I wrote this already.
Then I forgot about it.
It was terrible, really truly.
My second day in to the project and
Bump bump bump down the road of textual investigation,
I discovered it wasn’t going to be good every time.
Or even every other time.
Or ever.
But
I realized I’d forgotten to type up this line, in the flurry of typing and copying and transferring.
I searched for it in all the old journals –
Finding the right month
Then the words, hiding between other thoughts.
The second line of the play is a power struggle.
The second line has also become a struggle of art.
Can I let that old bit sit there?
Can I send these paltry words out into the world
With no blanket
No context
No skeleton?
Just little slugs of words
Not even snails with a house to hide in.
*
Nay, nay, no. I deny you. I refuse you.
No. The answer to who I may be is nay.
Who are you to demand who I am?
I won’t be questioned.
Nay An – a sound to be answered
Ser Me – To be – me.
Nay, answer me. Me. Answer. Me.
Barnardo
Who’s there?
Who’s There?
Who’s there? Who is there? Who is There? It’s a three-pronged question. It starts small. Who comes in? Are we alone? Is someone coming? But it balloons, like an ever widening gyre – Who is there?
Are we alone in the universe? Who is there? Who’s there? And who am I? Who is here? Is it – well, it calls all of it into question, doesn’t it? Who’s there? When the night is dark And you can barely understand where Your own hand is It blends seamlessly into the darkness The boundaries blurring Me, Hand, Darkness We’re all one out here I only know that I’m here Because I can feel me This foot on the ground This knee against that rough fabric Whenever I bend it. I can feel my neck when the wind Blows against it. I place my hand on metal And it is my hand Metal, cold. Hand, warm. But if I leave it there long enough The one will start to blend into the other And what was warm will get colder And what was cold will get warmer. What is hand now and what is metal? The eyes search for edges in the blackness. This is how we will know a thing By its boundaries. I know my heart when I place my hand on my chest and feel it pulse. I recognize my mind when it runs into something unknown and steps Around its edges.
Who’s there? Who is there? Who is There? It’s a three-pronged question. It starts small. Who comes in? Are we alone? Is someone coming? But it balloons, like an ever widening gyre – Who is there?
Are we alone in the universe? Who is there? Who’s there? And who am I? Who is here? Is it – well, it calls all of it into question, doesn’t it? Who’s there? When the night is dark And you can barely understand where Your own hand is It blends seamlessly into the darkness The boundaries blurring Me, Hand, Darkness We’re all one out here I only know that I’m here Because I can feel me This foot on the ground This knee against that rough fabric Whenever I bend it. I can feel my neck when the wind Blows against it. I place my hand on metal And it is my hand Metal, cold. Hand, warm. But if I leave it there long enough The one will start to blend into the other And what was warm will get colder And what was cold will get warmer. What is hand now and what is metal? The eyes search for edges in the blackness. This is how we will know a thing By its boundaries. I know my heart when I place my hand on my chest and feel it pulse. I recognize my mind when it runs into something unknown and steps Around its edges.
The Hamlet Project 