I wouldn’t have thought it, myself. I would have said I wanted passion and romance and drama. I might have said the opposite of this a few years ago. I might have said, “Give me that man that is passion’s vessel. . .”

But in recent years, I’ve changed my tune. Someone who is not a slave to passion will consider someone else before he considers himself. He is not subject to the tempests and torrents of desire or sail filling winds of fury. I wear him in my heart’s core, it turns out, right in my heart of hearts.

This feels a bit like metaphor foreshadowing. Right after this performance within the performance, Hamlet will use this same metaphor to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. And its not like there are dozens upon dozens of pipe metaphors throughout Shakespeare. Hamlet, in a sense, seems to have given himself this idea for his pipe conversation with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern from this conversation with Horatio.

He (or Shakespeare, rather) is demonstrating this extraordinary thing that does happen in conversation – that ideas and thought can develop throughout the day. When I talk about the circus in the morning with one friend, several hours later while talking with another, I am very likely to use a circus metaphor I’m exploring. It would seem to be the viral quality of thought.

It is remarkable how such good men are unconvinced of their goodness, while those who never think of others, who drive forward with heedless desire, are sure they are worthy.

This line got me in my heart parts today because it occurred to me that this was true for me regarding my partner. I was particularly struck by the soul’s being a mistress of her choice. Previous to the man I’m with, I’m not sure my soul was mistress of her choice. I seemed to choose before out of some combination of lust and cultural programming. This led to lots of “Bad Boys” and child-men. It led to non-relationship relationships. It led to lots of unrequited dreaming.

Once my soul did the choosing, there was kindness and consideration. There was support. My soul is a much better chooser than I ever was.

All too well. All too well today.
There is a man on his phone a few feet away, wheeling and dealing. He’s got a distinctive vocal tic – every other sentence finishes with “okay?”
It’s a little like the South Park character that says “m’kay”” but with a New York tint -about things like investment, money, business. It has the same nasal quality. And it cuts right through all other sound.

This coffee shop had an unusual quiet before he started talking. There was no music playing. Maybe there is still no music playing but I can’t hear the music or its absence through the “Okay, Okay – 5 million dollar deal” that reverberates through this little corner.

I hear and hear and hear and find it very challenging to not hear, to ignore, to build an aural barrier between me and the businessman. Apparently, this Al guy is at the center point of this deal.

I’ve resorted to earbuds and Donald Fagen singing to me through them. The only cure for hearing something is to drown it out with something else. Problem is: now I’m distracted by the music I like. Especially since I have to jam it pretty loud to avoid hearing all about a dude on someone’s yacht in the South of France who someone has to catch as soon as he gets off that boat.

• Candied tongue licking absurd pomp? Wow. It’s so vivid really. I picture a crystallized tongue lapping at the gold trim of an ornamental uniform, like on a cumberbund or fringe or an epaulette.
• Crooking the pregnant hinges of the knee – Well, well, is the knee pregnant because the flatterer is so often upon them? Are the knees swollen from kneeling? It would seem the owner of the candied tongue might be sucking up in a quite literal way.
• Horatio is once again connected with thrift. Thrift, thrift, Horatio!

It’s actually pretty remarkable that Hamlet is just straight up calling Horatio poor. We can call ourselves poor but it seems somehow uncouth to call others poor – even if they are. At least not to their faces. At least not to one’s friend’s face. Why this is, I’m not sure.

It’s not as if it’s not true. The poor are poor. And yet it somehow gets framed as a moral failing, that poverty is somehow a judgment on the poor, not simply a matter of circumstances, birth and social conditions. So you don’t call someone poor for the same reason you don’t call someone fat. Because it’s not good manners to point out someone’s failings. (The fact that both poverty and size are often a matter of circumstance and not morality is another point entirely.)

Reading Scarcity, it became clear what a world of circular reasoning we’ve been living in around poverty. There have been those that assume the poor are poor due to being forgetful or short-sighted with money. When in fact it’s the reverse – that anyone becomes forgetful and short-sighted when facing down scarcity.

That’s pretty much the same revenue I have!
I’m just like Horatio!
I guess that’s good news because he is the only clear survivor of this tragedy.
(Well, presumably Osric, Bernardo, Francisco, Marcellus, the priest and the gravediggers make it as well. Not to mention Fortinbras and his crew.)
But – Horatio is the only major character to survive this.
I guess it’s good to have good spirits. I’d like some actual dollars to feed and clothe me, too, though. I’d actually very much appreciate it. I might even risk not making it to the end of the play for some added revenue.

I find flattery confusing.
I am not immune to it.
When someone flatters me, I blush and giggle like a school girl.
That is, if I buy it.
If I don’t buy it, I’ll either give a cold hard stare or a cool impassive “Thank you.”
But a good flatterer flatters with the truth – or the kernel of a truth.
Someone with flattering skill will butter you up with your own sauce and you’ll like it, too.
The artless flatterer will be obvious about it – flatter you for something you know isn’t true or overdo the kernel, if there is one.

The real flatterers that I watch out for now are the ones who really mean it. The ones for whom flattery is their first language. The ones who build me up beyond reality, the ones who are convinced that I will change everything, that I’m a savior, that I’m different from everyone else. This sort of flattery screams caution to me now – because those that would build me up quickly will just as quickly tear me down.

My feeling is that Horatio and Hamlet are not so close at the top of this play. There’s a distance between them at the beginning that vanishes right here. Or rather has vanished at some point prior to this scene.

Something has passed between them that has assured Hamlet that he could share this deepest secret of his father’s ghost with Horatio. He’s told him of the circumstances of his father’s death and he trusts him rather deeply.

I almost wish that Shakespeare had written us these conversations. I’d love to see a friendship bloom. We see them dissolve so often. I’d like to see one grow. And I’d love to see what Horatio said (or didn’t say) to so clearly earn Hamlet’s trust.

Is Horatio lurking? What is he DOING? And is this normal behavior? Is that how Hamlet knows to call him? Or is he calling him out at a distance? Why is Horatio here but not here? He’s nearby but not inside. Has Hamlet said, “Listen, wait here for a minute while I talk to the players. I have some advice to give them I want to talk with you?”

There’s something about Horatio’s instant availability that gives him a vampire vibe. Like, he wasn’t there and the suddenly he is. This might also be that I’ve seen a lot of tall men play Horatio. He’s played a little like Lurch sometimes. Just standing by the door, ready for the master’s call. And a little bit creepy.