I’m not a flake.
I realize it’s been about a month…maybe more, I don’t like counting. It’s not that I had no inspiration either, or that I wasn’t reading other blogs (I’m always reading, everything and anything. You guys interest me more than you know). It’s just that I hadn’t had the time. And I don’t believe in putting down quick words without a real thought.
You deserve more than that.
So, on the incredulous notion that I’ve been only thinking about you in my brief but oh so long…sabbatical…we’ll call it, let’s get back on track shall we?
This post is about The Ground Floor. The Ground Floor is this space right next to my building that cohorts one of the most luxurious memberships only. Better than being a Daughter of the Nile or a Freemason or a member of Mensa.
Or so it would seem.
I have no idea what they do down there. The Ground Floor is seemingly this wide space where talented people meet up to…well, I’m not sure. Some days they play instruments, classical music that floats down the street and catches your attention. Other times they stand in a circle and just talk. Sometimes they’re doing origami. Overall, it would seem that they all just band together to produce creativity, one of the most generative spots that I have ever crossed by accident.
I found out about The Ground Floor one day in the summer as I walked by when they were practicing music outside. Their space is all glass so it’s hard to hide what goes on in there. But as I walked by, I smiled to say hello, not wanting to disturb them. I went on not caring.
Few days later I walked by The Ground Floor on my way home and saw inside their space. There were no tables or chairs I surmised, but rather things– unclear decorations that dangled from the ceiling, streamers that fell from the halogen lights. A map of the world hung up against one of the walls. The smallest of desks was pushed into the corner, smaller than you’d see in an elementary school, with a work lamp and a laptop that barely fit on it. I had it in my head that next time I saw one of their members, I’d ask them.
It took a few weeks until I saw one of them again. I was walking with Gracie, my sister, and asked her if she knew what happened there. She shrugged. A woman I’d seen there before, with a tallish stance and always in a turtleneck and skirt, was smoking outside. I waved, she smiled, I asked her what The Ground Floor was and she gave me a little shrug, tossed her cigarette on the ground and went on back inside.
So you see, this is evidently an organization with a certain image to maintain. A certain secret.
I’m dying to know what it is. There’s something about them, the group of people who all band together on sporadic nights to share their creativity, something that seems so rare and valuable that I sort of find myself in both envy and awe when I walk by.
It’s officially become one of my missions.
A shrug can hold many meanings I learned that day.