When I was in my early twenties, I had an acute sense of my own mortality. When I quit a terrible job at an exploitative theatre, I told the artistic director that I didn’t have time to waste at his theatre, because I was going to die. Not any time soon, mind you, but I knew I didn’t have time to waste. I think, too, it wasn’t just my mortality I was aware of, it was also my youth. As a young actor, I knew most of my value as a performer depended on my being young and attractive. I had a sense that I didn’t have that many marketable years. If I wanted to play Juliet, I had to get out and do it as soon as possible. I figured I didn’t have too many Juliet years in me.
Somewhere in the middle, probably at the point I slid past my Juliet years, I lost my hurry to beat death. Maybe it’s that having lived a few decades, I started to take them for granted. Sure, I was going to die – but that eventuality is probably (hopefully) just as far away as my birth at this point. Life started to feel long. And maybe that grind kicked in – a sense of the relentlessness of no money, an unchanging sense of the landscape, a reduction of hope. . .it can make that hurry to get it all done before I get in the ground feel a little less urgent. I started lollygagging a little bit, started messing around on the internet, started playing videogames. What’s the rush? It’ll always be this, won’t it? Grinding struggle, an endless stream of rejections. . .it is just going on and on and on.

But. No more.
I invoke my twenty two year old self and aim myself to the matter. 

Is Hamlet poking at Guildenstern’s status here? I mean, really, as the Prince, Hamlet should really only be commanded by his mother and the King. And maybe God or something.

So – is he, like, suggesting that Guildenstern is being out of line in trying to tell him what to do? Guildenstern is definitely being a twit in the scene, so it’s rather satisfying to watch Hamlet stick it to him in whatever way he can.

Sometimes I know what I’m supposed to say. I know I should be declaring how important my work, how brilliant I am, how things are going great. I know I’m meant to be promoting my amazingness but I have this truth telling problem. 

Which is The Wholesome Answer? The truth? Or the projected image of what we’d like the truth to be. . .the one that is meant to get me closer to that. 

Which is the right one? I know which one is expected and I know which one feels right. 

The days that I cannot find a moment to write are rare. Usually, I can massage the day to fit my will – to squeeze at least a small window to write in.Today, the day has spiraled out away from me such that I am grabbing just minutes between things.

Today – I try to write but sir, I cannot. 

Guildenstern responds to this as if Hamlet’s been an asshole to say it. But it doesn’t strike me as particularly obnoxious. Guildenstern has said he’s been sent to him and no other particular request has been made.
I imagine if I had a friend who said to me, “Your mom sent me here.” I might say the same. I suppose the expectation is that Hamlet should ask, “What for?”
Guildenstern has clearly made a choice here – he’s chosen sides. Gertrude’s side has won and Hamlet has lost – or else surely he’d play along – say, “Thank you” to “You are welcome” and maybe take a seat and smoke a cigar with Hamlet for a moment before letting him know that he really ought to go see his mother because she’s freaking out and totally needs to see him.

Is it in-ter-esting or intristing?
Is it fair or fire?
Is it sheep or ship?
Is it out or oat, about or aboat?

For the most part, I am.
You won’t see me fight. You won’t see me buck or roar.
When attacked, I roll over immediately. I will apologize as a reflex – not because I did anything wrong.
I am led fairly easily.
If you say, “Come with me,” I am likely to go.
But I have a wildness that isn’t loud or violent.
I am very hard to bridle or saddle. I will slip away, shrug you loose. You might be able to get something over me but I will find a way to unclasp it, to shake it off.
I am wild like a wildflower – delicate and strong at the same moment. And while I’d like to have the wild ferocity of a lion, my wildness is quieter, more still, more cunning. I won’t be ridden or captured. I will bend in the breeze on a hillside.

I love when this happens in English. We don’t think of English as a particularly musical language. It’s not Chinese in that way but when you encounter “For for me” in this sentence, you absolutely have to do something with the melody of the line to make it make sense. If you read for for me with the exact some weight on each word, it would sound absurd. It looks crazy- but of course, if you HEAR “for for me” in context, it doesn’t raise the slightest bit of attention. It makes SOLID sense. But looking at it, it looks like a mistake. It needs the music to make sense.

I wonder what a Renaissance cure for choler was. What exactly would a doctor do if you came to him with a complaint of choler?

So, Claudius, what brings you here today?
Well, Doc, I gotta bad case of choler. I feel like, maybe, I could rage all night and get myself on a murdering streak. What can you do for me?
Well, Mr. King, that sounds like a fairly serious case of choler. We’ll need to balance your humors right away. Maybe a little dose of phlegm will do it? With a bit phlegmatic influence, you might find your choler mediated a bit. Or at least slowed down. I recommend a large dose of milk after every meal and when your nose wants to run, swallow it. Retain all the phlegm you can.
Doc, that sounds a little disgusting.
I’m a DOCTOR. It’s the MODERN AGE. This is the swinging 17th Century, Claudius. That’s why you come to me – to get the advanced treatments.