outwait outrun outwit


an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: profile


"The last few weeks have felt very small in some ways, because when we turn inwards, when social contact dries up like water spilt in the sun, when the majority of variation in our lives disappears almost overnight, the everyday is now everyday differently, and large plans are replaced by more modestly-sized ones, like noticing a piece of hedgerow in bloom, or hanging out laundry in a light breeze several days in a row. These days make it searingly obvious, what matters and what doesn't, how wrong we are about so many things, or how much we can care about others, more than politicians say is possible."—Ella Frances Sanders

Sitting on the steps of a pre-fab office, I listen: birdsong, rustling leaves, dog panting among the gravel of the yard. Elderly men work in their gardens, and beyond them is a river, snaking around and through the town, and fields where lambs nurse under the shadow of a mountain, dappled blue in the sunlight, implacable and ever-present. Old dreams mixed with memories, and from the rubble wherein lay buried old certainties, new dreams emerged, borne on beauty.


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