It trickles and slides down a slate or travertine bed, held in its course by the same or different, or by siliconed shores of flame-colored copper pipes or pewter-hued stainless tubes, squared or not. It ascends heights and heights in rivers round of rubber or acetate or plastic somethings that are bolted and clipped and bound to wooden frames, primal substances joined again in processed forms, the outside brought within, wrought components of elemental peace. It jumps up, propelled or thrust there by motors quiet or loud, close or far away, tucked into a cabinet pool or beneath the spray in a basin bare, a basin bare or full of stones come from rivers away and worn in a tumble from a mountainside over years and eons and miles away. Wires bring life and form and motion to all, copper arteries in plastic coats in various thickness and color, loose and curled in their spooling or taut in their barely-reaching, as they were cut too short by a helper’s hand.
Life pounds quietly in this watery form, in its climbing and falling again, in its soft spray or gentle trickle down. You can hear it in that sacred room, your sanctuary away from life’s rush and static loom, those tiny waves rolling from above in tender cascades that bring peace from his hands to your home, from his heart to your life abode or enterprise or garden or celebratory hall. Those islands of craft and science in a sea of wakefulness and thought and design and calculating engineering and peace and satisfaction that cause and stir a watery genius of art and science, they become substance and form in hours of concentration and delight in a dusty garage in a desert land, they live in those plastered walls’ confines, brought together in after-hours’ times and moments stolen from a day, born in the solitude of his heart and brain and sent finally across miles to live in some other realm, they come from gentle hands and rough, and a tender heart and torn, where peace is sought and restored in a blended liquid form of art and craft, and love.