Julia Cameron, Cormac McCarthy, Steven Kotler, Chris Petersen, Jerry Garcia, Melissa Etheridge, Gioachino Rossini, Maynard G. Krebs and Malcom Gladwell are sitting on my deck having lunch. It is a gorgeous day in the Pacific Northwest. I have whipped up some saffron risotto and boiled a pot of jumbo shrimp. The shrimp is overloaded with buttered garlic. It smells like a party and I have taken the politically correct high road in selecting Dave Brubeck and Aretha Franklin as featured artists to accompany the day’s festivities.
I am wafting through the small group offering Perrier, Stone Go-To IPA and a delicate Italian Frascati as refreshment. As I do I overhear some of the conversation resulting from the group. One can almost feel the creative energy and positive group vibe rising from them like dancing fireflies.
The new stuff is awesome.
Involves meeting challenge and developing skills.
Every fucking day.
Given my choice of i-alliterative, I’ll take imprisonment over impeachment or indictment.
Wealth contains the seeds of its own destruction.
One never knows what worse luck one’s bad luck has kept him from.
He was one cool cat. I miss that innocence.
Listen to the pocket groove Morello is laying down here.
I’m like lost…doomed.
A beautiful rainbow of people.
Simple melody and variety of rhythm.
I mean whatever kills you kills you, and your death is authentic no matter how you die.
Stands for Our Kinda Guy.
Just take a look around and listen, really listen, that is it, that is the essence.
Serving tray empty I return to the kitchen for another round.
One of my favorite Brubeck tunes starts up and I smile.
What a great mix.
I must take something away from this gathering, take the energy from idle to high, tap the creative juice of my brilliant guests. I fell sure they would approve.
I also feel they would insist.
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