Galina received a package today from an Etsy artisan; included was a lovely hand-written note on a page torn from a book. The book was a collection of the plays of Shakespeare; the leaf is page 39, scene II of Hamlet. Here is what I could make out:
Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour.
Go to your rest; at night we’ll feast together.
Most welcome home!
[obscured by writing]
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit,
And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes,
I will be brief: your noble son is mad:
Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,
What is’t but to be nothing else but mad?
[obscured by more writing]
Yeah, that seems fairly significant.
Especially since I had planned to do a poetic exploration of Hamlet as a Bacchic figure, traceable back through the centuries (and a variety of forms) to the Old Icelandic Amlóði, whom some regard as a πρόσωπον of Óðr but scrapped it as too esoteric. A judgment I should perhaps reconsider.
Well, fuck. Looks like my writer’s block just broke.
I’ve already got a playlist going.
Edited to add: I was going to include a selfie posed with the note, but as I was shuffling through the pics to find the least doofiest option I noticed my golden Black Sun necklace I’ve been wearing all evening just — disappeared. In one photo it’s there, in the next it’s not. I was called away between shots but I just retraced my steps, double checking all the rooms and the hallway and even the bathroom in the master bedroom; and the thing is nowhere to be found. Poof! Gone! Snatched by the gold-hungry Fairies in trade for poetic frenzy, evidently. (I mean, I haven’t divined so I can’t be certain but Fairies is the most rational explanation, all things considered.) Oh, we are off to a very good start – though I may wait til Walpurgisnacht to properly begin the book.