Family, loss, and an imaginary letter

 

Today's post was written in 2017 as part of a larger piece called "How To Be The Blogman! (Or The Blogwoman. That Works, Too.)" The piece itself was about how blogging can give a would-be writer an opportunity and outlet to write, and it included a pitch for intrepid would-bes to consider crafting an entry for a (now-dormant) blog called Love Letters 2 Rock n Roll.

To illustrate the sort of entry that might suit the needs of Love Letters 2 Rock n Roll, I concocted my own wholly fabricated letter to an imaginary rock act I named Pants-On Flyers, a letter written from the point of view of a middle-aged guy missing his younger brother, and comforting himself with the music of his little brother's favorite band.

It was a flight of fancy, written very quickly as a model of how one could express the connection between the emotions of our lives and the soundtracks of our lives. Once the bit was finished, I congratulated myself on its cleverness. It had no tether to my reality; I'm the youngest of four--Art, Rob, Denise, then li'l baby me--so I can't claim first-hand understanding of what it's like to have a younger sibling.

And yet....

On Thursday--exactly one week after I lost my oldest brother Art--the Blogman piece came up at random, in a review of what older blog posts are getting an itty bit of current traffic. I found myself rereading it, and this silly fake letter to a band that never existed outside of my silly imagination had me blubbering on my couch. 

I guess there was something real in there after all.

I'm told I need to let this out. It's good advice, and I'm trying. Meanwhile, here's a letter I wrote, assuming the POV of a fictional character missing family. Time is the enemy. In the end, time will win the battle. 

I'm not giving up without a fight.

Godspeed, Art. And God bless you Rob and Denise; your little brother loves you.

Dear Pants-On Flyers

I confess I never liked you much. I don't say that to be rude; it's just the fact, at least the fact as it used to be. My kid brother was into Pants-On Flyers, and he thought you were the greatest rock 'n' roll band that ever was. Me? I was into a whole bunch of groups, from KISS to the Stylistics to the Sex Pistols to Motorhead to Gladys Knight and the Pips to Talking Heads. Mostly the Isley Brothers. And KISS. You weren't on my radar. I mean, who wants to like the same band your stupid younger sibling raves about? I didn't hate you. I just didn't like you.

My little brother's name is Rich. I haven't seen him in nearly five years. He's okay, I think. His career took him to Europe, and he's been living mostly in Belgium, with little opportunity to return to the States. He's not a letter-writer, I'm not a Skype user. We retain superficial contact via social media. I kind of know what he's doing, he kind of knows what I'm doing. There is an illusion of companionship. I miss him a lot lately.

Today is Rich's birthday. Science has no explanation for how my pesky kid brother Rich could possibly be fifty freakin' years old. We won't bother saying how old I am. 

Knowing this milestone was coming, I went on a Pants-On Flyers buying spree. I bought Rich your new rarities boxed set Pants OFF For Once!, and his email thanked me for it. On a whim, I also purchased a number of your albums for myself: your 2-CD best-of set Pathological Flyers, a beat-up LP copy of your classic Remembering On Cue, an illicit digital download of your otherwise-outta-print live set Barroom Budokan USA, your much-maligned covers collection We Stole These Songs, and your most recent studio effort, the 2011 reunion album Gone/Back/Gone Again. 

I've been listening to all of them, especially Remembering On Cue's "So Far Away From Home." It may be putting it too strongly to say I like you now; hearing these songs inspires a melancholy ache that is not entirely welcome. But it's a necessary ache. It's a connection with my brother, a connection I so sorely miss otherwise. I do finally appreciate your music. I get the craft and the passion that I couldn't see at the end of the '70s, when I was a college kid too good for whatever drek my little brother was soaking up. 

But I get it now. I confess I never liked you much. I like you now. And I love my little brother, so far away from home.

Rob, Art, Denise, and Carl, April 2022--our final picture together