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Journals and I have an uncertain history, as evidenced by my stash of blank books as crisp inside as out, save for a few early leaves of discontinued narrative. A diarist I am not. A writer I might be, however. In a very few cases, the used notebook pages continue beyond the obligatory failed diary entries, wandering off into notes on astronomy, theology, botany, meteorology, poetry, aesthetics, birdsnests, characters, life. That is a journal, as opposed to a diary: a record of thoughts that seemed worth keeping. It is notes on the self's view of all things outside, rather than a record of the self as seen from outside. A journal is what I attempt here, dear reader. I make no promises of regularity--indeed, I predict great irregularity, since the thoughts that are really worth keeping are of necessity few and far between. I promise NOT to write diary entries narrating the petty foibles of my life. I for one need my sights lifted to higher things. Diaries need not be bad nor even too introspective, done well; but that is not for me. My history with diaries is beyond uncertain: it is conclusively bad. But with journals it is merely uncertain. Whether I can grow into that skill, we shall see.

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