It’s occurred to me that I can’t be completely honest here. That’s not true. I’m completely honest, with the exception of my unnatural compulsion to change the time stamp at the top of each entry. I like the appearance of consistency – although I myself am consistently inconsistent. But the “Secrets” label is more misleading. For crying out loud – my picture’s right there for the world to see! What kind of secrets can I possibly reveal? A few of you know me so well you’d crush your ergonomically designed mice in horror if I let loose any big secrets. You’d fall off your chairs. You’d have apoplectic fits. Okay, maybe not that dramatic. I do have sizable secrets. Some embarrassing, some delicious, some would bore you to tears, but they’re mine.  If I gave them all away I’d have no secrets left. The mystique would be gone. You’d all go off to read postsecret.

Amanda and I had fun reading the postsecret cards displayed at the American Visionary Arts Museum back in August. I picked up a postcard, thinking to out some secret of my own. It’s still sitting here on my desk, waiting. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus seems too lovely to mar with an anonymous admission though. Really, she looks as though she has secrets of her own. Well, yes, she is in fact naked. Yet she covers parts of herself, reluctant to be utterly revealed. Even Venus is unsure of exposing herself completely. I like that. I think it makes her far more interesting.

Like Botticelli’s Venus, I’ll keep my more sensational secrets hidden from public view. Instead I offer the inner dialogue; Me talking to myself. That has to be edited somewhat obviously. Not all my thoughts are fit for polite society. Maybe there’s some value in the anonymity of postsecret after all.