It's like that Mraz line from "Wordplay"...

I built a bridge across the stream of consciousness that always seems to be a flowin' but I don't know which way my brain is goin'...

I'm sitting in my dining room. Which is rather strange.

I don't often sit here - hell, I don't often dine here. And over the last week and a half, it's come to feel as if I don't often live here. A couple of whirlwind trips to Massachusetts and an otherwise hectic schedule has kept me pretty much out of the apartment. Not that I'm complaining. At all. I'm simply remarking on how strange it is to crawl into my bed at night and think, "Oh, so this is what my bed feels like. Huh."

I'm eating a bowl of Special K with Red Berries, which always amuses me because Special K with Strawberries would be a perfectly fitting name for a cereal. That's precisely what the red berry is - the cereal makers wouldn't be blowing any big surprises by being straightforward. I'm also sipping an iced caramel latte. Breakfast foods at non-breakfast hours...just the way I like it. The day's best food is always served at its worst time. I rebel in my own quiet, milk-soaked way.

Matt Nathanson's Providence show from April (the night of the Accidental Bodyguard post) is playing in the kitchen, and he's singing the version of "Car Crash" that left me grinning like mad at the show. He's piped through the speakers in the kitchen because I'd tackled a massive reorganization effort about an hour ago. The task has prompted me to bar my flatmates and I from purchasing any more of the following items: peanut butter, honey mustard, Jello, organic fruit snacks, tea, hot cocoa mix, candy sprinkles and vodka. Oh, and Wheat Thins. Propsective houseguests, rest assured: we will always be able to provide you with peanut butter crackers, and we'll always be capable of getting you drunk. Jello shots, perhaps?

Speaking of guests, I've one on the way. Having grown accustomed to having to hit the highway to see many of my Massachusetts friends (it's simply the way it works out - as I'm busy trying to make my way to Boston as often as possible), I was thrilled to find a friend up for a trip north to me. I happily straightened up the apartment and solicited preferences for snacks. Hosting - hurrah!

The house is completely empty, save I, and I'm enjoying the chance to stretch out and blare music if I see fit. Both of the flatmates are on vacation and the other apartment's tenants are off somewhere. My particular apartment has been deserted for much of the week, and I'm bringing some life back into it by lighting candles, opening the windows and letting sunlight stream in.

My sunporch smells like pink grapefruit; the dining room gardenias, the kitchen apple and the living room...I don't know what the candle is. It isn't marked. But it smells good. I periodically make the rounds to be sure no room is going up in flames.

My writing this last week has been alternately arduous and exciting. In fine tradition, I've been agonizing over some projects lately, convinced that I'm never going to get them to the point I want. And in time tradition, the results end up perfectly fine and enjoyable - I wind up exhausted and headachey. As Michelle remarked today during a phone conversation, such a process is hardly surprising - it's how I roll.

This is my little weekend reprieve, as next week is scheduled to pick up just as fast and furious. A couple of trips - Saratoga Springs for the Counting Crows at the beginning of the week, Boston for the boat cruise and Guster at week's end - and a whole lot of writing crammed into the space between.

In the meantime, I'm just taking a moment to enjoy the sensation of breathing and writing, for once, simply whatever comes to mind.