How a Resurrection Really Feels
If you want to be remembered, the historians say, keep a diary. The passage of time can transmute even the leaded mundanities of private life into the golden treasure hordes of history. Now for those of us who may have a tense relationship with shall we say futurity in general, etching ourselves into the endlessly spiraling grooves of that record called the World is a fraught prospect. First of all, who cares? Mama Cass might exhort us to sing our own special song, but "special" seems to me to be doing a lot of work there. And yet, in this current moment, with the costs of the attempt almost entirely psychic, payable in moments of early morning brooding already being deducted regularly from my account, why not? Who cares who cares? Why not open the window at midnight and scream? So here's the new Terrible Noise. Older, perhaps crankier, maybe less agile, more ossified, its undercarriage visible through the rusted-out sideboards here and there; but the motor still runs, t...