We had a long hard discussion last night. Hours and hours of sorting through, figuring it out, working it out. Mostly, we managed without too much heat or anger. But I notice that one of the things that gets me hottest is a misattribution of what I said. Even if the sense is similar, I will get touchy if I am misquoted. I want my words, not those! Those words aren’t the ones I used! They’re not what I meant!
I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet.
I have nothing with this answer, either. Or this question. Or this line. I have nothing, really in general. Full up on exhaustion and disorder, it’s nearly impossible to access the creative response in myself. I search and search within but I have nothing with this answer.
I have a lot of anxieties and worries and concerns and a sore back from moving and practical concerns like where to put my guitar. But I don’t have anything of merit for this. And I guess that’s what the king’s saying, too.
“I got nothing for this, Hamlet. You’re not giving me anything to work with.”
You cannot feed capons so.
I always picture the capons like foie gras geese when I hear these lines. I see the little chicken birds, their beaks propped open and aimed at the sky. Two fingers take a promise and cram it down the poor little birds’ throats. But it’s all a cute animation version in my mind, so it’s not so horrific. The promise looks like a sparkly star and every time the fingers pour another promise down the bird’s throat, you can see the sparkle travel down the bird’s gullet and finish off by sparkling in the stomach. Its cartoon eyes bulge out and sometimes its pupils roll around.
But of course, you cannot feed capons so. Capons don’t eat promises.
I eat the air, promise crammed.
It has been some time since I felt a sense of promise. I hadn’t noticed how used to its absence I’d become. It was like the keys I put in my bra this morning because I didn’t have pockets – at first they were sharp and uncomfortable. The keys poked and prodded at me. But very quickly, I became used to the heavy spiky mass of keys between my breasts and several times looked around frantically for my keys, wondering where I’d left them.
I think the loss of promise was like that – painful at first but I got used to it, like I can get used to most things. But the air today shifted, not promise-crammed so much as air with a pinch of promise on top. The relief was palpable. A bit like removing a bunch of sharp pointed keys from my bra and dumping them out on the table. I eat the air, promise sprinkled.
Excellent, I’faith; of the chameleon’s dish.
Chameleons prefer a gold plate under their lunches. They’re fans of nouveau cuisine, especially vegetable foams and emulsions. Chameleons will relish a bit of relish, as well as a delicate crisp of something not usually in crisp form.
Sometimes, if they’re feeling cheeky, they’ll stretch themselves out along the plate, turning gold while they nibble.
How fares our cousin Hamlet?
I love the way this line has a quality of being a public pronouncement sort of question. It’s not like, “Hey, Hamlet, you doing okay? I know you’ve been under the weather. How’s it going?”
It’s very formal and public – giving Hamlet a title and using the good old royal collective we/our/us.
If this question were asked without Hamlet in the room, it might be spoken with some concern, like, “How’s Uncle Charlie doing? Any news?”
But as it stands, it seems to be a question TO Hamlet, who is in the room – and also the first line after a Danish march and Flourish, featuring Trumpets and Kettle Drums.
After that arrival, one might expect a king to make a pronouncement. Something like: “I hereby declare that every Tuesday shall be Bring Thy Nephew to Work Day!” or something.
But no, rather than declaring war on Norway or announcing diplomatic progress he asks his nephew how he’s doing as if it were a pronouncement.
Get you a place.
That is, indeed, what I need.
A place to live, yes, but also a place to perform, a place in the scene, a place in the art, a place with my peers –
How to go about getting that place is the big mystery.
I must be idle.
It goes against my protestant work ethic upbringing but I have come to understand how much idleness feeds my artistic process. Being chronically busy doesn’t give me space to dream, to mull, to ponder. To have a truly fulfilling artistic practice, idleness is required.
They are coming to the play.
Because someone invited them.
Because they’re interested in the story.
Because they like these actors.
Because this company has a good reputation.
Because their friend saw it and suggested they go.
Because they’re obliged.
Because they’d feel like a jerk if they missed it.
Because it looks compelling.
Because they like the design.
Because there are cool effects.
Because it seems new and different.
Because they heard an interview with someone involved and it piqued their curiosity.
Because they wanted to laugh.
Because they wanted to cry.
Because they wanted to feel something.
Because they wanted to be surprised or moved or affected in some way.
Because everyone’s going.
Because the critic gave it a good review.
Because the critic gave it a bad review.
Because it’s something outside of the realm of everyday.
Because it shakes things up.
Because it settles things down.
Because it helps them forget.
Because it helps them remember.
If ‘a steal aought the whilst this play is playing, And ‘scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
So if he steals anything – i.e. glances, looks, composure – and Horatio misses it, he’ll make up for it somehow. How, though?
If he stole a watch under his watch, I can see that he would pay for the watch, or give his own watch to make up for it.
This metaphor, though, is not that clear.
Unless, of course, it’s one of those old sayings that is based on something literal and everyone understands the metaphor because it is a familiar trope.
Like, if “I will pay the theft” were a catch phrase or an idiom.
The riff on it would be “Whilst this play is playing” – which is a delightful bit of phrase –
I like that things go on whilst a play is playing. Certainly a lot goes on with theatre folk whilst a play is playing. But certainly, too, audiences have experiences while plays play. Things go on outside the theatre, too, while plays play.
The Hamlet Project 