Images from a Mudcat event:

The early arrivers: Bonnie, sophocleese, flattop, davey, Tony, pretending it wasn't raining, almost to the point of fooling the rain gods.

Tony brandishing his willow canes, partly finished with their natural diamond inlay, and his Easter Island gods, watching over the event, failing to fool the even more powerful rain gods.

Tons of food, some delicately served in Bonnie's banjo resonator, prompting thoughts of other instruments for similar theme parties -- olives on sticks in harmonicas; dip in a stringless guitar;bananas in bassoons -- and then I stifle this line of thought. It is too Kraft kitchens.

Sophocleese's unearthly voice percolating through the wet trees.

The unexpected gift of bert (BERT!) all the way from Philly. Like meeting the Crown Prince or something (and his consort in regal red!). And his intricate little songs. He regales me with the saga of his house project that has raised the ire of the neighbourhood. I avoid mentioning that they will be even angrier if he turns it into a Mudcat centre. Homeless lunatics everywhere, and loud.

Balladeer taking over the big chair in the corner: o.k. -- let's play music!

At one point I go upstairs, and I see 10, 15 guitar cases stacked everywhere, like a road company production of the St. Valentine's day Massacre is going on.

The rain stops. The smokers dash out onto the back porch. What is a group of smokers anyway? A bevy? A carton?

Rick trying to get a sober little princess in a tiara, surrounded by big people, to give him an animal for his animal song.

Bonnie gives the world another catspaw song, ringing up the banjo. What is it with this guy that he gets all the songs? What are the rest of us, chopped liver?

Bill Sables sitting telling me about the loss of his fiddler for many years. They could play together almost intutively -- I say that in a strange way that skill of being able to anticipate someone else's way of doing things is like carrying some of his ghost around with you. We think about that for a second. Inside, Rick is hot gospelling.

flattop plays away, something, I forget what now, and it is all very natural that a Toronto living room should contain nine people listening, playing. Elsewhere the television sets are gearing up for the U.S. Open -- golf on T.V. I keep repeating this to myself, year after year, as if one day it will make sense: golf on TV, golf on TV. No, still doesn't work. It is too many removes from reality for me.

Tony's dusted living room now holds 14 people, 300 guitars (more or less), a cello, assorted banjos, mandolins, davey's harmonica, and everyone all lined around the room singing or plonking away. The marvels of the Internet made flesh.

Naturally enough the sun comes out. Lots of new BS threads are forming, the spiders of camaraderie spinning away

I ask Bill and Allan in the group what wisdom they have to impart to us, as all good travellers do, when they arrive at their next destination. Bill says that he likes checking up on where everyone's computer is, just so as to expand his visuals. Naturally we grill him on what everyone's computer room looks like (so be warned). Allan talks about the serendipitous moments, like playing Freight Train at the moment when it happened that the Freight Train -- the same train Libba Cotton listened to -- passed by. And that he is writing a ballad, or quilt of the songs of each place as they go.

Speaking of quilts, Crowhugger hands me her yellow encircled cloth for signing -- not to mention the signature guitar circulating. We could end up with some interesting art work out of this adventure. Apart from the elegant Mudcat buttons (what will these be worth someday, eh?)I WAS THERE FOR THE '00 ADVENTURE TOUR!!

And parting. Allan sings a fine song about goodbye, and a few moments later some of us say goodbye. For the moment.

Outside, darkness has come down. When was that happening?

As I wrote once, in a poem: the binding curve of time asserts its grace again.