Expressionless and about serious business, the charcoal colored brother with tattoos is wearing all purple – suit, shirt, and matching tie. Into my right hand he places a sphere, and I am expecting this transaction. Together we are contemplating the totality of interconnection.
In the sphere, we see everything in the world as a hologram and in relationship to everything else. He also slips an unexpected bag of weed into my left hand. I vigorously object to holding his smoke, but purple brother ignores my objections and says that there is no difference between the glistening orb and the contraband.
Purple brother’s friends are in the background watching us, and say that being sphere-weed-istic acknowledges and honors the necessary balance between the sacred and the profane. They break out into Motown songs with choreography reminiscent of The Pips