A loopy stream of conscious tabblo... The Landmark Forum "life technology" teaches this: "Life doesn't mean anything. And it doesn't mean anything that it doesn't mean anything."

Still, this is a bit thorny... I'm ghostwriting an ebook about... get this: how couples can improve their sex lives. Ha! Look who's writing. Single ME?! In any case, my neighbor is dying to read the manuscript... and my neighbor recently informed me that he and I are "dating." We've even been chatting by phone 2-3 times a day of late. So I stuck a toe in the water and emailed him the first third of my sexy project. The tame part. I'm reluctant, to say the least, about sending him the rest....

Thing is, I write quite graphically about Tantric sex in the ebook. As if I'm an expert. All I did was Google to find a bunch of articles on related subjects, and then completely rewrite and reorganize them to flow together. I'd barely heard of Tantric sex before getting this assignment. But I'm such an enthusiastic researcher and learner that I probably sound like a bona fide sexpert.

This afternoon, after urging me to PLEASE email him the rest of the manuscript, my neighbor mentioned that his ex-wife never wanted to shower with him... Ummm... I didn't want to seem like an Ice Princess, but I wasn't real big on that with my ex, either. I told my neighbor this, and then rushed off the phone... Hey, I had something HOT to do! I had to go goof off in Jackson Park taking these pictures!!

Eye-yi-yiiiii... I'm sure he thinks I'm writing this stuff from firsthand experience. NOT! I just know he's revving up to come "borrow" a cup of my sexy sugar.

"What to do?" I wonder. Here I am writing reams about how women need to open up and reveal themselves more to their lovers, and I'm shutting this guy out tight as a clam. The bridge to love, sex, and happiness is one I plan to cross again someday, but I'm not sure I want to explore this with my neighbor.

I realize I'm not getting any younger. (I hate this cliche!) And I certainly don't intend to sit here and rot like an old tree...

But we're so from different planets, my neighbhor and I. I'm (formerly) wild and worldly. He's way too normal for me. I like 'em arty and edgy. My neighbor is a darned auditor. Still, I suspect our paths have crossed for a reason. Is it because his job guarantees his next wife health insurance for life?!

He seems so responsible and settled. And my world's a total, free-spirited tilt.

My birthday is this Saturday, December 1st. Neighbor-man has very sweetly invited me to spend it with him. Shall I accept? Decisions, decisions... How close to expectations that I'll someday be his "shower girl" might this next date move me?

I'm not averse to water, okay? I do bathe and shower quite regularly, you know. I just prefer to do this alone. Of course, in the ebook, I'm telling women of the Western world to lather-up -- and start doing it as a duo. It's a wonderful way to create greater intimacy, yadda-yadda. It's doctor, doctor, I guess...

So I'm heading home from snapping photos in Jackson Park and walk past the same mysterious building I have now for nearly 10 years. The building's a half-block away from my home in Hyde Park. It's the Vivekananda Temple, and I've always wondered what's inside. Everyone I've noticed entering or leaving seems so pleasant, so at peace.

As always, I read the sign near the entrance. Sunday's theme sounds like something I could stand a dose of. There's the word "Devi," which I've learned through Tantric sex research is the Sanskrit term meaning "goddess." I notice my reflection in the glass and decide I'm meant to finally check it out. There's a bookstore inside; I'll say that's why I've come... I'll inquire about Tantra literature...?

A sweet lady named Angelique greets me, has me remove my shoes at the door. (Hey, my socks ain't so fresh, Angelique. You might be better off having me walk around in the shoes.) She escorts me back to the bookstore and leaves me alone in there. My, they're trusting souls. I steal a few shots of book covers. ;-)

Before she left, Angelique handed me this brochure and spoke with fond reverence about a "Swami V." who'd be speaking on Sunday. (I doubt he's the same one credited with the above quote, though.) Angelique invited me to attend, and in fact, told me to feel free to go meditate right now in the temple across the hall if I wanted. Did she sense I was conflicted? (Hey Angelique: It doesn't mean anything. And it doesn't mean anything that it doesn't mean anything!)

After a while, this unassuming gentleman greets me in the bookstore and asks if he can help me find something. I tell him I'm interested in books about Tantra. He ushers me right to an entire rack. I mindlessly pick up a book and don't read a lick. Since he knows so much (i.e., exactly where the books are), I'm now wondering if this wispy fellow is some sort of Tantric sex god. I tell him my name; he tells me his: it's "Swami V." Wow, I imagine Swami V. is sworn to celebacy. But only God knows what my unworldly, book-anxious neighbor-pal is about. Perhaps I'll email him the rest of the manuscript after all. Maybe I'm making too much of nothing.