It rained for nine days and then it kept raining, and the lot behind the shuttered box store on Reeves filled the way a shallow dish fills, which is to say unevenly and everywhere at once. December 27th, 11:20 AM. I staked three tarps flat into the standing water and lifted each corner on a short pin so that the centres would dip. Within an hour they had done the thing I hoped for and did not deserve: each one held its own small lake, perfectly still, while the ground water all around them moved. Three vessels in a flood. This is the fifth station and the first in which the material is not covering anything. It is receiving. The viewer will note that the water inside the tarps is a different colour from the water outside them. Held water goes silver. Loose water stays brown. I have no explanation for this and I have stopped wanting one. Dead reeds standing everywhere, a concrete wall in the middle distance that has never been anything but a wall, and rain coming down so fine it does not read as rain, only as a lowering. The nearest tarp carries the patch, submerged now under two inches of borrowed sky. A repair does not stop being a repair when it goes underwater. Vas, non velum.
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