I've lost my Book of Days again. It's a small black moleskin pocketbook that only happens to be the single most important article in my Portable Airborne Oceangoing Office. It annotates, in meticulous detail, the particulars and wherewithals of the Othello rehearsal schedule, the potential PCS staged readings gig, the highly sensitive JAW/West specifics, the Inkwell in Ashland prospect, the conflicting As You Like It schedule, the nascent Philippines VIII trip, and, oh, you know, the map to the Valley of the Crescent Moon where the Holy Grail resides. ("'Well, don't you remember?' 'I wrote it all down in my Grail Diary so that I WOULDN'T HAVE TO remember.'") And my roster for the Library Sort Center. And a number of other peoples' birthdays, most of whom I never remember anyway.
I've searched my briefcase. I've upended the messenger bag. The contents of my knapsack are now strewn across the floors of three rooms in my house. I'm very, very worried that it may in fact be lurking somewhere on my hopelessly ruined Desk. This is the Desk that makes the destruction of Gomorrah look like an informal tea party. Animals and small children squeal inconsolably when brought within a two-mile radius of its noxious maw. Grown men crumple and weep, women run wild screaming weird imprecations, ravens croak, horses froth and foam...
The whole reason why I keep all my stuff in my briefcases and messenger bags is so that I don't have to deal with the morass of misery that is my Desk. I've put off looking for it long enough to realize just how totally screwed I am.
It's a black notebook, 9 cm wide and 14 cm tall. It's got a sticker of a penguin on the front, with the legend, "KEEP FROZEN", and an "I [Heart] Fencing" sticker on the back. My vitals are listed on the inside cover. Come back to me, come back, I beg of you.
If you think you might hold the Key to My Universe, please contact me without fail. I'm going to go sit in the corner and gnash my teeth now.