I had four client deadlines in the last two-and-a-half days. This entailed one all nighter, pulled last night, after which I now feel like milky toast. Pull an all-nighter. I always loved that phrase--used to do it all the time in college. Pull one. Wonder what's to pull about it. Really you push your way through it. Unless you take No-Doze like I used to, write my way through the night on fire thinking I was motherfucking Hemmingway, who I don't even like, but still, he can pull the crap out of a sentence, can't he?
The difference to me, now that I have what is resembling my own business versus pretending to care about the morbid corporate culture of my past couple of years, is that I have to pull more all nighters. Because of the money. Because I can't say, really, gee, no, no thanks, I'm kinda tired and I have three other clients who need stuff done, so sorry--catch you next time! Because you just can't--well, not yet I can't. I am good enough that they would be back. But how soon, that's what I can't play around with right now. I need them as much as they need me. Ain't that a kickinthehead.
It's fun, the work I'm doing these days. Much of it is enjoyable. My clients are all nice people. Otherwise, I would say no. That much I know is true.
Which reminds me, I got that novel by Wally Lamb--I Know This Much Is True--and can he knit a yarn this guy. Holy. It's like 900 pages, and I'm only on about page 50, but he really pulls you, this guy does. He can pull a novel this guy like I can pull an all-nighter.
Too tired to link tonight. Just take it for what it's worth, these pixels. Pixel litter. I made that up a couple of weeks ago. I think I was talking about Meckler's blog, which isn't worth the finger muscles it would take to link to it. Did I make up Pixel Litter? I think I like it.
I can pull a metaphor, can't I?
I couldn't pull a baby bird away from the neighbor's cats tonight though. Shit. I went out for a smoke, yah, I still haven't beat the habit, and I see Chas the tabby from next door batting this poor baby robin around my driveway. The baby robin was, like, hey, I'm not sure what's going on here, but I don't think I like being batted around, tweet tweet! And I'm yelling, Chas, cut it out! go away! and then I see the mama robin.
I felt bad for the baby, and you know the cats who haven't been fed regularly except by me since my neighbor is away in some form of rehab again, but I didn't stop it. I called my brother in law--he works with animals--as the two other cats converged to torture the speckle-chested, no-flying tiny baby robin (hop hop. tweeet! hop hop tweet!). I say, "Unnie--what do I do?"--we call him Unnie cause he's jenna's uncle--there's this baby robin and the cats have him. He's not dead. He's hopping around and tweeting and his poor mother robin is trying to buzz these cats to get them to leave the baby alone. Unnie tells me leave it alone. Go do somethting else. It's nature. It's how it works. It took me a long time to accept it, but that's how it is. And I decide Unnie's sounding wise these days, so I close the door, but not before I take time to watch the mother robin.
fearless as a motherfucker.
she's zooming in cawing like a crow that she isn't--or screeching is maybe a better word--and she's getting so close to the cats' heads, she's using everything she has to save her baby, dodging and diving and ditchcing just in time. and you know what? the cats didn't even look at her--didn't even give her the respect of looking at her, no nod of recognition--no thanks for the baby ma'm--thanks for dinner--no fear from them, like HEY! Watch out for the mother robin! She's after our butts! No. None of that. They didn't even see her. All of her might, all of her instinct compeletely and utterly ignored.
what's worse than that?
And then I left them. To do it.
And now I leave you, because I'm almost there, almost asleep, and so goodnight.
