What a persuader that droplet dropper! He knows how to pull a few strings out of everyone’s business. Snatching them Maestro Splash strings up our plans or writes a personal check habitually forgetting to dribble his clear signature.

Every so often he comes with hungry dogs and chased out cats, brings no reason to domesticate them. And who would? The barrage of wildness, rowdiness, and determination drivels out of canine jaws and absorbs a tantalizing taste of hounder success. Poor felines have no time to purr and hide their hides out of the vicious temptation. To diverse and sensualize the picture’s views and become for a sec the cat’s whiskers just add an extra life to your now-master of squeezing to a drainpipe. A sloppy slap and you’re saved by the instinct to land on paws. The world is running fast, not skipping a single shingle, measuring a distance to fit and claws to omit. Gutters lure like furrows with a seed to bear. Decayed leaves and munched by predecessors dirt, this cloggy mass may wing you up leaving behind fresh foliage wind-kills and rasped off slate.

That is the spirit to be in, somewhere between a wraith lightness and wrath frothiness. Fingers miss their strokes against a keyboard, playing with a god-dog anagram unraveling the skein of inaudibly pure in its arcane deep thoughts. Their volatile suppleness connotes a seamless amalgamation formed by unfurled forces of nature and cushy relevance a mood could possibly fetch. It takes some pathless time and priceless falls of bitted sky to heal, to grow back a spanking new spotlessness around its solar crown.

Maestro Splash likes to swish and swash. There is nothing illicitly in his pranks, nor retrospective commotions to mimic. As a musician, he is unbeatable in any drop he composes, in every note an ear tends to seize. All sounds are fatal. Nonetheless, some of them will carry a child for your melancholy, so she could nourish an inevitable future with mirrorless past. Minds breathe in those sounds and find no dead cats on the line within their frame. This wizened city welcomes its point of rejuvenation. The greeting is mutual and the street conglomeration starts to believe itself to be a dusty-road trekker who solicits alms, these dewed gasps of heaven-rested coolness.

And today strutting and falling, crippling and swaging, almost brushing away golden loot the lover of brooded shadows and loomed collages craves for a brief wind hiatus so he could slow down under-newspaper escapees, draw broader attention to his patient and votive wishes to recognize them in every still dry thread.

Unlike his harbingers mister-bravo-cobblestone schleps without usual strives and skirmishes, he reminds me of a man who wanted to surprise a sinful wife with a sudden visit and painted ahead a scene of deceitfulness. Instead he discovered nothing but cornered to death emptiness of cold to the last wall house. Expected, nevertheless tried to be avoided… What a surprise, a strange twist in human behavior!

Tattletale grayness with curvy features of faceless drabness creeps out. It pullulates outside nooks and shelters and spreads out lavishly in mold and words. Bodies of ancient walls acquire indifference of its inhabitants.

Splash… Splash… Splash, a painting is losing its eloquence while a brush dissolves the aged wind's expressiveness. Now everything blurs. What happened to once vibrant ads, vivid faces of ladies under umbrellas, and their flirtatious saunter? Even the appeal to buy in a local deli properties of swill champing a day ago owners of hooves, snoots, and horns melts lonely behind shop-front windows due to prospective buyers’ slim pockets or their short lag of time. Tattered coughing of rusted to frame bones cars blendes senses with a new-breed half-plastic horses’ sweet absorption of inside fresh paint.

From aside nothing looks awkward. A company of doghouseless creatures fully clad in dirt and fed with hunger waggles around its wigged out lifesavers. Dumpsters thrive overnight and can offer a breathtaking menu of unstale leftovers, the remains of scant contentment, I should say.

Enough is enough and the city entreats for dry crumbs of sunlight. Even thoughts befall wet and crowded with needs to feel a roof over head. Dreams stay in a rocker creaking and waiting for kettle steam to whistle a coffee sip signal. A disheveled tangle of purring coziness might bloom on laps with warmth and tenderness. The resistance is futile against not opening a filled of frugal wine demijohn, decanting it slowly to a forbidden fruit glass.

It sounds sinless to glance at the gray and apathetic eyes of Truth. It didn’t look so contrast while bathing under the sun and not so hopeless whereas nocturnal life played with demi-blindness and embraced the streets so passionately that not a single lamppost dared to show its delighted presence in front of this urban, hooked on saving energy, and endowed in murkiness bedtime. By winking at the sun or gazing into darkness you feel what strikes your sight and puts it on a temporary disability, and here though that grayness and blur, they are untied and unobtrusive. Still you can sense some presence of the heavenly thin and angelically watchful ear. It persuades you to genuflect for a confession. Doing so, make it a silent one, nobody cares about stranger needs when their own problems strangely overwhelm with little time to reflect some light out.

Perhaps the Creator liked pyramids since the beginning of time. Even here, in the heart of scraper-land they grow out of basements, greed, and sewer manholes under which an underworld life catches it own breath and beat. It is made out of simplicity, ignorance and hunted hopes. There is some subordination of the laws of living to the laws of jungles, rules of wandering through underground labyrinths.

Oh, a belowground resident, it’s no matter who you are. For the level above your brand is visible right away, as a nick name "a-rat-to-smell". Not for the heavens’ sake said, rumors come when a bell rings. Even the deepest well holds its bottom star-wise. It would be extremely difficult to imagine a celestial inhabitant who’s counting stars here, but Mother Nature is witty enough to make jokes when all of a sudden the heaven is cramped.

The question of luxury is a relatively broad topic for the heaven at a penthouse level and for the bottom at a little bit below hot water pipe mark where a thrown out mattress finds its use and purpose. Both parties are comfy and familiar with the surrounding to the extent that no one muses about the question itself. Thoughts are like a pancake flopped on a pan experiencing a happy-ending landing. And could be worse...

I still believe in the revolution of one man. He climbs up stairs, through and over himself, possibly over others and by others, sneaks, struggles and scrambles. He tends to fall, break, and lick his wounds. Striving to reach the highest earthly happiness, often without even thinking about it, the rebel just jumps while someone is raising the bar and makes sure that every cloud has a silver lining. Never mind. It is always better to stay in the bosom of wealth than on the hunchback of poverty.

When a person is sick he/she consumes the bitterness along with family and close relatives. When a sickness devours a city no one except visitors notices the symptoms until the disease starts eating up everyone in person and tremendously changing personalities, customs, and money-flown rhythms. Next, it will wash out of thinking heads all their plans, morsels of human kindness, the sense of belonging to a sole mechanism spun and twisted around upcoming chores and passed over duties. That is the break when the basic instinct of survival kicks up and probes should be taken for endurance, comprehending, renouncement of the past, and dedication to build a bit brighter future.

Problems grow through men. Their roots embrace hearts tightly and squeeze them when an opportunity knocks out loud. They subsist in that wring bitching about powerless attempts to attain peace, satisfy demands, and come to some logical solution. And you can draw infinite analogies between you and the place to live. It is as much alive as anyone else and inhales the same problems because when you look at it surprisingly nothing else could be seen except for a mirror reflection.

An indifferent glance draws a blank and lines gets responses without a sparkle of enthusiasm or desire, nor love and understanding. It bleeds but not because of sympathy.

When the surrounding is a swarm of problems and your cup of patience is filled with their bobbles the spill is looking for a new road to a shelter, to satisfy the desires of heart and soul, to be in the blissful state of rest and harmony with now-dissipating ego. This rainy road appears when the time comes for it. And it is easier for those who are already on the road. Although the frontier is unknown and memory pages were re-read a hundred times, the wind of changes shall elevate ashes of the past and define a base for a new chance to be a seed of bliss.

Clench teeth; harden fists till your mind is clear right after it swallows the images of dancing droplets. Make your steps barefooted for the stubble words and senses. Don’t intervene or stumble, nor stop to discern where the stubbles undercut deeper or a near byroad runs faster.

Oh paths of life, how to keep my pace with you? You are ahead of me, in front of my thoughts and then I find myself running in your circle like a dog trying to catch own tail, realizing that standing against the wind is a challenge. Playing dead, just lying without providing any signs of dew on a mirror or throwing with angry thrust the ill-judged views on livid events where I am not myself.

"Shock Therapy", that is the precise description of my current state of mind. Painted by an inexplicable force, expressions on the face of Truth destined to congeal. They are hastily imposed and strong as the shock itself. Look around and be merciful to your feelings. Experiencing reminiscent clogs in your heart try to quench the thirsty urge to stay alive.

What about the rain? What does he have to do with us and our city?

The unidentified half of the world is passed by him. Somewhere Maestro Splash is expected and an occasional guest, and elsewhere he brings inevitable destruction and environmental disasters breaking hearts, fate, and rules. Mister I-am-Falling is never questioned about limits and how much his priceless work is worth. There is an action of falling and the consequence to swing on the scale of senses from cursing to blessings.

I think he is one happy man, a joyous and sorrowful touch of Heaven, the power to not stop wind in a chest or leap over own thoughts, actions, and the meaning of life.

The word "falling" for drops is the notion of reverse direction because for them our world is an upside down creature. They grow up to the ground and touch it the way a bird of freedom caresses the sky. And only when this touch turns into reality the dripped sky changes its polarity and the circle of life redefines its infinity in the stream of time.

Whatever comes and goes leaves its purposes to spin the next event. And Maestro Splash is an expert of leaving behind a sense of temporality, tinges of renovation, and the bliss to touch a sky.

February 25, 2011