Just a century laterdesire seems almost too tragic,happiness mute as Proust’s sorrowful lover,chilled and shadow-bound,loitering in the snow, smoke-breath evaporatingbeneath the Neverland of a shut window.Remember Swann chasing that ultimo kiss,his finches gossiping in the pulse of Odette’s wrist?A pair of leopard-skin boots, newly unwrapped,might thrill the future’s mirror-ball dance,but radio-sex in a Ford under the starsremembers literature as a blur of backs.Perhaps all the summery Swannsare just this moment striding through the cityimagining a flower, a bird, a moth, a trick—their yet-to-be-encountered lovesalighting, tasting the evening’s transience.Satisfaction—another evasion—seems as tricky as the perfect talkshow title—
When your best friend sleeps with your illegitimate sonor
Nineteen times a bridesmaid and never a bride— Perhaps Proust might ask the warring couple:how shall we talk through this puzzleof loss and loss whittled? How shallwe negotiate the stellate structure of snowand the sepulchral nature of ashwhilst singing back the sirens of their vast seasuntil the future is pulled from adriftnessand the empty kaleidoscopeis left to some other childish memory?Perhaps we might visit the orange grove,the pipped olive, the vacancy of marbleand reacquaint ourselveswith Europe’s multisyllabic kings and queens,their tragic fleets and coincidental destinies— but then, again,perhaps it’s better to switch channelsand see what’s on SBS digital 2, where all daylanguage pours from a global cup.Just watching the cars swim along Punt Roadfills the night with epic smoke. Love, the one interesting theme, dazzles youevery time, like a catfight heard far awayin an alley off your own familiar street.