Bed and book.
At the beachhouse sand got into everything. The bed, where I plopped down after a swim. The shower floor was gray and white, some sort of art project, because the shower didn't drain properly. Wet towels. Damp everything. We're leaving in a few hours. Morning too, which was strange. Why not just stay the day and get more out of it?
It's Saturday, I realise, after being woken by a door slamming somewhere - but not at the unholy hour of o'dark what the fuck. Sometime after nine at least, and where before I'd get all worked up at the indignity of some idiot serving as my wake up, now/today I open my eyes and pick up where I left off with reading.
National bestseller is too lofty a tag for this, it's hardly the laugh out loud kick in the pants, but I'm rather glad it isn't. It's (boring), rambling, self-absorbed and some other things I'd not mention anywhere; but that fact that it's on some list that a few hundred or more consider bestseller. Well, okay. Gulling those 1000+ into thinking your work might be something is accomplishment enough.
There's fiction waiting in the wings, magical realism or other... the author is impressive as a speaker, but I'm waiting for the right time to start on the book. I'm looking forward to not being disappointed by it. Right now is just right for a so-so autobiography by an ordinary Joe, a book that is neither bad nor good or much of anything except that if I want to fall asleep all I need to do is read a few pages and most assuredly, dreamtime follows.