Scene: A still, close, foggy night on Ramona
A solitary car glides silently into view. It is a silver Corolla. It is ratty. It parks illegally at the corner.
A tequila-swilling personage emerges from the vehicle clad in a dark teri bath robe. He feels a thrill of excitement as he knocks on the door at 59 Ramona. He has apparently overlooked the notice printed on Rolling Stone letterhead guiding him onward, breakfastward, toward home.
Somewhere, not far, someone is convinced to wear her pyjamas to meet a crowd of people she has never met before. She is sceptical at first, but succombs to the spirit of joviality in the thick early Winter air.
A few blocks on, someone rationalizes their antipathy to nightwear with the thought that nocturnal nudity renders them immune to participation. No one is convinced.
Into this milieu stumble a group of architects, avid to render the dream of Cyborganic in concrete and stone, to carve from this rough-hewn world a place of refuge, a quiet shoal apon which to rest, a calm shore, a safe harbor, a haven for the Net wanderer, a hothouse of coax and glass. Unflinching, they give themselves to the ritual, absorb, take in the community, the ethos, the ultraviolet shrine to Mr. Jenkins, and depart changed, ready to forge that vision, ready to extract and synthesize, ready to hone.
The kitchen is hot with the forging of bacon, the chemical interactions of the eggs and the heat render the bread into french toast. The crackle of crisped rice cereals is thick in the air. The dervish blades of the coffee grinder explode the beans into granules, ready to give their sweet liquor to the heat. There is a mighty churning, a thrill of energy, a whirring to the place.
The bustle increases as the crowd arrives, jockying for the prime spot, the choice cereal bowl, but as the roiling conversation continues, those present begin to consolidate, to agglomerate into soft-spoken groups, and to partake of the succor of unity with those they care about.
There are new presences, the architects, the 3D artists from George Coates, a few new arrivals, but the magic of this place is in the welcome it affords, the feeling of communion, which it does not reserve from the outsider; truly there can be no outsider here who does not will their isolation into being.
As the fires of the evening glow to embers, the quiet of too many whiskeys decends as it does on the brain. Amber waves wash the jubilance away. It desolves into silence as the snowflake resolves to dew. What remains is the quiet of an evening well spent, the contentment of an evening spent right.
-Ian
-- +------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | Ian McFarland |Neo Communication |http://www.neo.com/imf/ |tel://+1.415.563.3036/ fax://+1.415.441-5520 +------------------------------------------------------------------------+