I seem to be spooging a lot lately. ["There's this term used in computers, where you try and squish something into another operating system holus-bolus, and the results are not always effective. The term is called 'spooging.'" ... Douglas Coupland, Microserfs] I've been sitting quietly-- nestled into this cocoon and pretending that I've been overtaken by an introverted soul. But then suddenly someone asks a simple question and I begin chatter and rant and, well, spooge.

Obviously, I need an outlet. An outlet a little more constructive than venting in an instant message to Jane or over a plate of chicken korma and saag aloo to Melica. Because while these dialogues are cathartic, they are jumbled-at-best and incredibly unfocussed and ultimately frustrating. It's not that every communication bit has to have a bigger, ultra-productive purpose, but right now I'm in need of something akin to a test site-- a place where I can recognize and isolate and wrestle the errors and inconsistencies and redundancies before they become permanent installations for public consumption.

Something like the red spiral-bound journal collecting dust on my bedside table.

The woman on the elliptical trainer next to mine tonight kept raising her arms up high above her head and then suddenly spreading her fingers out from clenched fists to spectacular jazz hands in a quick and dramatic motion. Watching her out of the corner of my eye, I imagined that she was casting spells on the boys across the way who seemed to be minding their own business on their stationary bikes. Or it could have been that she thought the episode of Buffy showing on one of the jumbo televisions hanging from the ceiling was actually an instructional workout video.

Either way, it was an entertaining-- if spooky-- way to spend forty-five minutes.

Lots of Tears for Fears lately. Lots of quiet time. Lots of looking back. Lots of nostalgia.

It's raining tonight. It's appropriate. I'm pretending that the icy coolness that my window air conditioning unit sputters into the other room is natural-- that sweet chill that rain brings. Today I thought of our upcoming trip to Maine-- the extra blankets at the foot of bed that always get put to use in the deep of the night because to sleep with the crashing ocean in your ear is to sleep inside your dearest dreams.

The music lately-- the Tears for Fears-- is a place. No, it's more than that-- it's a person. It's a me with less layers. A me with less damage and more patience. A me more open to magic. A me more awed by chance. "Famous Last Words"-- in particular-- is a me on an edge of reality and swallowed by intrigue. A me enchanted. A me that is still there, but one who requires ultimate stillness to reach.

Today I read Jim's journal entry about walking along the beaches of Thailand and into his past. About finding those places in the years behind each of us that make us happier with who we are right now. I wrote to him-- halfway around this globe and 12 or so hours into my future-- and reminded him of Coupland and the "world where nostalgia is beside the point because we-- all of us-- live in bright, glorious present."

I think he's found that world.

I think I'm still on my way there.

Tonight I've piled my curly hair high atop my head-- in tribute to the old Carrie Bradshaw style-- and I'm thinking about my new black strappy sandals with the silver lining. Ignoring the wilting flowers in my windowsill and twisting my ring around my left index finger, I am looking out on the street lamps that warm the slate tiles just outside my front window.

Maybe it's the richness of this music-- familiar and comforting themes running through foreign verses. Maybe it's the sweltering day cooling off with the help of an ever-so-slight breeze that bends our rose bush with its one pink rose at the very tip-top. It could really be any of number of things that have turned me dreamy. But that's where I am tonight.

No matter how horrifying the conditions may really be the voice reading the shipping forecast is deliberately calm and relaxed.

Lost in dreams.

I just returned from my long-awaited first Yoga class. All stretched and relaxed-- feeling nearly as good as if I just had a massage. It's a quiet class at a slow time in the morning, which I think will suit me well. Not to mention that my body will have all day Saturday to recover from contorting it in ways that I never dreamed it could be contorted. I'm a box, I'm a chair, I'm a dolphin. Who knew I could be so many things over the course of an hour?

"I'm being worn down by red wine and sexual escapades." ... Representative James Traficant

When you spend a morning on Capitol Hill, truth is definitely stranger than fiction.

Take it from the girl who happened to be standing between Room 2237 and the men's bathroom in the Rayburn House Office Building today-- and in turn, received a spontaneous earful. Spermatazoa. Eggs. Fighting. Red wine. And those sexual escapades. All included in a few personal remarks to Melica and I as he shuffled along.

And that little secret wave. Who will ever be able to forget that?