Living on the South End (or Deep South as some of my comrades like to say) has made a total hermit.
Being a introvert to begin with, it takes a certain amount of muster for me to get excited about social things in the first place, but being so far from the Village and having a break from some of my usual jobs has really taken this to a whole new level.
Add to it then that I'm on an epic writing bender, have all those good books to read and it's getting to be crafty times, can you blame me for blowing of a 70s dance-themed Halloween party tonight. A friend almost convinced me to go, but when she caved, so did I.
Instead, I think I'm going to go on some mushroom walks. The mycelium is strong in this one, you can barely take two steps without almost stepping on some.
While I'm pretty darn content to just be by my lonesome, I sometimes worry that in time might become a bona fide hermit, given the opportunity. When I was in high school I wrote a series of rhapsodizing essays to that effect, picturing myself as an old lady (around forty or so!) living in some Norwegian fjord, or high up on a rocky cliff in the Outer Hebrides, with a dog and some sheep and a shit-ton of books.
Now that I live in a community, it's harder to imagine becoming truly isolated, yet a part of me would not only be okay with the idea, but actually craves it. So, when absolutely necessary, I force myself to do social things, and mostly they're truly fun, or occasionally bearable. I do this because there's a need in all of us to be part of something bigger, to dance, talk, be merry with others and because a part of me enjoys it, once I actually make up my mind to go.
But not today.