outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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The other night I went to see my husband act in a play at the local arts centre. He was good, everyone was good, the play was good although at times verbose, with an abrupt ending. Later in the pub, I sat with Michael and Ann, who also attended the play. Wan and slow, Ann had just finished her sixth chemo treatment; she liked the music that D had put on for them, the soundtrack of their youth. Michael reminisced of drunken evenings in Spain, and of the days when everyone in 'the community' involved themselves in plays.

The next day, I read an interview with Adam Gopnik, the New Yorker writer: 'At any moment in history, wherever we are, an old world is passing away and a new world is coming into being. We have sharper eyes for the fall than the arrival because the old world is the one we know.' Not for me, I think at times. Coming from the new world, I don't know the old world, tracking it only in my wonder at its beauty, in traces like old-timers' songs and closed shopfronts, and in the melancholy of the old folks.


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