Help!

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Polonius triggers his death by calling for help.
It is tragic
Especially when so many people trigger their deaths
By failing to call for help.
It’s like, we take to heart this moment –
We think by sounding the alarm we will
end up with a sword in our guts.
But most of the time it’s the suffering in silence,
The not wanting to cause trouble, that can trigger things like cancer or ulcers or all
Of the diseases and injuries of the body driven by neglect.

I grew up pretending I was fine when I wasn’t so
I try to train myself to call for help when I need it, to ask for assistance –
Even when I am tempted to struggle to go it alone.

What, ho!

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I read recently that in some languages, people are likely to call for their mothers in times of trouble.
The author (of whatever thing I read – I can’t recall what it was) said that this was very unlike what we Americans can sometimes shout in similar situations. I think it was her coy way of saying that we shout “motherfucker!” When others do the much softer, and perhaps more sensible, thing of just calling, “Mother!”
It is seemingly something we never stop doing, calling for our mothers.
Though, I’m pretty sure Polonius is not calling for his mother here. He does not yet realize it is he that is in danger – so he’s calling for anyone else.

Help, ho!

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The best laid plans…my mom and I are flying to Greece today. She was to fly to NYC from Richmond, VA and we were to fly together. But her plane hasn’t gone and is not going so now her flight to Greece has been re-scheduled and they’re working on re-scheduling mine. But meanwhile, I’m due to leave in about a half and hour. Or less, actually. Which scatters all the plans up. I got up at 7:30 this morning, which is impossibly early for me. And hustled lots of cleaning of the apartment I’ve been crashing in and did all I could to make sure I got this small window of writing time – and yet it’s all been taken up with dealing with the re-scheduling and craziness and sometimes in the space of all things spinning out of control – even pleasant easy things like traveling – a small child’s voice in me cries out this very line.

Thou wilt not murder me?

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This is a curious assumption to make, Gertie.
Do sons often murder their mothers?
Wives, sure. All the time.
But mothers? Not usually. Not unless they are real harridans.
And what possible motivation could your son have to kill you? He doesn’t stand to GAIN anything – just lose. And do you really think so little of your son that you think he would kill you?

The only explanation I can come up with is that Polonius has somehow so convinced her that he is dangerously mad and must be spoken to sternly or he’s sure to kill. And somehow that helps to diminish the terribleness of what Hamlet is actually about to do – which is murder, not his mother but, who he thinks is the king.
Which is a LITTLE bit crazy given that he just left him praying in another room.
But the heightened atmosphere of this scene is such that NO ONE is thinking clearly.
Gertrude is suddenly afraid of her own child and her child impetuously kills someone without identifying who it is.
There has to be something in the first lines of this scene that triggers BOTH of those characters’ amygdala’s hard core. When staging this, it will have to feel so taut, so like a string pulled from one end of the bow to the other, so ready for trouble that any line could be the arrow loosed.

What wilt thou do?

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I read this book about Time orientations – the author talked about how people’s relationship to time plays such a huge role in their lives and personality. He breaks it down to being Future, Present or Past Oriented, with varying qualities within them. I have come to see that I am pretty squarely in a Present Orientation. I do not enjoy planning for things. I will. I can. But – I do not relish it. Even for pleasurable activities. I’m very good at staying in the moment, finding ways to handle the right now.
Occasionally, the future perspective kicks in – and I get a sudden panic of a future I haven’t been thinking about.

This morning in the shower, I suddenly wondered what my life would be like when I got back from my vacation to Greece. As if I had no say in the matter. One part of me asked the other part, “What wilt thou do?” The funniest thing about that wondering/panic was that I hadn’t thought of it once in the last month. I just proceeded, just got on with things, worked slowly toward other goals with the small manageable steps that I have developed to keep myself moving future-wise despite my future blindness. Because the future always shows up whether you saw it coming or not.

You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.

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This is the much more useful (and also more terrifying) mirror as compared to Snow White’s stepmother’s mirror that can only tell you who is the fairest. Which is absolutely useless information. And bound to be inaccurate. There is no such thing as The Fairest. There is no Objective beauty that can be calculated and delivered. And even if there was objective beauty, it would be horribly useless to know.

I hate this fairy tale now. I loved it as child. But I see now how insidious it is. It sets up a reality in which the only value of women is their beauty and then proceeds to give us a woman who is only ambitious for being the most beautiful.

It’s really fucked up. Especially as the mirror is usually depicted and experienced as male. So it’s not even the judgment of the Queen herself as to her beauty – it’s whether the male gaze of the mirror still finds her the most attractive. Puke.

Anyway – that mirror is useless. But this mirror Hamlet is proposing would be very interesting to have around. It could reveal your actual biological insides – which, while gross, could be interesting and useful for diagnosing disease. It could reveal your secrets – even the ones you keep from yourself. It becomes this extraordinary tool of self-knowledge where you see your real motivations, your real obstacles, your real limitations as well as your real talents.
Fuck being Fair.
Let’s get this inmost part of you mirror.

You shall not budge.

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No matter how uninspired you feel.
No matter how much you wonder why you ever set yourself this ridiculous task, this outrageous ritual of writing everyday.
No matter what voices kick in to tell you what a waste of time your writing practice is.
No matter what interesting conversations surround you.
No matter how much a walk around the block suddenly seems like a better idea.
No matter how shitty the words.
No matter how pointless the exercise.
No matter who calls or texts or writes.
No matter who shows up.
No matter the weather.
No matter all the better ideas or errands or tasks.
You shall not budge.

Come, come, and sit you down.

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My dad was in a community theatre production of Guys and Dolls when I was a kid. I loved going to his rehearsals with him. I don’t know how old I was but it was younger than 9. I loved the songs, the rehearsal atmosphere, the dancing. We listened to the soundtrack a lot. I was a particular fan of Adelaide’s Hot Box numbers and would sing, “Take Back Your Mink” at top volume quite often. I also loved “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat” which I was sure was “Sit Down on Your Rock In the Boat.” I figured the rocks were the chairs in the boat.

I had no context for the song’s religious qualities. I don’t think I processed that the boat was going to heaven – nor did I care much about the devil threatening to drag the singer under. I was mostly interested in the “Sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down, sit down” repetition. I found those sit downs very exciting. And then at the end, you were meant to sit down on your rock in the boat.

I still think of this boat this way – a boat with no seats, just rocks for everyone – and the singer is just a misbehaving adult that everyone wants to just sit down on his rock in the boat. Like the kids in my class who couldn’t be compelled to stay at their desks. I know this song is about something else entirely now but because I learned it at such a young age, my old version is forever emblazoned on my imagination.

Nay, then I’ll set those to you that can speak.

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Why is that Gertrude feels like she can’t speak?
What prevents her from speaking for herself?
Why does the Queen of Denmark feel powerless to speak to her only son?
There’s a world of conversation around women’s speech lately – the many criticisms of it – the way we are acculturated to believe that nothing we say will be believed, understood or appreciated, if we’re allowed to finish speaking at all.
The many ways a woman can be silenced include:

• constant interruption (1st thing to learn how to say as a girl, “Don’t interrupt me.”)
• disbelief (40 women said Cosby raped them years ago – 1 man said it and finally people begin to believe them)
• extreme self-consciousness (women’s voices on the radio receive non-stop criticism. The numbers of things people complain about: vocal fry, uptick, rising inflections, tones, too high, too low)
• never be heard at all (women speak about 30% as much as men but are thought to be the big talkers. If you say anything at all, you talk too much.)

And more and more.
And even a Queen might be susceptible to these things. Even hundreds of years ago. These patterns are ancient, I’d wager.

You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And would it were not so, you are my mother.

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Perhaps this is why I have avoided marriage and motherhood. Once you cross that threshold – your own identity gets lost in the reflective identities.

I just read an article about how many men reacted when asked how they’d feel about taking their wives’ names. They were horrified and were quite clear how it would make them feel weak and secondary to their wives – that they would suddenly just be somebody’s husband rather than themselves. Yet somehow these same men expected their wives to be weak and secondary to them – to become somebody’s wife instead of themselves.

Gertrude is defined only by the men she married and the man she gave birth to. That’s it.
Aside from the Queen.
But she seems to be Queen in name only. She does not seem to have any power of her own. She is only Queen because she is married to Kings.
First Ladies would seem to have more power and authority than she has.
Hell, Osric seems to have more power than Gertrude has.