, working less, writing more, enjoying everything, when in reality I'll work more each day a little better, I'll write what I can as usual and I'll enjoy the same usual things.
Money is brutal but possible. Desire is also brutal but impossible.
What one earns working as a psychoanalyst is good money, but it is also true that 90% of a psychoanalyst's work is unbearable for any mortal who is not one.
The money it costs to become a psychoanalyst must be deducted from the money that is earned, in the same way that the benevolent light and the inevitable water are deducted.
She is totally wrong and it's only 8.30 in the morning.
The only weak thread of the system is that we live of neurotic people, in general similar to me, very unstable.
And being 51 this time I shouldn't go wrong in anything of what I'm doing today. Because today for a 51 years old man, is also tomorrow.
The solitude I dread the most is staying without fucking, not wanting it. Money can buy love but not at my level. Without fear, without guilt, without remorse meant without sex.
So easy it was. "Without sex everything would result cheaper", meant without guilt, without fear, without remorse.
She, to be a woman, has to make me disappear. I have to get used to that. To make me disappear and for me to disappear she has to pay me and from that I'll make a living.
To love, I'll love children, revolutions.
How could I do to make the sonorous thunder come out of me.
I'm paid for having almost all of the horror in front of me. That is to say, I'm paid not to get involved with the horror. So, it is an error to want to diminish horror by mixing it up with my beauty or the beauty of poetry.
I won't be able to do what others are able to. I have to know this beforehand.
POETRY FROM GRUPO CERO WORKSHOPS
In this new section a poem written by one of the members of the poetry workshops will be published, if possible.
WHERE YOU NEVER WAITED FOR ME
"Soul doesn't wrinkle" Indio Gris
I am where you never waited for me,
silly things are what catch me unware.
Body pulsating at the rhythm of abysmal suns.
Sparkle of light,
constellation in perpetual mutation.
I tear my lamb skin
and thousand of needles struggle to come out.
Holding hands with Tiresias we walked
towards that light,
transferable of language.
Its glance stops time.
All moments are tied together in front of you,
cardboard ballerinas running away from the scene,
human beings held by the nape like cats,
or hanging from hooks like cattle,
as absolute masters of death.
He walks through the city his ample power,
he enlaces long necklaces of hope,
when he deserted moor of your cloudy eyes
shelters me at sundown.
I want to see you reborn from the ashes
pulling your hair back decisively
Shake the slow monotony
of your vices,
come to enclose this emptiness
that I feel here, between my dry breasts.
May a sun from its aura
to crack the snow of my soul.
May the fever of twenty springtime solidify.
May they tie me to the mystery
of your voice, alive.
OLGA DE LUCIA, JULY, 2000
IT'S ALSO A BOOK
IT NEVER HAPPENED
IT IS NOT HAPPENING
IT ONLY CAN BE READ
Madrid, May 20th, 1995
I'm just about to decide not to do more efforts so that the situations can be solved in the best possible way. I resent having spent all my life, almost 55 years, trying to retouch reality to make it more beautiful, delicate or human. I can't stand it any longer. I want to live the last 50 years of my remaining life without occupying myself in nothing else but living.
Having my coffee in the mornings without any other worry than having my coffee in the mornings, and if the world starts to decline early, I'll decline with the world but since now I don't intend to sustain it, in any way.
One of the most interesting things that happen to me, and we are already in 95, is that money is never enough and that is one of the reasons why I've decided to think everything over again. Another reason is that I don't feel loved enough by the people surrounding me, that live from me. And another reason is that I feel very much loved by the people surrounding me, that lived from me.
Sunday, May 21st, 1995
It is now 6.30 in the afternoon and I hope to hit the punt of football and with some of that money I'll advertise for the book fair.
I look at my nails to know if I have good circulation or if oxygen is reaching the more distant parts of my body and I think calmly, that a good lay is always healing for the soul and also, for breathing.
Last Thursday, I had a great encounter, even though the three women whom I met, added together more than 120 years.
Everything was delicate, subtle, soft. Pleasure, if there was any, was in health, nor even an extra drop of air. Without any need of being adequate or coupled, there was harmony and that is always good for poetry.
On Friday when the 10.000 copies of Extension Universitaria arrived, I felt that sometimes my wishes came true with some promptness. The example of Extension was marvelllous: on April 30th we helde the meeting to explain the idea and on May 20th the magazine was already published. Splendid, on Monday we start its free distribution.
Monday, May 22nd, 1995
Today, while I was having a bath, I fancied that my wife should resume her analysis. In regard to me, looking myself in the mirror, I saw myself neither young nor old, but I had thoughts about vulgar sex and the sex of great men and at least at that time in the morning I didn't find any difference between them.
The Spanish Government has found a way to eliminate the Mafia trafficking with immigrants, that is to eliminate all immigrants.