Patrick’s Endgame When Words Fall on Deaf Ears
“I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything anymore, teach me others. Or let me be silent.” – Samuel Becket, Endgame
Before he went to Rockaway Beach to bury himself in sand up to his neck, Patrick said to me: “People ask me where I’ve been, and I tell them I’ve gone within to a place that’s so damn dim I can’t see them anymore. Then listen up, they tell me, to what’s going down these days, but my ears are blocked, yet they won’t stop, their tongues just flop like socks.”
He worried me, and I told him so, but he just smiled and added, “Up in the tower the cuckoo strikes his fist to stop the chiming of the bells.”
I told him it is was all very poetic but strange as hell. Why was he talking like that and why was he going to bury himself in sand?
He laughed and said, “Why not? There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head. You’ve heard that one before?”
Inspired by his Irish compatriot, Samuel Becket, he wanted to make a point. What it was he wasn’t sure, only that it required a symbolic statement fitting for this Halloween season at a time of historical grotesqueries.
In some place in his mind he thought of his Aunt Winnie, who was always saying it was too late for her to change her life. She had been saying that ever since Patrick came over from Ireland decades ago. Hearing her, Patrick would think – then what’s the point of going on living, but he never said this to her.
His thinking was ambivalent, to put it mildly. He too was absolutely terrorized by the thought of death. He had these recurring dreams that he needed to use the toilet and everywhere he looked he was faced with toilets overflowing with shit. Every month or so, he would say to me, “To think, one moment you’re here and the next you’re not. I can’t get over it.” Yet he never could make the connection between his dream and his aunt’s neurosis.
Patrick and I had been friends for a long time and I had never known him to act like this. He was an accomplished poet but also a very good musician. When we were in our early twenties, we had been in a band together, The Young Artists. We took the name from James Joyce’s novel, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Patrick had been born in Cork, Ireland and moved to the Woodlawn section of the north Bronx when he was eighteen, just out of high school. He was living with his aunt and uncle, who were our next door neighbors, and that’s how we met. He had an eye for one of my sisters, but that’s a story I’d rather not touch.
We were both big fans of Joyce and fancied ourselves young artists, wild bon vivants in the mold of J.P. Donleavy’s character in The Ginger Man, Sebastian Dangerfield. Donleavy had grown up a few blocks over in the neighborhood and we both loved his wild use of language and poetry. We also loved Guinness and the neighborhood pubs, all of them Irish, with rollicking music on the weekends and young women as crazy as we were. Our buddy Diego Sandoval, who grew up in Mexico City and whose father, a psychiatrist, knew Fidel Castro, was a member of our group. Diego loved Nietzsche and his idea of the music of forgetting. He loved to free associate, so the three of us would often improvise songs in English and Spanish with a little Gaelic thrown in. It was very Joycean, so like Leopold Bloom, and we often weren’t sure what we were singing but there were times when some spot of magic seemed to touch us and everything made sense. What started as a farce ended as a feast.
Patrick says it’s all a farce now, a spectral theatrical show, just look at the news, it all repeats itself and people never seem to wise up. He thinks everyone is like his Aunt Winnie now, anxiously waiting for death and disaster to strike but denying their repressed anxiety as they participate in a blatant political masquerade led by the phoniest crew of political actors who are leading the world toward nuclear annihilation. Death of the soul at the very least.
I sure as hell agree with him. As I have said before but which I think bears repeating, this waiting business is a deadly and widespread game.
I remember reading somewhere that some sullen sage once said that life is what we do while we wait for death. It’s not the kind of wise-guy wisdom I would try to refute, especially with today’s widespread public insouciance as our political charlatans make a mockery of the sacredness of life.
The writer William Saroyan once said that he could enjoy thinking that an exception to death
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LewRockwell.com is a libertarian website that publishes articles, essays, and blog posts advocating for minimal government, free markets, and individual liberty. The site was founded by Lew Rockwell, an American libertarian political commentator, activist, and former congressional staffer. The website often features content that is critical of mainstream politics, state intervention, and foreign policy, among other topics. It is a platform frequently used to disseminate Austrian economics, a school of economic thought that is popular among some libertarians.
