Beckett is brilliant. Everyone knows that. But like good opera...man, when you see good Beckett...it can change your life. I've been lucky enough to say I've seen both and am honored to say by my friends.
After watching the show, a dear friend whom I hadn't seen in a while, pointed out something that fell out of my mouth as we descended the stairs from the little theater.
In my fantasy image I had excellently quaffed hair, I was wearing a leather jacket... giving everything a thumbs up while I took the stairs two at a time in a perfect Fonzie gallop. In my fantasy vocabulary I said: "...[Beckett] is so good because he meditates on those human moments that are uncomfortable to examine...the fear of living too long...your own life remaining relevant...having purpose even if it is small or self-defined..."
In actuality, I was negotiating every wooden step trying not to break my neck while I balanced on my heels and kept my purse on my shoulder all while speaking at the same time. Talk and chew gum. Not me. I actually said something like: "...wow...he's so cool...what a cool show...I'm shaking...my Grandma's name was Winnie....Beckett is so cool 'cause he talks about things we don't like to talk about like the fear of living too long and stuff...I'm hungry..."
My friend liked the 'fear of living too long' part and I 'meditated' on that all the rest of the day.
I walk by a theater on the NYU campus. Large panels of glass doors. A giant marble staircase just MADE for dancing up and down and leading up to several floors above. I think it is a theater. After my gaze travels down, I see balloons and happy faces...tables set with treats and punch...further down...signs and crepe paper...furthest down...I see several children bound to wheelchairs spread out throughout the shiny, modern, white lobby at the base of the Fred Astair-case. Many seem unable to comprehend whatever the celebration seems to be. I don't laugh at the irony and at the time, I, surprisingly, don't feel as sad as I do now that I'm writing about this.
But I do feel wonder.
I wonder at my own sturdy legs carrying me to my next endeavor...and I wonder...have these children ever known what it is to walk? Do they know or...wonder... what they are missing? And I also think, am I 'missing' anything because of my ability to walk? Everything is relative isn't it? We choose how we view our world, don't we?
I get on the phone and call an older friend. I have a few older folks in my life. Sometimes I call them and they describe their ailments as if they are trapped...as if they had another choice for which body they traveled in. I also have folks in my life who take those ailments as their own little adventures. They laugh at the pain and they make those around them laugh at it too. I don't suppose either is 'right' or 'wrong'. They both serve a purpose. This particular friend actually answers the phone mid-guffaw. He is laughing at his latest, newest physical predicament and how his body is defying him. I know he privately curses himself and tortures his wife with complaints but this particular moment he is laughing. And I ponder...this is a choice. Either good drugs or a good choice.
I hope to age without expectation. I hope that for the most part, I think it is all very funny. And I hope my husband laughs at me when I try to climb the stairs from my wheelchair...in my leather jacket of course.
Posts
