But what might you think
When I had seen this hot love on the wing –
It’s either a spicy Chinese Chicken dish
Or a flying porn flick.
Hot love on the wing will heat you up, either way.
Or maybe it’s an order of wings cooked with Hot Love Sauce;
You can get them at an out of the way barbeque spot that even Yelp doesn’t know about. “This hot love on the wing is burning my mouth and will scorch its way through my guts.”
I would fain prove so.
I wanted to make a mathematical proof of faith and honor. I wanted to work out the equation, with all the ifs and thens but I discovered , that my memories of math, of proving things, heck, of even recognizing the elements that might appear in a proof, have vanished. I may have spent hours in calculus class banging my head against many a proof but not one of them could make its way in after impact. Add to that forgetting the real weight of faith and honor in a world that seems to favor neither. PROOF: Hard to Prove.
As of a man faithful and honorable.
I undervalued these qualities in my youth. While abstractly I would have said a faithful, honorable man was a good idea, I was drawn to charming, unreliable rogues. I repeatedly chose cavalierly romantic over unshakably steadfast. I’d end up under the bright moon with dark impassioned poets with girlfriends at home, or in another state, or across the ocean. Surely some faithful, honorable men stood by and watched me spiral out into heartbreak but I never noticed them and if they reached out, I must have batted them away and forgotten them quickly. I cherish honor now and adore the faithful.
What do you think of me?
Polonius is a master of the redirect. He answers questions with questions on entirely different topics. He can switch the focus on a dime. I think Polonius is an expert politician, one who can dodge and invent. He is probably on expert at dealing with the Danish press. You know, the Daily Denmark, the Danish Daily Times, etc. . .
But how hath she
Received his love?
How do you THINK she received it?
He’s the freakin’ Prince of freakin’ Denmark.
She’s the daughter of a public servant, really.
You think the intelligent, complicated, broody Prince shows up at the door of a quiet, passive, sheltered girl and she turns him away?! Does she shout, “We’re all set for Romantic Princes around here, thanks! Try next door! I hear they’re in the market for Melancholy Danes.”?
I mean, come on, I know that he’s a prince out of her star and all but he’s a PRINCE, OUT OF HER STAR! There’s no way she’s not interested.
He made her make a chart and a map, as well as an appendix for the words.
Here on this blueprint of the castle and surrounds put an X everywhere he “solicited” you. For each X, we will assign a code, which we will write on this chart here. Now, for this column, I’ll need the date and time for each of these meetings. And for the content of these assignations, you will rate it on a scale of 1 to 10 for its fervor and salaciousness.
Finally, the appendix – each encounter will include the codes for time and place and you must write down every word Lord Hamlet said, as best you can remember.
He called me his sweet lady yesterday. I liked it. It was a new endearment and it pleased me. Perhaps it’s because it sounds a little classical, like this dear lady here? Or because it was possessive and it gave me a sense of belonging?
Lady is a funny word. Many of my friends are using it as terms of intra-lady endearment and I don’t know whether we have matured into this title, formerly “hey girl” moves on to “hey lady” or whether lady has taken on a sort of ironic love in this day and age when most of us aren’t too concerned about whether our behavior is ladylike. We have not been taught the skills of the Great Ladies. We don’t carry ourselves like ladies. There’s a sort of evolution of ladylikeness.
Sometimes I don’t like all the lady stuff. Particularly when someone shouts “Hey Lady!” to get my attention. But I liked it when he called me his sweet lady. I don’t know if he’s mine evermore (or if that’s even what either of us would want) but I’m curious about his machine.
And Hamlet’s machine.
It seems only logical that Hamlet’s machine is his body but it’s a rather curious way to talk about a body, particularly in an age without so many machines. Was a machine just a thing that worked?
Someone give me the etymology of machine, please. I want to know about Hamlet’s machine, my machine, my man’s machine and all the machines that matter to me.
Hmmmm. More French. And why particularly this word? Doesn’t Adieu have a certain finality? Is this supposed to be a Dear John letter?
“I love you more than everything – Goodbye Forever?”
Like, is this supposed to be a suicide note? No other words in this letter would suggest that. It is, it seems, a very very out of place “adieu.”
It does make me question when this letter was written. And to what purpose. Does Hamlet have an inkling that Polonius is meddling? Has he written it for his benefit? Or perhaps he even suspects it might make its way to Claudius? If he wrote it after the sewing in the closet incident with the fouled stockings, he might just suspect things are afoot. If it’s written BEFORE, I really have no idea what this “adieu” is doing here.
His father’s ghostly adieus make some sense. This one? A mystery.
But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.
Best of whom? That’s what I’d like to know. Are there other ladies in Hamlet’s life that he loves a little less?
A girl back in Wittenberg, perhaps? One who bends her head close to his as they look over the Latin translation together.
One, a sexy noblewoman in France, when he’s on vacation?
Maybe Hamlet’s got a pirate girlfriend and she’s on the crew when they rescue Hamlet from the ship headed to England.
He’s got a girl among the players. She lives in drag (since the players tend to be dudes) but can slip into femininity to play a queen, or don a mustache to play the villain.
There’s his old flame from grade school who he sometimes takes up with at the tavern when he slums it into town for a drink.
But he loves Ophelia best of them all. O most best. Because nothing screams sincerity like “O most best.” And also, “Believe it.”
Art is pretty much all I have with which to reckon my groans. I will even reckon my groans with one Art, with the other. When theatre seems to rip my heart out and taunt it, too – I will turn to words on a page. When the words on the page twist around into an unrecognizable mess, I will turn to sound, I will sing. When I lose my voice, I will play my guitar. When my strings pop off, I will play on a drum. When my drum is too loud and wakes up the neighbors, I will shake rice in a can. When rice in a can ceases to move me, I will turn to something I can make with my hands. I will sew one bit of cloth to another. I will stitch words in, and shapes. I will fold paper. I will draw my groans. I will write them. I will sing them. I will put them on a stage.
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