I was invited to the Rising Sun Hotel on Sunday to catch up with some friends. I accepted, mainly from a sense of duty. I’d rather be home on a Sunday evening, and I set myself to write through the afternoon. They were people I was overdue to meet up with though, so I agreed.
As it turned out I managed to produce some meaningful stuff before I headed out at about 3. I got there a little after 20 minutes later and walked in to a crowded bar with a three piece band playing the corner. It was loud and festive. The band was excellent and played a good selection of music, and I joined my friends at a long table.
For the next three hours or so I shared a bottle of red with the husband in between chatting about the footy and the state of our polity, as well as a recent trip he made to study in Oxford. Between us we would often look away from the band to the screen in the corner showing the big match between the Demons and GWS. Often I would find myself singing along to the tunes or keeping time to them, recalling times before when the songs were fresh and new and the performers themselves – names back in the eighties – were contemporary.
I felt near enough the youngest there. It was a crowd of 50-60-70 year olds, locals mainly I figured, come down for their regular Sunday afternoon fix. As the afternoon went on the small open space in front of the band filled with dancers, mostly women, well-preserved, energetic and joyous. I watched, imagining the journey that had brought them to this place. Later in the afternoon more husbands and fathers joined in, clumsier in their movements, less attuned and more structured.
I veered between a subtle melancholy and a pleasant reverie as I looked on. On the one hand I feared becoming as they were. It seemed to me, unfairly perhaps, that life had become less urgent and in its stead was something more narrowly defined and easily managed. It may be when I get to that stage of my life I feel the same, but this far out it spooked me. Fun as it was, and even though I seek to live smaller, I never want to lose that striving edge. I don’t ever want to be complacent, though I understand it very well. I don’t judge them, but I don’t want to wind down, no matter how pleasant.
But then on the other hand I found myself smiling at their joie de vivre, the sheer sensual pleasure they took from joining with friends and dancing. I admired it and felt warmed by it. My perspective was overturned. Here they are making the most of life and enjoying it – what can be wrong with that? Besides, haven’t I done just this a thousand times before? It seemed ridiculous to me then that I should ascribe a deeper meaning to something so simple, but it says a lot about me.
I was there nearly four hours and drove home afterwards in the failing light. It seemed so long since I had done this that I took pleasure from being on the open road and free to drive in any direction. As it turned out I only drove home, though I did contemplate stopping on the way back to pick up dinner.
That was Sunday, and in a way this is why I write – nothing is simple to me.