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  • Things bouncing around in my head tonight, desperately searching for an exit:

    There’s a new best-selling book out that purports to be an insider’s account of the killing of Osama bin Laden. From the reviews I’ve read, the author, a Navy SEAL, takes Barack Obama to task for claiming credit for something he didn’t actually do.
    But I couldn’t help but notice that the book had been ghostwritten.

    I once had a client whose staff went on strike to demand worse working conditions. He lived in the country and converted his spacious barn into a design studio. At promptly five o’clock each afternoon, the easels were packed away, the wet bar was opened, the music began and the party continued well into the wee hours. It gradually dawned on the employees that they had lost control over their lives and had become lotus eaters rather than graphic designers. They threatened to quit en masse unless they could work in an industrial park sans cocktails, pinball machines or comfy chairs that closed around you like Venus fly-traps. I quit the account before I could learn if their new working conditions made them happier people or better artists.

    This evening I’m on the cusp of making real a dream I’ve worked on with all my soul for 16 long months. My head might be in the clouds, but my heart is in New Orleans.

    Sometimes I want to cry out “I love!” at the top of my lungs, just to see what would happen when people realized I was being completely serious. The depth of my passion sometimes surprises but never scares me, because a disguised sacred priestess once taught me to love with the same assurance a sleepwalker displays crossing a room.

    Image source: Still from independent short film "Flotsam/Jetsam"
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