I was perusing through the blog of a certain Donald Pierson when I came across someone�s lament concerning Sweet Don P�s deletion of Communist Agenda, his Open Diary. It appeared odd, at first. I had assumed that my slug-slow laptop had been at fault for my previous failure to utilize Pierson�s link, but no. It almost appears as if we are no longer meant to have an all-access pass into the boy�s head. But why? He has been so generous before�

Then it struck me. The unrivaled elegance of a private thought. What great weariness must come with constantly being pressured to enlighten, astound, appall, or entertain a vast and ever-growing audience? The joy of writing simply for writing; the chase and capture of something as abstract and fleeting as a thought and rendering it as concrete and as permanent as possible.

�Like�singing in your car. Unless you�re trying to annoy your passengers, you are probably singing just for you. And would I be wrong in saying that you have never sounded better?

Capturing is perhaps the wrong word. To have a bit of your own mind to examine at a later time is not a gain per se, but more of a prevention of loss.

The idea of an Open Diary did not particularly appeal to me when I first heard of it. �How can one be open,� I wondered, �When everyone is hovering over your shoulder waiting to dissect you?�

The previous overtones were a bit ominous, I see now. I do not mean to slip in Freudian-style an underlying paranoia of people. I just mean�

�that it may not be as much fun to sing when others are within earshot.

* * * *
Ha ha, it is now an hour later and I�m not nearly as drunk.

I can find solace in the belief that unabashed free expression is only a few drinks away.

I guess it is a bit sad, too.