Home and collecting. At the end of this day, I feel like I have a new job, a new focus, a new career and major, purpose and life. All to nonfiction pages, me here with pages and pages of me, or maybe.. something else. Either way, the writer feels free, which is supposed to be what’s to be, oui? Pinot on counter, over there, and coffee for the morning made. Like I have a new day and knowing days of Newness will follow. Nonfiction pillar— just write where you are, the Here, to get to your aimed-for There. After a slow day at work, in the tasting room, and I mean so fucking slow all a person unaccustomed to the industry and its pseudo etiquette could do is sip all day, I look around my house and know that what I felt today with expository theory and essays, the memoirist proclivity and gravity, I’m somewhere found. And why so late, I wondered after coming home from the open house at sister property, something I usually never attend as all open houses are the same… say hello at greeting station, write your fucking name on some page with a Sharpie, then walk around like an idiot not knowing if you should be trying all the new releases or eating some fixed dish, or thanking someone for holding the event…. I just did all of that but with a little more assembly, I guess. I mean, I thought I did. What could I do. It’s a sister property.
Now that I’m home, I try to collect. The Pinot I’m sipping, or was, and soon again will be, not saying much to me. I’ve all but expelled beer from my scenes sipped, and now wine isn’t making much a case. Tempted to dive into that caffeine, those K-cups I bought from Whole Foods— Whole-Fucking-Paycheck. I’d pull an all-nighter, as I did when undergrad, then grad when living in San Ramon tempted by that hot-tub. Remember one night going down there at like 02:20-something, knowing I still had like five pages to write but I said ‘fuck it’ and too a Corona with me. Drank that, back then. So what. I was young. Not anymore. Now I’m me. I’m this. The writer still having these revelations, these ‘I’m gonna do this!’ supernova sights, just then days and one month before knowing I’m 39. Yes, I need more wine. What I understand after today’s drive, this morning, is write everything. You want to write nonfiction, then let everything out. You want to be successfully in this mode of prose, then you have to hope you’re embarrassed. Home.. collecting. Hear the dryer, or washer, some fucking machine upstairs in its tumble, my thoughts a bit in muzzle. Not much options other. Feel like I dreamt this, last night. Precisely what I’m doing now. OR, I could be too into this floor, where I’m sitting. The industry followed me home. Good…. More warrant to continue with that Chalk Hill PN.