I came back from the fields of West Marin having spent 2 long days with a thousand others an untrained army of first-timers like myself.
Come as you are, most of us were not actors the logistics of moving us in geometric formations when we've had no formal training, never joined the army, or never stood in bread lines, is daunting.
Across the potholes, the stars arrive in a stretch limo and a woman in a pink bathrobe and curlers steps out to join the Basque herder with his sheep and all the Japanese business men bow low.
People hover like guardian angels to powder and primp them while we, AT&Ts legions of feudal peasants, the ordinary, the mundane, we are left to fend for ourselves against the elements.
My lip doubled in size from windburn and a spiderbite. It looks like I’m wearing a lip plug.
As we stood in countless formation, conversation wandered from boundary to boundary.
The young woman Shauna, who'd beaten childhood cancer and won, was fey and could see my well-dressed wounds
Santa Claus (you’d recognize him from the magazines and catalogues) limps from a bad car accident down the Grapevine. Those having survived near death experiences shed a different light, a homing beacon to others, tribe within tribe.
As the camera crew aligns us for the nth take, the ‘copter again swoops up the valley like a large mosquito. In this setting, conversation takes on epic proportions and people's lives become poignant when they’re reduced to five-minute fragments shaped by location and group consciousness.
Despite the fact that we are doing a commercial for cell phones where we are too far away from civilization for the real cell phones to work, we reach out and touch the Basque farmer (really some guy from Tomales).
The idea being one small planet.
Cards and stories swapped like a swap meet, or stockbrokers we had transcended the mundaneness that is the death of art, and the prize was the sky and wind.
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