from your first cigarette to your last dying day
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.
We saw a massive tarantula ambling across the street during our weekend collecting cellar-fodder in Santa Barbara. Awesome.