Resurrection is a tough one to think about. Seems like it could be a positive … not sure if it usually is. That alone makes resurrection an idealized concept without necessitating resolution or explanation. So who cares? If I think about those ‘best days’, the ones I should wish I could bring back, and realize I never could, or perhaps ideas of days never seen, I end up thinking … so what?
But at the same time, are any of those ideas ever really up to us, as the individual? Was there ever really a choice? These thoughts and memories and human interactions come in a kaleidoscope; patterns without warning, dropped into frame instantly, with only the slightest movement.
So who cares. Do you want a Psychology 101 / Mushroom 101 class on how there is no beginning and there is no end? How we couldn’t possibly resurrect from something that never existed in the first place? I didn’t really think so. Besides, that’s a lot of negative statements in one thought, and I’ve been told that’s bad.
But anyway, here’s the backstory in a few sentences: I had a blog called The Filtered Press for a few years. That name started after my college roommate and forever dear friend, Fred, and I, started the “Literary Lampoon” section in our college newspaper and needed an outlet for all the content we were creating at the time. I think Fred came up with the name, and I always liked it. It felt like a pair of shoes you could run a few miles in. I’ll never forget those days of made up writing exercises, scribbling on a wall-sized whiteboard, and just writing like madmen, coming up with whatever we could, for the sake of making it happen on the page. Just fucking writing. That shit continued for a number of years, maybe never stopped, and I’d like to think that’s what brought be me here now, resurrected or otherwise, writing to write again.
Like anything, every emotion and interest goes in waves. I feel bad for some of those that have left and I feel worse for some of those that have stayed too long.
In any case, I am going to try to get the words back again. I don’t know what that means now and I certainly don’t know where that will end.
Next I think I want to share a story I wrote in 2013, based on a drive I took with a friend and my dog Bronson out to Colorado. After that … that’s for after that. That’s the thing about waking up. It’s tough to remember where you were went you went to sleep.