The man died this month
He was 86
I was sad, in a way, but accepting
But those relatives who are religious
are still distraught
And yet at his funeral they spoke of him being with God
Indeed they spoke of him still existing
Yet they are distraught
even though they apparently believe they will have eternity with him again
I don’t understand why they are distraught
when I am the one who thinks he is gone, forever
and they just think he is in “a better place”
and to be met again soon
and to be met again soon
So why are they distraught?I just don’t understand
From time to time I receive emails asking me why I do not allow comments on this blog, including one recently that said, "A blog without comments is just stoopid" (sic), and another that asked, given the absence of comments, "Why do you bother to blog?"
Short answer: I blog because I want to and because I enjoy doing so, with no further analysis required.
Additional info: I know, because some of them tell me, that there are people out there who enjoy looking at my blog.
Further info: My blog offers online access to details of my silly books, and a slow but steady tick, tick of sales fills me with joy (well, with mild moments of minor satisfaction).
Appendix: I find myself increasingly drawn to withdraw into my own private world - the one inside my head - popping out only occasionally to interact with those around me, partly because when I do directly interact with those around me I generally end up offending someone, and I don't like doing that.
Addendum: My email address is available on the blog for anyone who wants it.
A day thinking "restart" - yet again, and it seems to work every time now - while walking many miles around the fine old town of Edinburgh. Walk, think, coffee, think, write, walk, think, beer, think, write, walk, think, write... A good day of simple serenity, expecting nothing from it but ending up gaining much.
In Oxford again, where I found old buildings, young people, and a surprising abundance of bedraggled and generally confused looking homeless people huddled in dirty sleeping bags in doorways and alcoves; and in a coffee shop a young man looking at a laptop as he rocked back and forth endlessly in a clearly agitated manner. Mental illness. I found a lot of mental illness in Oxford, probably including the middle-aged man who placed himself right in front of me outside the Museum of the History of Science and for reasons unknown declared, "This is reality you know!" So I looked him in the eye and found myself saying, "I'm not so sure about that." And this made him frown and walk on past me.