So here the experiment begins. After keeping a hand-written journal for years & years, now I’m trying to see whether I can “convert” that writing online. “Everyone’s doing it–why can’t I?” In reading lots of other blogs these past few weeks, I’ve found it to be an addictive and oddly delightful genre: so, can I do it?

I’m not familiar with this particular blog interface–I don’t know if it’s “the best” or not. But since I’m a learn-by-doing kind of girl, here I am trying to figure it out as I go along. It’s more time-consuming, but I’ll learn the ropes…eventually.

This afternoon around 4 pm I took the dog to the airport for a walk. C was here working on his website; the dog & I walked about 3 miles & only saw 4 other people (a solitary woman, jogging, then a family–mom, dad, child in a stroller–also jogging). The sky & light at the airport in the afternoon is breath-taking; I can’t believe more people weren’t there to enjoy it. I guess everyone’s lives are busy…

The dog & I walked down to the Wastewater Treatment Plant–as far as we’ve ever been on Airport Road–then we turned around to come back. On this return leg, I saw something in the woods, moving: it was large, dark, and low to the ground. At first I thought it was a deer, based on the size, but R didn’t budge: had he smelled a deer, he’d still be chasing it! So now I’m thinking it was probably a turkey, something with a large, dark, low-flying wing-spread. But the joy of things like this lies in the fact that I’ll never know what it is.

And so for as wild and flowing as I can write with a pen in hand, typing these thoughts seems foreign, odd. It’s not that I’m not used to thinking on a keyboard: I type academic papers, emails, etc. all the time. And part of writing my diss has involved lots & lots of brainstorming, most of that done on the keyboard. So I’m not entirely new to the practice of thinking with typing fingers.

But still, the thought that someone might read this–even though as yet no one knows that I’m doing this goofy little experience–feels strange. It’s like when we do in-class timed writings: it’s odd to know that I might have to read what I’ve written to my students. It’s not that I’m afraid of what I’ve written, per se, but it’s weird to let down the guard of professionalism that is supposed to exist between teacher & student. “Never let them see you sweat.”