©2022 Michael Raven
It is a melancholy kind of day. Truth be told, and if I think about it, it’s been a melancholy kind of week.
If I was asked why it was a melancholy kind of week, I don’t know if I could put my finger on the why of the matter. Maybe it was the rain and persistent grey. Maybe it was the snowfall the day after the rain. Maybe it was just another dip in my mood cycle, or loneliness, or a sense that I am a ghost just doing time creeping back into my psyche. Or are those just symptoms of something else?
Anyway, it’s been some time since I did a catch-up kind of post. I like to do them just so I can self-inventory more than gush forth details that likely belong more in a private diary than online. Believe me, the private writings are far more torrid than these posts.
After a fairly hectic few weeks for my paying job, there is a small lull in the action and I am taking advantage of that by finding distraction after distraction instead of doing things I should be doing. I saw a joke (?) video elsewhere that said you can make up to £600 as a paid garden gnome. The video was filled with grown men sitting in someone’s back yard, dressed as garden gnomes and, while I was aware it was a joke (?), I wondered if I could possibly find work along those lines: sitting in a garden in my red hat, holding a fishing rod or warming a toadstool with my bum. That seems like a fantastic career, except in maybe the extremes of winter or summer. Maybe I could get a window-display gig with a controlled climate?
I wish I could be a gnome or a fantasy nomadic vagabond, wandering from place to place in a brightly-painted wagon. Most of all, I wish I could maybe do things different than I’ve done them. Regrets? Perhaps. But there are no do-overs, as the djinn pointed out.
The book should be out any time now. Part of me is thrilled. Part of me is terrified. I know I am reluctant to look at reviews once it is released into the wild — I’m not sure reviews are good for anything other than… well… anything. They rarely even help you make a decent purchase, but especially so when it comes to poetry. You either like what you read or you don’t. Sometimes you’ll even hate it, and another person’s perspective is not the best gauge as to if you’ll like it or not. Nor is it a good measure, as a writer, as to what you did right or wrong, as the people most apt to write a review tend to be elitists when it comes to such things. I don’t know — it seems like a quick road to either getting an inflated sense of worth, or an inflated sense of lack of worth.
So, I’ve been sitting around in my basement office for much of the week being all full of spleen and melancholy, wondering if the sun will ever decide to shine — and contemplating illogic when I am not trying to escape into a videogame or the newest issue of Monstress. Sometimes I write, too. Although I don’t know if I should.
Take care, all of you. Be happy and hale. Don’t let the boojum get you.
Embrace the love so fair...