fandom trash

We didn’t have much money, but I hardly noticed when there were woods and fields to run around in, trees to climb, and animals to play with.  Dad and I often walked around the countryside while he taught me which wild plants were edible and showed me hidden caves and pools in the middle of the forest.  He used to whistle loudly.  I could never get the hang of it, so instead he taught me the words to The Rhubarb Tart Song and Whose Pigs Are These?  We would sing them loudly, joyfully, the wildlife fleeing before us.

Dad was someone who committed to the narrative of a situation rather more than the practicality.  So he would wrap me up and take me out of bed in the middle of the night to show me the glow-worms in the hedge or Halley’s Comet blazing across a star-filled sky.  For him, his daughter seeing these marvels of nature was much more important than sleeping, which I could do any time.  He didn’t teach me magic, he showed me it.

I want to see a production where Horatio just stares at us, and screams “Now cracks a noble heart!” with the subtext “You fucking fuckers. He was better than all of you, you watched him die, and you just stood there.

Then, he just silently cries over the body. For like FIVE MINUTES. And the courtiers peel away into the wings, one by one, until Horatio is alone on stage with a lot of dead bodies. It starts getting uncomfortable. You’re thinking… is the play over? Am I supposed to go? (hamlet is just about the *only* play where the final scene is cut about 50% time, so use that uncertainty, use that ambiguity.) Maybe some people do get up to go. There’s definitely muttering. And then there’s smashing sounds coming from the direction of the box office, and Horatio looks up, with an expression like something’s gone wrong. 

But then he says, “Why do the drums come hither?” Fortinbras enters though the audience, and the play continues.