Because the semester is starting in another ten days or so, I decided I had better do something about the compost heap in the floor. This is always a problem, and I’ve been putting off sorting out the articles and such that I really need to file— I noticed today that there were several essays on Chaucer. I haven’t studied Chaucer in at least four years. I suppose that goes to the sheer resistance I have to cleaning.

It isn’t unsanitary mind you, it’s just paper after all. No stale pizzas have surfaced, or unidentifiable sticky things, just paper. If I had a fireplace, I suppose I could bale it and keep myself warm for the winter.

Which reminds me of a story . . . There was a mailman in the foothills of the Sierra Mountains in California, who serviced the outlying areas of a town named Caliente. The town was oddly named, because it wasn’t really hot there, but I digress . . .

The winters were severe in Caliente, and one of the contract mail delivery route drivers who serviced the outlying areas came up with a plan. He saved everyone’s junk mail— failing to deliver it— and rolled it up into fireplace logs. He was saved from the jail term for this horrendous federal offense because the residents stepped forward to say that they really didn’t want that mail anyway.

Cleaning and creative thought don’t go together, and that is adding to the quiet around here. This should be obvious, given my complete lack of anything interesting to say.