A friend and colleague was interested in making a puppet show based on Notes of a Ratcatcher – an historical text about the craft of ratcatching. In it, the Ratcatcher lays out many of the tricks of his trade as well as how much money he could make per rat or bag of rats. Depending on who was paying him, he might deliver the rats dead or alive. It is a fascinating document for a lot of reasons – not least for what it reveals about the historical period.
I don’t know if my friend ever developed this piece – he moved on to other things and moved back to his native land – but this line makes me think of that document. Like, Hamlet is assuming the role of a Ratcatcher here and killing a rat in the expectation of the ducat he might receive for doing it.
Because a dead rat was worth a lot more to the one trying to get rid of it than a live one.

In the Natural History Museum of Iraklion, we saw a little rodent, native to Greece. It looked a bit too much like a rat to me, though it wasn’t one. My mom thought it was cute. But then, she doesn’t have the rodent phobia that I do.

This room also featured quite a few snakes so it was chock full of things that give me the willies, even when they are behind glass.

It’s interesting to be in a room full of things I am afraid of with my mother. I think she doesn’t know how twitchy I get with snakes and rodents – because they do not bother her and we have my whole lifetime of her trying to show me not to be afraid.

But my boyfriend is highly attuned to how much a rat or a snake would be something I’d wish to avoid. It’s funny.

Rats are not funny, though. Not at all.
Not mice, either. Or snakes.
Unless they’re all cartoons, in case, fine –
Funny as hell.

We always give these two words equal weight when we say them.
But what would happen if we weighted the How? Or even more heavily the Now?
There’s a way that these are usually said that makes them seem like “huh?”
Like a two syllable “huh?”
What could be done with how now that might be more than stalling words?

This is the much more useful (and also more terrifying) mirror as compared to Snow White’s stepmother’s mirror that can only tell you who is the fairest. Which is absolutely useless information. And bound to be inaccurate. There is no such thing as The Fairest. There is no Objective beauty that can be calculated and delivered. And even if there was objective beauty, it would be horribly useless to know.

I hate this fairy tale now. I loved it as child. But I see now how insidious it is. It sets up a reality in which the only value of women is their beauty and then proceeds to give us a woman who is only ambitious for being the most beautiful.

It’s really fucked up. Especially as the mirror is usually depicted and experienced as male. So it’s not even the judgment of the Queen herself as to her beauty – it’s whether the male gaze of the mirror still finds her the most attractive. Puke.

Anyway – that mirror is useless. But this mirror Hamlet is proposing would be very interesting to have around. It could reveal your actual biological insides – which, while gross, could be interesting and useful for diagnosing disease. It could reveal your secrets – even the ones you keep from yourself. It becomes this extraordinary tool of self-knowledge where you see your real motivations, your real obstacles, your real limitations as well as your real talents.
Fuck being Fair.
Let’s get this inmost part of you mirror.

No matter how uninspired you feel.
No matter how much you wonder why you ever set yourself this ridiculous task, this outrageous ritual of writing everyday.
No matter what voices kick in to tell you what a waste of time your writing practice is.
No matter what interesting conversations surround you.
No matter how much a walk around the block suddenly seems like a better idea.
No matter how shitty the words.
No matter how pointless the exercise.
No matter who calls or texts or writes.
No matter who shows up.
No matter the weather.
No matter all the better ideas or errands or tasks.
You shall not budge.

My dad was in a community theatre production of Guys and Dolls when I was a kid. I loved going to his rehearsals with him. I don’t know how old I was but it was younger than 9. I loved the songs, the rehearsal atmosphere, the dancing. We listened to the soundtrack a lot. I was a particular fan of Adelaide’s Hot Box numbers and would sing, “Take Back Your Mink” at top volume quite often. I also loved “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat” which I was sure was “Sit Down on Your Rock In the Boat.” I figured the rocks were the chairs in the boat.

I had no context for the song’s religious qualities. I don’t think I processed that the boat was going to heaven – nor did I care much about the devil threatening to drag the singer under. I was mostly interested in the “Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down” repetition. I found those sit downs very exciting. And then at the end, you were meant to sit down on your rock in the boat.

I still think of this boat this way – a boat with no seats, just rocks for everyone – and the singer is just a misbehaving adult that everyone wants to just sit down on his rock in the boat. Like the kids in my class who couldn’t be compelled to stay at their desks. I know this song is about something else entirely now but because I learned it at such a young age, my old version is forever emblazoned on my imagination.

Perhaps this is why I have avoided marriage and motherhood. Once you cross that threshold – your own identity gets lost in the reflective identities.

I just read an article about how many men reacted when asked how they’d feel about taking their wives’ names. They were horrified and were quite clear how it would make them feel weak and secondary to their wives – that they would suddenly just be somebody’s husband rather than themselves. Yet somehow these same men expected their wives to be weak and secondary to them – to become somebody’s wife instead of themselves.

Gertrude is defined only by the men she married and the man she gave birth to. That’s it.
Aside from the Queen.
But she seems to be Queen in name only. She does not seem to have any power of her own. She is only Queen because she is married to Kings.
First Ladies would seem to have more power and authority than she has.
Hell, Osric seems to have more power than Gertrude has.

Ah. I think I’ve got it. I was struggling to understand why Hamlet suddenly starts swearing by the Rood here when he was not sworn by this particular thing before. But now I think I’ve got it. It’s a pun. Rood really sounds just like Rude. If you don’t see it written (as an audience at the time definitely wouldn’t have) they are interchangeable. In a discussion about appropriate behavior – that doubleness of Rood/Rude comes in quite handy.

The lock broke at the building I’m staying in. When they fixed it, my key no longer worked, no longer did what a key is meant to do.

Sometimes I feel like that key – slotting in to that same old lock – but no longer able to do what I’m supposed to do.

Unlike the key, though, I have more than one slot – more than one purpose. So if one ceases to work, I’m not rendered useless.