I left at work the green leather notebook I carry around with me to write in when ever I have a moment. I had a vague idea I wanted to play with; so I went to pull it out of my bag, and it wasn’t there. A wave of panic moved through me. There is something wrong, when I have tied so much of my calm into an object. Even now as I write this my shoulders are tense as if someone were wringing my muscles like old rags, beaten on one too many rocks, not many threads left to hold water. I know that I often use writing as a buffer against the world, but when I have invested so much of my identity into an object, it has moved beyond a tool to use to work out my life to a fetishistic icon that has become more important than the writing, the process. Of course, my solution to dealing with the stress of not having my notebook is to sit down immediately and write about it. Somewhere in this wave of words, I can wash out the terror of not having my book, the story I tell myself about myself; of not having my security blanket to wrap myself in and hide from the world. I know I will find it on my desk tomorrow. Yet, I also have a gnawing fear crawling along my spine like a wharf rat along a ship’s rope that it will not be there; it will be lost. And that fear is causing tremors to move through all of my faults.