Libraries make me happy. And it's not just the rows and rows of books and magazines, though they're key. It's the chairs and tables, windows and lights. And, at least in some places, quiet. I am writing this at the local branch of our library, and I could post it from the bank of computers by the reference desk, but I don't want to take the time. I'd rather sit here at a small table by a wall of windows, whiling away at the dissertation on my laptop, a little chilly but not too awful. Libraries always feel like home.

I think our ghost likes us—at least, strange things have happened, but nothing malevolent. But last week she woke me up by shaking the bed. The bed trembled, like someone was standing there jostling it, for several minutes. I thought that maybe Nick had awakened and was having a solo bout of fun, which would have been unusual but fine, so I just pretended to sleep. I was too tired to help. When I asked him about it the next day, he laughed. He’d slept soundly. I wonder what the ghost wants. This is the most insistent she’s been.

Whew. I have just finished a round of conferences with some of my students, and everyone in one course had a take-home midterm due today. Many of them seemed to be on speed, which always hops me up since I'm so susceptible to my surroundings. Part of it is we had our first snowfall last night. Part of it is the Michigan tomorrow, Ohio State's chance at a national title in the balance. Is there a place in this city I can go to avoid it? Part of it is the end of the quarter, so near, yet so far.

Mice are snuggled up asleep. Their nest is woven of vines and grass. Their breaths are quick, in time with the rapid tempo of their lives. The orange one runs. She turns the wheel with joy or desperation—I cannot tell which. The black one lounges in the nest, or rides on the wheel that the other turns. They munch cereal, grasping nuggets in their tiny pink paws. The black one mutters to herself as she arranges the strips of newspaper that line the nest. The orange one grips the cage bars and puts her quick nose through to sniff.

Today I went to the Butterfly Museum with Dad. He had never been before, and I felt proud to show it to him. He gasped with glee at the flocks of butterflies that frolicked around us, chasing each other through ferns and orchids. They circled up past the foliage and mists to the top of the glass pyramid that held everything in. We pointed at varieties we’d never seen before, and laughed for joy at the colorful wings that unseen currents lifted up, exalted, in every direction. We were old friends who had turned a corner to find each other.

It amazes me that I enjoy walking on the treadmill at the gym. All of the exercise books say that you should vary your routine every few months, that boredom is one of the killers of maintaining a routine, that we need to push ourselves harder. I don't necessarily disagree with these statements, but a few weeks ago, I changed things up a bit for the sake of change, and I stopped going. I just didn't like it. But I love the treadmill at 3.5 MPH, changing the incline from five percent to ten, listening to a CD, walking away.

I am a museum docent, which means that I lead schoolchildren on tours. I get the kids excited about art. It’s great fun. Yesterday, a senior docent came into the prep room in a glorious fluster, announcing that she had just given a tour to Barbara Bush and two of her First Friends. Mrs. Bush even signed autographs for a few of the children and was very gracious, she said, but one of the friends was very impatient and exasperated at having to pause for this. Secret Service preceded them into every gallery. I had missed the event by seconds.

On Monday, I told myself--in the push towards positive thinking--that I would have a dossier request by the end of the day, meaning that a school to which I had applied would request my reference letters and/or writing sample. Nothing happened. I reminded myself to calm down, that the process takes time. Well, this morning, I scheduled my first telephone interview at a university that decided to skip right over the dossier request and move on to the next round. Wow. The process continues, I move slowly forward, and this just might come together after all. Hooray, me.

It amazes me how dogs can have so many expressions when they have so little with which to work. How many muscles do dogs have in their face anyway? How about people? Augusta, our black lab, is able to look so pitiful when she's stretched across the kitchen floor, being rather passive-aggressive about hoping we'll pay attention to her. Then, she sits at the baby gate we use to divide her space from ours and she'll have her tongue out practically screaming, "PLAY WITH ME!" And then there's the glower, perfectly still, demanding attention. She's just cute no matter what.

I used to work at a Sunglass Hut kiosk. It was the most miserable job ever. I was living in a cage for nine hours a day, five days a week. I wrote there. I took a notebook and wrote desperately, right there at the cash wrap desk, next to the register. I chewed Tums like candy. I soaked my feet in hot water at night, trying to bring them back to life. I did some of my best work standing at that desk, scanning the mall for customers every few seconds, furious with my job, plotting my way out.

I have one more job application to complete, and then I will be done. Eighteen jobs. That's somewhat less than the amount to which my friends have applied in the past, one person hitting over sixty last year. I'm trying to be somewhat selective in terms of workload and location. I don't want to teach four classes a semester or have to live in or near anything other than a city. Still, I'm excited by the realm of possibility, universities from Washington to Massachusetts, Arizona to Wisconsin. At times, I'm excited. At times, I'm scared. And both certainly make sense.

I started the Artist’s Way again today. It’s been a long time. Once I was in an online group that went through the Artist’s Way together. Somewhere in the fifth month I dropped out. Certain people got on my nerves. They would share and celebrate scraps of terrible poetry like masterpieces—just because they had overcome some personal demon to write them. No one ever talked about revision—only creation. Yes, create—please, create, create at all costs—but damn it, give it enough respect to revise it. Raw creation is only half of the story. Does that sound bitchy?

I spent a large chunk of the day going over student drafts of their final essay, comparing Night and Refuge. Many were pretty good, stronger than they led me to believe after their concerns over what to write and how to approach the topic. Another couple of hours spent raking leaves, wet and heavy after misty, cloudy days. I have not touched the dissertation; will begin this week's job applications in a few minutes. I am amazed that each year of my life grows busier than the one before, busier than I ever thought possible. Should this be a concern?

This morning, we both have headaches. I drink cup after cup of dark sweet coffee, swirling it through my mouth to give each tastebud its chance at delight, praying that caffeine will assuage the tight knot in the back of my skull. I listen to Nick taking his shower, and am momentarily excited by the anticipation of my new shampoo, scented with green tea and jasmine, when it’s my turn. The early afternoon sun glints off the leaves of the pecan tree in the yard. Sunday slips through my fingers and knots all I haven’t done into a glimmering pain.