The Pozzo scene split into labour, consumption and waste is the part I'll be carrying into kitchens. That division isn't only theatrical. It's the oldest arrangement in any restaurant: who carries the basket, who eats, and what's left for the person who did the carrying.
The kitchens I trust most are the ones where the staff meal answers it well.
Loved this. Ideas swimming now. Thinking about Modernity deteriorating indigenous connection. (Thinking about how Vanessa de Machado de Oliveira’s grandmother was worried her prospective husband wouldn’t know how to laugh - at everything.)
This essay has helped me receive Beckett. It makes me feel the grief of Godot even more, rather than only the teasing to frustration boring and painful numbing of a cruel world. I can sense the ghosts now. Shaughran feels like a wild romp but this essay affirms something - a farce of a farce. With Godot in the rear view mirror, the melodrama knows what is at stake. Not over the top angst but real dismantling of a culture. The threat that one day the highjinks will not succeed - or only in the theatre. The jokes won’t ricochet because a farce without structure - or set - no doors slamming or pop ups from behind props - is flat. The laughter can’t keep circling like Irish tunes on the fiddle where one song becomes another becomes another because the violin isn’t there anymore. But the memory of it is. Like the memory and promise of the feast. The promise is anxious. Loved this essay thank you. Think we need a writer, you?, to write a climate/poly crisis, food farce with a thrutopian twist but how would the gags work? You will figure it out! Xxxx
Maybe it’s set on a farm? And we actually farm while we receive? Is there life in the land yet? Is there a moon? Druid’s and a druid’s and ours? 🤷♂️
Paying a fleeting visit to Galway and have tickets to see ‘The Shauchraun’ tomorrow evening so, with some difficulty, I’m resisting reading this until after I’ve seen the show. The Boucicault after Beckett title is intriguing.
The Pozzo scene split into labour, consumption and waste is the part I'll be carrying into kitchens. That division isn't only theatrical. It's the oldest arrangement in any restaurant: who carries the basket, who eats, and what's left for the person who did the carrying.
The kitchens I trust most are the ones where the staff meal answers it well.
Loved this. Ideas swimming now. Thinking about Modernity deteriorating indigenous connection. (Thinking about how Vanessa de Machado de Oliveira’s grandmother was worried her prospective husband wouldn’t know how to laugh - at everything.)
This essay has helped me receive Beckett. It makes me feel the grief of Godot even more, rather than only the teasing to frustration boring and painful numbing of a cruel world. I can sense the ghosts now. Shaughran feels like a wild romp but this essay affirms something - a farce of a farce. With Godot in the rear view mirror, the melodrama knows what is at stake. Not over the top angst but real dismantling of a culture. The threat that one day the highjinks will not succeed - or only in the theatre. The jokes won’t ricochet because a farce without structure - or set - no doors slamming or pop ups from behind props - is flat. The laughter can’t keep circling like Irish tunes on the fiddle where one song becomes another becomes another because the violin isn’t there anymore. But the memory of it is. Like the memory and promise of the feast. The promise is anxious. Loved this essay thank you. Think we need a writer, you?, to write a climate/poly crisis, food farce with a thrutopian twist but how would the gags work? You will figure it out! Xxxx
Maybe it’s set on a farm? And we actually farm while we receive? Is there life in the land yet? Is there a moon? Druid’s and a druid’s and ours? 🤷♂️
Wonderful reply! Thanks for reading.
Paying a fleeting visit to Galway and have tickets to see ‘The Shauchraun’ tomorrow evening so, with some difficulty, I’m resisting reading this until after I’ve seen the show. The Boucicault after Beckett title is intriguing.
Enjoy the play. It’s wonderful.
It was sheer joy.