Aster
Why are the Mountains clinging to their Edges?
September 15 - October 28, 2023
Why are the mountains clinging to their edges?
Twice I heard the sound of
whimpering in the mountains. I
did not think more than once
before going in search of the
dying creature. My fascination
with them dazed my reasoning
about the risks of being eaten
and going into the mossy and
rugged terrain. Here, people
used to leave objects that were
too valuable to exist in a landfill
but not worth keeping in their
homes. There was a path
marked with uneven, motheaten
planks of wood that
creaked every time I stepped on
them. I had never visited this
terrain before; the nature and
landscape seemed stagnant in
time and barely alive. What do
the mountains hide? What is it
that draws us to them—to mate,
to die, to kill, to be vulnerable, to
transgress, to forget, to
remember, to initiate, to end?
Why is it full of profound
impulses? After meditating for a
while, I listened to the creature
again and remembered why it
was there.
Every step I took on the floor
felt like stepping on a gooeysounding
piece of nougat,
surrounded by little pots of what
a desperate mother would find
in the basement of alternative
medicine. Earlier, I had stuck my
foot in one of these, tripping and
injuring my knee. I felt a drop of
blood trickle down through the
dirt-caked hairs on my leg and
remembered a walk in 2003
when my grandmother told me
that her mother bled swans and
then disembowelled them and
tanned their intestines on a log
to make belts. Later, I realised
that this story was a lie; where
we lived, there were no swans,
and I don’t even know if it is
possible to make belts from the
intestines of those birds.
The ecosystem was lacking in
purity and romance for the
beautiful creatures. I tore off a
sleeve from my polo shirt to
wipe off the blood, but the
sweat made it burn.
There was a moment of silence,
and I couldn’t identify where the
animal’s whimpering had come
from. The weather began to turn
cold and the sky turned milky;
the mist felt as if I had plunged
into a dishwasher full of dirty
suds in this overcrowded
mountain of spirits rummaging
through the prologue of my life. I
let myself be enchanted by
these objects full of meaning
and symbols. Thus, I allowed
myself to be a mediator of these
artefacts generated by waste
and ruin.
....
.....
Something I can see—maybe,
maybe not. In the distance, the
entrance to the mountain. A ray
of sunshine. A cracked glass
breathing down my neck. Two
brothers are sleeping in a room
with clay-painted walls.
Sometimes I watch one of them
play at destroying the walls, and
I go with him so that no one
sees him. I cry for him and then
sing to him until he falls asleep.
I fit perfectly on the roof of an
old family house. Suspended by
a frame of old wood
pretentiously painted with
something that simulates its
natural state. Inside me, in the
fragility of my cheap self, dwells
a harmless beast that was silent
in temperate times. Rust
particles from a dilapidated
cabin and dust from the building
next door have caused
fingerprints and rain to sow
grasses and flowers invisible to
this beast. This one is petrified
in the bubbling drought, lying
quietly in the storm.
....
.....
I found a pile of shoes that
made me think of a dream I had
a long time ago. I was walking
with a lover along the
boardwalk, and suddenly I
started to feel a sore spot. We
had walked a long way, and the
shoes were too loose. The
leather was destroying my heel.
In a hurry because of the pain
that I felt, I went home to take
off my shoes. Suddenly, when I
looked at the wound, inside of
the gash, I was being eaten by
the small green larvae of some
insect. They were eating my skin
from the inside out. What do
shoes have to do with love and
desire? Maybe just the smell of
mothballs from a wardrobe.
I had already approached the
top of the mountain, and the
cries of the animals could be
heard nearby behind a wooden
curtain. A group of suicidal ants
where initiating their death ritual
in a spiral. My headphones
played Pretty Girls Make Graves
by The Smiths. When I
approached to them, I noticed a
trail of footprints which beasts
had left on their pathways, they
seemed mystical. As I got
closer, the noise seem to tear
apart my eardrums, I was not
able to identify whether they
were cries of love or violence. I
got closer. The animals making
such loud noises were two
foxes. They were united by a
rope but it remained unclear
whether they were tying or
untying themselves. They
seemed obsessed with this
action. Obsessed with the idea
of being together and apart,
sometimes forever.
- Aster
Aster
Why are the Mountains clinging to their Edges?
September 15 - October 28, 2023
Why are the mountains clinging to their edges?
Twice I heard the sound of
whimpering in the mountains. I
did not think more than once
before going in search of the
dying creature. My fascination
with them dazed my reasoning
about the risks of being eaten
and going into the mossy and
rugged terrain. Here, people
used to leave objects that were
too valuable to exist in a landfill
but not worth keeping in their
homes. There was a path
marked with uneven, motheaten
planks of wood that
creaked every time I stepped on
them. I had never visited this
terrain before; the nature and
landscape seemed stagnant in
time and barely alive. What do
the mountains hide? What is it
that draws us to them—to mate,
to die, to kill, to be vulnerable, to
transgress, to forget, to
remember, to initiate, to end?
Why is it full of profound
impulses? After meditating for a
while, I listened to the creature
again and remembered why it
was there.
Every step I took on the floor
felt like stepping on a gooeysounding
piece of nougat,
surrounded by little pots of what
a desperate mother would find
in the basement of alternative
medicine. Earlier, I had stuck my
foot in one of these, tripping and
injuring my knee. I felt a drop of
blood trickle down through the
dirt-caked hairs on my leg and
remembered a walk in 2003
when my grandmother told me
that her mother bled swans and
then disembowelled them and
tanned their intestines on a log
to make belts. Later, I realised
that this story was a lie; where
we lived, there were no swans,
and I don’t even know if it is
possible to make belts from the
intestines of those birds.
The ecosystem was lacking in
purity and romance for the
beautiful creatures. I tore off a
sleeve from my polo shirt to
wipe off the blood, but the
sweat made it burn.
There was a moment of silence,
and I couldn’t identify where the
animal’s whimpering had come
from. The weather began to turn
cold and the sky turned milky;
the mist felt as if I had plunged
into a dishwasher full of dirty
suds in this overcrowded
mountain of spirits rummaging
through the prologue of my life. I
let myself be enchanted by
these objects full of meaning
and symbols. Thus, I allowed
myself to be a mediator of these
artefacts generated by waste
and ruin.
....
.....
Something I can see—maybe,
maybe not. In the distance, the
entrance to the mountain. A ray
of sunshine. A cracked glass
breathing down my neck. Two
brothers are sleeping in a room
with clay-painted walls.
Sometimes I watch one of them
play at destroying the walls, and
I go with him so that no one
sees him. I cry for him and then
sing to him until he falls asleep.
I fit perfectly on the roof of an
old family house. Suspended by
a frame of old wood
pretentiously painted with
something that simulates its
natural state. Inside me, in the
fragility of my cheap self, dwells
a harmless beast that was silent
in temperate times. Rust
particles from a dilapidated
cabin and dust from the building
next door have caused
fingerprints and rain to sow
grasses and flowers invisible to
this beast. This one is petrified
in the bubbling drought, lying
quietly in the storm.
....
.....
I found a pile of shoes that
made me think of a dream I had
a long time ago. I was walking
with a lover along the
boardwalk, and suddenly I
started to feel a sore spot. We
had walked a long way, and the
shoes were too loose. The
leather was destroying my heel.
In a hurry because of the pain
that I felt, I went home to take
off my shoes. Suddenly, when I
looked at the wound, inside of
the gash, I was being eaten by
the small green larvae of some
insect. They were eating my skin
from the inside out. What do
shoes have to do with love and
desire? Maybe just the smell of
mothballs from a wardrobe.
I had already approached the
top of the mountain, and the
cries of the animals could be
heard nearby behind a wooden
curtain. A group of suicidal ants
where initiating their death ritual
in a spiral. My headphones
played Pretty Girls Make Graves
by The Smiths. When I
approached to them, I noticed a
trail of footprints which beasts
had left on their pathways, they
seemed mystical. As I got
closer, the noise seem to tear
apart my eardrums, I was not
able to identify whether they
were cries of love or violence. I
got closer. The animals making
such loud noises were two
foxes. They were united by a
rope but it remained unclear
whether they were tying or
untying themselves. They
seemed obsessed with this
action. Obsessed with the idea
of being together and apart,
sometimes forever.
- Aster