In the country the buildings seem smooth as if their faces were lifted by benevolent surgeons— so laid-back, they rarely make a mistake.   And their doors—true the wood seems insecure when bothered by cathedral fantasies but they remain upright, with a steadfast reach like people who speak clearly in crisis.   To some the local is not alive—it is a process that has stopped, like a factory machine the day of the big shutdown.   But to others, who see past the horizon of the cliché industry returns to the valley an extravagant, steampunk renaissance fair.