Like flour for a cake
Like gold from a stream
Shake all the little grains from one space to the next.
We shall shake his shoulders and his words will fall from him –
either in little soft piles that call out to be touched
or the sand will fall out, leaving little shiny bits behind in the pan
or maybe both –
little piles of flour, topped with gold.

We are ever looking for the cause.
It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.
Or what we are hoping to be the cause.
We want to know the trigger when the gun’s been fired. Why? What made him do that? What made him lose his marbles? It must have BEEN something. An event? A disappointment? A sudden cruelty or act of violence? But the truth of these things, the truth of real madness (not the kind you make up to throw murderous uncles off your scent) rarely has a trigger. It is highly unsatisfying to probe the onset of it and find no trigger, no smoking gun, just a possible change in brain chemistry or some wiring that just sort of came loose.
There is no satisfaction to be had, no explanation that makes sense, no context to insure us that it won’t happen to us. Because it could. It could.

This raises another question about meal etiquette. Is doing grace to the ambassadors continuing the theme of the great feast? Is there a saying of grace at a meal? Does it happen at the top of the meals as it does in a lot of American families? Or does it, perhaps, come along with the fruit? As in, “Thanks dear Lord for the great feast we’ve just enjoyed and before we finish up with this fruit, we wanted to give you a shout out.”

“I’ve got this place for you to live rent free. When do you want to move in?”
“We’re booking your show on an extensive world tour.”
“We want to publish your novel and we’re giving you an advance so that you can take the time to edit it to your satisfaction.”
“Your partner’s show is going to be produced on Broadway.”
“We’ve found a way for you to move to London and make your work there.”
“We’re giving your company and your play a fat Research and Development grant.”
“We want to pay you to write what you’re already writing over on your blog.”
“We did the numbers and there’s finally gender parity in the American Theatre.”
“The American Theatre is more diverse than it’s ever been and is enjoying a tremendous renaissance.”
“Here’s a recording contract to record your lullabies. Pick your producer. We’ll pay you all.”
“Here’s a large donation to your theatre company. Make whatever you’d like and make sure to pay yourself a salary.”

When he talks about Wagner, I get a little weak in the knees. It’s not that I particularly care for Wagner’s music, nor does he, it turns out, but he does know an awful lot about it and much of it flies over my head and somehow I love that. It’s totally sexy to hear someone talk very knowledgeably about something they know a whole lot about – even more so if I know nothing about it. Somehow – Jargon turns me on.
But maybe just artistic jargon. I’m not sure a hedge fund manager’s jargon would really do it for me. But a sailor’s jargon might or a chef talking about herbs. I think the jargon has to have an element of nerdy passion in it. If you were obsessed with fruit bats, I might want to hear you hold forth on them.

He’s got this reputation for reporting the good stuff. Hurray!
The ambassadors come successfully back! Huzzah!
The Queen has agreed to your proposal of marriage. Hallelujah!
The people have granted you the kingship. Hip hip!
The king is dead. Long live the king! Is Polonius the bearer of good news in general or just for Claudius? And was he in this exalted position with the previous king or did he provide some service to this current one that elevated him to it? I would like to see Polonius’ CV.

Of the two, perhaps Guildenstern is the more diplomatic, the more gentle of the gentlemen. I haven’t followed this closely through the rest of the play, but based on the evidence here, he seems to be the more graceful of the two when talking with royalty. Maybe that’s why the king gives him the “gentle” and the even more diplomatic queen smooths out the potentially ruffled Rosencrantz with her next line.
These two lines are usually played for the laugh of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern being interchangeable – that the king does not know which is which and the Queen corrects him, gently. I believe I played it that way myself – but there are other choices here – perhaps ones that go deeper than a joke at the king’s expense.

DENMARK BABIES: All your favorite characters in the nursery! If you loved Muppet Babies and Looney Toon Babies and The Flintstone Kids, you’ll love Denmark Babies!
See Baby Hamlet toddle around the nursery with Baby Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. The Baby Crown Prince likes to color and sometimes he’ll eat the crayons if you don’t watch him closely. Baby Rosencrantz and Baby Guildenstern are inseparable and follow one another everywhere. At the sandtable, if Baby Rosencrantz starts throwing sand at Baby Hamlet, Baby Guildenstern will have joined in within seconds.
At circle time, Baby Rosencrantz and Baby Guildenstern sit hand in hand. Baby Hamlet must be coaxed to come out of his spot under the table to join the group.
Baby Hamlet likes to finger paint.
Babies Rosencrantz and Guildenstern like to put paint on each other.
Baby Hamlet likes to play with the little drum.
Babies Rosencrantz and Guildenstern like to throw the drum. All the babies in the Danish Royal nursery are educated quickly. They will read and write within a few years and no common babies toddle around this Nursery School.
There’s a great deal of prestige at Denmark Babies but also intrigue. Thirty some years later, Baby Hamlet and Babies Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the only ones left. The others have all outmaneuvered one another into the grave.

Claudius wakes up gasping, the sheet around him drenched, his heart racing. Gertrude hasn’t stirred, she is sleeping soundly, as if a sleeping spell had been cast on her.
As his heart slows and his breathing returns to normal, as his eyes take in the drapes of the Royal bedchamber, he begins to come back to himself, begins to piece together what his mind had just left.
In his dream, his brother had risen from his tomb, his armor. There was, in the space where his crown should have been, blood oozing out, in a perfect ring. His helmet in his arms, ready to be replaced on his head.
This tomb-risen brother stood on the marble patio of his sepulcher and Claudius stood nearby, hoping to remain hidden. He remembers the tang of fear in this moment. He remembers a tree that he rested his hands on, hoping to become invisible.
And then somehow his brother was right before him and he looked him right in the eye and he pointed at Claudius’ chest – as if he were attempting to bore a hole in his heart.
He doesn’t remember the journey but suddenly he is standing on the ramparts of the castle – now at a distance from his ghostly brother. Then young Hamlet is there, too wearing that ghostly black cloak he chose to wear to the ceremony, that little brat.
Claudius watches young Hamlet fall to his knees, watches his brother explain his own murder, watches young Hamlet rise with determination. Once again, the ghost of his brother looks right at him and even though he hasn’t heard a word, he knows that young Hamlet is after him.
The ghost stalks away and Claudius suddenly hears Hamlet cursing him. He sees him pick up his sword and raise it. And then he wakes up.

From man to centaur
From centaur to dragon –
Did true transformation literally suggest
A dramatic change in the outward form,
Like a shift in species?
Claudius feels compelled to justify his use of “transformation” –
as if it were not common to describe a change in character this way.
Possibly. He is, on one hand, attempting to be delicate to not say Hamlet’s gone NUTS, CRAZY, MAD but on the other hand, he is indicating something even more dramatic than strange behavior – a change so extreme he has become a mollusk or a camel.
And how is Hamlet’s exterior transformed? Ophelia indicated some change in wardrobe but are a few clothes in disarray enough to suggest a total shift in his exterior? Perhaps. We do respond to signals as simple as this. I always think of this exhibit I saw at the Exploratorium in San Francisco years ago.
It was on memory and the exhibit took images of famous people and replaced their hair with either Elvis or Marilyn Monroe hairstyles. It was nearly impossible to recognize them. Which was, of course, the point, that our memories latch on to hair in a very significant way. Perhaps Hamlet’s transformation is just an extreme haircut?