Hating on Godot April 8, 2010Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, NOLA, The Narrative.
The video on You Tube of this speech, which I linked to long ago on You Tube, is now gone. Sic Transit and all that. I would return to it and watch it regularly, found it most apt in the context I quoted it, the dead-tree ruined roads of New Orleans 2008. It spoke to the issue Ray raised when he re-posted “I Was Not At Bastogne”, a piece about what it meant to step into postdiluvian New Orleans when all one had lost was one’s mind.
Vladimir: Was I sleeping, while the others suffered? Am I sleeping now? Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? That with Estragon my friend, at this place, until the fall of night, I waited for Godot? That Pozzo passed, with his carrier, and that he spoke to us? Probably. But in all that what truth will there be? (Estragon, having struggled with his boots in vain, is dozing off again. Vladimir looks at him.) He’ll know nothing. He’ll tell me about the blows he received and I’ll give him a carrot. (Pause.) Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps. We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries.
Perhaps it is fitting the video is gone. Its absence is one less bollard I am tied to, one step away from the hollow temple of “A Country Road. A Tree. Evening.” and especially the production of that play in ruined Gentilly of 2007. If I am not waiting for Godot, I am free to go anywhere, to do anything. That I chose to be here is not inertia. It is an entering into, a door I choose as freely as Estragon and Vladimir chose the Eiffel tower. It leads, however, not to a suicide’s purgatory but into an infinite probability, not a actuarial entry–enter my age, my weight, my habits and guess my death for a dollar–but instead a matrix of possibilities–music, food, poetry, magic–so endless we will not live long enough to try them all.