Catártica: February'23

February '23

EDITORIAL LETTER

I am hungry, I want more and more, I will not stop until I consume everything near me. I don't see people and their stories, all I see in front of me is meat to consume. I will consume them with their physicality, squeezing their ideas, exploiting their sexuality, exhausting all that their bodies can offer me. And yet they will still love me. Now the meat feels honor in being consumed and exploited, it has made it its nature... Very beautiful.

I'm still hungry, can I have your body?

We experience the different ways in which we can understand the concept of "Meat", a consumer product that can be understood in a thousand and one ways. I'm hungry, so let's look at the menu

Rossanna Huerta

3 5 13 17 22 24

Artemisia

AGC

Art and Fascism: More than our own flesh

Ernesto Ocaña

Ribs

M.I. Flores Nachón

Two plus one

Fernando Salas

Ode for an exuberant imagination

Rossanna Huerta

The grave of the butterflies

Michel Cardenas

Cerezo, M. (s. XVII) Bodegón con carne. Museo Nacional de San Carlos

ARTEMISIA

Curves, folds, and volumes, the human body is more than just limbs, it is passion, ecstasy, and carnal desire. Artemisia Gentileschi's (1593 - 1653) painting portrays Venus, the Roman goddess of love, beauty, and fertility, lying on a bed of blue fabrics with a large red cushion. A transparent cloth passes around the woman ' s naked body, from her thighs down her back and into her arms. Above her is Cupid, recognizable by his small wings, admiring Venus as he gently fans her with several peacock feathers.

A.G.C.

The painting's colors are vivid, in particular the blue canvas, which was painted using more than one layer of the famous lapis lazuli dye, suggesting that it was commissioned by a wealthy client. Both the light and the darkness of the scene reveal the Caravaggist school, the Baroque essence, and the artist's palpable dramatism. Celebrated for being the first woman admitted to the Academy of Design in Florence, Gentileschi certainly had a long way to climb through the art world, even after her death, her work was only recognized well into the twentieth century.

Historical, religious, and heroic scenes are part of the most common themes painted by the artist, where the female figure stands out as the center of attention and protagonist, as in the paintings Judith beheading Holofernes (1614 - 1620), Judith and her maid (1618 - 1619), which is arguably the next scene of the beheading of Holofernes, located in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence or Mary Magdalene as The Melancholy (1622 - 1625) that can be visited at the Soumaya Museum in Mexico City.

Therefore, by reappropriating the female nude, it seems that Artemisia Gentileschi takes nudity as a weapon and encourages new meanings to be attributed to it. Both Cleopatra (c. 1633 - 1635) and the Venus we see on the cover are not just another couple of nudes, but rather women ' s bodies painted directly with woman ' s brushes.

ART& FASCISMII

Morethanourownflesh

My generation is forever infatuated with unreality, as if since we were children, we had foreseen the imminent grief that the truth of all things would cause us. When we were children, we lived through the democratization of television and when we were teenagers, that of the internet, we were formed with an ambiguous and incomplete idea of the rest of the world, perhaps in a very imperfect way we were the first global generation. In a chaotic world that is slowly dying at the hands of man, ruled by wealth and privilege, which bleeds innocence thanks to tradition, millennials always drift towards fantasy, inhaling escapism in order to exhale anxiety.

Ernesto Ocaña

Growing up, one of the fictions that gripped my generation the most was the wizarding world of Harry Potter, a simple and whimsical story of young people facing the evil that represents discrimination and supremacy while gradually maturing along with their audience. Harry Potter through his books and movies defined a generation of youngsters, many of them shy and introverted, as children he endowed them with distraction, excitement and hope, as young adults he endowed them with interaction and community. It was never my favorite fantasy, but I keep it very present, as if by osmosis its presence has become inescapable in me.

It's a franchise that to this day remains impossible to ignore thanks to the nostalgia of an entire generation. The massive success of the recent video game Hogwarts Legacy is proof of its enormous cultural influence. And yet, this is a success marred by an inescapable controversy, the ideological legacy of its creator, J. K. Rowling. Until a few years ago, thanks to her vocal opposition to Donald Trump, her charity work and a generous reading of her texts that speaks about the fight against discrimination, J. K. Rowling enjoyed a reputation as an open-minded and tolerant feminist woman. I don't know if it’s money, power or influence that corrupts a human being, but at least they reveal what we hide deep inside, they make us apathetic towards the opinions of others and for the same reason, spitefully sincere, skeptical of any truth other than ours.

Something that for me is not in dispute is the essence of Rowling's political discourse. It is indeed a transphobic discourse, focused on painting trans women as perverse, predatory men, who invade female spaces and take away the voice of "real women " , as infiltrators of the patriarchy. Trans men are portrayed as confused women who seek to escape the vulnerability of their own femininity in order to achieve masculine privilege, lacking their own agency, infantilized when they are not just totally ignored. It is an ideological remnant of the political lesbianism of the second wave of feminism, and of its ideas of biological determinism that assume every man as an inevitable agent of patriarchy and an inherent enemy of women.

One of the biggest problems with transexclusionary feminism is that it focuses on the purity of the individual, reducing women to their genitals and their apparent femininity. Although it has its origins in second-wave feminism, its essentialist and authoritarian overtones confines its proponents inside of a fascist fantasy, where the supposed enemy are men infiltrating female identity, and who must be expelled at all costs. It’s an ideology that portrays men as sexual abusers, sadistic monsters, or controlling tyrants, unable to act otherwise. The problem with treating men like monsters, apart from the fact that it can be discriminatory, is that it absolves us of the guilt when we do harm others, because it describes our actions as an inevitable reality of our nature, not as a content of our values or character. It also infantilizes women, because it depicts them as unable to thrive in the presence of men.

The "gender-critical" ideology encourages women to judge other women, to try and qualify how feminine others look because they are always looking for these supposed men who infiltrate their spaces. Any woman who is identified as too masculine is harassed, regardless of whether she is trans or not, because judging other by their appearance is a meaningless solution that stems from a patriarchal privilege bestowed by beauty, whose true purpose, like all ideologies adjacent to fascism, is to create an enemy, even if imaginary, as long as it justifies a constant, kinetic violence.

Essentialism, group identity, biological determinism, aesthetic purity, and the constant search for an enemy that justifies all of the above are common elements of any fascist movement such as Nazism and its racial supremacy, they are the fundamental elements of any form of oppression, be it racial, cultural, economic, sexual or gender oppression.

Harry Potter is a kind of fiction that I feel belongs to the marginalized, to those who had a difficult adolescence or who had a certain social awkwardness, to the nerds and outcasts, to the odd or the rejected. Maybe not exactly for myself, but for people like me, at least that's my experience.

And for this reason, it is not rare to realize that many awkward and insecure teenagers became brave, sensitive, charismatic, and self-confident adults, and perhaps they were only awkward at the time because they were discovering their sexuality or gender identity in a world hostile to those possibilities. And it is then not weird to find that now those queer or LGBTQ millennials find themselves disappointed and hurt by Rowling's rhetoric, as they were convinced that those books were written by someone whose priority was to fight against discrimination and the acceptance of those that society deems to be different.

I have heard many people, ambiguously appealing to The Death of the Author by Roland Barthes without even having read it, reassure that we must separate the art from the artist, that we can consume any cultural product without guilt as long as we do not think about its creators, no matter how cruel and harmful they could be. That no consumption is ethical under capitalism and therefore we can ignore our principles and values whenever it is convenient, but I refuse to believe that this is the solution. Alejandro Gonzáles Iñárritu once said when he was promoting Birdman that superheroes are violent and essentially right-wing. Alan Moore, comic book writer and author of Watchmen and V for Vendetta, in an interview with The Guardian poised that superhero films are precursors to fascism.

The idea of the Marvel and DC movies is an interesting one, that only certain privileged people, who possess certain exclusive powers, can put an end to evil, that only they can decide the moral axis of the worlds they inhabit, where supernatural powers or even focused violence offer simple solutions to complex problems. I do not think that Iñárritu or Moore are wrong, it is true that superheroes, especially when they are used only as a vehicle for entertainment, have many proto-fascist elements. The relevant question then is not whether or not there are fascist elements in our entertainment, art, and other cultural products, but rather what we should do about it. As younger generations we constantly seek to escape from a world that oppresses us through fantasy and escapism, but perhaps the answer is not to escape through the fantasies that come from that oppressive world, at least without judging them more critically and consciously.

Harry Potter is a story based perhaps on British mythological folklore and the idealization of European pre-industrial aesthetics, but more than anything on the authoritarian English society and its eternal status quo. Harry lives in a hierarchical and intolerant world, segregated between a superior and an inferior race, one that possesses magic and one that does not. Many of the wizards at Hogwarts are openly racist, but it is only the Death Eaters, who risk exposing the secret wizarding world through their genocidal desires, who are openly repudiated, and only as far as English propriety allows.

Harry is a passive bystander to most of the injustices of the world he lives in, only acting against them when they directly affect him or his friends, or to seek survival, never to create change. His dream is to become an auror, and thereby become part of the system that created monsters like Voldemort in the first place. The death of Voldemort himself is not the result of a revolution, but the consequence of an unrealized bureaucratic procedure, of a technicality. As Voldemort died by his own hand, he himself argues against the need for any movement for change or revolution with his own death. Voldemort disturbs and repairs the status quo and Harry is only an unwilling participant in Voldemort's story.

Hogwarts and the England in which it resides are not an open and tolerant world that fights against discrimination, they are a mediocre world that belongs to the privileged, a world that does good only to avoid the sudden change of its reality and avoid the terrifying possibilities that the end of segregation would bring. Harry is not a hero; he is just a young man whose empathy is slightly greater than that of the people around him and who is lucky enough to belong to the race that his fascist society has named superior. His achievements do not come from his principles, drive or beliefs, but are mostly the result of money and fame that he inherited at birth or simply pure luck.

Outside of Dobby he doesn't place too much importance on elf enslavement, nor on discrimination against Muggles that isn't either extreme in nature or that doesn't affect his loved ones. Harry never acts, he only reacts, he is a central figure in the fight against extreme racism only because he is the target of Voldemort, not because of his own conviction, he is an incidental activist. Hogwarts is the perfect fascist world, where the otherness that is oppressed and belittled, those who are born without magic, are unaware of their submission and seem to lose nothing by living discriminated against and in segregation. It is a world where magic, like the privileges of our real world, only exists for the use of those who possess it, it is not a tool of empathy but of justified supremacy.

Disney, Marvel, Star-Wars, Harry Potter, there is a whole generation that defines itself through the conformism of the mediocre culture that is used to consuming, I include myself in it. But how do we hope to change our world if we get lost in fantasies as gray and indifferent as our contexts? How do we intend to fight against authoritarianism, ignorance, and injustice if we consume products that feed them? If our superheroes idealize excessive power, violence and machismo and objectify femininity, if our fantastic stories remain indifferent to hatred and discrimination, if we only consume the artistic representation of the marginalized when we feel like it’s aesthetically and erotically pleasing, then it’s impossible to argue for a better world. Perhaps we deserve better fictions and more humanlike stories, a more compassionate and open-minded art. Sometimes we cannot separate ourselves from these cultural products so easily because it is thanks to them that we endure being one more cog in a cruel and indifferent society, that we endure poverty, depression, or fatigue. But just as in fiction, we cannot remain passive in the face of the need for change in a world that demands transformation.

On February 11 of this year, Brianna Ghey, a 16-year-old transgender girl was stabbed to death while walking in a park in Cheshire, England. Two 15-year-olds were arrested in connection with the crime, and it’s believed to be a hate crime. At the same time, Hogwarts Legacy is breaking sales records and the royalties and fame only add to J. K. Rowling's already considerable influence and wealth. Rowling is not just a woman of controversial opinions, she is a woman who donates to transphobic orgs, whose words are quoted by far-right politicians, who allies with fascist and anti-feminist figures for the sole purpose of increasing the scope of her transphobia. Her focus is not on the well-being of women, but on the marginalization of transgender people and their eventual demise.

Voices like those of the author of Harry Potter are responsible for the murder of this young woman and the deaths of many other people. There were outlets that reported Brianna's death as that of a young guy, disrespecting her identity even in the tragedy of her death. We can be more than the flesh that comprises our being would suggest, only if we allow ourselves to be born anew. I long for the day when no one has to justify their preferences, their way of expressing themselves or their identity, that we can be and love whoever we want without anyone judging us for existing differently, I long for the marginalized to disappear into normalcy. In real life there are no convenient magic rules to get rid of villains like Rowling, they are the ones who have the power, wealth, and influence, in reality there is no such thing as superheroes. Our best weapon against cruelty and injustice is constant compassion, insistent generosity, openness to listen and learn, and unending vocal opposition to inhumane humans like J. K. Rowling, die führerin, until the day despair transforms into revolution.

RIBS

The next day John saw Jesus coming toward him and said, “Look, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world!”

John 1:29

Still life has been a widely used genre in the History of Art, many of them probably being the protagonists of our kitchen walls, next to a Last Supper- in the case of Catholic homes. Being present in the chronology and the straight line with which temporality is traditionally determined, still life as a genre has had ostentation as the central point of relevance. An exhibition in which the freshness and vanity of life that remains paused inked in oil is represented, although what remains outside the frame will continue to decompose. Curious is the case of two still life(s) with a difference of 200 years, which I ran into without wanting to look for either of them.

Francisco de Zurbarán and his namesake Francisco de Goya shared a concept in coexistence that apparently did not arise from the same idea.

M.I. Flores Nachón

This is what you are to offer on the altar regularly each day: two lambs a year old. Offer one in the morning and the other at twilight.

Exodus 29: 38,39

In 1640, Francisco de Zurbarán painted the Lamb of God in the work Agnus Dei, legs bound in a gloomy scene, cold and soaked in loneliness that broke with the cheerful and vain character of the previous still life(s) Although in anterior paintings, dead animals were shown, Zurbarán corrupts the genre by snatching the freedom of the animal that will symbolically grant us true forgiveness, presenting something never seen before, a daring image of a sacrifice other than crucifixion. The lamb stands out for being the first and only true level in the painting, capturing as much light as possible, understood from its sacralized entity Martyred and fully delivered, the animal remains alive before a genre that promises its death, nature, detained condemned to die.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth; he was led like a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before its shearers is silent, so he did not open his mouth.

Isaiah 53:7

In 1804 (c.a) Francisco de Goya painted Pieces of Ram, most probably attributed to the deadly theme of the Spanish War of Independence in the second decade of the 17th century. A still life that is just as gloomy and dismal, with a touch of the macabre that the previous one lacks, probably softened by the animal's fur. An already dead ram, decapitated and skinned, ready to be sold by the kilo. There is a theory that this same animal symbolizes the human bodies that were deprived of life during the war. What is the human without the animal, if they are not one? Francisco de Goya does not use the Ram as a living image of the martyrdom of Jesus Christ, much less seems to approach religious themes, but rather paints a scene of still life. Truly dead.

Then I saw a Lamb, looking as if it had been slain, standing at the center of the throne, encircled by the four living creatures and the elders. The Lamb had seven horns and seven eyes, which are the seven spirits of God sent out into all the earth.

Revelation 5:6

I have come across both paintings, separated by a historical distance of 200 years, and many wars. A lot of daring and biblical understanding between them and me. The works are sisters to each other, they seem to have been a mirror of the other, a time machine that reminds us of the perishable meat that has become a vehicle for our bones.

What would our bones be without meat?

TWO PLUS ONE

Fernando Salas

Maybe if we had never seen each other again we could have been friends. To pass from the fire that burns to the one that accompanies us in winter. Telling each other stories, reading books to each other, always with a secret nostalgia and a sigh in between. To assume our distances. Maybe you had always thought when there is a will, there is a way, and me, that it is not as easy as it sounds. And with so much land in between, with that satisfaction we would have stayed.

But love is very much like life, however delusional it may be and sometimes I don't want to see it. Yes, both are enormous promises. But living is what we can see, and so is love. When we spoke for the first time after months I was so relieved that forever wouldn't be so long. Then a couple of days later you told me you were coming to Mexico. Oh yeah? Cool, I said hiding my excitement, which lasted the thirty seconds it took you to tell me you were going to Argentina for a few months. Just like the story of the Chinese farmer, good luck and bad luck last an instant.

We agreed that seeing each other would be a bad idea, that maybe a lot of what we felt would flare up again, and that it would be silly. Which led to us wanting to look at each other and looking for a date to do it.

You told me where you were staying, then asked me to come Thursday night instead of Friday morning. And when you met me at the door we just pretended it was an ordinary day. I leaned on you as we sat on the couch, and you asked me if I was still that bad for first kisses. Woman. I remember you on top of me, and then in your room, lit by the two lamps. It was cold, I took off your clothes and silently made love to you.

Remind me why we broke up, I told you as we hugged. The next day we went out for breakfast, and then we looked for a park. And in the park, a hillside. And on the hillside, of course, a meadow in the sun. We lay down for a while. There were other couples around, and we looked at them, and we looked at each other. Whispering to each other. Taking videos that you kept and that you're not going to show me. Getting hot. We fell asleep in the sun.

Making love to you. Why can't I make love to you anymore. Why can't I take your clothes off and lick you and take you and make love to you. I don't know how to love you, it's true. I know how to make love to you, I know how to make you cum, I know how to make it fast because you don't like it slow. But I don't know how to love you. And even less so far away.

Another day we went to La Roma. Walking holding hands. Calling you mi amor again. How much we walked Frida, all the streets of Merida, of Oaxaca, not in Puerto because it was too hot and you rented a scooter, of Mexico City. And yet something has screwed me up. Won't let me love you, tells me not to. A stupid intuition, the same one that made me say yes to another woman, yes, yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes, anytime, anywhere. The same stupid intuition that took me to the precipice, but I don't know how to ignore.

And from there we went to Chapultepec Lake, and we sat on a quiet shore, and we bought what people came by to sell. And you told me about your parents, and I talked to you about love. My God, it's always cold in this house. It wasn't that day, but it was going to be. And you had a shirt to cover you and I brought my sweatshirt. And when the sun went down I gave it to you, because your shirt wasn't gonna be enough. If it's too big for me it's too big for you, but I always liked to see you in my clothes. And seeing you naked, too.

On the way back we ate by the house, already on Mazatlan Avenue. Some very expensive hamburgers. I finished yours, as usual. And we went back to the house with Nicky. But you wanted to go out as soon as I arrived, so we went to Caiman. We were in a bar, what was I going to do. 19

We started talking and talking, looking at people and looking at each other. We drank mezcal with cucumber. And talked about love. I asked you if you would be in a relationship in which your partner fucks someone else, and you told me some stuff. I told you I don't think I would be in a relationship like that anymore, that I wanted something more normal. And you were surprised. But you thought we were talking about us and I was talking to the wind.

We walked back to the house in silence. I hadn't thought about going back together, honestly I hadn't. You were leaving to Argentina, and someday you would go back to the U.S. I've never been out of the country. I am working for four hundred dollars a month and my house has no natural light coming in. I told you I wanted to be with you but I didn't say it with conviction. I'm sorry. Then we turned off the light and fucked in the saddest way I've ever fucked. We finished and I went to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I came back and I couldn't believe it. This wasn't us. At some point we fell asleep.

The next morning, the night had taken some of that sadness away. We were naked again in a minute, me inside you, very slowly for about half an hour because Nicky and the mouse hadn't left. And when they left we started playing. We fucked in the dark for an hour or two.

I wish time had stopped. Then we went out for a cinnamon roll and we ate it half in Mexico Park, because there's where we broke up again. You never wanted to see me again. We went back to the house in silence, in the middle of the day. Before I left, you made me say that I couldn't love you the way you wanted me to. To this day I don't know exactly what you meant, but it's true. I said it. I stood up. I hugged you, even though you didn't want me. And I left.

Something of me remains with you. It's true, I don't know how to love you. You're absolutely right, and I know because someone did the same with my love. It's a very big thing and someone despised it. I did the same with yours. And neither you nor I deserve that, but nothing in life is about deserving. I am so sorry for that. I wrote you an email saying that if you ever wanted to be friends I'd leave the door open for you. I may not hear from you again for a long time. It's just been a year since we met, and a few weeks since we last saw each other.

I'm going to miss you, bichito.

Ilustración: Jenny Wildfang

ODE FOR an exuberant imagination

Letters...Letters, too many that form words, which cram the pages at hand, I can't stop writing, my imagination flows faster than a river in the rainy season. My hands trying to keep up with the hectic pace of my imagination as best they can

All interrupted by the demanding voice of my boss What have I told you about writing nonsense during working hours, stop your cheesy stuff and get to work with an unexpected tug she removed the sheet as it gave a desperate cry for help knowing what her end was To end up squeezed and about to die in the despair of garbage oblivion. A deplorable end for such a work of art composed by me. Despised, that's how I felt in those moments. I don't know how it is possible that people consider reading boring and prefer to be on the couch admiring the absurd television. A book can take you to imaginary and wonderful places or it can lead you to your worst nightmare, totally a magnificent experience...

―Miss Evans, are you even listening?― With a crestfallen head I made a gesture indicating ' no ' . Pointing to the exit I understood what she was trying to say with her non-verbal language... I was fired, I understood what the piece of paper in the trash felt like, it no longer served her interests. With a burst of anger I grabbed the crumpled and dying sheet of paper from the trash and ran out of the office. I ran, as fast as I could, I felt like I was in one of my stories, the wind hitting my face, messing up my hair. And most of all being free.

Free from the ties that kept me in that city. I arrived home and determined never to return to the city, I packed only a change of clothes, my typewriter and brought with me all the money I had. I arrived at the train stop, bought a ticket to a stop near a forest.

Tired from the exhausting day, I dreamed. I dreamed of incredible worlds that went far beyond the imagination of an ordinary human. I had always wondered what would become of me if one day I disappeared from the face of the earth. My friends, companions and family... Would I be missed? Did they forget all our memories? Or was I just another person in this world, unimportant, who cares! Maybe the red thread of fate had other plans for me. Besides, I was never one to stay in one place forever.

I arrived at my stop. All dark and lonely, and without further ado I entered the forest, the light of the sunset was entering the forest trying to reach the hungry roots of the trees. The fresh and pure air saturated my lungs that were used to the suffocating and toxic air. I knew this was the place, I belonged here, my human nature felt identified with the life around me. I closed my eyes, stretched out my arms and exhaled deeply. I picked up my computer, felt the ideas flowing into my head, analyzing them. Suddenly I opened my eyes and I knew what to write...

Letters... More and more letters, too many forming words, which saturate the sheets of paper, this feeling is uncontrollable, I can't stop writing, my imagination flows... No... It flies faster than an eagle trying to catch its prey. My hands follow the rhythm of my imagination as if it were music. Those letters create words, which create stories, which will be in the forest of my imagination.

THEGRAVEOFBUTTERFLIES

IV

Oh what will it be?

(Good Willie) : "The only gesture is to believe or not, sometimes until believing crying "

What will become of us when no one else knows about these days? (we, the last children of the century) What will become of the victories and misfortunes? is the unknown the fervent impulse that bursts us to continue our life

Wow, transience can impact the compactness of memories that in the blink of an eye the months and decades are lost the most intransigent days will bounce off some future neural process

Perspectives build realities money sick then spend it

“This is real shit, not a drill”

Hate is in the little things every action in the production chain tends to perpetuate a crime against ourselves

"In diversity is life"

The dilated eyes that look to the train reappear from the bowels emerging from a vanishing point that stores the past and shoot the present, headlights project on the retina the placebo of the show

No one ever taught them to stop Has no one ever discerned the application of work itself?

The beatnik buddhas who sail like the ghost champions survive without watches, inside the big white cubes hidden by the spinal cord of the city

The mazes are 360 degrees between the metropolises that portray to Dante or Matisse languages and bodies converge between letters and crows

You will miss some trains from the station you'll wait for the doors to slip away or you will thank the stranger for opening them

the grave of butterflies

Everything that is now will never be the same again that dream that arises in the memory as unreal weighs and calms the breath

The division of characters within the central matrix of our decisions they are 2 different desires in the same mouth

A half moon burns the clouds we sleep among the ants scorpions tickle with their sting on the burned soles of your feet

Words won't be enough to forgiveness of some crimes words have not yet been enough to stop our crying even language has limits the dead are leaving "Don't you hear the dogs barking?"

You are the days that I had faith

sunny idylls, I will walk to Cintalapa to a nest of cranes (blow the clouds over their cheeks) you took me to know the dream

poor cyborg snail run desperate in the indefinite loop of the pause fleeing from the salinized raindrops pastel colors stunned on a sweet aura

Perhaps it was my presence that made them perish all the butterflies that have surrounded me within this playful tropic Eternal summer bizarre frenzy

There are goodbyes that contain so much that does not fit in a single word because they would rather go to the other side of the sender

I had to go to the Pacific to spit my faults my sorrows wash your feet once more with ink the odyssey to the grave of butterflies saw that scarlet light perish of an orchid in may

In my last dream I hugged you I looked behind me everything evaporated they stay here for you my best compliments “my best cries”

You will survive by thanks and magic that you still don't understand grateful to the skin

(I had more verses but I lost them in my memory) Who made this place?

Some voices fade in time and talk others we keep in the thorax always

Epilogue

Things never stop changing... …or so you think… What will perpetuity never happen?

My disagreements with the endings they have extended this outcome by the way but this place/moment is gone now...

A sunbeam butterfly appeared from another world flew all over The Izola Zero ginning and end of this funereal labyrinth dressed in the colors of the world the high walls were fired for that beautiful yellow Lepidoptera I let the pearls rest on the crystal skull

it took hundreds of words to get here over/live once more we have felt we have loved

“Every emotion been deprived even my strong points couldn't survive f I didn't learn to love myself, forgive myself a hundred times”

Here there are no more pauses despite wanting to put a root in these graves let's go straight to the end

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Artists and Writers

Antonella Guagnelli

Ernesto Ocaña

Luis Fernando Salas

María Inés Flores

Michel Cardenas

Rossanna Huerta