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, the wires are alive with current. The needle still makes contact, however warped the platter. Will it be reinvigorated by the new (old) medium, quick with updates, its tone as bubbly and strong as a good Tom Collins? Or -- well, why burden ourselves with judgments when the future stands ever ready to provide its own? For now, expect a few posts on a couple of records, maybe some YouTube links, almost certainly some recycled tweets. This seemed easier than figuring out Substack.