Saturday, February 20, 2016

The Architecture of Rain

In the rain I realize how directional everything is and how much everything is at cross purposes. The various wells of gravity appear to pull in the same direction, but am I sure? I consider that every path of rain is both a drop and a streak of persistence, but I usually ignore in the mass of experience I wade through every night. Every event that is rain is particular.

Snowflakes are simply show offs. Freezing does nothing to alter the events of rain other than change their properties into more aesthetically accessible events. They float along in hexagonal symmetry, inviting wonder.

The bamboo near me on the walk grows in both singular and plural form. I listen to it rustling in the rain. Each sound is like a word. What matters? What are the bon mots?

Like these other events, I am going in some direction as well. Then again, what is the geometry of "out of the rain?" The umbrella has partially geodesic opinions. The baguette? It considers a path of least resistance which is a damp return to its original constituents beneath the universal solvent of architecture. Architecture is, essentially a temporary attempt to define space by stopping the rain.

Duration depends on the pitch of the roof and materials.

The umbrella is therefore architecture. I could say this about myself or the baguette as well. If it was cold I could include the snow.

I understand that the descent of rain and my walk home from the corner store are like the rhizomal linearities rustling in the wind and rain—we are unique, cylindrical, prophetic.

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