Oui, c'est toi! je t'aime, Les fers, la mort même Ne me font plus peur!

So many thoughts. And no time to write them. How frustrating.

Reading and writing a paper on D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers brings much to the surface. The nature of human intimacy. The neglect and simultaneous love we suffer for and with each other. The necessity of wanting, of denying. Of wanting again. It's thanks to the intensity of the sexual drives inherent in us we manage to populate the world at all.

Another thing: applause on opera cd's should be banned post-haste. Very annoying. So pretentious. Bravo!

I'm thinking of becoming a writer.
Again.
(sigh. when time permits)
I think what holds me back from taking on the mantle of "writer" completely is what I consider an inevitability of moving that much closer toward depression. I try to move away from it! But most writers (all?) I know are neurotic, obsessive, given to bouts of melancholia, and, well, pretty much alone (or perhaps that's just me, ha). Maybe I need to spread my eyes a little wider? Hmm, I'd also like to have some money. Being poor (the whole of my life): not much fun.