dumb paperback

Last week I spent a couple hours fixing our mass market table. That's
the pyramid of paperback mysteries, romances, thrillers, and scifi
(pronounce "skiffy" instead of "psy phy."). OK, I snuck in Leaves of
Grass to fill a hole.

(Amazingly, these go for about $7.99 a piece; still a good deal
compared to a movie ticket, or a silly meal at a snooty restaurant,
but $8 clams!? Give me a break. )

Anyway, after tearing apart cascading stacks and eliminating
duplicates and filling lots and lots of holes, I went down to work in
the office and found myself virtually dumb. I could not talk.

Not like that silence when your gf asks you if she looks good in
something clearly she doesn't.

Or asks you, "You're not into that, are you?" When
that could be something you are not only into, but have a lifetime
membership with a gold card neatly packed into your wallet.

And it wasn't like I had a stroke from drinking two pots of coffee on
an empty stomach.

It was that "flow" thing you hear about, where time goes by unnoticed,
and your hands are obedient serfs working your fields whether you
watch from the tower or go wandering your stone halls.

This used to be my job, what I did, working silently for three hours
every morning arranging books, lost in thought. Dreamy, in a way, yet
productive. Good, solid work.

It was nice to retreat into my caffeinated nut. And I had to be
dragged out.

Kicking, but not screaming.