I met a man who gets things done yesterday. He’s a man in search of good ideas and when he hears one, he starts setting the wheels in motion. Though we’d never met before, he treated me with utmost respect. Then after leaving him, I went on to the job I’ve had for almost 14 years, where I can feel the judgment and the push towards the door, where despite all that I’ve brought to the organization over the years, I do not feel seen or recognized, valued nor respected. Sometimes seeing these sorts of things next to one another can be revealing. And also heartbreaking.
But my focus and energy are turning towards those that say “Ay” that give me YES and AND.
Hamlet
Then I would you were so honest a man.
Then I would you were so honest a man.
Are fishmongers a particularly honest breed?
I guess it’s hard to lie about the freshness of a fish, though you could lie about where you caught it.
You are a fishmonger.
You are a fishmonger.
Fishmonger is just one of those words that you do not need to know exactly what it means to get the sense of it. It just sounds insulting. Fish being just the opposite of human, meaning-wise – and the sound of the word, no matter how much you like fish, sounding fishy. And MONGER?! My goodness. Maybe it’s because it comes close to MONSTER? Or just because, I don’t know, it sounds unpleasant, just the NG and the MONG and the GER all put together with FISH?
Even if no one ever told you what a monger was, you’d know you wouldn’t want to be called that – even if you WERE a fishmonger. I don’t imagine that a seller of fish is delighted to introduce himself at cocktail parties with, “How de do? I’m a fishmonger.” Even mongers of other goods don’t tend to use the monger bit. I guess I’ve heard of a cheese-monger but almost always in a sort of comical way or a self-consciously pretentious way. Because how else COULD you be a cheese-monger? It’s just a funny word! But it might be fun to have coffee mongers and cell phone mongers and haute coutre mongers and cocktail mongers and then send them all to that cocktail party to meet the fish and cheese mongers.
Excellent well.
Even those that I know very well, whose secrets I have heard, whose quirks I have observed, whose fears I understand, whose frustrations I have empathized with, whose stories I have heard multiple times. Even those, I’m not sure I could confidently say I know them excellent well but I suppose I know some of them as well as anyone can know another person.
Well, God-a-mercy.
Well, God-a-mercy.
There’s something about this reply that leads Polonius to ask if Hamlet knows who he is. This leads me to wonder what Hamlet has said, or more probably neglected to say that makes Polonius wonder. Is it a simple breach of etiquette? What is the way that the prince usually addresses the king’s counselor, or Lord Chamberlin or whatever Polonius’ Official designation is? This particular response seems perfectly cordial. Hamlet’s been asked how he is. He says he is well and gives thanks for that to his god. Simple enough. Doesn’t seem to raise questions of identity or insanity or rudeness, even. Except it must because Polonius subsequently treats Hamlet like he’s 90 years old and losing his memory.
Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, Hamlet.
He called me his sweet lady yesterday. I liked it. It was a new endearment and it pleased me. Perhaps it’s because it sounds a little classical, like this dear lady here? Or because it was possessive and it gave me a sense of belonging?
Lady is a funny word. Many of my friends are using it as terms of intra-lady endearment and I don’t know whether we have matured into this title, formerly “hey girl” moves on to “hey lady” or whether lady has taken on a sort of ironic love in this day and age when most of us aren’t too concerned about whether our behavior is ladylike. We have not been taught the skills of the Great Ladies. We don’t carry ourselves like ladies. There’s a sort of evolution of ladylikeness.
Sometimes I don’t like all the lady stuff. Particularly when someone shouts “Hey Lady!” to get my attention. But I liked it when he called me his sweet lady. I don’t know if he’s mine evermore (or if that’s even what either of us would want) but I’m curious about his machine.
And Hamlet’s machine.
It seems only logical that Hamlet’s machine is his body but it’s a rather curious way to talk about a body, particularly in an age without so many machines. Was a machine just a thing that worked?
Someone give me the etymology of machine, please. I want to know about Hamlet’s machine, my machine, my man’s machine and all the machines that matter to me.
Adieu.
Hmmmm. More French. And why particularly this word? Doesn’t Adieu have a certain finality? Is this supposed to be a Dear John letter?
“I love you more than everything – Goodbye Forever?”
Like, is this supposed to be a suicide note? No other words in this letter would suggest that. It is, it seems, a very very out of place “adieu.”
It does make me question when this letter was written. And to what purpose. Does Hamlet have an inkling that Polonius is meddling? Has he written it for his benefit? Or perhaps he even suspects it might make its way to Claudius? If he wrote it after the sewing in the closet incident with the fouled stockings, he might just suspect things are afoot. If it’s written BEFORE, I really have no idea what this “adieu” is doing here.
His father’s ghostly adieus make some sense. This one? A mystery.
But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.
But that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.
Best of whom? That’s what I’d like to know. Are there other ladies in Hamlet’s life that he loves a little less?
A girl back in Wittenberg, perhaps? One who bends her head close to his as they look over the Latin translation together.
One, a sexy noblewoman in France, when he’s on vacation?
Maybe Hamlet’s got a pirate girlfriend and she’s on the crew when they rescue Hamlet from the ship headed to England.
He’s got a girl among the players. She lives in drag (since the players tend to be dudes) but can slip into femininity to play a queen, or don a mustache to play the villain.
There’s his old flame from grade school who he sometimes takes up with at the tavern when he slums it into town for a drink.
But he loves Ophelia best of them all. O most best. Because nothing screams sincerity like “O most best.” And also, “Believe it.”
I have not art to reckon my groans.
Art is pretty much all I have with which to reckon my groans. I will even reckon my groans with one Art, with the other. When theatre seems to rip my heart out and taunt it, too – I will turn to words on a page. When the words on the page twist around into an unrecognizable mess, I will turn to sound, I will sing. When I lose my voice, I will play my guitar. When my strings pop off, I will play on a drum. When my drum is too loud and wakes up the neighbors, I will shake rice in a can. When rice in a can ceases to move me, I will turn to something I can make with my hands. I will sew one bit of cloth to another. I will stitch words in, and shapes. I will fold paper. I will draw my groans. I will write them. I will sing them. I will put them on a stage.
O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers.
This line begs further analysis and/or investigation. The only time I can imagine saying “I am ill at these numbers” would be in relationship to a set of figures that have recently been revealed. Like, if I’d just lost a fortune in the stock market and my financial advisor just showed me the details. Those numbers might make me ill. Or, more like MY life, if I just saw the negative balance in my bank account next to the number of my student loan payment. I have been ill at those numbers. But somehow I don’t think that’s love poem material. Stars, sun, truth, love, financial report?
Nope. Numbers must be pointing at something else. Illness being a perfectly normal response to love, it must be the numbers that are something other than numbers.
It’s not like Hamlet is confessing an odd quirk wherein the mention of #7 makes him nauseous. Plus, no numbers follow “These numbers.” It doesn’t read: I am ill at these numbers: 7, 23 and 15. But what these numbers are is a total mystery to me. I make a little stretch to the numbers of feet in a verse and wonder if he’s saying, “O Ophelia, I’m a lousy poet.” Because that would make sense. Particularly because he kind of IS a lousy poet if this love letter is any indication.
He’s kind of the best poet ever in his everyday speech, though, so there’s that.
The Hamlet Project 