©2022 Michael Raven
I should get out more.
And do what? You don’t drink don’t smoke what do you do?
It’s not like there’s a group that wants to go out, grab some coffee, chat about Old Ways while trying to unlock the mystery of runes and ogham. That’s strictly mead hall stuff there and, well, we’ve seen time and time again that Michael cannot hold his mead. Besides. it tends to lead toward argument. There’s not much that sadder than a bunch of older guys sitting around arguing about things that mostly belong to the dead. Sober. And drinking sad over-roasted (and possibly under brewed) coffee.
And poetry. Always turns out to be a competition (or so it seems). Or you get that one person who thinks that damn great because someone trying to get in their pants said they were great, not because they are the best thing since sliced (gassed?) Plath, and they raise their hand over and over to overshare. I had hoped that might have changed over time, but it has actually only increased in frequency based on the times I listened to twitter groups lately where people liked to hear the sound of their own voice. That’s not to say they are bad, but there’s always that one person who thinks they are hot shit and naturally assume you all should think they are hot shit too (because a awannabe lover said so; don’t get me started on the gal I auditioned to sing for a band about 25 years ago). I suppose you need those kinds of people to run a gathering or be at one to carry it on, but I never quite understood the mentality. I’m opposite. I’m tolerable. Some days. Okay — on rare occasions I write not-tripe stuff.
Forget about weaving groups. A visit to social media sites tells me that I wouldn’t be a good fit. At all.
I’m a reluctant recluse. A hermit. Super.
Tho’, sometimes I wish I were not.