Stand still… and it will all come back to you.

In lieu of writing each of you individually I have chosen to post it all here in a way that everything may be told as plainly as possible. My father once was a lineman for the county, in a manner of speaking. He was, at the first clap of thunder, erased from the family for hours, and to your houses to make sure your televisions, dishwashers, back massagers could continue to operate, as soon as possible – after the old oak tree severed the mainline coming into the suburban neighborhood.
Since this is an “everything story” I will put it all out there. I realize that it has been eternities since I have caught up, so I will write it all here, word by word. Video is forthcoming. My mother is opening a new business. I have become a changed man. I relish and agonize over my brother’s… unchangeability. What if the world really is flat? Would it make a difference to the crows watching 747 jet planes landing on the runway at RDU?
I am sorry to wield such a rusty sword. I pulled it from a stone years ago and submerged it in salt water. Did the same with a Craftsman screwdriver, but could at least take it back to Sears for a renewal.
For those of you who knew me during that time, I have moved once again. Ten times in ten years. Two weeks since I moved out of the house where Kathy and I lived for a while – and then me after Kathy left for the North. Yesterday I was there as they moved the last of K’s stuff out of the house and into an 18-wheeler bound for more temperate climates this time of the year.
I watched the table where I served my burgers, or Mark Dale’s to be more exact, be moved. I watched as the yellow umbrella, where Lisa Kemp hocked a loogie that dangled for hours, was moved. I watched as the shelf where K put antique postcards of the places where she had lived went out the door. I read F. Scott Fitzgerald as they took a bedframe, mattress (always last), spices, half-full wine bottles, the bar with the duckpin bowling balls encased, the bathroom cabinet with risque ceramics. I remember it all, and in a matter of 9 hours it was all gone.
I’m sorry to write it just like this, but I have to. Someone has been telling me lately that I have to emotionally deal with this at some point so I guess that is what I am currently doing. Don’t worry, all, I am okay. I know you bastards aren’t really worried afterall, anyway.
I know that ultimately a personal note to each of you would be better. These form things do not generally provide the personalization that my needy cohorts seem to desire. Understand that this is the only way I could do it.
Barnacles grow on my eyes, a stiff calcification up the length of my spine. I ‘ve taken too much time off, yet I want more. A beach breeze, love, walks on sand, a maniacal man descending a ski slope… in Colorado, in August.
My father’s previous profession has nothing to do with this, to be honest… nor does my mother’s new business. Whereas I did not make it up, I leveraged it. To be honest, I could not figure out any way to get into all of this, and that was the first thing that came to mind. Please forgive me if it reads like a mid-century French film.
And I guess ultimately I should give all of you the new contact information… after all that is what this was to be about in the first place, so here goes:
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
Please none of the letters with your normal platitudes. Only letters with vitriol, scathing, cutting to the bone etc. Those of you with conservative leaning should not even bother to write.
Take care all.
bryan
PS- I should be addressed as “President” George W. Bush if written to at the above address.