Before getting entirely ensconced in my computerized world of catching up on my weekend journal entries and the latest developments of the Barbie dispute, I indulged a desire I've toyed with for the last few weeks, and spent about ten minutes doing a little yoga on the livingroom rug listening to one of David Grisman's acoustic disc samplers Briggs gave me for my birthday. The spine twists help immensely, preventing me from starting off the workweek all scrunched up like a tightly twisted rusted spring off of some old jalopy's shocks.

Why do keeping self busy and procrastination seem to go hand-in-hand? In therapy now for several years, I watch myself, study myself sometimes. There I go again, hesitating on the brink. The image swims back up to me: I am standing on the top step of a brownstone down the block from my parents' apartment in New York, outside the wrought iron railing, being urged to jump. Below my feet is the stone framed doorway and steps down to the utility entrance of my apartment building. I'll have to jump out a little into the street not to wrench my ankle on those steps. It's not really that high but I've paused and am on the spot and I know I'd rather be anywhere but there. A few times diving boards led me to that same emotional place where I prefer cowardice to action, which may be another reason why I so love Martha Conway's hyperstory Girl Birth Water Death.