Friday, October 26, 2007

creak


Y'know when you've been working so hard for the past few days that your body doesn't want to quit? An object in motion remains in motion, and so on.

This week has been intense - though I have deep appreciation for these shorter jobs that teach me just how much stuff I can do; that show me the absolute limit of the number of things I can accomplish in a small period of time. I was multitasking so intently on this one that I actually had a genuine flash of desire at one point to have an IV so I wouldn't have to use my mouth for anything other than talk. I simply couple not spare the time for bites. (As of today, my voice is gone.)

On set yesterday, other than the natural continuance of the conspiracy of apocalypses that has haunted us since the onset, we had a little bit of magic. One take of the performance was so powerful that, when the last note rang out, the room burst into spontaneous applause and one girl cried. This never happens. It was one of those moments that reminds me - ah, yes. THIS is why I do this.

Monday, October 15, 2007

from your first cigarette to your last dying day


I.

I started out the morning ever-so-early, scooting to Venice at the asscrack of morning to extract my precious mobile office from ground zero of my first-ever job quittage.

It felt good to get the hell out. But it felt strange and sweet to be so angry about it. So adversarial. So bellicose. I was called "the Big Bad Wolf," and I felt like it...all moral courage and ethical brimstone; all sharp teeth and hellion. I felt the ashes of King Niall rising up sweet and warlike in my veins.

I think it's because it's so close to Samhain. The dead are walking with my feet; toying with my tongue. My ancestors were the last pagan warlords - the last pagan kings and lovers of a misty land, and as the distillation of their blood, they are thick in me. They've taken to clambering over me in my moments of release, wherever they may find it, and to have occasion to express through such justified fury? Ecstasy.

Additional proof? I'm blogging naked. Sorry! Skyclad.

Back to the matter at hand.

It's hard, in this business. Probably, it's hard in every business. But when you're freelance and fancy-free, it's hard to know how many dealbreakers is one too many. How many things have you let slide? How many matters have you knowingly overlooked with the understanding that your power lasts for ten days or so and then vanishes like the proverbial pumpkin-carriage? How complicit are YOU?

When do you deny your name? When do you say, "Take this complicity and shove it, along with the money and any potential gain. Take it back. I'm happy waiting a couple more months for my new couch."

I just did. King Niall is one proud great[to the eleventh power]-grandpa.

II.

We saw a massive tarantula ambling across the street during our weekend collecting cellar-fodder in Santa Barbara. Awesome.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

the death of makeover-mania


I read a blog today, just by chance, and it really struck a chord with me.

Here's the question it brought up in my mind - where lies the line between self-bettering and self-battering? At what point is it perfectly okay to say, "This is aight. This is me. I'm okay." At what point is that sentiment just lazy?

America is obsessed with self-betterment, but America's version of it is consumption-based - and, on the subject of the body, based on consumption-denial. However, it's hard to quantitatively define between list (a), The Changes I Want To Make In Order To Be Better, and list (b), The Changes That Have Been Repeatedly Insisted To Me By Forces Who Would Like Me To Purchase Their Product And/Or Service.

Meditation time.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

not a day for the tough stuff


The air smells like giving up. Wait - strike that. The air smells like releasing what doesn't work, and returning to a smarter, less frenetic, more honest state of being.

When we woke this morning, I had the sudden sense that today was a day for farmers' markets - perhaps even farm-visiting - and wide open spaces, and walking under trees. For blankets and jackets in the great big world; specifically and profoundly, not for offices. I pushed the thought aside and made the long trek to this loft in Venice, because sick days do not exist in my line. I paused at a stoplight on the way over and, whimmishly, reclined my chair to watch the clouds overhead. Several beeps later, I realized I'd dozed off. Whoops.

Monday, October 08, 2007

eggshell


I.

It's time to paint. It's time to nest. It's time to take this perpetual skybox for the metaphorical Los Angeles home game and make it amazing.

II.

What a weekend. This is the stuff weekends were made to be; were conjured out of moon-based, pasted-on linear measurements to provide for us. It was a heart-pounding solo hike in flawless weather, accompanied by a freshly-synced iPod. It was Teddybears STKHLM, The Shout Out Louds, Justice and Bloc Party, filling up the streets two blocks from the house. It was motorcycle grad school, whizzing up the hill I've waited two thousand miles to tackle at magical speeds, the freshness of early-fall wind seeping through my leathers to tickle electric skin. It was loading up on bottles at CWC, chowing voraciously on startlingly delicious Blue Hen tofu, and finally enjoying a real, live evening at home without anybody accidentally falling asleep in the middle of a sentence.