there are certain birthdays i cannot let go by unnoticed. samuel beckett's is most definitely one of them. i haven't read that much beckett. i have seen precious little of his work performed. but it is sure that the love of my life would not be who he is today without this man and his work... almost literally; for my love even took his name from the dangling florets of beckett's words. in my 'house,' the name beckett is virtually holy. i admit, i don't know very much about the man himself... except what i've learned through some hastened research. he was born 103 years ago today, in Ireland. he was a friend... or perhaps more accurately, and apprentice of james joyce. he was raised in a Dublin suburb with the superb name of Foxrock, in a large house complete with a garden and tennis court. he was involved in the French Resistance near the end of WWII. he was lucky enough to be recognized for his writing in his own time. and wow, the more i read of his biography, the more i realize i really shouldn't be the one writing this. his life was so varied and strange. so i'll stick to what i know. i used to have an audio recording of Lucky's Speech from 'waiting for godot' on a tape... used to play it in my headphones as i blew up balloons from a huge helium tank in the storage room of a restaurant i used to work in. it reminded me that brilliance and depth and meaning, as well as folly and balloons, both existed, and were necessary. and in the end, both unimportant. mmm, what else? oh yes, the photo. it probably goes without saying that there were clearer and more 'professional' -looking pictures of beckett available when i went diving for one, but for some reason, i just kept coming back to this one. perhaps because the hazy nature of it somehow illustrates the imcomplete picture i have of him, mentally... and also because i don't think i've ever seen it before. samuel, thank you... that's all i can say.
