Across the street, an azalea bush blooms, the sign that this blog is soon coming to its inevitable end.

Before I go, I will share with you the truth about handles.

If you are familiar with literary devices, all the better.

I had a handle as a kid.

Well, now that I think about the subject, I had many handles — a handle on my lunchbox, a handle on my money box, a handle on my boom box — but boxes are more than handles and handles are more than accessories for boxes.

The lawnmowers I pushed across tiny fields of grass that neighbours called lawns and I called my independently owned taxfree business as a minor had handles.

I followed my father’s hobby of using a CB (citizens band) radio and created the handle (not a nom de plume, closer to a nom de guerre) of Tree Trunk.  My father was [Tennessee] Ridge Runner.

You can see the similarly between father’s handle and his son’s so I needn’t wax poetic on alliterative comparisons, need I?

But some of you know all this[,] already[,] so why’m I repeating myself?

‘Tis the curse of the tall tale teller but not Guillaume Tell, Pen and Teller nor the bank teller who robs the till creatively.

Creativity is the key word, here, though.

The story of the Committee resides in the truth about handles.

Can you imagine swirls of sets of states of energy spinning into tighter and tighter circles simply as a cosmic artistic display?

Can you imagine “life” as a seed planted to create a planetary absurdist art exhibit (or absurdest, depending on your point of view)?

From what I gather, my job here is done.  I have observed and reported.  I have served as the reluctant leader.  I have carried on the duties of the invisible museum curator.

That’s it.  That’s the truth about handles.

The rest is your participation in life as art for imaginary viewers “out there” or whatever literary device you call your own — personal or shared.

This blog is now closed.  I am returning to writing tall tales in the comfort of my thoughts, which may or may not find a space on paper, a computer hard drive in my study or somewhere in the stacks of racks we currently label the “cloud.”

Euphemisms — what would we do without the creative reuse and recycle of words?

Some call this time in one’s life retirement.  I call it returning to the earlier time in my life when I wasn’t forced by my subculture to squeeze my thought patterns out into homework assignments and job duties.  Somewhere around the age of five, give or take a year.  😉

You can handle the truth in your own imaginative way, too.

Every story has a conclusion written into the subplots that naturally end while more subplots pick up the pace, leading to the next story written by the same and/or other authors (or Authors, if you believe).

THE END

P.S. Have fun!