The FilterBlog

I'm supposed to write something here today. I'm supposed to have written many things here over the last few weeks. Maybe it was the poetic justice involved with a turbo and exhaust manifold transplant into the pickup - but I can't write about that. Or maybe I could write about how families who have come to hate each other over generations - all over disputes regarding land that they live on but don't own. But I can't write about that. Maybe I could write about the betrayal of trust by someone who was so tantalizingly close But I can't write about that. Or maybe I could write about how a visit to an Aunt helped me put another nail in the casket of my own father's expectations of me. That would require way too much time to write.

Or I could write about how various members of a family admit the dysfunction of their family but, somehow, each one of them thinks that they are the 'normal' one. But I can't write about that because I, too, am guilty. Or maybe I could write about the woman in the wheelchair who burned her fingers while taking a shot with me. But I won't write about her, either.

Maybe I could write about the young women I see around and the strangeness of being that comes with the knowledge that my nieces are older... and even wiser... than them. But I won't write about that.

Maybe I could write about how much time research awaits serendipity. But I won't write about that.

Life, you see, is pretty boring when you put the filters on.