If I have to hear the same old story
Let me at least hear a new storyteller.
If the song must be sung again
Give me a new singer.
The mind must have variety.
There must be a slight difference at least
Or the simple over and over
Will put one to sleep like the rolling wheels of a train
Whispering shh shh shh.
We learn, while lying on the floor
That the arm moving one way will teach us
Something easier, something more efficient.
The Doctor has said that the brain seizes novelty
And when it discovers a newer easier way in the variation
It will enfold it into itself where it will be as it will be from there on in.
So when you tell me this story
That I have heard before
Tell it to me new.
Author: erainbowd
Sit down awhile And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we have two nights seen.
Have I said this already?
I have?
Well, let me say it again.
Maybe I missed something
Maybe I forgot to mention the key event
Somehow I failed to fully paint the picture.
When my voice crawled into your ear
It somehow failed to touch you.
While my words vibrated your ear drums
They didn’t vibrate your heart or your thoughts even.
I haven’t said it with the right pitch
I neglected to project the power of the image
So that you really felt it
In 3-D smell-o-vision.
I want you to know it
Know it in your body
The way that I now carry it with me all the time.
I want you to hear the sound of the wind and
Symphony of birds crescendo-ing from night to day
I want you to smell the air
Scent the fog and the vapors rising from stone
I want you to feel the hair stand up
There
On the back of your neck
The way that I remember mine
Standing strand by strand at attention
I want your heart to beat faster
Your blood to rush
Your limbs to grow cold
I will tell you this story
Again
I will tell it to you
Again I will tell it to you.
Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear.
You may passionately believe something
I may believe you believe it –
I believe in your belief
But when it comes down to it
I will need my own eyes to confirm impossibilities.
Skepticism is an intellectual value
To hold tight to logic and rationality
Until confronted with something one can’t rationalize.
You won’t see me setting out to disprove ghosts
Or psychic phenomenon
But I will cluck my tongue
And “reserve judgment” though I’m judging always
And smile a condescending smile.
I will do this, because I can’t help it
Because this is how I was raised
And how I was taught
But it will shake when my senses overpower everything.
Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night, That, if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
That’s how we see it, our daily, or nightly, task:
Watching the minutes
First one, then the next
Those who would join us
Must expect them to tick by
And summon up their utmost patience
Our friends do not come along, not usually
But we have entreated this royal friend
To sit by
And witness
And approve
And affirm
What we have seen.
He has a gift of words, too.
He will absolve us somehow
And be the bridge between this world and the next.
We watch the minutes
We do not speak to them.
Horatio says ‘tis but our fantasy And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight twice seen of us.
Belief will shake you with its two arms
Before the night is through
You can resist it when delivered with words
You can push it away when it comes to you pleading
You could even wash it away when you drink it like wine
But before too long
It will be a body
Impassable
And solid
It will take your arms
And pin them to your sides
It will freeze your hair to your neck
Make your eyes bigger than you’ve ever felt them
It will happen so suddenly
It will no longer be a question of believing
It will be belief that you have no need to believe in
It will be a relief.
I have seen nothing.
It’s those moments in which you see something extraordinary
That you fully understand how little you have seen
How little you know.
When you see red for the first time
In a black and white world
The fruit of possibility breaks open
And drips juice down your chin.
Before this, there was only what was before
Now there is red.
What, has this thing appeared again tonight?
What –
Come on now Barnardo
What’s going on?
This is all some joke right?
I mean, we’re crazy, right?
It’s a figment
Not a man
Not a king
Not the person we thought it was
Not a ghost
No no
It’s not possible
So it must be you, Barnardo
You who are crazy
You who saw the shadows come together into a man shaped cloud
You saw the air shift around the shape
The solid image of what we are sure we didn’t see
Of what could not be.
Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus.
I mean, welcome to you both.
I said Horatio first, because, um, we haven’t seen him
And we were all, I think, we were all hoping he’d come
And make this right but good Marcellus, good good
Marcellus, my good superior, Marcellus,
I’m also really super glad you’re here, too.
The two of you, I am glad of
You two.
Both. Welcome. To you both.
A Piece of Him.
Where is the rest of Horatio?
What part made it to Denmark
And what did he leave in Wittenberg?
Or Bologna or wherever
Horatio calls home.
He has divided himself into pieces
Boxed up the parts he won’t need
And put them under protection somewhere
Is there a piece of him in a lock box
Guarded by a man with a gun?
Perhaps a woman has wrapped up a section
In a red velvet square
Folded it carefully
Tied it with a black silk ribbon
And placed it under her pillow for safe keeping.
His mother, maybe, has a big cardboard box
Bound up with paper and twine
That she keeps in the cupboard.
His father carries a small flat stone in his pocket.
His teacher, surrounded by books and paper
Has placed a bit in the pages of his book
And put it on a high shelf.
He sent something with Hamlet
A little packet of poems in a yellowing envelope
Which he knows is at the bottom of a trunk, buried deep for safety.
So he arrives here now, just a piece of him
The little bit he keeps in his body
The bit he keeps for himself.
Say – What, is Horatio there?
Omg
This is the guy I want to see
He’s going to prove this all wrong
And make it all better.
Phshew
I wipe my hand across my brow
For the man come to save the day
Or the night – I don’t know how.
Dang
I’m glad he could finally make it
Up here where you cut the fear
With a knife
Hey Horatio- what’s up?
*
As I encounter this text however many months later – later after typing it, later after inching my way to the next bit of blog, I wonder if I can really post what was honestly written the day I wrestled with a line. This line, for instance. Looking at this now, I find myself cringing, thinking “Ah, yes. This is what I mean when I think that some of this project will be garbage. “ I wonder – could I just rewrite this bit? I could pretend, in the sequence of exploration that I got somewhere more compelling, made something more interesting that day. But I didn’t. And the only new thing I have to say now is this bit of qualification. Somehow, though, being true to the crap one writes feels almost more important than the good stuff. So – this will stand. For now.
The Hamlet Project 