January is the month, more than 2,060 years ago, when Julius Caesar and his army crossed the river Rubicon, entered the sketchy southside, and headed to Rome. Historians say he wasn't so hot on the idea as he approached the water, but he kicked his worries to the curb and exclaimed "alea iacta est" – the die is cast.
He was in his early 50s when he crossed the Rubicon and became the rock star of Rome. His guts led to inevitable assassination, four years later, but until then he was the unrivaled badass on the block, mad dreaming and creating until the knives came out.
A smart guy like Caesar knew strong actions cause intense reactions. But before his blood stained the Theatre of Pompey, he was hitting the Nile with Cleopatra. He was bold even as he grew old, doing things most humans would never consider. Crossing the Rubicon? Most people are afraid to get their feet wet.
There is, for me, no joy in caution. I can be (and am) more thoughtful. I am more aware than ever of the consequences of my actions. It's the consequences of my inactions that gnaw and grate. I don't like the idea of dull life happening because I didn't do something.
So forward I go across the river, an L.A. boy who can't swim, pushing to the far shore. There are things there I can see, fantastic things that I believe I want. The only way to know for certain is to commit myself to an irrevocable revolution.
Maybe it's folly to cast a die that I know may lead to my downfall. The land here is safe and dry. But it's cold, too. I'd rather feel the heat of the burnout than fade away in the chill.