Gave Dr. C. my blog name today. She only of all the world knows now who I really am. I woke this morning singing to myself:

L'amour de moi s'y est enclo-o-se
Dedans un joli-i jardinet,
Ou` croi^t la ro-o-o-o-o-se
Et le muguet.

Guillaume de Machaut, naturally.

Somehow it made everything all right. If when I die, I wake up and find that I'm not dead, and somewhere someone is singing that, then I'll know I'm in Heaven (if it's 'Climb every Mountain' of course then I'll be in Hell). My dear Dr. C. wanted me to hear a musical about homelessness today--I told her as gently as I could that I despise and abominate the non-music of musicals. But I don't think she gets it. Nobody who doesn't hate musicals gets it.