DeMille cancelled the production meeting this morning. It is normally a simple process that follows a certain biologic imperative. Eyes open. Latrine visited after industrial-grade percolator is started in the Bunk House kitchenette. If devices had been suitable charged in the hours of darkness- a process reliant on local access to the regional power grid- and if the satellite constellation providing connectivity to the world-wide Web, hosted mostly in Loudoun County just up the road- and the morning message traffic absorbed with a series of clicks amplified by growing wakefulness and caffein.

Then would come the meeting. Not this morning. There were moans and shouts with the first messages that flashed on phones, tablets and Buck’s laptop. Amanda was not in place to rectify the contents of the shouting. Her presence normally provides a certain external guidepost to be alert to thinking that could be considered inappropriate. Moans and shouting are considered to be pre-deliberation working sounds. But not today.

The moans actually started when Splash had a conversation with Hank, the landscape engineer who performs weekly service at The Farm in the growing season. Hank is a member of the species of citizens who live out here in Piedmont in the shadow of Mount Pony. His folks worked hard, and expected him to follow their example after growing up. Hank chose not to go to college, since he knew what he was going to do and it required no formal certification. The family had a certain amount in influence in this district, and he got a position with the local utility, which with care is equivalent to a lifetime appointment in the country. In order to better himself and the circumstances for his family, he also started a second job that goes with the growing season and lasts as long as the light.

The Chairman met him when The Farm was available for sale, and the pastures and grounds required periodic maintenance in transitional times. That turned into a commercial relationship that has lasted nearly fourteen years. It also has blossomed into a friendship which extends to the temporary fellowship of those at the Fire Ring. The Student Loan issue emerged in a shorter discussion about delivery dates for a few truckloads of mulch and the circumstances of weather and rain.

The idea about forgiveness of a debt said to be $1.5 trillion in today’s dollars had Hank a little perplexed, since the idea of handing out public money to those who moan they cannot afford to pay the debts which they willingly assumed seems to undermine his concept of ‘fairness’ and ‘equity.’ It would be like someone from Richmond announcing they wanted to forgive the expense he put into purchase of tools, trucks and tractor. That wouldn’t seem fair, and his equity was all paid for. He uses the terms with a certain country irony, since the former term is not and the latter actually appears to represent the opposite.

Splash returned to the circle with a clear beverage that does the opposite of the caffeinated beverage of morning. He was not particularly concerned with the notion of the debt, or how it was acquired. He was interested in the pure numbers of it. “A trillion is like how many million?” he asked.

That lead to some discussion, since the very word “trillion” is a thousand “billion,” each of which in turn is a thousand “million.” There was some discussion about that, since the smaller appearing number of ‘trillions’ being discussed is literally thousands of times larger than anything we talked about when a thousand stacks of a thousand dollar bills used to be a fairly big deal.

That died off in a longer discussion of some of the other collective lunacies. Melissa was uncomfortable with that, not that she disagreed with the discussion, but was concerned that the discussion itself might bring unwanted attention and jeopardize the location of her cot. With that, conversation subsided into snores.

The moaning this morning was about something else and started as the first tablet burst into illumination. “Now they are going after the Court!”

Normally things start a little slower, since sequential awakening should proceed on its own natural pace. There was general morning confusion as the group had to adjust their expertise from educational to Constitutional issues. That is a process that requires several minutes, and sometimes a refill of the percolator. It was punctuated by exclamations about “Penumbras!” and “Emanations!” The group spent quite a while demonstrating the concept of “penumbral expansion” through a series of increasingly expressive hand gestures.

There appeared to be no definitive limit to that avenue of exploration except the actual length of individual arms and the dexterity of hands. There was general agreement on the idea of freedom, which is widely supported. That seemed applicable to the original discussion, at least until the point was reached about when freedom is bestowed on human beings and who exactly is in the bestowing business.

That matter is apparently unclear, but at least partially dependent on the volume of belief expressed.

Splash was unusually silent through the latter portion of rational discussion. He finally smiled when DeMille cancelled the meeting. “I am glad we have arrived at a place of general agreement. The answer should have been clear from the beginning. The system no longer appears to function as it has for more than two centuries. There is a vocal segment who proposes to burn the structure down so it can be built anew in a manner more equitable and fair. There are others who think differently but with equal passion. This is now not a legal matter but one regarding the nature of transformation.”

We agreed that those of us who reside only in the penumbra of the conflict ought to be able to say something reasonable about the nature of life, something in the direct umbra that respects both passions within a structure of logic and compassion. But that is apparently a matter somewhat beyond the emanations of morning, much less the looming penumbra of lunch.

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