I'm Not Waiting for Godot

Before I begin a remarkably boring rant, I gave correct directions to two lost Irish ladies today downtown. I think I now officially qualify as a denizen of Derry. I finished my first jar of Nutella. If you do not know what Nutella is, I beg of you to never find out. You will then fight a Nutella addiction for the rest of your remaining life. Also in case you didn't know, I have a "sexy American accent." That's all for now on Sam's random news.

Samuel Beckett’s play Waiting for Godot is coming to Derry this month. After being frequently urged to buy a 20 GBP ticket as early as possible I decided to go to the library and read the play.

I labored through the discourse of Estragon, Vladimir, Pozzo and Lucky. I too, was hoping Godot would make an appearance (although I knew instinctively that he would not). I finished reading the play and felt a combination of indignation, confusion, futility and dissatisfaction. Although, there is no denying the fact that Waiting for Godot is also a comedy. Hoping to extract some sort of meaning to the dialogue, I picked up a critic's response and read that too. Basically, Beckett himself refused to define, categorize, or shed light into the events, or lack thereof, that take place under the singular tree. After lauding the play's significance to the litarary world, (which I shall not dispute in any way) the critic timidly speculates basically nothing.

Several hours before reading Waiting for Godot, I also read an essay by Walker Percy. In simple terms, Percy focuses on the way that individuals contstruct their universe through the use of symbols, or language. He goes on and on (and on, I might add) about dyadic and tryadic relationships and the concept that each individual lacks a symbol for him or herself and so has to create, or assume, an identity in the understood universe through the use of language. Semiotics. Where am I going with all this? Where is Percy and Beckett going with all that?

I left the library and continued to think about Waiting for Godot. I also thought of Percy. And the discussion I had in my Peace and Conflict Research class as well as Jim's class of Concepts of Identity and Conflict that I am auditing. All of the theories/discussions/philosophy/critics/politics have produced in me a peculiar combination of mental liberty and entrapment. I'm overwhelmed. Perhaps from Beckett's point of view he was trying to use language to mimic language itself and create an awareness of how our hollow speech is an attempt to stave off the harsh realities of the meaninglessness of life and the inevitability of death. Perhaps he and Percy alike wish to liberate humanity from identity and social constructions we have created through our language.

I don't know and do not particularly care what either meant to say from the outset. By the time I reached my flat, I felt an accute sense that I wanted to create something. I wanted to write. I wanted to paint or sing or scrapbook or blog. Something. Anything. Regardless of who sees or hears or interprets or understands, I wanted to make a small personal contribution to the universe that has meaning to me and take solace in the fact that for all the complexities of this life and these theories, I can create, experience, live, think, and BE.

So, thank you Beckett and Percy. You forced me to contemplate insignificance, futility and false reality constructions and have put me in a remarkably good mood.

Even still, I for one am not Waiting for Godot and think I'll pass on making my 20 quid contribution to see the live performance.