“I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.”

Walt Whitman wrote that in Leaves of Grass.  To yawp, particularly to barbarically yawp, is to stand alone with certainty and conviction despite shortcomings in eloquence.

I aim to yawp.

Whitman’s yawping had no intended audience, but was available to all.  It invited all to yawp back, or scoff, or ignore.  You could do with it whatever you choose, but you could not deny its existence.  With the same brutal confrontation, yawping claims validity and disbars the yawper from ever again pretending he could go on without yawping.

This weblog will yawp vigorous, though no one may listen.   Here I can yawp as often as I like.  I can challenge no one in particular and everyone in general.  Like a training barreling through the night, I have known this blog was coming for a long time.   Like Melville’s Tartarus of Maids, the train has sped madly and tore through the peace.   Like Thoreau’s “devilish iron horse” the train has arrived, for better or for worse, upsetting the apparent calm.  It has a mantle of inevitability.

And so, to yawp.


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