Brushing my teeth last night -- always a quality time for two minutes of deep thought -- I wondered if it will be possible to recount all the sexual dalliances and erotic relationships I’ve had.
How much should I unearth?
It seems that the more I remember, the more I remember. When I look back, Baudelaire’s beautiful line “Ma jeunesse ne fut qu'un ténébreux orage” (my youth was a dark storm) applies.
Meanwhile, at what point does my autobiography turn into someone else’s angst? By the end of this week I’ll be traipsing into a different kind of landscape. Some of the people I’ll be writing about are people who are still on the edges of my life because of the crazy time-weaving machine that is the Internet. Will I be hurting them by writing my truths?