Saturday afternoon. Beautiful day outside and I'm inside getting a few things done. A few things done. Odd sort of phrase, all ambiguous and abstract. How many is few? What is meant by things? Does a time limit commit itself to done? Or am I asking too many questions, or the wrong questions. Asking questions has tended to me in trouble because my questions arrive with multiple layers or try to pop holes in the illusions and lies which surround us. Like Socrates I sometimes ask questions to get people to think and thinking can be a subversive act especially when the authorities and experts are to do the thinking for us (but who is the us?) But I don't want to drink hemlock. Or, to go Biblical, earn a prophet's reward- which was the equivalent of drinking hemlock. But to not tell the truth for the sake of keeping some sort of peace for peace's sake is little more than drinking hemlock in a slow and as deadly way. I really didn't plan to off on philosophical veins again. That is part of my nature. A strong philosophical bent perhaps because philosophical discussions are safe in their distance. I can do that without getting into the nitty gritty of how I feel. I can keep feelings at a distance by being smugly philosophical. What sort of constraint is this? One that comes from the inside, or one that has been placed on from the outside by the controlling community. This is wrong, because as calm as I seem it is a bit of a facade; a facade I've worn for so many years that it almost seems real , but I know it isn't . I know the truth but it hasn't set me free. Instead, I feel chained, or caged, or alone. All are the same. "If you scratch me, do I not bleed?" Shylock's statement claimed in a different way.
I was envious of the folks hanging out at the Shady Nook. Yes, they were busy taking their shots and beer, possibly to a greater extent than needed, but I envied their friendship and creation of their third space. But I didn't envy them enough to want to join in, even though the Nook is but a few blocks from my house. We walk to Dairy Queen during the summer. But I doubt if I'll go back even though I still have a free beer token. One of the aspects of controlling constraints is guilt. Guilt used through generations to maintain control. Subtle control and so difficult to break from. So I try to tell myself in story and poem. Someone said that all fiction is autobiographical to some extent. I believe them. My difficulty is... what? honesty?... freedom?... courage?... who knows? I could ask you, but you wouldn't say perhaps because there is no you out there. In that regard blogging is like prayer. One blogs or prays in earnest but is anyone on the receiving end? How am I to tell? Ah, there must be faith. Faith is distant commodity. And this from one trained in the ministry, and... oh, you know the rest so no sense in the telling.
For the rest, I'm going to tack on a poem. I hope you enjoy it, Mrs. McGilicuddy, wherever you are (nod to Jimmy Durante)

I join the chorus of corpses

walking on deadened feet through

deadened fields of waving

conundrums already at blossom,

moving as one along the way

with arms linked tight and ankles

bound with silken cords,

attending life’s travails

in a slow melodious shuffle

raising clouds of mild despair.

I join the chorus of corpses

undead and yet still dying

gleeful of our brotherhood,

moaning our undead song.