A long-ago/still-today friend was in town from a world away and we spent the night imbibing and jawing together. After midnight the place turned up the mood lighting as a signal to the last few holdout drunkards: It’s over; you have families; go home to them. We all filed out and I did that “I’m perfectly fine” walk for the hundred yards or so back to our house. Called Sharaun on the phone as I was walking up the driveway so as not to scare her when I jiggled the (inevitably locked) front door. Got in, took the trash to the curb, did the nighttime disrobe and teeth-scrub and was ready to count sheep.
Wanted to write, though. I see this guy – the guy that brought me out to the bar, something I don’t do all that much anymore – maybe twice a year. We shared some fantastic times in years gone by and it’s always good to sit with him and catch up. I like to think we share some similar motivations when it comes to work, and some of the talk is all high-school coed gossip-central but… I knew that when I paid the admission. I came for it, in fact. Why dodge? While it’s good to remember the old days, it’s even better to gnaw on the now; compare notes, talk shop. If you’re a soap-opera kind of guy you can get swept away in the politics of it all. Big companies are all politics and the sawmill is a big company.
More than wanting to write about that, though, I wanted to just write. I missed writing whilst on the big RV trip and want to get back to it even if it’s a strange not-so-complete sentence thing ala tonight. I don’t care because what’s important to me is the writing itself. Even if it’s just a stray thought that’s captured perfectly in two sentences; I don’t know why I sometimes impose a stupid “album-length” mandate on writing anyway… it’s stupid. A good sentence, a good paragraph, needs to be written.
Bah, it’s obviously time to sleep. This has gone on too long. Fun tonight. See ya.