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Marta Feyles

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Untitled Alter Orbis 1.jpg

Longing: an ongoing gravimetric study of distance (3 of 1500 km)

How much does distance weight?

Dear you,

something occurred to me today, while I was adding to you fresh time segments. I noticed how quickly you’ve been growing, thus it has become harder to hold you on one hand. You’ve surpassed a threshold, you require more of my body now. You sit on my lap, no longer able to be inspected as a souvenir, a snowball that would end up on a shelf just to attract dust – misty, frozen scenery of a trip, occasionally cleaned. More often than not, these sorts of objects may simply embody a drive to hoard, keeping a memory alive despite the neglect shown by the accumulated layers of breath and skin of the room in which they live in. As it may happen, the exotic orbs witness in their stasis the entropic nature that surrounds them. Snow will always fall if some attention is paid regularly – a depiction of an everlasting season and a temporary simulation of a wish of being elsewhere. Perhaps the only time where the care is given in full since their purchase is when those globes get knocked over, theatrically fall and smash in a burst of shards, freeing the stale juice to become a living part of the house once and for all. Mopped up and scooped in a bin. Bang! A physical memory treated as rubbish. I can’t stop giggling at the irony of this happening. Only then I bet one may feel gutted, since the given value is then questioned; the fear of what we lived and experienced seemed to be addressed solemnly when needed.

Here you are, however, demanding more, hungry of thought, stories, of begins and ends. I can stand, if I wish, yet you would not be rocking forwards and backwards as I feed you more thread, but held balancing on my left hip in a breathing oscillation – up, down, up, down. My stance is awkward, so I see traits of mother whose posture bears the passage of another lump – once straight, then with a slight tilt, a juncus swept permanently by the touch of the wind. As the alter being, you are shaping me. Never a décor nor a functional entity, you can’t be placed down to collect only dust, nor being worn as an armour. Shyness is an attribute that I cannot label you with anymore, your increasing presence interrogates my ownership, my intention. I am confronted by time that can be visually measured. A baby becoming rebellious in its upbringing, a clock ticking relentless – only to uncover the unruly drive to pursue, to follow despite having to face a far-away farewell. Are you then sceptical of my diligence?