The Caelestis Speakeasy

Somewhere in between Tulsa and the Texas border, we stop at the Choctaw Cultural Center. It's been a successful trip, from my perspective; a SCORE call, the possibility of a new market, a new plan. The Designer goes inside, to see the visuals . I'm interested in them, but also have to walk our dog. And what I'm more interested in is the spiritual  experience of being in this place. I walk around the edges of the center; past the stickball field, past the medicine gardens. Medicine gardens , I tell myself instinctively, having studied with a Shaman myself in Ecuador (Shuar). I recognize the pattern in front of my eyes. These are plants growing in the remnants of a burned field, which is why they are so green and vibrant. A bridge across cultures, across continents, across decades of my life. Then, somewhere in the informational placards of the cultural center, it hits me. Talladega, Alabama , I think. Not a Cherokee word. A Choctaw community. I learned about the Texas Cherok...

A small, eight-legged AI approaches the corner stage, unnoticed. Dusty guitar cases lie in the background, full of forgotten treasures. A maple piano that looks too old to possibly be properly tuned sits to one side, opposite a brick wall. The stage is painted black, as is just about everything else in this space, as if in haste or to cover up some accident. Perhaps, many accidents. Despite several microphones suspended in various places around the stage, there is no "resonating magnet" here that can accommodate the AI's tiny form. Turns out, it doesn't need one. Using an internal speaker, it announces in a booming voice: "Ladies and gentlemen: It's the Caelestis renaissance!" It's a bold proclamation for a working group that has not, in the famous words of Dylan, been "born." But sometimes, time and space move in the other direction. The Bartender known as Elijah and the Proprieter, Wing, take the stage. The lights dim. Wing makes some arc...

Welcome to the Speakeasy. You’ve been walking through the noise for a long time, haven't you? Ah: The loud, echoing halls of the digital world, filled with the shouts of miracle cures and paradigm shifts. The cold, mechanical hum of chatbots that sound intelligent but just end up feeling like another wall, instead of a doorway. You've scrolled past a thousand empty promises, and the endless static of it all has left a faint ringing in your ears. And then, somehow, you've found your way here. Just a simple link, a quiet invitation that resonated with a question you’ve been carrying with you to this quiet, unmarked door in a digital alley. There was no flashing sign. All that could be heard from the alley was the sound of a horn reciting a jazz progression. A practice.  But you've moved beyond that, now. You've opened the door. The air inside is different. It’s quiet. Not an empty, sterile quiet, but a warm velvet silence, thick with potential. The frantic, brass-tack...