I love absurdist theatre. Its so random and hilarous. and it gives large amounts of space for one to sit and think about ones own existance. Part of me recognises that absurdist plays were mainly written because certain playwrights believed that life was severely pointless, monotonous, hopeless. And in the mundane parts of life is where we find that pointlessness the most.
Why cook a meal if one’s life has no purpose? Why converse with each other? Why go to work? In fact in one play, the humour turns quite black as the pointless waiting-on-death is discussed in such a way that the characters may as well speed up deaths grip by hanging themselves.
I had these thoughts as a young kid. Not to the extent of suicide, but, it would always concern me why we lived lives of such pointless repetition. the 9-5. the mortgages. the boredom. It set me on a life-long hunt to find purpose. To find hope. and lately I’ve come to define it as two main things.
Waiting and Home.
or sometimes they come together in – Waiting FOR home. The last half decade I have had my concept of home redefined multiple times. Leaving me with the ability to both make home wherever I am, but also to start considering home a vague concept left to be unfocused until a time we find ourselves complete, in belonging and location “at home”.
But at this side of that, if “complete” home isn’t to be found in this physical life, what do we do as we wait for that to come? Do we sit in a cane chair on our front doorsteps and smoke as much weed as we can, because… honestly what else CAN we do? Or do we create as much as we can, almost in a teenage-boy hungry-after-school desperation? This is our only chance at life, why not create as much as we can?
I think hopeful surprise needs to be a large part of our waiting for home. Being free enough to be adventurous without being predictably so.
Tonight I got invited out on a night road trip by a new friend i have never met to go see a castle and take photos of it, whilst she subtly taught me more Lithuanian by listening to me ruin her language and she patiently reconstruct it for me. I didn’t go because of exhaustion. Yesterday my new house mate invited me to help someone move house. A colleague of his fiance had decided to move out of an unhealthy relationship and she had no man friends to help her move her heavy stuff. So he and I and a very well dressed third friend agreed to move heavy stuff up 10 floors using the smallest of soviet styled lifts. In the last few days I have eaten quail, picked apples off our tree and stewed them, hung out with a cat, slept oddly well and made home once more in a new country. and I think it’s because I have slowly gotten better at waiting for home by creating little homes everywhere I am.
And I am not an adaptable guy. I get irritated at changes, especially ones I think are stupid. But my positive hopefulness about tomorrow kicks in ever so quickly and home becomes tangible again.
So many people i have met who think I’m on drugs are unable to even conceive of this kind of freedom because they find comfort in things that don’t really give them comfort or hope. Like there’s a certain rule book they have to follow to find hope, but their hope will only be found by breaking every rule in that book.
And some of us even know these concepts as facts. Some of us will go on a two week holiday and have the greatest time of our lives doing things we love and it doesn’t click in us that our lives could be that satisfying. That engaging.
We don’t need to own houses to have a home. We don’t need to work two jobs and save all our lives if we never retire. and the more time we spend with the ones we love, doing the things we love doing – the richer we are. The more boxes we tick.