I hadn't read the Post in weeks. Jackie and Shari stacked them neatly in front of my door when I forgot to have them held while I was in Spain and then Boston. And since Monday I've had a neat little pile on the orange chair. Waiting. Mysteries of the world revealed in the soy ink that rubs off on my finger tips.

But for some reason tonight I was suddenly sprawled out on the living room floor with the Style section. And I can't help but think it was just meant to be.

I wonder if Stephen Lynch's essay on Generation X after the boom was carried in other papers. Perhaps you read it today. Or maybe you glossed by it. Perhaps, if you know me, it only crossed your radar because of a vague recollection of Douglas Coupland mentions on this site. But for me, it sparked so much more.

The web. Our contribution. Our dream made real. This connection. These stories that we tell that are so uniquely us. Expression and art. Today Todd told me that the two of us were the only ones who recognized the web as just another means of expression, like a pen and a piece of paper. Soft pencils. A sketch pad. And while I can't believe we're the only ones, I do agree that the collective we still dream this dream.

A few weeks ago I was telling Brandon that the reason I wanted to become a molecular geneticist when I went off to college was because I wanted to keep pulling us apart strand by strand until there was something singular. And it couldn't be broken. And it explained us. Defined us. And we could call it our soul.

And then Stephen Lynch made me think about these single lines of code. Unbroken. Line after line. And I think about how much of me is spilled out here one character at a time. Telling all the stories that simmer inside. And I know that the web is our unique gift. Our contribution.

Our soul.

When I first moved to DC I used to drag the little electric radiator from the bathroom into my bedroom and place my hands on it when I wasn't typing. And the days were gray and short and tainted with a little displaced sadness.

But then today I threw open the windows and door. Purchased bright orange tulips. Swept my back patio and donned my favorite skirt and sleeveless blouse and opted to go barefoot. I inhaled the spicy scents of summer and admired the lazy sun filtering through the newborn leaves on the trees in front of my house. The stereo was a little louder, my smile a little bigger, and dancing was a necessary diversion.

Summer.

Exquisite.

Spain. Boston. And an infinite number of dreamy moments suspended between DC and Texas. They've all kept me overly occupied as of late.

Laine wrote: "Your thoughts, your wonders, your imaginings are shared in the countless daily exchanges with a dreamy Texan. And the rest of us who looked to whirlygirl for a bright spot of whimsy, an interesting ponder, a moment captured? We are at a loss since April 4. Don't forget us --- those who may not make you weak at the knees, but still want to hear what's inside that whirly head."

But how could I forget you? And this? Sublime expression. Meaningful connection. Sincerest apologies for my absence. I'll bend backwards to make it up to you.