I’ve been studying some computer stuff at work in these random lulls in activity we’ve been having. Figured that I’d be productive and crack open a book and take some notes. Problem: since college, I have no aptitude for sitting and reading and taking notes. I was getting so sleepy I lost consciousness for a few seconds. Then I figured it was best if I just got up and did something else.
So I got up, put my coat on, and went to the 57th Street Bookstore, which is a short trek through an alley and half-a-block away.
The penultimate Twilight Zone episode features a dude who only wants to read, and when the world ends, and it’s nothing but him and books. Then, the most dastardly, wrongish, coldblooded thing EVAR happens to him that I shudder thinking about it. (That episode is also why I have not watched a single episode since I saw that one; I have no idea how anything else could affect me as badly as that episode did. I keep a spare pair of glasses just BECAUSE OF THAT EPISODE.)
I’ve raved about the bookstore before; I come not to praise it as a customer service haven, but a place where books are waiting. Picking them up, reading the back covers, maybe flipping through and reading a few pages. Recipe books about cooking with fat. A biography of Louis Armstrong. Sonia Sanchez haikus. And I, quite literally, am a kid in a candy store. And it makes me happy to write about.
And then I remember that I can’t buy anything because I have no money to buy them and we have no place to put yet more books. But I’m okay with that. For now.