Rain
Inside this courtyard well, which happens to be my observation point, the rainfall doesn’t have homogeneous appearance. In the middle there is a core of tiny light drops, which are falling as a flagging perpetual curtain, probably formed by a separate meteorological entity. Next to the walls, both right and left, fall much heavier drops we can qualify as individuals. They present themselves as grains, peas and even marbles. There where the water is forced to run horizontally, encountering various obstacles in the form of gutters and window frames, the liquid slips off in convex pyramid candies. Off the roof in front, it slides as a thin table cloth, with an occasional wrinkle produced by an imperceptible variation in the zinc surface. The gutter flow is steady like a flat summer creek, until in disordered vertical tresses the water falls to the ground where it bounces off, breaking into shiny needles.
To each form its own appearance and its own sound effect. The ensemble gives an impression of a steam powered machine, where precise and uncertain workings depend on the energy harvested from precipitation. The sound of falling strings and the gurgling of gutters as well as the frequent ringing of a tiny bell for miniature boxers, without monotony, though not without delicacy, all join in symphony. And when the energy dissipates and the clogs of all the straggling wheels each finish their cycle, the machine grinds to a holt. Now if the sun comes out, all this superficial brilliance will be gone just like that, allowing someone to conclude laconically: It rained.
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Here's Water:
Lower than me, always lower than me – I turn my eyes down to see it; I have to, for it is always down there on the ground as one of the features of the ground, one of its variants – fresh, shiny, transparent and amorphous, its only defect is that it is not weightless. Lower, always lower, this vice it satisfies with obstinacy and by all means available: undermining, corroding, permeating, and filtering through. This vice that works its way from the inside out, does not only affect the surroundings, but erodes the element itself – and while reaching for a new low, it humbly grovels on its belly like a monk of a mendicant order, or refusing to assume any form, disintegrates like a cadaver. Insane! For sure, we all obey the law of gravity. Take this armoire, how hard-headedly it would follow the same need, if it were not properly balanced: were it not nailed to the floor, then regardless of damage, I believe, it would rather throw itself to the ground; but to some extent it plays with gravity and defies it, for it doesn’t just disintegrate into a heap of wood, it resists and maintains its personality and form; whereas liquid by definition does not. So, the influence this vice has on water is without any measure, for it can render it rapid or stagnant, fierce or absolutely amorphous, amorphous and fierce, fierce and terebrating, cunning, undermining and filtering through to such a degree that we can do with it whatever we want, taking it through the pipes and making it shoot vertically, disintegrating into drops of rain. Oh, it makes a perfect slave!
Meanwhile, the sun and moon, jealous of the exclusive influence gravity has over water, try to do the very same thing, especially whenever they find it spread over large span, or particularly when in small pools right after the rain, when it is in no position to offer any resistance — especially to the sun, which takes this opportunity to put water in the so-called water cycle, where the poor thing runs in circles like in a squirrel wheel.
Water escapes me, pouring through my fingers. And it’s not all that clean when you think of it. Water is not as clean as a frog or a lizard, leaving plenty of traces and sometimes even stains; anyway, you have to wipe your hands when they are wet. And so, it escapes me, that is I fail to grasp it. If there is an ideology of water, it is expressed in these terms: water escapes me – escapes a clear definition, and leaves a certain residue in me and on paper, amorphous like a stain. But it is affected by the slightest change of gradient – it runs down, skipping steps – joyful and puerile in its obedience, when I call it back, tilting the surface toward me.
And then, boundaries of the sea:
At the seaside, approaching the water edge, we see a very simple thing, waves repeating themselves. Yet even when dealing with the simplest phenomena, we must observe a certain etiquette, a certain form; and so, we reduce the object of our study, simplifying, diminishing its thickness. Perhaps overwhelmed by the boundless, we are vexed and plot against it on the periphery with our marginal definitions. There our reasoning turns shaky: we lack sound notions and have to resort to approximations.
Air itself, when agitated by variant temperature, tragically tries to influence things, but can only leaf through and occasionally earmark the ponderous marine volume. The other, more stable element that supports us, plunges itself up to the hilt into the thick of things. Sometimes, the energetic muscle reveals the blade that we call beach.
When all is said and done, the beach is still a familiar territory, even when the elements are getting carried away. The savage and sterile interstices will only accept the polished treasure of debris that the litterbug himself must pick up. It is here that from the time immemorial a primitive concert is offered to no particular audience. Unbearably platitudinous message of a persistent intellect is carried from afar by each successive wave that finally unmolested finds its interlocutor: the brief missive is confided to the shells and pebbles; and the latter seem quite stirred by it. The messenger expires delivering the news, as do all the others before and after him — and only the lapse of time manages to stress the directive a little better. Each new arrival clears the throat and names his addressee. Each day, thousands of newcomers are admitted, for the sea is prolific and prolix.
The conference is opened by a crude runt uttered by some peasant off the shores of the Danube. The river itself is adulterated by its tributaries that have lost both direction and meaning, and it must be their bitterness that gives the Danube, similarly to a secret recipe, its special flavor.
The anarchic mix of rivers is at the origin of the sea. And the reason why the sea is limitless has to do with its equidistant position from each of its rivers and the promise to direct itself to everyone of them. The rivers, unable to communicate with each other directly, unless by the way of a large detour, choose the sea as their medium. The sea, in its turn is polite to everyone, more than polite, it contains the multitude of currents as successive convictions. It serves as breaks for all of them, itself barely ever leaving its bed, it leaves with the fishermen the hypnotic image of itself, impersonated by medusa.
These formerly flowing sails now piling by perimeter, could they be a cut of the same cloth as the Neptune’s cape? And if so, by none of the previously mentioned means, neither by the daggers of cliffs, nor by the leaves twirling tempest, nor by the five senses of men with their wide open orifices, has this book ever been read.
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