Catartica: December '22

EDITORIAL LETTER

A bitter goodbye says the Inspector. Celebrated an end in pages that do not exist and inks that are not printed. Three Decembers to let go and four Januarys to change. Eternal thanks.

M.I. Flores Nachón

Briulov, K (c 1830) The Last Day of Pompeii, [oil], Saint Petersburg, Russia

Victor Rivera

NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING

What baffles me of life is that there is so much and how urgent the urgency is for everything because it's not that big of a deal that so much life is who remember me that I have done nothing yet that I did nothing with it that soon there will be nothing because I have seen nothing that there are no shadows, no places, no kisses solitary caresses gardens, deserts, no names, no sun, no laughter, no fevers or sandcastles not even that was nor will there be any after. nothing.

childhood

Sometimes I miss it and every now and then I come back to it to recognize it in the sound of the shopping bags in the reeds of their piñatas in the crunch of their toast or on the pillar of Doña Blanca I miss it from when the salt sea tasted and when I think of the blue of my house that is now white and is no longer mine I miss it in the green of it taxis in the gray of the dome in Bellas Artes.

Letter to my ghost

Take this as a letter or as advice; I'm really just trying to get something off my chest.

I don't even know where to start, because I don't even understand what I did wrong. We started talking but from the beginning I noticed you were different, very serious and closed off. I don't see you being extremely social or looking for social approval (or so I thought) Those were a couple of the reasons why you caught my attention so much although I'm not going to fool myself, you have a very characteristic sex appeal in your way of being. For that very reason I didn't even know how to approach you, it's like you have the highest barrier I've ever met You became my challenge

Most probably it was a big mistake on my part to consider you as a challenge, at the end of the day you are a human being and I only saw you as another achievement It was proving to myself that I could get anyone I wanted And at the end of the day you hated that part of me and I hated you for not letting yourself be "dominated". I'm disappointed but not so much in you, but in myself.

I've been working on this with the psychologist for months and there are moments when I accept it and say "Well, no way" but many times (especially when my interpersonal relationships fail) I start to feel that if I wasn't that way, things would go the way I wanted them to go

And no, I don't want the typical discourse that aggressively forces us to have to love ourselves in order to deserve to be loved. Not for nothing but it sounds like garbage, I mean if I am in clinical depression, where I can't even move because my body hurts, do the people around me have to take away their support and love because I don't love myself? I honestly don't see the joke in this toxic positivity that forces you to be happy on a daily basis. You can't be human anymore.

Yes, I got a little bit of anger off my chest and we got to sadness and doubt, has it ever happened to you that sometimes you feel like you are not enough?

It's a never ending story, I feel like every time I decide to go on a date with someone new it seems like everything is going well, the vibe is interesting but 3 weeks go by and he asks you to be friends because he found "the love of his life". It gets to a point where I even feel like I'm the lucky charm to get a date in the next few weeks, but it will never be me. I think there's an American saying that describes it best, something like this, "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride." Have I internalized too much what Lana del Rey sings (Cause I was born to be the other woman..) And I ask my close friends "Hey, do you think there is something wrong with me?" and they all answer no, I have many qualities just that many people find me threatening. I understand that on many occasions I show a very strong personality, coarse, rough, rude, stubborn; unfortunately I had to build it that way to avoid people taking advantage of me (both physically and emotionally). However, every time I try to be less intense, I feel it is a betrayal of me. It's not me, I don't feel comfortable.

And this is where I enter my big dilemma I used to have this mentality where I said that I don't need to change a bit of myself to get a partner, that my prince on a white horse was going to accept me with all my problems. Technically this is not a lie, but to what extent do they have to accept you with your red flags and toxic attitudes that we choose not to deal with because they have to love me? I recently saw a Tiktok (yes, and don't judge) where a psychology student opined that this type of mentality that is spreading across various digital platforms is similar to the Incel ideology of Reddit forums Where the problem in finding a partner is not the fault of the individual, it is the fault of society, which is quite disturbing because it generates dissatisfaction with the world because it does not fit one's needs. And it could be a huge debate the needs to create a kind and ideal (but imaginary) world or a world where the norm is still the heteronormative white male (and that is so) Could it be that we reach an in-between? possibly but not with the mentality we are having about our ways of interacting and socializing with others.

I don't think I have a conclusion to this letter, at the end of the day I just needed to get it off my chest I don't want to apologize because you also lacked communication (just like me), I think it ended up being a letter to my disappointment.

Hi Disappointment, how are you, well, I'm not, thanks for asking

POLLUTED PLEASURES

M.I. Flores Nachón

It is a sociological motive to confront the corruption of pleasure. Is it real what I like?

Or do I just have to like it because I've been told to like it?

As Arnold Hauser explains, the work of art is a weapon at the service of society, a vehicle from which the ideology of the epistemological platform on which society is based, is collected (Hauser, 1968). Through the discourse that the product intends to introduce, it is possible to understand, explicitly or implicitly, the hidden hegemonic discourse in society.

Rivera, D. (1934). The man who controls the universe. Palace of Fine Arts (Mexico City).

This imposed hegemony reaches different levels, as Michel Foucault explains, we are bound subjects, that is, our freedom is actually limited by determinisms that define our choices from the moment we are born (Foucault, 1975). Understanding the hegemonic discourse as the way in which the circles of power exercise their dominance over the rest of the population, it is related to corruption, this being the abuse of power for personal gain, since both mean control and excess authority, reaching a type of tyranny and leaving a crooked and corrupt society.

I have written on different occasions about the repercussions of the hegemonic influence on popular taste, but I have rarely spoken about past experiences in current taste. Not long ago, I mentioned a couple of songs that make me nauseous when listening, especially because of all the aura that surrounds the moment I heard them. My taste for those songs was corrupted by the circumstance in which they were consumed. How many subjective connotations can we give to artistic pieces depending on the context in which they were consumed or appreciated? One of the most repeated definitions of art is that it is a product of subjectivity, a something that should make you feel something.

Although it is a valid understanding and certainly Kantian, I prefer to think about art from the first meaning of the word aesthesis- later understood as aesthetics.

Art is the conduit for my sensitive affective connection with my world. In a moment of relationship with an art piece such as the songs of Boyce Avenue and The Chainsmokersalthough I also understand that it could be debated if the technical quality of the previous ones allows them to be classified as art- my appreciation was affected and my opinion was certainly contaminated. The songs were trending at the time I heard them, and I had to face them on several occasions.

However, my aesthetic connection moment was a fiasco. As with Stendhal Syndrome, when I was presented with an unfulfilled expectation, my interior suffered all the symptoms of the condition. It is impossible for me now to listen to songs that are linked to some ghostly stories that cause me to suffer.

Now, I believe that the phenomenon occurs not only in its negative version, but an art piece can also be imbued with a positive connotation that can generate emotions that we seek to protect. Ghost Stories (2014), is a Coldplay album that didn't really have the success that I would like it to have. It is probably one of the many that have laid under the water with many treasures hidden in its lyrics and compositions. For more than 7 years I forgot about its existence, not because I avoided listening to it, but simply because it was tied up with memories that I preferred to keep in 2014. A more innocent María Inés, calmer, less angry, willing to see a Smurfs movie on his computer which had by then been altered to a different language. I hadn't realized how easy it was to transport myself to a moment of purification from a setlist of 9 songs. Someone has recently confessed to me that Ghost Stories is also protected by their minds, with other memories that were intertwined with me in a different spirit of time. Carefully protected so as not to be contaminated by circumstantial factors such as those that bewitched my previous tastes.

Prejudice has a lot to do with deception. How willing are we to take on a product when we already have an aura built around it? Why does it have to be our fault, if the aura has not even been built by us? Perhaps we should question our method and reason for the consumption of cultural products. The trends established from the hegemonic taste should not necessarily be applicable to everything, and as an observant and listening public, we have the right to exercise our appreciation, of everything and the circumstantial factors that surround a work. As Michel Foucault explained, within our settlement, we are responsible for practicing our freedom even detained by our determinisms. Even if The Chainsmokers produce trending music, I won’t like it and will avoid it at all costs. Even if Ghost Stories got buried among a million other albums, it's a little treasure trove of connection to me. I will exercise my consumption of artistic production as a weapon not only in the service of society, but for my own benefit, protecting and safeguarding the memories that deserve to be remembered, and forgetting the stories of ghouls that do no good.

The Grave of Butterflies

II

Michel C.

P R E P R O M I S E

I try to be as human as I can sometimes I faint and I have no word

My myocardium has palpitated at the tip of the cornea, while the height of a waist I mount a revolver to my temple breathe sulfate passing out before shot but the touch on his skin placed my senses, I knew the danger of my actions unconcerned with pain, learned on a smooth leg that trembled with the spirit overflowing with stillness to mine, radiantly grassed uncontrolled irate from waiting so long

They were the smoky mountains that we painted those who witnessed the creation of that wasteland...

…Make me think in lost loves in what I have not wanted make me think in what I want and what I have stopped wanting make me think in the next day, make me think of you into something other than the elusive heaviness of contemporary productivity

My eyes start to close Where are they going to take me?

I hope that to the infinite repetition of these days that no matter how much you want it, hands will never be able to feel again

Walked among the painted lilies the unirrigated roads among the vegetables and flowers, 2-body thermal parsimony where the reflection of the sun It is indecipherable between the clouds some petals are barely traces

Burn inside a bonfire the first star that fainted, bleeding the black blue of the landscape between a new moon and dancing venus like fire in wind what you never have control

Grinding orchids, lilacs and peonies a sweet poison is drawn on a boiling thorn of colors that I had never been able to see (that I may never see again) I squeezed her on the chest I carried it with both hands while a new fire sheared old memories to disconnected oblivion, leaving the marks of the fresh flames on my skin It is the pure tessitura of a dream where two statues burned by the sun they remain within the same kiss reverberating from the first orange of the day to the last shade of pink of the same

S E K A I N O Y A K U S O K U

It's been a few months after the leak and the words have been without fear of self-deception, real nothing will bring you back not even the strongest wind nor the strength to miss (I refrain from leaving these words open-ended as much as possible, since for now I have no mood or interest in an outcome) there are goodbyes impossible to contain

N T I T L E D D R E A M S

the water of the sun that drowns in fire the butterflies of the coast gives life to a smoking palm tree a natural lighthouse on the shores of the pacific Introducing the end of the world to shipwrecked whales

"Why didn't we do everything we lacked?"

Nobody knows absolutely nothing about the would have, they did not exist useless speculation

We ended up trafficking fresh parota in Comala, I like to think that our vendors they were not reminiscences of already extinct presences, Emerging from the perpetually dying ash, hidden in the sierra negra where the clouds are psilocybin dreams of pure steam

We went looking for peace in the smoking mouth of the tepestate hill

U

A

Why do we decide to believe what we be

Believing in what we don't see in shooting pains believe in premonitions of torpor

Why believe in it? in you In Myself in us

The absolved faith of our person the opportunity to put a certainty on someone else's breath, I decide to have faith to survive Rising from bottomless abysses floating on uncertainty, breathing smog, I choose to believe in everything that allows me to write, despite being one of those animals "Stupid enough to believe their own words"

I tacitly believe in my pulse when forging, the sorrows of being lost certainly removed from the eyes of any truth, could not hold faith in dichotomous values predicted divine, homigenizing or dogmatic punishments

The past will not form believers but if it will give air to the fire of what is present, believe in the lies that sing in the ear while they scratch the meat of the back, faith in my words is the same What do I have for my shadow during aphelion?

B O U T T H E F I C T I O N S O F B E L I E V I N G

I choose to believe what I can say I forget what I have kept quiet I believe in everything that has given me orgasms, in what has erased whole days from me, I believe in my scars and in my sleeplessness forever grateful for my decisions perpetually condemned to them

We believe without guarantees, no absolute truths it is my conscious choice to believe in the disappointment, the lack, the error and the unoccurred, a fantasy, (pronounced it well by another Latin American voice) "Wish is a question without an answer "

Chance never had compassion for anyone (Who does not know himself, will never be able to incinerate his doubts)

4 B I R D S

They all dance above the hill seeing that exiled rabbit being born, the sorcerer, the poet, the doctor and the architect, They disturb the water to give life and tide, old spirits burned houses santeria bones

The trees fan flowers What will the silence of our screams say? our last dream was to burn time to its creators, we were our only mistake

The eternal is inoperative you have to let go of the ego

Houses set on fire while I press my navel looking at the moon inside the walls the infinite mold maps are undone, previous poets dissolve (we are the repeated echo of the end)

Bruno Sánchez

Construção:

3 truths of an unfortunate case

Amou daquela vez como se fosse a última

Beijou sua mulher como se fosse a última

E cada filho seu como se fosse o único

E atravessou a rua com seu passo tímido

He loved that time as if it were the last

He kissed his wife as if she were the last

And to each of his children as if he were the only one

And he crossed the street with his shy step

The simple and austere is timeless. That is why achieving timelessness is so complicated, since such almost impossible prestige requires, in contrast, meeting few demands, simple to understand and do, and that requires a certain reduction in our abilities with humility, which is complicated. The obstacle then is not the act or the work itself, but the intention of the author as a person, oblivious to the expectation of his career. Timelessness is achieved through a dispersed and common consensus among distant diversities to achieve their unanimity in common time, and that key is humility, momentary perhaps, but forced at the moment. Humility of thought and ego, between his unborn public and his personal expectation.

The author is the witness of reality so that his distortions are faithful to it, he is the spectator of a work that he interprets, but he does not star in it, he is the analyst who shreds understanding to share his familiarity with others, it is that importance for which the author must be austere in thought and stable in property, stable as a column that must be the support of all his work except the reflector of his vanity, since this would be a mere addition, everything must be for his work except the center of himself . The ego can sell, but it does not transfer more than the capital, the humility in doing endures and that time gained is what classifies the work as art, thus reaching, with simplicity and austerity, timelessness.

Subiu a construção como se fosse máquina

Ergueu no patamar quatro paredes sólidas

Tijolo com tijolo num desenho mágico

Seus olhos embotados de cimento e lágrima

He climbed the construction as if it were a machine

He raised on the balcony four solid walls

Brick by brick in a magical design

His eyes dulled with cement and tears

The curious thing about the timelessness formula is that it annuls itself when applied at will, since it is not a process but a result, like a natural exhalation of the logical conscious that seeks to express what has been processed to control the excesses of methodical understanding. through rational emotion.

Sentou pra descansar como se fosse sábado

Comeu feijão com arroz como se fosse um príncipe

Bebeu e soluçou como se fosse um náufrago

Dançou e gargalhou como se ouvisse música

He sat down to rest as if it was Saturday

He ate his bread with cheese as if he was a prince

He drank and sobbed like a castaway

He danced and laughed as if he heard music

Death puts it into practice by exerting resistance on the intentional morbidity, without resorting to the counterproductiveness of over-explaining the obviousness of the reasons and chronology of the death to appease the abstraction of the feeling of mourning, then, reason and the sentimental, as the water and oil tend to be natural antagonists. However, it is not the explanation of the fact as such that attends the duel, but the intention to consolidate its natural understanding, giving guidelines for establishing its own path of resolution. It is the simplicity of the game, seen from the generality, which consolidates its weight in balance with oneself without processing it with malicious malice. It is the simplicity of the intention, more than the accuracy of the explanation, that evokes each viewer,

E tropeçou no céu como se fosse um bêbado

E flutuou no ar como se fosse um pássaro

E se acabou no chão feito um pacote flácido

Agonizou no meio do passeio público

And he stumbled into heaven with his alcoholic step

And floated through the air like a bird

And ended up on the ground as a limp lump

And he died in the middle of the public walk

This is the case, a bricklayer left his home early, said goodbye to his family, like every day, to head towards the crowded construction zone in the city, climbed the ten, dozen or twenty floors with tamed naturalness and he piled bricks for hours until he closed the walls of the recent balcony, exhausted, he dried his eyes with his fingers dirty with cement and sat down to rest, eat and drink with great pleasure, such pleasure that he drank too much, drank so much that he started to dance and he danced so much that he stumbled and fell, he fell so much from that height to enter into minimal awareness what had happened and when he sees it happen he already lies against the ground of the street, inert, bruised and hindering the traffic of the metropolis.

He died on the wrong way hindering traffic Morreu na contramão atrapalhando o tráfego

For some it is convenient to make believe that the tragedy is not the fact itself, but the consequence, and the consequence for some is not the pain of death but the inconvenience of traffic, nullifying the humanity of an unfortunate event.

Contemporary Brazil has, like many other Latin American countries, a so-called "golden age " , of tangible stability and apparent prosperity in the priorities of government, economy, politics and, consequently, society. Said era that, like many other Latin American countries, currently evokes a certain longing for the memories of the recent past, whose objectivity is blurred by the desperate fanaticism of better times. Said era whose prosperity and stability, like many other Latin American countries, was based under the patronage of an impudently powerful elite and on the submission of a flagrantly repressed people.

The complexity of any system is based on the simplicity of its origin, the so-called Latin American "golden ages " are nothing more than the exemplification of conscious ignorance or ignorance of the bases that originated it. The model and pioneer modernist city of its kind, Brasilia, did not grow by the will of the Amazonian land, it was created, built and finished timidly along an avenue that did not belong, by hand dirty with cement that could even be their own and, despite that, with the certainty of enjoying the comfort of his work in the face of the sometimes-tangible reality that such a living can cost.

Questioning the value of that system of progress shows its fragility, since those who the base of the origin is, unlike the impudently powerful elite, have nothing to lose that can be bought. This is why it is convenient not to even be aware of the rebel trap in the least, alluding to the normality of the system and remaining on record, with fingers crossed, that the beneficiary spill of the system is equitable for all, while the reality, those who make those idyllic ideas tangible in reality, they remain not even close to the root of the splashes. For this reason, it is also convenient to teach and reinforce the outdated idea that each one is one by himself, that one can change his present by taking advantage of this to advance or descend, that is, to convince the proletariat, to those who build the skyscrapers of those who, if they do not ignore them, despise them completely, on the refuted myth that their stagnation or fall is their fault, but that their progress, if it is achieved, is thanks to that same system , that the poor are poor because they want to. It would be the ideal, but it is not and never has been a reality for the generality.

The Bosa Nova genre was created in the 1930s, at a time when Brazil was going through semi-dictatorial political turbulence, but the genre remained unaffected by it, as it served, with its tropicalization of soft jazz, as a method of intrapersonal escape and with property. In 1930 there was a coup that imposed a super-presidential republic with Julio Vargas in power, two years later there was a failed revolution, another failed coup and attack, in 1945 he was deposed by another coup, but returned in 1951 by in the midst of doubtfully democratic elections and before another coup occurred in 1954, Vargas died. But it would hardly be the beginning of the rethinking of the Bosa Nova, of the arts and the protest in Brazil.

In the time of Vargas, the notoriety of Brazil was intended for its international relevance, aligning itself with both political sides in times of extremes in the WWII and selling the idea of a renewed, stable, and progressing Brazil, commodifying its identity with the validity of the government. Bosa Nova, then, found itself hostage to the system in order to remain, aligning itself with the ideals of the state and modifying its identity by adapting and creating music whose lyrics allude to the absolute positivity of Brazil in every sense, in its lands, its beaches, its people, its women, in everything to lessen the constant revision pressure of the authoritarianism of the time. Despite that, there was still room for direct dissent expressed through art and protest, each separate.

In 1956, the Brazilian ambition for modern power began to expand beyond the hands of everyone involved, from workers to rulers, intentions exemplified by Brasilia and other great projects throughout the country that the fragility of the façade of stability was increasingly less resistant and, precisely in times of peace, after the first democratic transition of the presidency in the modern history of Brazil in 1964, a sudden coup d’état occurred, coordinated and sponsored by the US, which imposed a total and absolute military dictatorship. It was there than that, eliminating and assassinating all remembrance of opposition or even freedom of expression, thought or forgiveness in a martial state that lasted until 1985.

The ideals of modernism are based on noble intentions for the functional use of space for the individual and society through a design that alludes to the future, to upcoming progress as a synonym for well-being and happiness. Plenitude, in its most ambiguous sense, is the result of progress and it is for this very reason that the ambiguity of plenitude tends to be used to justify the means that accumulate and segregate society, no longer by race but by economy, using as an excuse his dogmatic idea of progress to achieve it, taking away the socially responsible intentions of modernism as a simple marketable fashion style.

This idea in disambiguation is not new or original, but it has its bases in those who, firsthand, had the awareness of witnessing said progress, its ideals and its realities, its facades, and its bases. The modern movement alluded to a balance between humanity and nature through beauty, as a subtle interference with the environment but respecting what it provides, it is the materialization of a philosophy rediscovered to a lesser degree in each generation and in the growing generation before the Brazilian military dictatorship, the order and progress that they tried to appear with the modern urbanization of the heart of the country contradicted with the same intentional harmony of the works, with their sense of dignity, that is why they grew and forged the extremes.

Buarque could not empathize with the working class, he was born into a respected upper-middle class and socially privileged family, his father was a historian, journalist and sociologist while his mother was a pianist and painter, however, his son Francisco had to develop As an adult in the context of supposed progress in times of dictatorship and, following the previous idea of modernity and its present corruption, he made the minimum effort during his career at the Faculty of Architecture of the University of Sao Paolo and devoted himself to his hobby. accustomed to writing, playing the guitar and listening mainly to Bosa Nova to think independently as his formula for telling stories or stories that, by then, already had experience of being published. In 1964, the year of the coup.

During the dictatorship, Buarque managed to avoid censorship by using cryptic analogies and puns in his songs, criticizing, and pointing out the reality of the corruption of reality, authority, and society, with the light and tropical rhythm of the Bosa Nova. That was the way in which the music union was able to protest and disagree with the imposed power with discretion, since to criticize openly was a direct sentence to jail or a common grave, for which it was a balance on a high-altitude cable to be very specific or very ambiguous and fall into condemnation or nonsense. Music was the main rebel artistic guild against the dictatorship, surrounding state censorship with its lyrics and soft arrangements.

Chico Buarque was not the first, but having some literary experience, he was able to compose and create with exemplary ambiguous clarity the case for the different truths that were present for the growing societies divided by " progress " , precisely using the fact of society's corruption as contrast of modern city construction. Buarque was forced to flee the country in 1969 and take refuge in Italy, however, he returned the following year and in 1971 he achieved his greatest success to date, both among the public and for the government, this being a visionary story for the public. about the government's sorrows.

Construção narrates reality as a game of perspectives and their manipulations through an unfortunate and recurring event: a bricklayer falls from a building and dies in the street, a fact that during his faltering university career he was taught that this would be a normality of his life. profession, which is the cost of progress, which was equated to the doctrine of appeasement of society by the dictatorship, that the sorrows that may be caused to them, the liberties that may be restricted and the inconsistencies that they may exercise would be normal, a cost of progress.

At the beginning, Buarque narrates the chronology that leads to the death of the real hypothetical mason, emphasizing the last word of each verse, the characteristics of each duty and action, as if those key words were the clues that explain the reasons, not to calm those dejected by the loss, but to exonerate those who should have exercised responsibility before what happened. The principle is the truth and very simply, the truth is modified for convenience. The truth is a means to interpret reality to our understanding or convenience.

When he lies dead in the street, the climax anticipates the direct consequences of the case, hinders traffic, and followed, brass, trumpets, trombones, bugles, traffic. This is the characteristic that clarifies the first stanza as the true fact, since Buarque does not introduce the incident as a witness and the brass in unison as the accumulated traffic is the thread that connects the author's idea with the listener's reality.

Afterwards, the verses change only by the last word, among themselves, playing with the preceding elements of the event to shape a similar but different narrative, a convenient reality for the person who tells it, that does not harm or stain the interests that the person in charge builds and uses. construction and who validates the morality of the charges.

The second stanza, in my opinion, is the appropriate narrative for the economic and, therefore, the political, using the same characteristic elements of the deceased, the last words of each stanza, as an explanation of his apparent "suicide" and as an excuse for his acquittal as power.

The third similar stanza could be the perspective of an ordinary witness and settled in the imposed daily life of accelerated and excessive progress in the face of the true needs of what they build and do not inhabit, of those who travel and do not walk, of those who work and do not progress. , so that the frustration of the latter tries to vent through what is considered a hindrance or obstacle to said perpetual purpose that actually resembles a mirage. It is the version of the inhabitant of the exploding city, overwhelmed by the need to subsist in an environment that does not forgive passivity, for which reason it finally declares the incident of the death of the mason lying in the middle of the public thoroughfare, emphasizing at the end of each verse his opinions of the facts through his regrets against the victim.

It is the synthesis of the nascent mentality of toxic individualism that was accumulating in the rapid urban expansion; sometimes planned, other times ordered, rarely both, but never limited, since the acceleration of the so-called progress advances leaving behind those who should benefit and that is a reality that is ignored until it is unknown. The greatest tragedy of a fallen mason in the street is not just the death, much less the traffic, it is the apathy and even anger at breaking the naturalness of the inorganic. An apathy imposed and endorsed by the power that persists, in a more discreet way, from the centers of that time to the peripheries of today.

The last stanzas are an insult without saying it, it is a counterproductive condolence, from the power, the patronage to the widow and orphans with the only resolution that one could dare to grant to a citizen of irrelevant class as it would be considered, in that context, a mason, to the fallen worker, resorting to the exoneration of all earthly responsibility and that God be what he wants. Being already a dangerously direct call that demonstrates the nonsense of the misinterpreted progress due to the egotistical desire of a few to progress among them, of the futility of the energy spent, time dedicated and risk taken by those who, in the eyes of power, do not.

They were more than tools at times, whether to build or obtain votes, in order to keep alive the idea of individual progress in the least before their exclusion from enjoying collective progress, despite their participation from the base. Despite the dictatorial context, it is also applied in democracies since the methods of economic growth are non-partisan.

Por esse pão pra comer, por esse chão pra dormir

A certidão pra nascer e a concessão pra sorrir

Por me deixar respirar, por me deixar existir Deus lhe pague

that's why the bread to eat and the ground to sleep on, a record to be born, permission to laugh, for letting me breathe, and for letting me exist, God will pay you,

Also in the last verses, he notices the irrelevance of the systems bureaucracy determined to see for themselves as permissive for the freedoms that should be considered as irrevocable rights, but then, like many other Latin American countries, the abstinence of granting rights was justified with the called sponsored progress. Like a satire for the most uncontrollable basics. Those below rise only to build or fall, not to stay, that is what Buarque implies about the system.

Pela cachaça de graça que a gente tem que engolir Pela fumaça, desgraça que a gente tem que tossir Pelos andaimes pingentes que a gente tem que cair Deus lhe pague

por esa grapa de gracia que tenemos que beber, por ese jugo desgracia que tenemos que toser, por dos andamios de gente para subir y caer, Dios le page,

Buarque ends with a call for minimal dignity, no longer to live so as not to get in the way, but to die, since a death should never get in the way or cause a nuisance like a pothole in someone else's street. The right to be mourned and not disowned by those who said to themselves as with another and to be left with the last just redemption after a melody of misinterpretations in times of legalized injustice, is the certainty that, no matter when and how much of permanence in the heights of opulence or how much endurance and wear and tear in precariousness in the peripheries, all, in terms of the physical, will return to the base that has tended to be ignored, to the earth as the bases of origin of nature.

Pela mulher carpinteira pra nos louvar e cuspir

E pelas moscas bicheiras a nos beijar e cobrir

E pela paz derradeira que enfim vai nos redimir Deus lhe pague.

For that staple of grace that we have to drink, for that disgraceful juice that we have to cough, for two scaffolds of people to climb and fall, God pays him,

Construção what it claims to be from the name, it could even be an example of a functionalist song, with the same body that supports it and with a repetitive but not monotonous structure, self-sufficient and that plays with its own elements, interchanging them with each other, as if it were deal with reality itself and its truths. Create your own identity with simplicity in a genre that does not ask for much from the austerity that is directed. The dictatorship fell and Construção it continues to have its rightful place in contemporary relevance as a statement of the acidity of showy progress.

Modernity, no matter how showy and stylish, is useless if the ideological bases, even almost theological ones, corrode the same society that tries to evoke better times without improving its present.

AFTER GLOW

Gerardito, I'm terrible at talking and much worse at hugging, but talking to you and hugging you I didn't feel so bad.

I ran into your mom in the bathroom during your cremation and she asked me to write you something. I said many words hoping to ease her pain, I don't know how I could even speak because at that moment my heart and my head were in another place. You lived 26 special years. Since you were born, there was something different in you. You were diagnosed with a thousand things and a thousand others were said. Explanations that did not give comfort and, on the contrary, generated a desire to try to understand what was happening differently with you. Different. Gera, I don't think there was a single bad cell in your body. There was nothing wrong with you, nothing sick, nothing wrong. You are perfect. And I will continue talking about you in the present because your existence does not cease. You did not cease to exist the moment your eyes stopped blinking or the moment your heart stopped beating. Your existence continues, understanding that each breath you took, left us a little bit of you. Dust of you impregnated in each pore of us. With your life, you lowered the heavens to us. A lady whose name I don't remember and honestly I didn't recognize hugged my mom and told her that you never came down from heaven. You never came down from heaven because your ere existence led us to it. Behind each scream and pull that you gave, mist remained that drenched us with the purest love I have ever felt, innocent, angelic one, and even so the concept of an angel falls ort by your side.

e across many things that I do not understand; the pause have to see each other again, the lack of time, the necessity you around, that will now be unsatisfied. What I do is that this world was too small for you. This month in e would talk about disappointment. I can't think of ated to it while I have you in mind. Perhaps all I can think e disappointment flowers feel in not being able to do mage to you. Everything falls short in beauty and goodness exist. Gera, you are ng source of light. Your breadth it has now reached. The ex the sky is your responsibility and no word in 26 years you showed us tha screams and sighs and marks.

The coherence in my head is turned upside down and nothing makes sense as I write to you. I hope you don't seek to find order because you left us messy disheveled, rowdy, and dizzy. We will look for you in all places with the hope of finding you, knowing that you stay here, and there too. You are in every ray of light and in every smile.

I find you and hold on to you in the afterglow. In this warm, bright light after the sun has gone down. We need you as the sun is needed in winter, but I long to see you again while I embrace your rays that still remain hanging from each cloud.

I love you, Gerardito.

M.I.FloresNachón

Instructions for authors

If you are interested in participating in the magazine, you should take into account the followingguidelines:

All manuscripts or works must be sent to the official Catártica mail, with their corresponding translation into English or Spanish.

All papers received will be submitted for review by the members of Catártica for theirselectionandpublication.

If the editor deems it pertinent, he may make changes and corrections in the writingandstyleofthemanuscripts. The file must follow the following format: MicrosoftWord Arialfont Fontsizeintwelvepoints

The upper and lower margins should be 2.5 centimeters and the left and rightmustbe3centimeters.

Thelinespacingshouldbe1.5

The images and illustrations must be cited in APA format and in addition to sending them in the file, attach theminJPG,PNGorPDFformat

@catarticarevista

catarticarevista@outlook.com

catarticarevista@gmail.com