For Ophelia

Once upon a time there lived two households both alike in dignity universally acknowledging the truth that we live in the land of sunroofs and low-rise jeans. We descend into downward dog on our yoga mats, undulate between cat and cow, then take a moment to stroke our freshly waxed brows.

I am sick of to-do lists because I substitute "do" for "be" and "act" for "am."

and maybe Ophelia had it right after all--drowning herself in a shallow pond after debuting a brief and tragic singing career. Just crucify her somewhere between Ambercrombie and Fitch: after a while she'll become emaciated enough to fit into their clothing.

I watch movies where neurotic characters with perfect skin embrace (tenatively at first, then the invevitable crescendo...) I watch these scenes over and over because I long for that fabricated intimacy in my own life. (But what is intimate about creating a scene like that, surrounded by balding fat men in their short sleeves, eating donuts and holding microphones?)

When does it end? Where is the place with no questions?

I grow old.
I grow ild.
With many stories to be told.
Big loves.
Small loves.

IV.V. (Act Four, Scene Five)

I hope all will be will. We must be patient, but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground. My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, good night, good night.

Exit Ophelia.

Sitting in seat A 108, my fingers tightly interlaced, I worry about how convincing my performance as an audience memeber is.

I does matter who you sit by at the theatre, in the concert hall.

This time, after the ball Cinderelle unzips her tafetta ballgown and leaves that instead of the glass slipper.

You can see her dancing naked, stark raving sane, with mice and pumpkin at midnight.

And that happier incarnation, sweet prince--she's the one.

Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, goodnight.

Goodnight.