Author: erainbowd

You are a fishmonger.

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You are a fishmonger.

Fishmonger is just one of those words that you do not need to know exactly what it means to get the sense of it. It just sounds insulting. Fish being just the opposite of human, meaning-wise – and the sound of the word, no matter how much you like fish, sounding fishy. And MONGER?! My goodness. Maybe it’s because it comes close to MONSTER? Or just because, I don’t know, it sounds unpleasant, just the NG and the MONG and the GER all put together with FISH?

Even if no one ever told you what a monger was, you’d know you wouldn’t want to be called that – even if you WERE a fishmonger. I don’t imagine that a seller of fish is delighted to introduce himself at cocktail parties with, “How de do? I’m a fishmonger.” Even mongers of other goods don’t tend to use the monger bit. I guess I’ve heard of a cheese-monger but almost always in a sort of comical way or a self-consciously pretentious way. Because how else COULD you be a cheese-monger? It’s just a funny word! But it might be fun to have coffee mongers and cell phone mongers and haute coutre mongers and cocktail mongers and then send them all to that cocktail party to meet the fish and cheese mongers.

Excellent well.

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Even those that I know very well, whose secrets I have heard, whose quirks I have observed, whose fears I understand, whose frustrations I have empathized with, whose stories I have heard multiple times. Even those, I’m not sure I could confidently say I know them excellent well but I suppose I know some of them as well as anyone can know another person.

Do you know me, my lord?

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Do you know me, my lord?

In the show, the actress (playing herself, it would seem) declared that she knew people by their touch, by their hands. Because she no longer had use of her hearing or seeing. She could only know someone this way.
I wondered though, if I lost both my sight and hearing, mightn’t I also know someone by their smell, by their vibration? Mightn’t I sense my mother’s approach even if I could not see or hear her?
But perhaps I overestimate the other senses. Perhaps the darkness and silence is so total, there would be no feeling someone behind you. Maybe those feelings are micro-hearing or seeing sensations. Maybe when I close my eyes in an acting exercise and sense the movement around me, joining it without seeing it, I’m really hearing it, quietly, without knowing that’s what I’m doing.
The kinesthetic sense, the proprioception that feels like it leads to some understanding of the other, to knowing someone else, may be the sum total of the other senses.

Well, God-a-mercy.

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Well, God-a-mercy.

There’s something about this reply that leads Polonius to ask if Hamlet knows who he is. This leads me to wonder what Hamlet has said, or more probably neglected to say that makes Polonius wonder. Is it a simple breach of etiquette? What is the way that the prince usually addresses the king’s counselor, or Lord Chamberlin or whatever Polonius’ Official designation is? This particular response seems perfectly cordial. Hamlet’s been asked how he is. He says he is well and gives thanks for that to his god. Simple enough. Doesn’t seem to raise questions of identity or insanity or rudeness, even. Except it must because Polonius subsequently treats Hamlet like he’s 90 years old and losing his memory.

How does my good Lord Hamlet?

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How does my good Lord Hamlet?

I’m trying to work out why this line seems patronizing. Is it inherent in the language? That either good or lord would do but both seems excessive? I’m not sure. If Horatio said this line, I think it might seem affectionate. But in Polonius’ mouth, in this moment, I cannot read it without a layer of disingenuousness. On the train just now, I was reading this essay about language by David Foster Wallace. In it, he was explaining how there are multiple languages within a language, how Standard Written English is only one among many varieties of English. He uses the example of “a 53-year-old man with jowls and a comb-over” coming over to some kids hanging at the mall and asking if he can chill with them for a bit and just kick it.
I don’t think Polonius is trying to “kick it” with Hamlet here but there is a flavor of an older man making an effort with a younger here and not doing it terribly well.

O, give me leave.

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O, give me leave.

Leave, like a military man gets a respite from the service? Like a professor on sabbatical or a mother after the birth of her child?
Or leave like, Please leave. Like, you presence here is not wanted. Like, I’d like to be without you for a bit. Or leave like permission? Like those who say “Give me leave to speak” or “Give me leave to pass.”
I suppose in those cases, it is, in essence a “Leave me alone. Leave space for me.”
It could be all things here.

I’ll board him presently.

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I’ll board him presently.

The S.S. Hamlet, docked on the South side. You have to wait for the crew to lower the gangway; the S.S. Hamlet does not take kindly to being boarded by rope or surprise. It is a hell of a ship. Spic n Span. Yar. It is run with precision and rigor. It does have a tendency to digress. It takes tours of unexpected places, full of poetry and wonder. It navigates choppy waters gracefully and the log is full of each toss, each turn of the ocean.
You’ll want your own cabin. The quarters are close and it’s hard to get space to yourself.
It’s a regal ship, but not a pretentious one. Ordered but not militaristic. Journey on the S.S. Hamlet and you will have an unforgettable trip. If you just stay on the edges, you’ll come out alright.

Away, I do beseech you both, away.

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Away, I do beseech you both, away.

I’m not a parent but I imagine that some of the most difficult moments might be when you realize you can help your child most by making yourself scarce. Is that the crux of the thing? Bringing someone up to the point where they can only be helped by others? You give this person all the help you can and then it tips over to a place where your help is no longer useful and might, in fact, be detrimental. It’s like over-winding a gyroscope. It simply won’t spin if you wind it too far. You have to wrap the string around the base carefully, make sure it won’t get caught on itself but you can’t keep winding and eventually, you have to pull your string away and watch it spin by itself, getting farther and farther away from you.

But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

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But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.

Sometimes, when I see people walking down the street staring at their phones, reading their texts or their emails, or frantically typing, I think “That’s it for our civilization. We’re all going to blindly walk and text ourselves into manholes made into Human Traps and step into our distracted doom.”
But it sounds like people thought the same about books in the old days. If Hamlet is coming reading, he’s not just hanging out with his book in the window seat, he is walking and reading. Now, I love to read and I love to walk but only when I just can’t bear to not finish the paragraph I started on the train do I walk and read at the same time. In the city, particularly, it’s a risky behavior.
I guess, though, if you’re the Prince- you’ve got hallways and ballrooms to walk through and even if people unexpectedly appear in those places, they are likely to quickly get out of your way.
Doesn’t really work like that for us common folk. We could be turning the pages and find ourselves running into a prince.

We will try it.

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We will try it.

For over a decade, we have been trying to just make good work. But good work has seldom been rewarded. I learned this weekend that much more than good work will be required to extract ourselves from this ghetto of the arts we have found ourselves in. While the notion of becoming a saleswoman for my art is deeply repugnant to me, I see that it may be what is required to garner any kind of attention in the greater world. It will require slick marketing materials. It will require banners and flyers. It will require agents and managers. It will require substantial investment in bells and whistles. It may cost more than the making of the show. It may cost me my soul. But we will try it.