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Performance reading in collaboration with Tania Ximena and Santiago Amézquita, presented at Ex Teresa Arte Actual in Mexico City.
For this piece, I used processed recordings I made of the winds traveling from the summit of Pico de Orizaba down along the Jamapa River to its mouth in the sea at Boca del Río, Veracruz. These recordings intertwine with stories from Tania and Santiago about their encounters with aires, atmospheric entities of the mountains. |
English Translation
Santiago - I’m exhausted. I’ve lost sight of the rest of the group. I don’t know how many people fell behind or how many moved ahead. I’m alone.The ground, scattered with small stones, is sandy; the slope is steep; the trees stretch out their pale branches, a green worn out by drought. They close in, scratching the path up toward the summit. Why did I come to this mountain? I start panting, my steps slowing. Why did I come? I suddenly slip, falling hard on one knee. A strong gust of wind rushes from the base of the trail, rising like a breath. My skin bristles; there’s a perfectly tangible sensation that someone’s running toward me with fast, firm, and light steps. I turn my entire body, my face startled, only to find myself surrounded by the same supposed solitude.
But the wind keeps moving — the unmistakable sound of footsteps (at least four people) runs around me; like invisible, ascending stones, it pushes past branches and leaves, lifts dust, and disappears into the distance. All that’s left is the rising dust, shaped by a morning sunbeam, and my crumpled body.
It’s already ten. It’s late. I sense they’re mocking me: “Tired already?” they say, “Can’t keep going?” I’m still shaken.
I drop my pack on the ground near the crosses and run downhill to help whoever might need it. Everyone tells me to keep going, to help Gerardo, who’s fallen far behind.
I reach him — his backpack is enormous. He hands me a few things. After wiping the sweat from his brow, he says: “Go ahead, don’t wait for me, climb fast — they’re following us.”
The light has changed; it’s not as hot anymore.
Back at the top, preparations have begun. In front of a gathering of crosses, we arrange flower bouquets to decorate them, place fruit, mole, drinks, water — the entire offering on the altar. It smells of incense and damp breeze. Gerardo calls out for the aires to gather with us.
Tania Ximena - Gerardo tells me — A few years ago I went to a play. It was about four people climbing a hill. A fifth person dressed in black would come up and grab the one who was lagging behind. None of the four ever saw this shadow person. She’d pull them, holding their arm, slowing them down more and more.
“Hey, how you doing? Are you tired? Want us to help?” they’d say.
But it was so hard for that fourth person to keep going. The ones ahead would get annoyed, they didn’t understand. She tried to catch up, but with every step, the shadow pulled her back. The climb became unbearable, and the group ahead looked so distant.
Gerardo finished by saying: Sometimes the aires don’t want someone to climb the hill. They’ve inhabited this land long before we humans arrived, and you have to respect their decision not to let you pass. They decide — after all, it’s their home.
Santiago - There’s a reason why you ask permission before climbing a mountain: it’s a home, and it’s already inhabited.Who lives in the mountain is a matter of debate. In some traditions, the mountain is simultaneously both the entity that dwells there and the place that shelters that entity. Other traditions see mountains — especially volcanoes — as gateways, both entrances and exits to the underworld and to the heavens. They’re the navel of the world. That’s why they’re passageways, points of convergence for those who inhabit the different layers of reality.
Santiago - Before there were animals, before there were plants, there was rain. Before there was ocean, there was vapor, there were cycles, there was sun. Before every form, there was the form of the volcano.
Inside the volcano: all bodies, waiting to be born.
Wind is the name of the ancient living being, of the one who sprouts and smokes, the name of those who hold up the sky, rooted in the underworld. The name of the water and the rain, the voice of the glacier, children whose bodies are rivers and ferns, shadows hidden behind trees, footsteps in the night.
Aire weaves the morning’s sunbeam, commands the clouds, is the laborer of flowers, the body of bees and storm winds, the voice that sings on the cliffs and tumbles down as waterfalls.
The aires are the ancestors, the laborers of the storm, those who speak in dreams, who watch over springtime, who sleep in stones and are stones, and who, upon those stones, become moss.
Tania Ximena - I went up the hill with Gerardo to leave an offering. There were only five of us, but the offering was abundant — we were sharing it with the aires. When we finished placing it, Gerardo told us we could also take something for ourselves. The moment he said this, the air turned heavy, and a swarm of bees started arriving. We didn’t know where they were coming from — it had never happened to us before.
The entire offering began to be covered by bees. Gerardo said: --The aires have arrived.--
Only a few things were left uncovered, like a bunch of red bananas. I grabbed a couple and ate them. We started descending, and almost immediately, I was hit with one of the worst headaches I’ve ever had — I couldn’t do anything: eat, drive, sleep, nothing. A week later, Gerardo called and told me to buy the same kind of bananas. --You have to return them to the hill. The aires won’t leave you alone until you give back what doesn’t belong to you.--
Santiago - The first question was: What is the name of the aires?
It was answered in a dream. I saw a jungle on a distant mountain. There stood sculptures of beings — part animal, part human — as ancient as the mountain itself. Their bodies were massive, solid, with smiling, fierce expressions.
No humans lived there anymore.
They showed me a figure, and then I’d hear its name. I can only remember two: a reptilian cat with human arms, and a cheerful man with claws and feathers. I can’t recall their names. But I clearly remember their intent to communicate with me.
Maybe it’s my Catholic upbringing, but when thinking of the aires, their relationship with the weather, the mountain, and humans — I kept wondering if they had a pantheon, a hierarchy, if their names bestowed certain powers.
I wondered if knowing those names would allow for a more precise, more generous relationship with them.
The dream gave me an ambiguous answer. Their original names are preserved in a remote world, and I probably won’t ever be able to pronounce them. But they exist.
Tania Ximena - Alfredo had a dream about a small volcano cone asking for an offering. It was the second year the hill had asked for it, and no one had fulfilled the request. We finally went up to make it. I was at the front with Don Jaime. We circled the crater. We reached the spot where the offering would go, split up tasks, and I went to gather dry firewood. I came back and something had changed. I took a deep breath, felt the thickness in the air, saw the light differently. I stopped looking for firewood, stood there disoriented, staring out at the valley. The fields down below were green — it was September, no longer offering season. I returned to the others with almost nothing, just a small branch. I looked for a bush, sat beneath it. I felt gravity pulling me to the center of the earth. I closed my eyes, wishing to stay as an offering to the aires. Goodbye.
Santiago:
We know our world and the world of the aires is one and the same — thanks to the rain and the hail. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water.There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of electricity, just as there isn’t in the sprouting of seeds. The breeze isn’t supernatural. Storm clouds aren’t supernatural. Neither are hurricanes, or snow, or dreaming of them. There’s a dimension of the natural world that isn’t visible, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Tania Ximena & Santiago (together):
We know our world and the world of the aires is the same thanks to the rain and the hail. The breeze isn’t supernatural. Just as there isn’t anything supernatural in the sprouting of seeds. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. Storm clouds aren’t supernatural. Neither are hurricanes, nor snow, nor dreaming of them. There’s nothing supernatural in any form of electricity. We know our world and the world of the aires is one and the same. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. Nor are hurricanes, or snow. Thanks to the rain and the hail. Nor is dreaming of them. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. There’s a dimension of nature that is unseen — but no less real.
But the wind keeps moving — the unmistakable sound of footsteps (at least four people) runs around me; like invisible, ascending stones, it pushes past branches and leaves, lifts dust, and disappears into the distance. All that’s left is the rising dust, shaped by a morning sunbeam, and my crumpled body.
It’s already ten. It’s late. I sense they’re mocking me: “Tired already?” they say, “Can’t keep going?” I’m still shaken.
I drop my pack on the ground near the crosses and run downhill to help whoever might need it. Everyone tells me to keep going, to help Gerardo, who’s fallen far behind.
I reach him — his backpack is enormous. He hands me a few things. After wiping the sweat from his brow, he says: “Go ahead, don’t wait for me, climb fast — they’re following us.”
The light has changed; it’s not as hot anymore.
Back at the top, preparations have begun. In front of a gathering of crosses, we arrange flower bouquets to decorate them, place fruit, mole, drinks, water — the entire offering on the altar. It smells of incense and damp breeze. Gerardo calls out for the aires to gather with us.
Tania Ximena - Gerardo tells me — A few years ago I went to a play. It was about four people climbing a hill. A fifth person dressed in black would come up and grab the one who was lagging behind. None of the four ever saw this shadow person. She’d pull them, holding their arm, slowing them down more and more.
“Hey, how you doing? Are you tired? Want us to help?” they’d say.
But it was so hard for that fourth person to keep going. The ones ahead would get annoyed, they didn’t understand. She tried to catch up, but with every step, the shadow pulled her back. The climb became unbearable, and the group ahead looked so distant.
Gerardo finished by saying: Sometimes the aires don’t want someone to climb the hill. They’ve inhabited this land long before we humans arrived, and you have to respect their decision not to let you pass. They decide — after all, it’s their home.
Santiago - There’s a reason why you ask permission before climbing a mountain: it’s a home, and it’s already inhabited.Who lives in the mountain is a matter of debate. In some traditions, the mountain is simultaneously both the entity that dwells there and the place that shelters that entity. Other traditions see mountains — especially volcanoes — as gateways, both entrances and exits to the underworld and to the heavens. They’re the navel of the world. That’s why they’re passageways, points of convergence for those who inhabit the different layers of reality.
Santiago - Before there were animals, before there were plants, there was rain. Before there was ocean, there was vapor, there were cycles, there was sun. Before every form, there was the form of the volcano.
Inside the volcano: all bodies, waiting to be born.
Wind is the name of the ancient living being, of the one who sprouts and smokes, the name of those who hold up the sky, rooted in the underworld. The name of the water and the rain, the voice of the glacier, children whose bodies are rivers and ferns, shadows hidden behind trees, footsteps in the night.
Aire weaves the morning’s sunbeam, commands the clouds, is the laborer of flowers, the body of bees and storm winds, the voice that sings on the cliffs and tumbles down as waterfalls.
The aires are the ancestors, the laborers of the storm, those who speak in dreams, who watch over springtime, who sleep in stones and are stones, and who, upon those stones, become moss.
Tania Ximena - I went up the hill with Gerardo to leave an offering. There were only five of us, but the offering was abundant — we were sharing it with the aires. When we finished placing it, Gerardo told us we could also take something for ourselves. The moment he said this, the air turned heavy, and a swarm of bees started arriving. We didn’t know where they were coming from — it had never happened to us before.
The entire offering began to be covered by bees. Gerardo said: --The aires have arrived.--
Only a few things were left uncovered, like a bunch of red bananas. I grabbed a couple and ate them. We started descending, and almost immediately, I was hit with one of the worst headaches I’ve ever had — I couldn’t do anything: eat, drive, sleep, nothing. A week later, Gerardo called and told me to buy the same kind of bananas. --You have to return them to the hill. The aires won’t leave you alone until you give back what doesn’t belong to you.--
Santiago - The first question was: What is the name of the aires?
It was answered in a dream. I saw a jungle on a distant mountain. There stood sculptures of beings — part animal, part human — as ancient as the mountain itself. Their bodies were massive, solid, with smiling, fierce expressions.
No humans lived there anymore.
They showed me a figure, and then I’d hear its name. I can only remember two: a reptilian cat with human arms, and a cheerful man with claws and feathers. I can’t recall their names. But I clearly remember their intent to communicate with me.
Maybe it’s my Catholic upbringing, but when thinking of the aires, their relationship with the weather, the mountain, and humans — I kept wondering if they had a pantheon, a hierarchy, if their names bestowed certain powers.
I wondered if knowing those names would allow for a more precise, more generous relationship with them.
The dream gave me an ambiguous answer. Their original names are preserved in a remote world, and I probably won’t ever be able to pronounce them. But they exist.
Tania Ximena - Alfredo had a dream about a small volcano cone asking for an offering. It was the second year the hill had asked for it, and no one had fulfilled the request. We finally went up to make it. I was at the front with Don Jaime. We circled the crater. We reached the spot where the offering would go, split up tasks, and I went to gather dry firewood. I came back and something had changed. I took a deep breath, felt the thickness in the air, saw the light differently. I stopped looking for firewood, stood there disoriented, staring out at the valley. The fields down below were green — it was September, no longer offering season. I returned to the others with almost nothing, just a small branch. I looked for a bush, sat beneath it. I felt gravity pulling me to the center of the earth. I closed my eyes, wishing to stay as an offering to the aires. Goodbye.
Santiago:
We know our world and the world of the aires is one and the same — thanks to the rain and the hail. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water.There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of electricity, just as there isn’t in the sprouting of seeds. The breeze isn’t supernatural. Storm clouds aren’t supernatural. Neither are hurricanes, or snow, or dreaming of them. There’s a dimension of the natural world that isn’t visible, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Tania Ximena & Santiago (together):
We know our world and the world of the aires is the same thanks to the rain and the hail. The breeze isn’t supernatural. Just as there isn’t anything supernatural in the sprouting of seeds. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. Storm clouds aren’t supernatural. Neither are hurricanes, nor snow, nor dreaming of them. There’s nothing supernatural in any form of electricity. We know our world and the world of the aires is one and the same. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. Nor are hurricanes, or snow. Thanks to the rain and the hail. Nor is dreaming of them. There’s nothing supernatural in any manifestation of water. There’s a dimension of nature that is unseen — but no less real.