Who is now reading this?

Welcome to my Blogger web log... okay, "blog." There I said it. But please call it whatever. Call it my not-so-secret diary, or my on-line real-time confession session. You already know what it is. You've seen this before; it's not so new.

How does my blog work? What will it look like? Will I use it? Um... is this thing on?

Really, at the moment I am just playing around with this clever little interface. I want to learn about this, toy with that. I want to figure out all of its functions and secrets.

And I will try to assume nothing about it, certainly nothing about how it might turn out. I will let it reveal everything it is, everything it can become, gradually along the way.

Please do join in the fun and post without ceasing. (Or, I suppose you could also just give me a call.)

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Who is now reading this?
by Walt Whitman

Maybe one is now reading this
who knows some wrong-doing of my past life,
Or maybe a stranger is reading this
who has secretly loved me,
Or maybe one who meets all my
grand assumptions and egotisms with derision,
Or maybe one who is puzzled at me.

As if I were not puzzled at myself!
Or as if I never deride myself!
(O conscience-struck! O self-convicted!)
Or as if I do not secretly love strangers!
(O tenderly, a long time, and never avow it;)
Or as if I did not see, perfectly well,
interior in myself, the stuff of wrong-doing,
Or as if it could cease transpiring from me
until it must cease.

Leaves of Grass. 1900. 302.