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.

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.

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.

Watching my watch
As I stand here, on the watch
I’m struck with the way seconds tick by
And how we attempt to hasten them
Minute by minute.
The rivals of my watch
(It’s almost gold and it wants everything ordered and divided into minutes and hours and days)
are blues skies over green grasses under our backs
are slow kisses and hands exploring skin and
crumpled clothing and twisted sheets and sweat
are belly shaking laughter with table pounding insight
are lights pooling on a stage around my feet
are words pouring quickly from my pen
are pages turning, full of story.
These make the second hand spin in vain and each hour
Pass unmarked
Which makes each gear click in frustration.
If I explain to my watch that in the notes of this Penguin Edition of the Play, the word “rivals” means “companions” and that it’s one of those words that now means the opposite
My watch might nod and accept it
It might concede that these moments of timelessness
Are its bosom companions
Ticking along next to one another
Or it might tock from 6 to 7
And scoff at scholars who make convenient translations.
Bid them make haste
Walk more quickly
Think more quickly
Breathe more quickly
Die more quickly
You rivals of my watch.

If I began to reveal the cracks branching across my mind
I might not be able to stem the openings
And we might both fall through the gaps of fear and anxiety
That I have patched with scotch tape and band-aids.
I can see the shaking of your own tectonic plates
The fault lines under us both stretching well beyond our feet.
There will be a quake
We both know it
And we stand casually in doorways
Pretending nothing’s happening.

Scanning the horizon
Listening to the breath come in, then go out
Counting the stars in the sky
Waiting for nothing to happen
Or something.
Attending to what is there and what isn’t.
It’s quiet, yes
but sometimes my own pulse is deafening
the wash of thoughts
the rise of my fears.
I can start to shake in the silence
But I keep my eyes open
Watching for something or nothing.

Get thee to bed, Francisco.
Wrap yourself up in blankets
Nestle in among your sheets
The night breeze that wafts across your face
Will remind you of where you are not.
Curled up in your cocoon of night, Francisco,
Think of us here where you were
And the warmth will spread from your woolen socks
To the downy comforter tucked around your shoulders.
Sigh, Francisco
Dream, Francisco
Of all the madness you leave behind you
As you head to your bed
Maybe this ghost that appears
Is the steam from Francisco’s dream.
Get thee to bed.

The witching hour
On the dot
But you know
I have a feeling that witches
Don’t care about clocks
They don’t believe in 11:42
Anymore than midnight
I think a witch would feel for the darkest spot in a night
Smell the approach of morning
Seek the hour where the animals listen closely
Watch the moon and listen to the grass
Before the gong of the clock.
Men built that clock out of gears and wheels and hammered metal.
Its ticks are ticks that tick along
According to the best mathematical formula
For the location as decided by the Royal Observatory
Up on the hill.
A witch has no use for its chiming
This ritual will begin at 12:37 by your clock
Just when you’re resting easy
Because your clock told you you were safe.

Not me.

It is me, certainly

But I acknowledge my name in the third person singular

Because my name has ceased to stand for me

It now stands for the person with my name

He.

Standing for the person that once was me

Who he is, I couldn’t say – but I stand for him

I answer to his name.

I am me, he, him.

Long Live the King
This is a platitude, really
An auto-response.
Who am I?
I’m fine, thank you.
Oh, it’s you.
Yes, of course. And how are you?
Chilly for this time of year, isn’t it?
So we miss each other
But somehow in missing each other
We recognize the figure caught out of the corner of our eye
Through the mirror.
*
What concern to me is the lifespan of a king? He lives, he dies – so?
Except,
A king dies and his nation shudders
“What will come next?”
It is an earthquake shift, this death.
Maybe it will end happier
Maybe it will end with houses spilled into ravines, ponies on roofs, poles
Through guts, broken limbs.
Maybe we will all be healed
But it will, none the less, shake us.
So we pray for his life. Because it is our own.
Long Live the King.