Wednesday, 10 September 2014

Walking out of the meeting... Again.

I am trying to feel bad about walking out on meetings. A lot of work has been put into the project, into relations and the mediator meant well. I quess. He certainly meant business. I must seem real easy to milk for all I'm worth. The loss of money, the loss of business posibilities with people who clearly have more coin than me... It's just not coming. The tragic bit is, I can sense a bad investment a mile away. I should have walked as soon as I heard the words: we are looking for a long-term commitment...

I guess I have this one principle. Just one. The one that keeps me from being a diplomat. I can do anything regarding graphics or text or photography or any kind of design, anything, really, anything anyone asks of me. Video, a jingle, whatever. I can do it in a day or I can do it every day for a year. I can do it over and out, upside down, twice, five times, all over, completely different, completely against my beliefs or standards - 52 TRIPS being the case in point - and I can do it really cheap... up until the exact second someone condescends me. Smirking at my work, looking down on designers or photographers, I understand that, but the moment someone condescends me, patronises me, treats me like a hobo retard they are doing a favour to...

Condescension is my tipping point. Not hard work. Or the questioning of my quality. Acting out a powerplay, telling me it was all a test and I should learn to respect opportunities and understand that clients are sacred. If anything, the product is sacred. Should I take it as a compliment that they think I'm a student? There is always a bus station I can hide from the rain under, reading a good book, feeling liberated from a conference room of dickheads. And then General calls and I tell him everything and apologise for not bringing in the payroll and he says:" Hm... I think I'm buying minced meat and some bagels and we're making big fat juicy hamburgers for lunch today, watcha think? Do you have any money for the bus? Should I come get you? Don't hitchhike."

My mum would tell me: "You aren't living in a real world."
And I would say: "Mum, I am a science fiction author."