Monthly Archives: November 2015

Hamlet: Anybody seen my rubber duckie?

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These words are razors to my wounded heart. – Titus Andronicus Act I, Scene I.

Act 3 Scene 4. Bedroom Scene. The Hamster thinks he’s alone with Gertie the Queen,  better known as Mom. But they are not alone. What would a scene in Hamlet be without someone spying on someone else. So Polonius is behind the curtains.

Hamster: Why did you marry–?

Gertie: I love him.

Hamster: Dad not good enough for you?

G: I get lonely.

H: Afraid of the dark? Afraid of sleeping alone? I can sleep on the couch and keep the big bad monsters away.

G: It’s not that.

H: Oh, I get it. Claudius has a sword. Dad only had a dagger.

G: No.

H; Or are you just a slut? Sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Claudius?

G: No.

H: My God, Mother, you didn’t sleep with Polonius, did you?

G: No.

G: I just needed somebody who would scrub my back and let me play with his rubber duckie.

H: Aww, now the truth comes out. Dad wasn’t duckie enough for you.

Polonius coughs from behind the curtain. Scares the jumping-jack-flash out of the Hamster. Before the Hamster could stop himself, his dagger was…well, let’s just say it was. Polonius fell. He was dead as a doorknob and any other kind of knob too.

The good news is we are getting somewhere with the plot. We now have Corpse Number One. But don’t worry, folks, there is more to come.

What can we say about Polonius? Here was a man who hid behind curtains. To spy on all. He spied on Laertes. He spied on Ophelia. He spied on the Queen. And Hamlet. Makes one think that he was a regular man from U.N.C.L.E. with all that eavesdropping. By spying, he knew stuff. Like Who Put The Bop In The Bop Shoo Bop.

Hamlet knew the man, who hid behind curtains, was the man behind the curtains. Now the man ain’t hiding no more.

Gertie starts bawling her eyes out.

H: Now don’t tell me you played with Polonius’ rubber duckie.

G: Are you crazy? I would never.

H: Phew. That’s a relief. You had me worried for a minute there.

G: How can you think such a thing?

H: Well, look whose rubber duckie you are playing with.

G: Hmmph.

H: Poor stupid Polonius. That’s what you get for eavesdropping. A blade in the gut, and you’re dead.

G: Oh shame where is thy blush. On the carpet, of course. How am I ever going to get that blood out?

H: Geez, you didn’t feel that way when Dad died.

G: Your dad had the good sense to die in the garden, not all over my beautiful carpet.

Just when you least expect it, Ghostie shows his pretty face.

Hamlet to the Ghost: Back in Act 1. Scene 5. You said you had to urgently return to the flames of purgatory. What happened?

Ghost: Are you sure I said that?

Hamlet: You did and I quote…

Ghost: That doesn’t sound like me.

Hamlet: Well, it was you. And now you’re back.

Ghost: Just to remind you that your dragging your feet on this revenge business. And, please, don’t get scary with your mother. I don’t want her dying from a heart attack.

Hamlet: I’ve been doing my best. And I’ll lay off Mom.

Ghost: Well, okay. I really don’t want to have to make another appearance. That will mean overtime and you know how play producers feel about overtime. They don’t like it. So get with it.

Poof! Ghostie is gone.

Gertie: Just who were you talking too?

H: Oh, you wouldn’t know. Now do me a favor.

G: I’ll try.

H: Don’t play rubber duckie with Claudius no more.

G:But I like his rubber duckie.

H: You want me to clean up my act?

G: Of course.

H: No more rubber duckie with Claudius.

G: (finally): No more rubber duckie with Claudius. (Gertie has her fingers crossed. After all, The Hamster will be in England soon. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, now will it?)

G: (looks over to the corpse): So what are we going to do with that thing?

H: I hear there’s a fellow down the way that is looking for fresh corpse.

G: That sounds downright ghoulish, don’t you think?

H: I think that’s what “Frankenstein” means in Bavarian. Ghoulish.

G: You don’t say.

H: I do say. Seems he wants to bring a corpse back to life.

G: Will Herr Doktor Frankenstein take the corpse c.o.d. or are we going to have to pay for shipping?

H: Either way, I’ll get him wrapped up and give FedEx a call.

The Hamster reaches down and drags the corpse off stage. Gertie goes to see if she can find Claudius’ rubber duckie.

For Paris We Sing

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We live in a sad, sad world. If the recent events in Paris prove anything, it proves that. Eight angry young men took 129 lives and injured 352 more. There are now over one hundred souls that will no longer be with us. Families and friends last Friday night lost their smiles, their laughter, their tears, their joys. Parents lost children. Brothers lost sisters. Husbands lost wives. Wives lost husbands. Sisters lost brothers. Children lost parents. Lovers lost their beloveds. And we all lost a little bit of ourselves.

Perhaps one of those lost might have created a cure for cancer, wrote the next great novel, created a new source of energy, offered a Syrian refugee family their home. We lost the children who would be born to those victims and make a better world.

We lost that future all because a bunch of mad bullies in the Middle East have grudges and want to use religion to defend the inexcusable. They are indeed false prophets and betray the very religion they say they advocate. They are those who offer no hope, no love, only hate and fear. And that is not Islam. They are to be pitied, not feared. They won’t win.

In my lifetime, I’ve seen a man land on the moon. I’ve seen the personal computer, the internet and gps technologies develop and be available for billions. I’ve seen the Berlin Wall fall and an Evil Empire dissolve. I’ve admired the fierceness of Sally Ride and Amelia Earhart. I’ve seen the compassion of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa. I’ve seen Dr. King and Robert F. Kennedy wrestle with the enemies of peace and justice. I’ve seen Archbishop Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela stand against hate and make peace with those who were their enemies. I’ve seen those true prophets, the Dalai Lama and Pope Francis, show us the best of what religion can be.

I’ve watched Twyla Tharp and Mikhail Baryshnikov dance, seen the paintings of Cezanne, Monet and Georgia O’Keefe and the sculpture of Henry Moore and Rodin, read Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, Gustave Flaubert and Albert Camus, been in awe of the work of Jane Goodall, watched William Shakespeare and Samuel Becket performed on stage, listened to Mozart and Frank Sinatra, Edith Piaf and the Beatles and Yusuf Islam, read the poetry of Rumi and Omar Khayyam, seen the films of Claude Berri and Louis Malle.

I’ve seen hope and love so great that they rolled over the forces of hate and fear like a steamroller, giving us a better world and showing us possibility. I’m here to tell you that these achievements were not made out of the clay of hate and fear. These s.o.b.s have nothing, I repeat nothing, that even comes close to this. And hate and fear never shall.

As long as there is one of us who laugh and shed tears, love and know joy, have compassion for the least, and create wonder, these demons, who would destroy us, will not win.

So in honor of all those who died last Friday, and all who have died from the hands of those who would tear down and destroy, I offer this

 

 

Hamlet: My crown, my own ambition, and my queen

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Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungallèd play.
For some must watch while some must sleep.
So runs the world away.
Hamlet Act 3 Scene 2.

Act 3 Scene 3. Two men. Mortal enemies. They have scouted each other out. They now know what each plans and plots. First Hamlet. He set a trap for the king. The king fell into it.

Then Claudius. A-prayin’. There Claudius is down on his knees. There Claudius is praying. But the Lord ain’t list’nin’ to no Claudius. No sirree, Jesus done turned His face away from Claudius. ‘Cause Claudius, he is a sinner. Yes sirree. He a sinning man. The $64,000 question is why does Claudius stop to pray. He ain’t a repentin’ man, that is for sure.

Claudius is not a religious man. Never has been.

Maybe Claudius just needs a folk to talk to. It’s like the serial killer. He calls up the cops and dares them to catch him. It’s that ego talking. He just wants somebody to know how smart he is. Maybe that’s Claudius. He just wants somebody to know. Since God already knows, why not have a heart-to-heart with Him.

No theologian this Claudius. He only sees prayer as having two benefits. Prayer’s there to forestall us from sinning and to pardon us once we have. Well, he has already committed the crime. And he’s not asking pardon. That would mean he has to turn himself in. He likes his job too well.

Hamlet stops. He sees Claudius praying. He draws his sword, a sword that is itching for revenge. It’s an eye for an eye kind of thing. In other words, you kill Daddy, I kill you. But there are rules to this sort of thing. I don’t kill you while you’re praying. That would get you off the hook and send you straight to heaven. Hamlet cannot have that. Hamlet cannot have that.

So it’s on to Mom’s.

A Guest Post: How To Kill a Poem

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My friend, Marla Wolfe, is participating in this year’s Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) in her own unique way. She is composing a poem for each of the thirty days. She is sharing her poems with me at the end of each day. I was particularly blown away with this poem from Day 3. She has graciously consented to let me post it here. Thank you, Marla.

How to kill a poem
by Marla Wolfe

Yesterday I killed a poem.
It wasn’t pretty.
Everything started innocently enough, though.
I followed my usual routine:
Pondering, listing, researching,
Referencing, organizing, adjusting,
Working out all the details.
After several drafts
Something beautiful came into focus –
It was unique, naturally patterned, real –
But then I went too far:
I added meter and rhyme.
I poked at the poem, prodded it,
Stuffed that full-grown being
Into a neat little cocoon
Of eight syllables per line,
Dropping emotion to make it fit,
Erasing color, adding artificiality.
And before I knew it,
The poem was dead –
No movement, no flutter of life.
Flat on the table.
For a moment I stared at it in disbelief,
Sick with awareness of what I’d done.
Then in a panic I snatched away its burden.
It raised its wings, revived.  A miracle.
I opened the window and set it free.
©Marla Wolfe, 2015

Hamlet: No More Mr. Nice Guy

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Act 3 Scene 2 (continued).

From the moment Ophelia said, “The king rises.”

From the moment the Queen said, “How fares my lord?”

From the moment Polonius said, “Stop the play.”

From the moment Claudius said, “Give me some light, away.”

Hamlet knew, and he knew big time. The white face on Claudius was not embarrassment. It wasn’t a clown’s face. It was the face of a murderer’s guilt.

Yep, Claudius did it. There was no doubt about it.

“Well, there you have it. There it is,” The Hamster said to his good bud, Horatio. “Claudius done it. There’s no doubt about It.” The Hamster looked for agreement. Even now, he was not about to go out on this limb alone.

Horatio was a man of few words and those words usually backed up anything The Hamster said. Horatio had watched Claudius during the performance of “The Murder of Gonzago”. Claudius’ face left nothing to guesswork. He was guilty alright. So Horatio gave his unqualified yep with a clear conscience.

‘Course, whatever Horatio did or said, he said or did with a clear conscience. It wasn’t necessarily that it was right. He just did it with a clear conscience. That was the kind of guy he was. Also it was a great survival technique. And one thing was sure. Horatio was good at surviving.

So there it was. Claudius guilty as charged. Right. What to do about it? Before that could be discussed, guess who showed? Mr. Dumb and Mr. Dumber. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Rusancrantz and Guildenstern, of course.

R or G said, “My lord, can I have a word with you?’

“I don’t know. Can you?” Hamlet throws off.

“The king. He’s off in his chamber and he’s extremely bummed, man.”

“Got the blues, eh?”

“He’s angry,” R or G said.

“That’s what he gets for drinking that bad hootch.” Hamlet smiled. He was having way too good a time.

“It’s not that.”

“Maybe you should get him a doctor. I hear his doctor the doctor, Doctor Doctor, is very good at healing a pain in the butt. Can’t heal mine but maybe he can take Polonius’ head out of his rear.”

“But your mom…”

“I thought we were talking the king here. You’re always confusing me. Not only can I not tell who R is and who G is, now you’ve got me confused about who the king is and who the queen is. He’s not wearing a dress again, is he?”

In the Middle Ages, lords wore robes. They may have looked like dresses but they were not. They were robes. Popes and cardinals got to wear dresses, I mean robes too. It was what distinguished a higher-up from a lower-down. Serfs wore pants.

“Huh?”

“It’s getting hard to know who’s wearing the pants around here. Oh, me. I’m wearing the pants.” Hamlet asided, “See, you were wrong. I do have fashion-sense. I’m so New School I might as well be in kindergarten.”

Pants were the new thing. All the young turks were wearing them back at Wittenburg U. Even the ladies had gotten on the pants bandwagon. They were after that workingclass look. Only Elsinore was behind the times fashionwise. It would take a hundred years or a Fortinbras to bring pants–and bras–into style.

“It’s not the king who sent us. It’s your mom.”

“Well, it’s lovely to see you too,” Hamlet said.

“She is upset at your behavior.”

“Now that’s not true,” Hamlet said. “And you know it’s not true. You take that back.”

R or G wasn’t sure what to do. Hamlet seemed to be getting nutsier and nutsier. They decided. “We take it back.”

Polonius announced, “My lord, the queen wants to speak with you.”

“Well, I’d better go then. Tell the queen I’ll be there by the by.”

Hamlet was through playing. He was through pussy footin’. He might not be on a mission from God, but now he was on a mission. He knew what he must do. It was time to get on with the show. Just to show it, he said these words:

‘Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood
And do such bitter business as the bitter day
Would quake to look on. Soft, now to my mother.—
O heart, lose not thy nature, let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom.
Let me be cruel, not unnatural.
I will speak daggers to her but use none.
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites.
How in my words somever she be shent,
To give them seals never, my soul, consent!

Scary stuff. And I’m talking deep fried, Stephen King, Anne Rice kind of scary. The witching hour indeed.