The “Water Music” is a collection of orchestral movements, often published as three suites, composed by George Friedrich Händel. It premiered on 17 July 1717 after King George I had requested a concert on the River Thames.
The reader won´t find it hard to notice that the “water music” composed in this text titled “Water Music” belongs to another, worldlier perhaps, kingdom.
There was a time that year when he came to believe he was drowning. Quite unexpectedly he began to feel threatened by water, surrounded by it, enveloped by its never ending flow without any compensating ebb. He almost came to feel like a creature of the abyss in the middle of a mainland nest that was no more familiar to him melting, as it was , into liquid, falling upon him like the wrath of the Lord, a new Noah dispossessed of the right to a badly needed ark, a male mermaid damning all the cats and dogs that were raining continually on top of his hatless head.
Till that moment, till that winter of 2013, water had meant to him little more than a matter of course issue. He took water for granted and took advantage of it without ever considering that he was doing so. He guiltlessly disregard it. He just knew beforehand that it was there for him, at his disposal, ready to submit itself to any of his whims. It made no claims. It silently abode by his rules. He even thought that it found a secret pleasure in abiding them by, wise as ever they were. Never before had he seen a being so willingly compliant. Water was his perfect pet with all the advantages of pets and none of their inconveniences: no barks, no meows, no hairs, no fleas, no stink, no tracks all over the place, no need to take the pet out to pee nor to an expensive veterinary. No honied, sticky sentiments either. Just a full-fledged indifference between them. Each of them knowing perfectly what was expected from each other and the situations that were to trigger off their perfectly suited behaviours. No time therefore for domestic quarrels. An everyday routine of daily, perfectly accomplished performances. By and large, a realm of settled traditions, the kingdom of their uncrowned yet well bred habits forestalling any stormy weather that may come to disrupt the unique harmony they had reached.
Each morning, for instance, after his alarm clock had rung and he had smashed it with his right fist in anger, he usually got grudgingly out of bed and sleepwalked his way up to the toilet to remove his bowels. Something more than the mere satisfaction of a primary need was here at stake. He carefully posed the upper part of his thighs on the delicate and rather cold borders of his whiteware toilet and once the temperature contrast between the borders of the whiteware toilet and the still warm skin of his thighs had caused a brief shiver of strange delight to run up his spine, he liked to linger in deep complacency doing his number two while he let his buttocks hang loose in a kind of refreshing void and his eyes stray through the headlines of the newspaper of the previous day or of an out of date tabloid press he had run into somewhere in his room . He gradually got rid in this way of the anger in which he was awakened by the intrusive alarm device, a means by which he began to get grips with the hard day´s work that was awaiting him. The ritual lasted about half an hour and it ended always in the same fashion. After having neatly folded the pages of the newspaper or of the out of date tabloid press and having thoroughly cleansed the parts of his body that needed a thorough cleansing with the help of the torn out pages whose headlines had displeased him the most, he flushed the toilet and feasted his eyes on the sight of the watery mess being sucked down into the gawking, voracious drains. He was kind of mesmerized by the mysterious sucking down of the cellulose and organic blend into the drains, by the miraculous self-redemption of the water-closet basin being replenished at the simple touch of a button with a pure, transparent, ever new surge of water, sort of eternal return coming to bless time and again the perfect and solid works of his human, perhaps too human, metabolism. A metabolism, further, that needed to be looked carefully after and demanded his constant seeing to the flawless state of its exits and entries , removing, if required, any obstacles that could block the way to any of its outputs or inputs. In regard to the latter, in regard to all the cavities that, scattered over the skin that covered his skull, were in charge of letting in either sounds, smells, shapes or flavours, water also played a major role. Not only did water began to flow on the spot at the sole press of a stainless steel lever placed on top of a water tap meant to fill to the brim or even overflow the stainless steel washbasin that lay below hadn´t the sink´s drain plug been previously removed, but also the temperature of the water that gushed out of the tap could be switched to cold or hot by just shifting the lever to one side or the other: to the right side normally for hot water and to the left for cold. He could even playfully handle the water expelled from the tap´s nozzle so that its temperature and pressure would naturally come to match the degrees typical of the reigning climate and the ones that reigned in his body and soul. Every time he steered the faucet´s lever to precisely the point in which the sensibility of his rather dry complexion and the one of his even drier wit stroke balance, he felt he was ready to place his hands under the tap´s sink, washed them with a little bit of soap and moisturized the skin of his face sprinkling it with water. In fact, all the area of what could be considered as the receiving end that gave access to his inner wombs was so elegantly encompassed in this manoeuvre contrived by the joint venture of his torpid hands and the self-confidence of the stainless-steel tap, that the selfsame movement of the limbs that was to be found at its source enabled him to moisten, more specifically, his still bleary eyes, the tip of his nose, his distant earlobes and, not least, his sticky lips after a nightmarish slumber. What at first glance may seem almost outrageous because of its astounding perfection was actually the result of a trial and error process that had gone on for ages and that, having been won through alternatively scalds and chills, had wounded up making out of him a kind of orchestra leader and out of his bathroom, the stage machinery of a soap opera taking place in front of a mirror. Yet rather than with soap what he really fancied playing was his tooth brush. He could feel his mastery reaching here its peak. It generally didn´t take long before he opened the tap again, let the water run for a while, dampened under it the toothbrush´s bristles, spread whitening toothpaste over them, faked a broad smile and started waving the toothbrush left and right as if he were bowing the cello of his teeth. The more toothpaste he spread over it, the more lively would the resulting enamel rhapsody be. He didn´t hesitate to put all his pathos into this repertoire even though he knew his gums could end up bleeding out of sheer passion. He always came out of the bathroom believing himself a composer, someone bound to be remembered as having crafted a sanitary version of Haendel´s water music.
Everything was going along these musical lines until the dramatic upheaval of that hapless winter of 2013, when water didn´t hold back and stroke him with the force of a thunder. Until that ill-starred winter of 2013, when rain shower after rain shower, heedless of all his toilet theatre props and preceded by dark pregnant clouds, bursted in his domestic realm ,when pure, untamed, rampant, raged water wrathfully rejected all the pettiness of those morning ceremonies, those self-deceiving miseries , all his worthless conceit.
Yes, everything was following those smooth patterns until just that dawn of January, when a score-settling sky turned up to pour over his hatless head all the torrents he had been so neatly trying to dress up in taps, drains , toilets, sinks and washbasins.
Without pressing any button nor operating any lever, nor showing any pretence to any tool whatsoever, that black sky was in itself enough to admonish him to react soon and to summon up the necessary courage unless he wanted to see both his limbs and the sheet music he so proudly orchestrated with them in his toilet, flushing down the drain just like the cellulose and organic blend whose sucking down he was so fond of gaping at.