The Art Of Waiting.February 23, 2008 at 5:12 pm | Posted in writing | 14 Comments
Tags: Hector Hapeta, writing
“In 1930, Samuel Beckett returned to Trinity College as a lecturer. He soon became disillusioned with his chosen academic vocation, however. He expressed his aversion by playing a trick on the Modern Language Society of Dublin, reading a learned paper in French on a Toulouse author named Jean du Chas, founder of a movement called Concentrism. Chas and Concentrism, however, were pure fiction, having been invented by Beckett to mock pedantry.”
Gotta love the Irish. A thin dry breeze is blowing from the western desert across the broad flat plains and tumbling down the mountain range into the river delta. There are more insects than birds. Flies, mosquitoes, tiny spiders, unknown multihued beetles seen once in a lifetime, cicadas are a constant highpitched love song which somehow is only heard when listened for.
“Never dangle a participle, except for special effect,” he said running his hand over his closeshawn rapidly balding head, a beast so hairy he is never naked, covered in close curls of dark brown and silver grey, in this country midafternoon, in this heat, nothing moves but insects,
Lazily, how long am I expected to stand at this door in this illfitting uniform, chain smoking in my mind and blowing smoke rings up arses? He puts the gun down. Thinks again and sticks it in his belt. Not what you’ld really call a ‘big’ gun, he thinks hitching his trousers, there’s gotta be a bar round here somewhere…
She peers over the rim of her sunglasses, payment will be in Australian dollars?
Half now, and the rest when Hector sees the girls. He turns to face her. And when they get off that plane, they better be smiling, you understand, and legal.
Haha, she said, I shall manufacture consent in someway.
There’s a cruise involved after all, he thinks and immediately regrets the implication. Stubs out another cigarette. How much longer must I stand at this door in this illfitting uniform? Ya gotta love the Irish, where are you, Shane McGowan, now we need you, I see trees of green, cicadas are a constant highpitched longing which somehow is only heard when listened for.