Monday, October 26, 2015
Brainfall, - by John L. Waters
Tiny transparent irregular lenses on a glass sheet suggest rain drops on a windowpane. Their nondescript dribbling images hold your eyes steady until you envision Salvador Dali's drooping watches so clearly depicted in his painting "The Persistence of Memory."
The singular photograph above these lines of black print works a crystal magic on the brain of at least one beholder. You yourself can look at each raindrop and see how it compares with each one of the other drops held on the glass rather like children attending a class in school. You see the similarities, such as each drop is almost entirely H2O in liquid form - and such as each one is a lens you can look through and see small things larger than in real life.
You can also observe differences in the shapes of individual splatters and regard these differences as trifles - or as immensities - depending on your point of view and your mood at this moment in time.
Still looking through the pictorial windowpane and beyond its rain-spatters you see the falling waters and the distant streets, buildings, schools filled with silent children busily reading, writing, or listening to tapes or audiobooks, or talking computers and their loquacious and domineering teacher. All the while large motorized trucks - those mechanical dinosaurs of our Koyaanisqatsi age - keep roaring and rushing past along the slick noisy pavements.
The reflective clear water spots on the photo-glass remind you of these and other numinous essences. Then you suddenly notice the purplish sky overhead as seen from a balloon floating two miles above the precipitating clouds that thirty minutes before made contact with the windowpane and started the sequence of events being described here.
And then, all of a sudden your active son-of-a-gun-of-a-mind shoots itself off in other directions, as well, even into other dimensions of miniscule immensity.
As you keep on and on looking into the photo, do you ever get through to the picture? Do you stop and look at each beady eye looking back at you from the rain-studded glass? Do you bend your own watches and click off the psycho-babbling memorial voice that keeps rambling on and on inside of your thinking, talking, or writing head?
And son-of-a-gun whatever can be done when that iron-hard hand of clock-time comes crashing through the glass and you feel stricken and terminally cut down and crestfallen like that dismal bemangled ghostly white brainfall of a crushed head near the bottom of Dali's famous painting - the separated once well-oiled and otherwise adorned and respected head that is now almost totally sucked empty by a still-ticking silver-haired sharksucker that in Salvador's dream looks more like an old man's partially-melted but still parasitic mechanical pocket-watch?
About John L. Waters
I worked as a professional free-lance lyricist in Hollywood from 1969 until 1977. It was there I met the two composers with whom I wrote eight songs which were published. I became ill with an acute respiratory disorder. I left the Los Angeles area in 1977 and worked out my self-healing method.
Since January 2000 I've been attending Humboldt State University in the over-sixty program. I've been doing independent research. I have a large number of letters, articles, poems, graphic designs, musical pieces, and songs.
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