Tag Archives: Paris France

Foosball

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I am having an existential moment.  I now like playing foosball more than reading a book, even if it is on an e-Reader–the coolest thing ever.  Its is in our basement–because when my husband determinedly refused to return the purchase–I made him compromise–either in the garage or in the basement.  My first reaction goes back to the days of sitting in dorm, when I wasn’t supposed to be, and was among the pool table, the TV, the Foosball, and the pinball machine. At the right time, all four machines would be on, and anyone would have to wait for a turn.

It was during these times that the most “epic” conversations would take place.  “Epic” is the term because we would venture to use words and ideas that we were in fact just beginning to study in our classes.  We would discuss, as in the salons of Paris, France, as if we were the Professional Wordsmiths and Ideologues that drove the invisible machine of thought and taste and popularity.  We would bet each other, upping the ante, to try to find the proof of our ideas and our favorite things.  If everything turned out true, and truly, we would have enough riches from the day to get a free pizza and a pop from the others.

Once, someone brought in the movie starring Robin Williams.  And, when we convinced the Lords of the TV to let us use it… even if they weren’t invited to watch, we immediately began the two-hour marathon, titled, “Dead Poets Society.”  There were few of us who had not yet seen it, and for the other couple of us who had seen it, it was considered “gold enough” to re-view.  The beauty of the movie is its very unconventional approach to being young and immortal.  No Professor of any type is ever sexy… And, for Williams’ students to fall in love with their Professor, is very unheard of.  This is not a Woody Allen movie where the nerdy, intelligent, and anxious intellectual courts his students and many other younger ladies.  This is a boy’s film… a man’s film, if you will.  The boys at the boarding school where Professor Williams  teaches, is ripe for intense drama and the bravery that leads to the bravery facing death.  It is, like the Classic Plays of William Shakespeare, a great tragedy.  The students may as well bathe in the blood of their brothers, as we all know, that secret societies are like this.

So, as the viewing ended, we sat quietly, now a late hour, and those of us who did not live in dorm, were, in fact broaching the rules.  But, we sat there, contented with the movie, and with the quiet all around us, we began to wonder…  “Was that ending necessary?”  Like all tragedies.. something always feels unjustified, after great effort, and great expenditure, should there not be a life worth living come from it?  Why does the victor die?  And, why, is it that we know, even after the death, that nothing truly is changed… Another hero will come, and this hero, too, will die, unjustified.  There is no life, in these Classical Plays that is worth living.  All lives are lost, and sacrificed, and given up.  And, of course, the secret is kept…  How many will go to hell…  and, How many will go to heaven?

Even recently, that I have caught, movies like “Gladiator,” and “Troy,” and “Armageddon” all have that classic hero myth that makes the hero a dead guy.  And yet, we love them!  So, thank you to the foosball table, which allowed me to hang around the room in dorm.  I made friends who shared their wealth of knowledge and talent with me.  I would never go to the movies by myself, but I wouldn’t mind mooching a couple of hours from others.  To even the score between the moochers and the givers, we could play a game of foosball and yell out our frustrations… making a night in the dorm room more fun and cheaper than going to the student lounge or one of the bars just off campus.

Now, being quite an expert Foosball player, I do challenge my son AND daughter, to the games.  But, I excuse myself…  I am trying to justify my husband’s crazy purchase!

Surprising Thoughts In the Summer

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Funny thing.  I recently saw a play where nothing ever changes.  The name of the play?  “Waiting For Godot.”  I actually not so much as saw it, as read it in book form from cover to cover.  The exciting thing is the one skeleton tree on the stage.  It is there when the stage lights come on and still there at the end when the lights go off.  It is the one very strong metaphor, outside of the life we live with the two clowns.

The play is only two acts long and the same  thing happens in both acts–nothing.  The clowns clown around, spending the night together by the tree, and eventually, the clowns leave, singly–effectively separating themselves.

The play is by Samuel Beckett, an ex-patriot Englishman living in Paris, France.  He originally wrote “Waiting for Godot” in French and then re-wrote it in English after receiving the reviews.  He is still a very famous playwright, now that he is dead.  He is in good company with other playwrights like Eugene Ionesco, all of them referred to as the Absurdists.

It was by accident that I came across the play, and even got to reading it.  I think I was attracted by the black and white 1929 or 1930 feel, of dust-bowl America where nothing exists, and everything is cheap.  The clowns are in bowler hats, overalls with suspenders, and checked, button-down shirts.  They have stubble and rough work boots on.  They also often speak non-sensically, in gibberish, and they will mix their languages, with one sentence carrying up to three or four different languages.  “Waiting for Godot” relies heavily on our imaginations to fill in the parts that the clowns do not speak.  They in fact do not debate very much or very long on their existence, which we can only say is a mystery.

They make fun of almost everything, which leads to some surprising conclusions, whether the answers have to do with reality or with just imagined places and things.  It takes an educated actor to be able to take on one of the roles, including a travelling hobo who sells things from his cart.

The three characters are equals.  There is no “ruler,” “police officer,” “rich person,” “poor person,” “parent,” or “child.”  They all meet as strangers, and even though they become acquainted, they leave each other’s  company separated.  It is a stark play of a tough reality.  They become closely acquainted in their struggle to find meaning in existence, even going to the point of questioning whether they actually are existing?  But, as reality is, the play comes to an end, the stage is cleared, and the skeletal tree is left standing on the stage.

So, have I heard the clowns?  Am I enlightened, according to that great European Revolution, which demanded its intelligentsia debate reality and come up with better solutions to life?  Beckett probably can be considered one of the elite during the tail en do the Enlightenment.  He challenged common thought that there must be a God, that life as it is, is not “good enough,” as, any person who imagines himself with the power of God, would definitely do a better job.

It has now become moot in my eyes.  The debate is an exercise.  Something to meditate on. I heard that things change as we grow old.  That my reading of “Waiting for Godot” now, will have a completely different understanding ten years from now… or, even twenty to thirty years from now.  The English language, according to the Oxford dictionary of Common English is always changing, and it always changes faster and more accurately the more people read–the dictionary included.

I consider this the one big project of the year, that I have promised myself to complete, annually.  It is a habit I picked up from school.  My private school teachers insisted that even though school is out for the summer, we must find a project to do and finish.  Now, that I am older and no longer living my life from school term to school term, I can usually satisfy myself by completing one big project a year.  It does not have to be reading some elitist book, but it does have to make me fee like I like myself.

So, now that “Waiting for Godot” is over, for another twenty or thirty years, I find myself thinking of making a beer cocktail, making sure it is sparkly, sugary, and bitter.  I see myself at our cottage, by the dock, and feeling the breeze that builds in late summer off the shore.