While I was taking apart “Journey into the Undefined” I realized the dots and the squares were bouncing on the table. They bounced really high and made fascinating movements. They were simultaneously surprising and unbelievable as they twirled on their own axis.
When I saw the video, I heard the sound of the dots and squares falling. It sounded like drops in a stream. It sounded like rain on a zinc metal roof.
1940. A drop escaped. It found an opening, it fell on my forehead, and woke me up. As it slid down my face another one further away found another opening, and another, until my face was drenched with drops. All the while the sound of the water sliding down like a stream on the rooftop was pure music. One could hear it falling loudly on the ground and in a bucket that we used for showering and such. That night, it rained so much and so long that my bed became a lake with rivers.
My ears were enjoying the music as my body felt refreshed from the humid heat. The drop, the drops enjoyed the touch of skin and fabric where they slipped and at the same time absorbed by the folds of my shirt. They had separated from their rooftop partners and I could tell from the sound they were making that they were filled with joy. The rhythm gave them away.
BUT HERE, NOW, in this lockdown, I have to invent a liquid space without water. Without water. Without water. Actually it has been a while since water gave me any pleasure. It gives me anxiety.
It is not enough to reduce the ways in which I use it. I have to find water in the intangible. in the disembodied, in the imaginary. I must become water in water thirsty for water. In raging waters. In unjust waters. In worldly waters. In planetary waters.