Wordstruck

I spent the whole weekend reading. One of those sleepless, sort of overly emotional weekends where I behave like some lovesick adolescent. I suppose wordstruck, rather than lovestruck, might be the best way to describe my weekend fling.

I could talk about little else, carried my books with me, fell asleep for cat naps with my glasses on. It was cold and rainy on Saturday morning so I curled up in fleecy socks to read this article by Megan Daum about my hometown of Lincoln Nebraska in the Smithsonian Magazine. It's a lovely examination of the self effacing and down-to-earth people I come from.

Then there was this article about a couple buried 1500 years ago in a position of mutual admiration made me unreasonably happy.

I also developed a crush on a book by Bill Bryson. I can't tell if I'm committed enough to finishing it, but it was a lovely little fascination for a hour or two.

So I returned to my cubicle at work this morning with a sort of sleep deprived, cloudy-brain, distracted feeling. Like I'm walking on air. Words will do that. When somebody arranges them in just the right order or when I'm open to them from the receiving end they'll sort of float me around for a little while in the nicest way.