It’s a big deal to start a club, right? All that work! The anxiety: what if it flops?
Relax. If you can find two others who will work through Shakespeare’s work-worthy works, or watch Game of Thrones from S1E1, or puzzle over Mars’ craters, or curse a David Astle crossword, or learn relativity, or . . . blichxl Iceland’s grubberflipZRs (that is, anything at all, there is no limit to what can fascinate us) . . . well, then, just begin. Meet monthly on the second Thursday, rotate home venues, start early and finish early, relax with a pinot. Hold a first meeting, then a second, then a third. If it collapses, so be it (and what’s next?)
Why do I listen every day? One answer: I’m in a club. The club consists of three members. We meet monthly and we listen to rock music. On a Thursday evening I find myself marvelling at Sam Beam of Iron And Wine singing, in his distinct, airy voice: “Killers let go.” A wee dram of red. Listen up to our nine albums in three hours: . . . LOUD . . . The War On Drugs soars, Mogwai crescendos, Randy Newman guffaws, Jen Cloher rolls, Gang of Youths grandstands, Dan Sultan hollers, Roddy Woomble poesies, and The Dream Syndicate garages. Our club shares and sustains.
Proper cycling enthusiasts might scoff: 2,500 is paltry. I’m still slow, only occasionally besting 20 kms/hour.
But I am now a regular rider, no longer hesitant, and well on the way to the year-end target of 3,500 kms. Red wine for me tonight!
Block time in the material. Words. Outside world a blur.