a brief interlude: a break in the program.

Let us do something, while we have the chance! It is not every day that we are needed. Not indeed that we personally are needed. Others would meet the case equally well, if not better. To all mankind they were addressed, those cries for help still ringing in our ears! But at this place, at this moment of time, all mankind is us, whether we like it or not. Let us make the most of it, before it is too late! Let us represent worthily for one the foul brood to which a cruel fate consigned us! What do you say? It is true that when with folded arms we weigh the pros and cons we are no less a credit to our species. The tiger bounds to the help of his congeners without the least reflexion, or else he slinks away into the depths of the thickets. But that is not the question. What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come —Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

These are the years, I guess. You wear time well; your face is still what it once was although you are different. But there you go, hiding all the clocks under the floorboards, thinking that you can stop time. Will it to not pass you by. You’re lovely this way. Remember, the ticking is the bomb. You have become something like a fakir — conjuring words you were forced to memorize, to incant like sermon — that beggar on the street luring the snakes out of the basket. There is a massacre of words on the street!

We have not that which we wanted. We were not responsible for the burning. The hands clawing up through the floorboards. We cannot associate oneself. The clocks, they won’t be stopped. There was a blue car. Un chien andalou, Dali, and like that.

This week you remember phrases from Beckett, fail better… I can’t go on, I’ll go on, and this makes you think of Eliot’s trembling waiter in “Hysteria” [If the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden, if the lady and gentleman wish to take their tea in the garden], and on it goes. There are all these words spilling onto the street and no where to put them. Where does one put the words that refuse to take shelter back in their books? Like the clocks, it won’t stop.

Perhaps this is what the years bring. You want the unleashing. This is what life is, you hold it in your hands!

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