A Waiting
The way I learned Samuel Beckett’s classic, “Waiting for Godot,” Vladimir and Estragon aren’t hanging around for God; they’re there for some something that is only the thing being waited for because that’s what they’re waiting for, but if it were, it wouldn’t be; it’s paradoxical, oxymoronic, and above all, absurd; that’s the human condition: we live in a meaningless universe but must do so meaningfully.
Or to frame the question another way: if you’re dropped from your own ride, is it still your ride? Or only if people are drinking the booze you brought in a park that’s really more like just a rest stop beside an industrial motorway?
I myself had just a few conflicting thoughts about the juxtapositions; it was interesting, for instance, how quickly we got to our midway point destination and how fast cranberry drinks emerged once all the components were located and people started shinnying up poles; but it was funny, by contrast, how long we dawdled there, compelled eventually, only by the rain, and the arrival, just in time to leave, of whom we’d been waiting for all along, although it seemed to keep slipping people’s minds—mine, anyway.
The promise of song got things moving and lo and behold, by the time I got there French fries were already being passed around the room.
I was powerfully reminded how Goldies is always, and in my experience, only, awesome when it’s packed with idiots you know; the music wasn’t really in me so I focused on the suds instead, raising my tankard especially in honor of the late, great Ronnie James Dio to his signature “Holy Diver.”
A steady, but light spring rain offers only slight incentive to bail; however, after somebody’s pedal opens up a 12-stitch gash on someone else’s calf, it becomes apparent that absurdity is only absurd until somebody loses an eye, and since, paradoxically, mine were wide shut, I waited no longer to no longer wait.
Or to frame the question another way: if you’re dropped from your own ride, is it still your ride? Or only if people are drinking the booze you brought in a park that’s really more like just a rest stop beside an industrial motorway?
I myself had just a few conflicting thoughts about the juxtapositions; it was interesting, for instance, how quickly we got to our midway point destination and how fast cranberry drinks emerged once all the components were located and people started shinnying up poles; but it was funny, by contrast, how long we dawdled there, compelled eventually, only by the rain, and the arrival, just in time to leave, of whom we’d been waiting for all along, although it seemed to keep slipping people’s minds—mine, anyway.
The promise of song got things moving and lo and behold, by the time I got there French fries were already being passed around the room.
I was powerfully reminded how Goldies is always, and in my experience, only, awesome when it’s packed with idiots you know; the music wasn’t really in me so I focused on the suds instead, raising my tankard especially in honor of the late, great Ronnie James Dio to his signature “Holy Diver.”
A steady, but light spring rain offers only slight incentive to bail; however, after somebody’s pedal opens up a 12-stitch gash on someone else’s calf, it becomes apparent that absurdity is only absurd until somebody loses an eye, and since, paradoxically, mine were wide shut, I waited no longer to no longer wait.
posted by Professor Dave at 5:50 PM
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