By Anthony Casson
I dare not look at the last post date. Painful the feeling of the present; irresponsible the label of the self.
Obviously there exists no hint of storytelling of my father’s life behind bars, and that is all on me. It’s a strange feeling today, realizing that my dad is gone for a few years, and I’ve done very little to keep his presence afloat in our hustling, bustling lives. In my defense, however, there is far more going on than any of you can know.
No longer am I constantly burdened with the painful reality that my dad is on a “trip”. Well, maybe not “no longer”; perhaps the better thing to say is that I’m desensitized to the whole situation–a far cry from my post weeks and weeks ago.
The reality of my parent dilemma is simple: prior to my dad’s arrest, he was away in Florida for a few years–distant and without much opportunity to chat–and I lived in the Northwest; after my dad’s arrest, I still live in the Northwest, and I still experience enormous lengths of time without speaking to him. They (my parents) were confident about communication staying open when they forced me to leave Texas in 8th grade for Washington–funny…it seems the kid was right all along; communication sucked well before all of this legal nonsense.
Next to my laptop lies a stack of letters from my father–ones for the blog and one marked for my eyes only (father to son). Am I in a hurry to re-purpose the letters for your viewing pleasure? Nope. Am I a lazy person? Now THAT is hilarious!
I blame my lack of posting on college, women, career planning and my obvious lack of intensified interest.
I’m a very passionate person–when I find something I really enjoy, I put everything into it. It’s then only logical that I must not have a burning desire to constantly add my father’s stories. All he can do is write and hope I’ll post them. Prisoners, remember, do not have rights; that includes having a personal blog.
This story is unique, interesting, intriguing, and all the other things required to draw readers closer. I love to write for my father, but only sometimes. When your career focuses solely on being a writer, it’s difficult to squeeze in more time to put words together for someone else (even if that person is your father).
What exactly is the POINT of this post? I honestly cannot say. Maybe I’m frustrated, irritated, tired, and I’m trying to express that to you. Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to slice open another white envelope and type the words as I read them from my father’s letter.
Everything you have read, and everything you will read on this blog isn’t easy to produce. There should be no hurry, though. We’ve got 4 years to kill…