I�ve been such a ditz this morning. Screw-ups and do-overs abound. Wolf boy from circulation keeps popping up with yet another book that I did wrong. Probably it�s because he wants to see me so bad. Probably.

Our one student worker, a crazy woman named Tia, will not stop talking to me. Yesterday she said this: �Molu, you are like the wind.� I don�t even know what that means. I mean, in no way am I like the wind. Really. Ask anyone. Except for crazy Tia.

Today, for once, I love the clothes I�m wearing. A loose white linen shirt, courtesy of Bathsheba (as many of my clothes are because I am a poor wayfaring stranger), my gray corduroy pants�the fat kind of corduroy that I think English professor types wear not the Levi jeans kind of corduroy made popular in the 70s, black socks, and my big ugly brown shoes. Ideally I would dress like a shabby English gentleman from the 1890s. Ideally I would dress like George Sands. Bathsheba says she�s going to name her daughter George. I�m going to name my daughter Robbie Coltrane. That will be her first name. I wish, sometimes, that a woman dressed in man�s clothes still had the same air of transgression that it once did. I want to radically bend the image of my gender. Of course this is a been there, done that proposition. I am a post-postmodern feminist. A neo-post-postmodern feminist. That�s a joke. I�m not very funny.

I�m a cataloger. I put books into their appropriate places with all the other books of their kind. I find this to be a soothing activity, creating order out of chaos. I love libraries. But, and here's my point: I hate that people look at me and think girl or think white or think young or think old or think not like me at all. The point being, I hate catalogers.

Sometimes I�m a boy. True fact.

This weekend I have big plans to write. I shouldn�t have mentioned that. If I mention my plans to write I never write. As if, just imagining that I will write relieves me of all need to write. If I think about doing something enough it�s as if I have already done it. What happened here, I wonder. Not that long ago I used to spend every waking minute writing. I use to have to hold back poems from the workshop queue because I was embarrassed by how much I wrote�because I was embarrassed that everyone else would know that I did nothing else with my time. Clearly I will never be satisfied with my lot. Clearly, I already knew that.

I miss Kurt Cobain. I think Sherman Alexie would include him on his list too, Frances. I miss Sherlock Holmes.

I miss the smell of theater makeup and the costume room. I miss the lighting booth and the orchestra pit and playing hide-and-go-seek on the catwalk with Oliver.

I miss the projectionist�s room. I miss the back row of an empty theater. I miss transatlantic flights that last all night. I miss being awake in a room full of people sleeping. I miss longing for solitude. I miss fall. When will it be winter again? I�m in the mood for November.