- Know Your Shit
You don’t know shit until you know your shit, I think Michel Foucault said something like that. I wish I could leave it at a single quote but I sense you need to know what shit I’m talking about.
Let me tell you my shitty Othello story. You have to know coming from The Netherlands I literally knew shit about Shakespeare. What I knew was, people couldn’t read it and that most people went to see a performance always said it was “ethereal” and “consequential” just because they didn’t know shit. As a high school student I saw a traveling English group perform The Comedy of Errors and I only remember staring at this one mesmerizing actress who really knew her shit. I kind of got the idea of what the story was about but didn’t connect with the his famous poetry shit. I felt kinda shitty because I honestly expected to enjoy this shit, but there weren’t any good jokes in it, and the poetry-shit I was supposed to connect with, where was that?
Fast forward 20 years or so. I was in grad school at the theatre department of the University of Nebraska at Omaha. The first production I saw was my faculty professor’s corporate America inspired rendition of Othello. As a good student — yes, I just said that, I finally was a “good student” — I felt I should read the play first in order to get to know that shit.
I opened the The Yale Shakespeare I bought for on sale for like $5 at one of the then two existing national book chains, and indeed, shit it was.
Blabledibla-gibbedigabbedido, those were the sounds created in my feeble mind from the letter combinations I saw. I stared. I squinted. I one-eyed. I double eyed. Whatever I did the words just weren’t able to get through to my brain. Don’t tell me I’m shitting, I went word by word for like half the play but my shitty alcohol severed brain didn’t know what to do with all that shit and I had to start over and over again.
One cool calm starry night in Omaha, the air was as crisp as fresh apples — I’m idealizing this shit, sue me — I started to read the text out loud. Yeah, I know you know, but I had to figure all that shit out myself. I felt desperation, like you know, the fucking firing squad was waiting and I only needed to tell them I read the play to save myself. I decided to do the only thing I hadn’t tried, read the words with my mouth instead of my brain.
Now my shitty lazy as fuck brain woke up and those damn neurons started firing left and right. With the words coming to life I suddenly saw images and sentences became fucking pictures, I’m not kidding. I even saw the folks in the stands screaming at the actors. I saw the actors over-shouting the crowd and repeating lines over and over again. I thought, what is this fucking shit? This isn’t Shakespeare! This is some Mad Max shit. What the hell is going on? Why are all these people so loud… And, what was that disgusting smell!?
I was on a fucking Shakespeare trip and, of course, as tripping goes, got addicted to this shit. The more I read, the more details revealed themselves. That Iago guy for instance, the folks loved him and Othello, Mr. Biggus Dickus, he was the butt of every joke. But the guy who played him fucking went for it. The way he approached Theres-the-monnay with his dirty looking face and his huge schlong dangling between his legs like a sloppy sword.. The people were screaming like they were witnessing the rape of a 10 year old girl in front of their eyes. They were going nuts. The crap they threw at him. And the more the people screamed the viler his look became. He was like, I’m going to pound this bitch and there’s nothing you’re going to to about it.
I was having so much fun reading all this shit and, frankly, couldn’t wait to tell everybody about the shit that happened to me while reading. And to tell you the God honest truth, I read it a couple of times and every time I discovered new shit.
What I didn’t know, being a non Anglo-Saxon alien and Shakespeare-newby and all, was how fucking naive I was perceived to be. That shit that was happening in my head appeared to be some bad fucking ass-muddling shit
Shakespeare so I was made clear, in the native English world, is God! I can’t put it in any other fucking way. Especially we theater folks are supposed to worship this shit-head. The theater is not a free-wheeling circus no! It’s a fucking funeral service dedicated to him, or fucking wake whichever emphasizes his everlasting greatness. Ever since my revelation to my fellow man and consequent “correction,” I can only hope to see a Shakespeare performance where there is a sliver of truth present, and see some real shit but no, it never happens. Every show I attend is the same old shit, it is like actors are just playing the part in fear as not to upset “Rome,” i.e. the fucking RSC.
So here I am, a man with a “vision,” that sounds nice, right? “A vision,” that gives me some legitimacy, because it might be God given. Think about that, all that shit, that happened in my head, might be coming from God, or, dare I say, it.. from him?? On the other hand I’m fucked of course, because who is going to fucking believe my shit? You are still with me, so keep reading for a bit and tell me it’s shit, or wipe your ass with it, I don’t care.
What I’m getting out of this, you ask? Why am I putting in the effort to write this piece while I should be thinking of planning a trip with the woman I love? You want a fucking honest answer? The answer is that I’m tired of the bull shit we are hearing all around us. I’m tired about the shit we teach our kids. But I’m mostly tired of people taking everything for granted. Valentine’s Day was last week and I fucking kid you not; the supermarket was swarming with lost guys- who clearly never go to supermarket, buying crappy flowers and fake chocolate. Why? Because they were programmed to, they had to do this shit. That’s fucking bull shit! We’re not sheep! And please don’t get me started about that holiday created in hell, Christmas. But do you know where we are at our most docile submissive behavior? You know where we are repressed the most? In the fucking theater by the fuck-ass actors who think they rule the fucking world.
The smell of shit and piss and stale beer and filthy bodies, that is what I see most when reading his work. Not only that, it comes back whenever I read a play, even Tempest, Timon or Cymbeline. I keep asking myself, what is that fucking smell and why can’t I just turn it off? It’s like acute tinnitus but then in the nose. Ha, Tinnitus Andronicus. That was a fucking joke!
Oh, and don’t tell me ever again he was “ahead of his time,” that the biggest load of crap you can say about a random artist. It’s just as ridiculous as saying that Star Trek was a visionary TV series because all the stuff they put in that show was invented later on, mostly because it was in that show. No, shit head, the dudes who like to invent stuff, watch Star Trek and stole it from them, it’s the other way around.
In order to defend my “vision”- I say “defend” for lack of a better word, I prefer to use “explain,” but people become agitated by my smell-o-vision portraiture of the Elizabethan performances, I have to come up with some historic shit; facts. I fucking understand I can’t just make up shit without a foundation in reality.
Let’s start with the shit-head himself. Shakespeare, or as it is written in the First Folio, Shag Speer. Shagging, my friend, means what? To “shag.” Shall we head home and shag? Yes, that one, and it ain’t dancing. Well.. And the other one? Yes indeed, exactly what you are thinking. Oh? Is that a speer in your pants or are you happy to see me?
Shag Speer is the most prolific writer in the history of all of mankind in the whole Goddamn universe, he is regarded as the genius of all geniuses, he, my friend, is the shit of all shits, who wrote brilliant plays and fucking sonnets and is known everywhere, in every corner of the world. What evidence is there of his existence? Well, let’s take a look, there are no surviving manuscripts, there are no artifacts, like personal stuff he owned. To compare, from Jesus we have bones, nails from the cross, the lance that pierced his side, and various pieces of blood soaked cloth. I’m not surprised if someone had to cleaned up after Jesus shit and preserved his shit as a holy turd. From other significant historic figures like Martin Luther and Desiderius Erasmus, who fucking were already dead when he lived, we still have plenty of handwriting. Goddam Hrosvita is better documented.
Oh, there is a painting you say? Well, here we are at the first lie we encounter. The iconic balding man with the filthy little moustache on his upper lip and the weary eyes is not our Shag. Forgive me for being an asshole and burst your bubble, but I am looking at it from a scientific factual point of view. It’s not like we’re studying Schrödingers kat. We can’t say, this painting could be him, although we don’t know, so we say it’s both him and not him. I say if one is not 100 per cent sure said mug is an actual representation, one tosses the damn thing and try not to fucking fool people. However, there’s this one self-righteous sap, probably someone like you, who took it upon himself (most likely a him) to suggest the shit head on the painting is Shag, because, a lie is much more convenient when illustrated.
How about the buste in the church of Stratford-upon-Avon I hear you say. Isn’t that statue not “one of only two representations definitely accepted as accurately portraying William Shakespeare’s physical appearance”? (I had to quote this because I copied it from Wikipedia on February 10 2017.)
I would say, if you have to use the words “definitely accepted” you are merely saying that you are not quite sure and because there are no alternatives and we have been looking at this shit-head for all these years, we might as well accept it. That’s bull crap.
I don’t want to be ethnically prejudiced, but for us Hollanders the English have historically always been a people of liars and cheaters. The whole English language, which is, as you know, a bastard language, is a language of liars. There isn’t a language in the world that facilitates bull shit as much as the English language. Add to that the fact that we are dealing with actors. Now here’s a fact you probably weren’t familiar with, especially in the current conjuncture, oops sorry, that’s a shit-word you probably won’t understand, I meant the current development of our celebrity-obsessed culture where actors not only operate in the same circles, but are actually becoming our leaders. Actors in post-medieval Elizabethan times are literally vagabonds, low-lives, untouchables, bull-shit artists who’d rub your dick with snake oil for a few pennies. The life of an actor was worth less than that of a Christian woman. You laugh. This may sound like a joke to you but it isn’t. A woman’s life was worth less than a man but more than an actor. To survive actors had to be schemers and charlatans. I wouldn’t be surprised they’d stop at the end of the fourth act to collect a few extra pennies in order to bribe the audience to show the end of the play.
I’m sure you believe the ‘history’ books you used at your Middle School, but let me tell you, Elizabethan England was a shit hole in the early 1600s, that whole empire thing didn’t start until the mid 1700s. I think it is a ridiculous lie to see Elizabethan England portrayed in movies and history books as the center of the world. They had to first steal the right technology (from the Dutch of course) to be able to build spacious sailing vessels that were capable of transporting large amount of goods in a safe and fast manner. There were still post-medieval while in the rest of Europe the light was already on.
This mis-representation of history makes me feel a little bit edgy because the English language with it’s Anglo-Saxon capitalists culture is dominating our lives all over the world. I am not suggesting we would change that but it does handicap all the non-English speakers. Instant translation devices will be common good in a couple of years will be liberating for all of us non-native English speakers.
Before I go off on a temper-tantrum about the highly overrated Anglo-Saxon culture, let’s calm down and go back to our friend Shag. The initial question was, what do we know about the greatest writer the world has ever seen. The only tangible evidence we have of his existence is a total of six signatures in different hand writing. I am taking this from Wikipedia as well (2–10–17) .
Here are the six names from different legal documents, as they are spelled:
Willm Shakp, (Bellott v. Mountjoy deposition, 12 June 1612.)
William Shakspēr (Blackfriars Gatehouse conveyance 10 March 1613.)
Wm Shakspē (Blackfriars mortgage 11 March 1613.)
William Shakspere ( Page 1 of will (from 1817 engraving.))
Willm Shakspere (Page 2 of will.)
William Shakspeare (Last page of will 25 March 1616.)
Notice anything? All of them have been spelled differently and, like I said, in different hand writings. Name one person you know in your life who signs six documents in a four year period, who spells his own name different every time. The motherfucker couldn’t even write his own name! If this would happen today we’d suspect a criminal organization setting up a housing speculation racket, or something. Even the current president of the United States is able to repeatedly sign his names without spelling boo-boos.
This shit I’m talking about, by the way, is not about who wrote Shakespeare. The so called “origin-discussion” is a bizarre argument because the idea of individual authorship didn’t exist in those days. What’s the fucking point? Rubens didn’t paint his paintings, Da Vinci merely supervised, same thing. There were no royalties paid and the actual text we see in the Folio was dictated by the actors, recorded by a scribe and typeset by the printer, who also edited the text, because he was the most well read person in town, but who will ever going to know for sure?
Since we don’t know shit about Shag, let’s talk about the shit we do know. We know from historic sources there were theaters. We also know some of them were on the Bankside, outside city limits, on the other bank of the Thames. The only picture we have of the interior of a theater is a copy of a sketch made by a Dutchman. This is from another online resource, shakespeare-online.com: “The drawing was created in 1596 by Johannes de Witt, a Dutch traveler who made the sketch while on a trip to London, shortly after the Swan playhouse was built. The copy pictured here was discovered in Amsterdam in 1880. Anything we can deduce from this drawing of the Swan can most likely be applied to Shakespeare’s Globe.”
May I point out to you the words “most likely.” As in Shakespeare’s portraiture, this means people are guessing. Can we deduce from looking at the Wilma Theater here in Philadelphia, that the interior of the fucking Arden Theater will “most likely” look the same? Of course not, that is preposterous and by all means unscientific. There is absolutely zero evidence that proves that a picture of building A can determine the interior of building B. All buildings in the Middle Ages were different. How many copy-castles are there? Again, English bullshit.
So what the fuck do we know for sure? Maybe we should broaden our perspective and look at some basic shit, as in: life. People had to eat and drink, they had to piss and shit, they had to sleep, they had to stay warm in the winter, and they liked fucking a lot. People throughout history have alway enjoyed a good fuck. I don’t know about you, but I most enjoy it. If there is any evidence anywhere that people didn’t fuck in Shakespeare’s time, than you wouldn’t be here reading this shit. I’d say the opposite is the case, there was a lot of fucking going on. Good old Christian child producing fucking, but also fun-fucking, as in, let’s go fuck some whores at the theatre.
I’m writing this shit down on a cold New Jersey Friday afternoon and I am doing my “research” as I go. Since there isn’t much source material available most of it is accessible online. Those signatures are online as well as the sketch by that Dutchman. The fucking-thing kinda came up randomly. It was either that or food or drink. But, before I start calling the “Bankside” Las Vegas I figured I first look some shit up, especially the whores stuff.
Guess what, to my surprise, the most classy whorehouse on the Bankside was called Holland Leaguer and was according the website shakespearesengland.co.uk run by a bunch of Dutch hookers and lead by the what we would now call a “madam,” Miss Elizabeth “Bess” Holland, a whore of legendary stature. There still is a Holland Street. According to this website the Holland family, i.e. the Dutch, ran the English underworld.
All this historical shit I just found is very distracting, so I’m going to stop and sit down for an ale, this stuff is making me fucking thirsty.
Can you imagine this shit? In Shakespeare’s time people only drank beer. For breakfast, and supper, and when they were just thirsty. That’s fucked up, a whole culture in a continuous drunken stupor. How come we’re not genetically evolved to hold our liquor better?
Back to the topic at hand. What shit do we know? We know people fuck and we know people drink. The fucking in exchange for money part took place in so called stews. There are some vague descriptions on the website I mentioned above, which refer to hand jobs, as in, one hand on one’s cup and the other in his pocket. Just to be sure, that we’re clear and nothing perverted is going on, the latter was aimed at the man’s purse. But then, in Shakespeare, a purse is a little baggy that hangs and does not hold cold cash but your nuts. Just wanted to put that shit out there.
We have here a paradisical combination; alcohol and sex. I’m asking, for once, to just forget about your puritan inhibitions and pretend you are some dude who lives in London, has a crappy job and saved up for months to spend a night on the town. No, that’s bull shit, the kind of people who’d save their money would never go to a whorehouse. So you either made a quick buck or robbed someone. Let’s not be pussies about this shit. People in those days stole from each other like no one else. Yes, punishment was severe, but no one talked, rats were chopped down, nothing much has changed. (Bear with me on this one.)
Imagine, you came to some quick money, where do you go if you live in a stuffy church-controlled town when there’s a place as rancid and attractive as Las Vegas across the river, only a small toll fee away?
Are you still with me? Now, I want you to imagine to forget most of the shit you know. It may sounds like a contradiction, but interestingly we humans are very good at imagining away memories. Just to help you get your shit going, let me throw out a few concepts you have to forget: hygiene, equality, consciousness, privacy, romantic love, security, a full set of teeth, the future, upward mobility, indoor plumbing, health. You also have to reduce your vocabulary to 600–700 words. Oh, and death? Everywhere. Not only that, punishment is severe, even for small offenses you will be whipped or loose a limb. But that doesn’t stop you from stealing or raping of whatever you feel like. You are a bad motherfucker. Nah, just kidding, in this story you will be the nice guy.
Imagine yourself, with two of your close childhood friends. Compared to our times you have been very intimate with them. You have slept with both of him. No, not the way you think, but think Melville, the opening scene in Moby Dick. People sleep together on the ground, beds don’t exist, maybe you’ll sleep on some straw or dirt, but not on some sort of mattress held up by furniture. Of course there will some douche out there who will say, “but…” But what? Was there a king somewhere who had a fucking night stand, sure, maybe, but regular people did not sleep in beds until centuries later. This pisses me off most about history, you look at it through the eyes of the kings and queens and not through the fucking paupers or slaves of history. I can tell you this, your ancestors slept on the ground like animals, not only that, they prayed, peed or took a shit in the corner of that same room until the 1800s.
You and Ben and — why not, your friend Will are ferried over by an old friend you give a little money. You stop in front of the Holland Leaguers and try to take a peek inside. You have only heard stories about what is supposed to go on in here. But in order to get your dick wet in there you’ll have bring a shit load of money, I mean two or three years worth of income. In your case maybe even more. There are only rich merchants in there. The noblemen will have to go in disguise because they don’t want the church to find out, or are afraid they will be blackmailed by a rival. You are a regular man and will have to make do the same way the other commons folk make do. Lucky for you your friend Will knows this one girl he has been with before. On the Bankside there are other temptations, you will find places where you can gamble, watch fights, all kind of fights by the way, bears vs people, women vs dog, dogs vs. cocks, you name it and you can bet on it.
Gambling is a waste of money in your book — I told you you’re a nice guy, and you guys are horny as hell, so off to “Esmeralda.” Although she has a Spanish sounding name to entice customers, she is clearly a northern girl. She has nice full tits, no lips and firm hips. She is happy to see Will again. First things first, she grabs all of us a pint of strong ale. Not the sour stuff we usually drink, but dark delicious beer that immediately pleases the head. And the cock too. It makes you want to fuck more. During our first pint you argue and agree on a price with Esmeralda. Ben and you will get a hand job and Will wants to fuck. You have heard you can get a nasty itch from fucking whores so you decided to play it safe. Of course she’s a scam artist. Instead of doing you one by one she takes Ben’s cock in one hand and your cock in the other. You’re both soft but she spits and slaps a few times and both of your cocks are standing in no time. Will is getting turned on as well and stands behind her and lifts her skirt.
She pulls down her front and pushes her tits in Ben’s face. Ben comes over her hand almost instantly. He yells, “gloria.” you are not as hot for her as Ben and Will are and are able to hold out. She feels what you are doing and accepts the challenge. Furious — she probably wants to go on the the next customer, or maybe she hates her job, she pushes her firm young tits in your face while she pulls your fucking cock with two hands. At this time Will started to fuck her from behind while Ben was cheering us on. She now slaps you in your face as if she wants you to let go of your thinking. In her hands she feels it has an effect. Slap! Now she whacks you hard with the palm of her hand. Because your brain is disabled due to seeing stars You squirt in her hands. She starts laughing. Pulls herself off Will’s cock and finishes him off as well.
She’s all sweaty and panting but has a glorious smile when you give her the money and a little extra. Without covering herself up she sits with you to drink beer.
You all finish our pints and smile. You have no words to share, she did a mighty fine job. She brings all of you another pint. You seeing the play, she asks. I have tickets half price, she says. Or course, Will answers without hesitation. We’ll take them, are you going with us? She smiles, she only has a few tooth left. It’ll be fun, Will urges her. Right guys? You nod obediently, she thinks for a moment. I can always make a little extra money there, she says with a devious smile. Let me check with King George, she says while she rises to her feet. She puts her front up again.
She likes you, Ben says to Will.
She likes my cock, Will answers while he scratches.
Ben and you start laughing simultaneously. That’s why you take the hand stupid fucking piece of shit of a man, you are both thinking.
A few moments later you guys enter the ground floor of the filthiest vilest place you have ever seen in your life. It smells like there are carcasses on the floor. The stink is just too awful.The girl smiles, she obviously has been here before and starts to work her rounds immediately. She just grabs a random guys between the legs and names her price. She makes sure not to open her mouth too much. The third guy she grabs wants her to lift up her skirt. Ben points, he’s going to get the itch, he laughs. The man pushes her forward and bends her on the stage. It isn’t before long when the crowd starts cheering her on. The man she services is aware of the attention and keeps fucking her while she is pinned down. She can’t get out of his grips and is afraid he’ll come inside her, first there is one vicious elbow, then there is the second. The third one is a charm. She knocks him out cold. Just in time, he was at the cusp, but now he lies on the ground like he’s dead. She kicks him hard in his crotch, takes all his money and squats on top of him to do her business, this to the laughter of all in attendance. When she she’s done she wipes herself with his shirt and yells, who’s next!
Suddenly the music starts to play and everybody turns to the stage. You are on the ground in front of the stage while on the balconies above us the rich look down on us. The Holland girls have their own section with their suitors. They’re eating grapes and drinking wine and totally ignoring the probing eyes of the men in the audience.
Will smiles, he has been in this arena before. The atmosphere feels tense, like a huge brawl could explode any minute.
What’s the story? Ben asks. Grabs him by the arm, it’s not going to be a full fledged spectacle, he answers, but you’re in for something exciting. Where is she, he asked, looking for Esmeralda who is just finishing off a guy in the corner. Get us some beers you dumb bitch, he yells in jest, and take one for yourself!
I see you looking with jealousy, Ben says to you. You want a girl on your arm too. But Will has money, we don’t, says Ben. She will not consider you if you don’t pay. You look at each other and smile, maybe one day, you both seem to be thinking.
We also don’t have the itch, grins Ben. A few moments later she returns with four large pints of strong ale. She kisses Will on his mouth as if she was actually happy to be with him. She is a beautiful girl, probably not even 20, in her prime, this is the age she has to make the money to sustain herself for the rest of her life.
The mud you are standing in is mixed dirt, food scraps, beer, piss, shit and blood. You honestly feel uncomfortable and fear for your life. Not so much your life here on earth but the after life. If the priest finds out you’re here you sure will be condemned to eternal pain.
The music starts playing louder and louder and the drums beat faster and faster as if the musicians are attempting to rile up the masses. By now the place has been filled up and most people are pretty inebriated by the strong ale. You wonder if you should take the coins out of your purse in case some wants to steal them. But if you take out your purse now everybody sees it. Instead you take a swig of beer and just hope for the best.
A man carrying a large shield enters the stage, he is immediately bombarded with raw meat, dead fish, someone’s hand and many turnips. After the first wave passes he grins with a nasty wide smile, like his mouth is extended. Is that all you got you sons of whores! Immediately a second avalanche of debris follows.
He raises his hand to signal an ease in the throwing of the trash. For a moment it stops, there’s a brief silence and he seems to be making sigh of relief. He takes a deep breath to continue his address. At that moment a dead eel lands sideways exactly over the middle of his face and curls around his head. The whole place explodes in laughter. I’ll put a spell on you whoremongers witch-fuckers he screams angrily, while wiping the juices from the fish that have smeared the paint on his face. This is upsetting to him. I’ll get you for this, he yelled. I’ll fuck you, your wife and your miserable daughters he blares fuming to the man he thought threw the eel, then he quickly ducked when another one flew over his head.
You people are the worst audience in the entire ancient history of the Roman theatre, he yells with a booming voice. You should be proud of that stature. It will get you fucking nothing!
Disregarding his abuse he clearly tries to antagonize the crowd even further. You hurt one of our motherfuckin’ actors we will come after you; our entire tribe is going to drink your blood, pop out your eyes and I will personally defecate in your eye sockets with my thin sour ass burning shit! And if you think it’s a joke ask your mother, she knows we’re serious about our craft. Now there was thunderous laughter and people on the balconies stamp their feet to which the entire building starts to shake. He takes a few moments to inhale. He now has the full attention of the audience.
Do you allow your daughter to be tupped by a Black Moor!? Or your cheap whore? He directly addresses Will to which Esmeralda immediately starts to scream and show her tits, come on over boys! She screams. Come up here you filthy slut! Someone screams from above. Do you have money or just fish you stingy bastard! She yells back. The next moment a good handful of herrings fly her way while the upper balconies erupt in laughter. She grabs on to Will who receives a small share of the rotten fish. That’s your smell you rotten cunt, you gave met fucking itch!!
She looks up to see if she can recognize her former customer. At least you’ve had a real woman before you whither away you old sod! She screams back. The announcer raises both his hands. You know who wrote this filth for you right? The audience responds on the beat: Shag Speer!
Now everybody starts to cheer like they just entered the kingdom of heaven. Like a true God Shag stays behind the scenes. A lot of people just laugh out loud, to themselves, as if they are going crazy. Others start patting random people on the back. You are feeling some excitement yourself, but you are nervous too, you have no idea what is going to happen and with this crowd your life isn’t even safe. You look around to see if there are any other newbies around and catch the gaze of a young man on the other end of the arena and, strangely, one of the Dutch whores who loses control of her pensive gaze and inadvertently stares you in your eyes long enough for you both to feel mutual discomfort. She discovers her faux pas and quickly smiles at her customer and returns to her routine. The young man is actively looking around as if he is trying to find a friend. His predisposition is also noticed by a shabby looking old man who starts to approach him, followed by one of his ugly friends. Instinctively you step in. When you reach them they are already in a pronging conversation. You greet the boy like an old friend and ask him to introduce me to the two creeps. The two swirly old guys look at you as if you just had stolen their hard earned food. They retreat without uttering a word.
What’s your name? you say.
He smiles nervously but grateful, Henry, he stutters.
Are you here by yourself?
He shrugs. Friends, he mumbles, knowing they had probably left him behind for another venue.
Why don’t you stand with us, there are too many predators around, I hope you’re purse isn’t filled, you say.
He doesn’t answer and follows you back to stand with Ben and Will. People in the crowd respectfully step aside and nod when you walk by, as if they want to show me their respect. You’re a big guy and it’s your guess that the two old guys are notorious thieves.
Henry doesn’t say much, but he does stays close by. He might be young nobleman on an “adventure,” you think. Some of these well-bred folks dress up as vagabonds as a rite of passion, just to learn to fight for themselves.
The music suddenly stops. Miraculously the morning sun breaks through the clouds and lights up the entire stage, pieces of painted fabric suddenly come rolling down to create façades of Venetian buildings, and the stage starts to fill up with musicians, jugglers, dancers all dressed in colorful shiny clothes. Young boys in extravagant dresses are chased by sultry men wearing tights and sharp masks. The musicians suddenly start to play, but not our usual country songs but Venetian tunes, on what appears to be Venetian instruments. You have never heard such fine tunes. The audience to your surprise falls silent. The Dutch girl is looking at you again. You smile and grab Henry to dance. Before long the whole audience is turning and bowing and high stepping as if you are in a Venetian court dancing. The musicians look at you in amusement, maybe it is the first time the audience actually start to dance, or maybe the movements you are making are utterly ridiculous. They keep playing and slowly increase the beat, as in a barn dance, faster and faster until everybody can’t keep up and burst out in a jovial laugh storm.
As a gesture of kind superiority the dancers on stage give you their official Venetian version of the same dance, while the jugglers are performing their tricks to the amazement of you all. At this point the audience has been brought to anger first, then to exaltation and now to bewonderment. Add beer and sex and your minds are as soft as sloppy wet dough. From now on they can make you believe anything.
After all players have disappeared behind the screens two men position themselves in the front of the stage. The audience quiets down to a sustainable murmur. One of them is dressed as a fancy Venetian merchant the other as a weathered warrior. Instead of speaking they look into the stands, it looks like they are counting heads. When they are done they whisper to each other, as to compare numbers.
How now I — a — go.. The Venetian says.
I -a — go, he repeats. The audience starts to giggle. They are talking with an accent you don’t know, but you guess it must be Venetian. They talk at you, pretending to be someone else. But they don’t talk like you. You look around and see more confused faces. The Dutch girls are rolling with laughter and have totally forgotten about their flabbergasted benefactors. Don’t you get it, says Will, they’re mocking them! He points at the men in the upper balconies who appear to be good sports, or rather drunk because they think it is hilarious.
They are imitating the court? You have never heard how they speak at court, but you have heard they behave differently there. You expect the English upper-classes desperately want to be like the Venetians or the French, with all their banquets and fancy clothes.
It takes you awhile to get used to the cadence and the rhythm of the words. To be frank, you don’t even know most of the words, Will said that if you don’t know words they are probably made up by Shag Speer.
That I-a-go guy is the only player who kinda looks like you and your friends, all the others are clearly Venetians. I-a-go has the audience eating from his hand especially with the jokes he makes about the Moor. You have never seen a Moor or a Venetian. You might have heard both Moors and Venetians visited the city on their way to Holland but you are always on the go finding timber in the woods. The Moors, so they say, are the descendants of Noah’s son Ham. They are also the barbarians who sacked the capital of Israel Jerusalem. It is said in your family that our ancestors have fought against the Moors in the battle of Lepanto, but that is quite some time ago.
The Moor Othello is a bigger monster than all of you expected. His clothes are extravagant and only meant to impress and not for comfort. He looks like a decadent emperor. Nero Caesar shuffling around the stage like a huge monster. Everybody stares at him when he enters. His back straight, his face proud. He wears all his regalia. When he opens his mouth and a high-shrieking voice sounds the audience loses it and unleashes its wrath. Whatever people can get their hands on they throw at him. He knows it is coming and uses a small shield to protect his face. When a few moments later he wants to kiss his bride, they call her There’s-the-monnay, there is no more holding back and a huge brawl breaks out. Will takes you apart and points at a few hens men who quickly rob most of already drunken audience members from their purses. Henry is in shock, he has never seen such a large scale shake down operation from up close. Will shakes his head and pushes off a few guys he thinks come in too close.
The announcer returns to the stage with a bull horn, he gestures for silence. Amici! Amici! Amici! he keeps repeating. When the crowd finally calms down he starts screaming, feigning fury, to explain that we, the audience, are watching a play and should not be preoccupied with ourselves. Othello is not really a Moor, he explains and There’s-the-monnay is not a maiden. At that point the player lifts the skirt to reveal a cock hanging freely.
Your guess is that most audience members understand the announcer’s message but it is just too much fun not to brawl and not to react to the play. From that moment on, when no one has money anymore, beer is dispensed freely, and the play commences, albeit slowly. Oftentimes the players incorporate jokes from the audience in the play and just as many times they play a call and response game.
Othello has hard time moving around, he seems to be wearing a heavy armor. I-a-go’s plan is to humiliate him as much as he can, the Moor of course receives no sympathy from anyone. Which general starts crying over an embroidered kerchief his mother gave him? And why is he jealous of Theres-the-money? The player who plays her is wearing a heavy beard and is sweating profusely leaving black stripes on his white painted face. The entire play is clearly a set up to get even with the Moors who defeated the crusaders so many times. Not even to mention the Barbary pirates. Strangely, so the story heard, they are lead by a Dutchman, Simon the Dancer, who has more wives than there are decent women in London and owns more Gold than the Tower can hold. The Dutch girl keeps smiling at you, maybe you should wait for her after the performance.
The entire play is stretched out as long as possible because nobody wants to leave this hellish piece of paradise. Besides. most of the people here on the ground aren’t able to afford another show soon so they want to stay as long as possible. Except maybe the ones who have taken precautions not to get robbed, they might come back. And the folks up high of course.
Because the day furthers it gets warmer and smellier inside the arena. Othello, so it seems, is getting really tired moving the heavy suit around. It looks like he has developed a taste for dying. When he finally stabs himself and two pigs worths of intestines and blood comes rolling out his costume we all are ready to go home. The stink is unbelievable vile and to everybody’s enjoyment Othello passes out for real.
Now you all are drunk, satisfied, smelling like blood and piss and mentally reinvigorated.
Ben, Will, Henry and you slowly walk to the exit. To your surprise you find her, waiting, for you.
Hi! She says, her eyes are smiling and wishing you were sober.
Hi, you respond.
She is blonde has blue eyes and — remarkably, all her teeth are still in place. You wonder if she has the itch as well. She reaches out her clean soft hand. Marga, she says in Dutch, with a soft voice and a hard G.
You nod and introduce yourself, and are not sure how to respond. She stares at you for a moment, then connects the dots. You have an inquiring mind, she says, I want to talk to you about the play.
She pauses to see if you’re taking offense to her remark.
You want to talk about the play? You answer. With me?
Plays, she corrects.
Sure, you say.
Come to The Holland Leaguer, she says. I have to go now, someone is waiting for me.
When she said Holland Leaguer your mind started creating all kinds of lewd pictures. You try to hide your cock in your rather loose pants and your eyes started to glisten. It makes her smile.
Meet me, on Monday! She says while she turns and runs to her party.
While the theatre looks like a Roman theatre the Holland Leaguer looks like a classic castle. It is surrounded by a moat and looks scrubbed clean. After crossing the draw bridge you are stopped by a guard, who is, to your surprise a young woman. You are speechless. The guard immediately knows you’re not a customer, that is to say, you would love to indulge in the services offered inside, but are clearly not in the financial position to afford it. At the same time she can tell by the sheepish look on your face you didn’t just randomly walk in. You seem to be there with a purpose. So she asks, friendly, vat do you vant!
I’m here for Marga, you reply. She invited me to have a conversation.
That concept feels suspicious to the feisty guard, she puts her hand on her sword.
Ask her yourself, I say.
She stares at me for a moment as if she is calculating the chance I am right and weighing that fact against the trouble it will cost her to resolve the matter in case I’m wrong.
She rings a bell to which a young girl comes running down the stairs.
Ask Marga if she is expecting a guest, she says in Dutch.
I will, the girl answers. She runs off into the court yard and returns almost instantly.
She said, yes! The little girl isn’t even out of breath.
The guard looks you up and down to make a final assessment, well all-right, she says. Then she looks me in the face, you touch her you die, she warns. She points with er eyes at the other guards, all women, all armed, standing in the court yard.
You are sitting in a small room next to the main hall. It isn’t a busy morning, there are only a few gentlemen conversing with a group of beautifully dressed ladies
Marga wears a black house dress, grey skirt, and a head cover. She isn’t looking at all like the woman you met at the theatre. Her face looked bland without the paint.
Disappointed? she says smiling.
You shake your head, but she knows you’re lying.
Nobody here pays attention to the plays, she complains loudly. I talked to Mr. Shag Speer the other day and although he admits having fun with the words and making up new words as he goes, he does want to give meaning to them, he really believes he has something to say.
You instinctively nod.
Do you agree? She asks.
Yes, you reply. She looks at you. Why is she looking? Oh.. wait you have to follow up on that. Well, all fun aside, you say. We do develop empathy for the monster. We dehumanize our enemies. Why do we have enemies? Why do we fight on behalf of the upper classes?
She looks at you, flabbergasted. Exactly! Exactly! That’s exactly what I wrote in my journal. She shows him her meticulous hand writing.
I wish I could read, you say to her. I would love to read them. Your words I mean.
Oh. She stares at you with a certain intensity, you can’t read?
She gets up, walks out of the room an returns with a slate.
Let’s get that out of the way first then, she says.
You feel uncertain and confused. She grabs your hand. Listen, she says, as if you are a child. I’m the kind of person who follows her intuition, I saw the look in your eyes and knew you would be a person I could talk to. You heard the play you didn’t go for the blood and gore and the jugglers and the wank-girls.
You nod.
Pretend I’m your sister, she hisses agitated.
That suddenly makes sense to you, also because you don’t find her attractive anymore.
She teaches you how to read letters in Dutch, which is odd but also for some reason very effective because within a few weeks you are able to recognize words you encounter on the street. With a rock you carve the entire alphabet in the wall next to the fire place where you and your family sleep and after that you build words with these letters. Words. You meet every week on her day off when she is supposed to go to church but non of the girls ever go because Sunday is their busiest day and on Monday there is no church.
After your reading starts to improve and you two need to spend less time on practicing she starts to talk about the plays. Shag Speer’s plays. She has obtained — she knows all the players, some of the texts by having them recite the lines for her while she wrote them down. She tells you how the guys were improvising to impress her, but that doesn’t matter, apparently they improvise most of the play while they are on stage.
But doesn’t Shag Speer write plays, you ask her. She nods and gives you a few sheets of paper. This is the play he will do next.
You read out loud, Romeo and Juliet.
She grins, two families, the Capulets and the Montagues, she explains. Two inbred not so smart families of clowns, it’s genius. And the dumbest of them all the two kids they fall in love, as he says it.
Ah, the sap, you say humorously.
By this time you humors feel slightly unbalanced as well, maybe you should go into the dentist for a bloodletting my friend.
Indeed, it’s humorous when people are not able to control themselves and fall in love like they fall off the stairs.
She pauses for a moment. Hold on she says, she runs out of the room to return a brief moment later, I have surprise for you.
Her hands are empty, you look surprised. She bursts out laughing. They have to make it first. It’ll be here shortly. I just want to show you something about love.
A little later two young girls, apprentices, bring a pot and very fancy looking porcelain cups and saucers, there is also a tin with baked goods. After they put the trays on the table one girl pours a hot liquid while the other is holding the cup.
This is what we call tea, Margo says. It’s from the East. It’s reinvigorating and much better to drink than beer. She lifts the cup and saucer and gently blows some air over the surface of the hot liquid as if she wants to cool it down. You do the same but you are impatient, you want to drink too soon, and burn your upper lip. She puts the cup down, here, take one of these, we call them cookie, she says holding up the tin. It looks like a round piece of crust, but when you sink your teeth in it tastes sweet, and you taste nuts and spices.
Some people like to dip the cookie in the tea, but I like mine crisp, she says. The tea tastes like nothing you have ever tasted in your life, it is bitter, but pleasantly bitter, it is very aromatic. It smells like the woods on a spring morning, there are hints of spices. But then, after you swallow a few sips, your body starts to glow from the inside and the taste returns to your mouth even stronger. If she wasn’t drinking it herself I’d expect she’d be poisoning me.
More? she asks after you empty your cup.
Yes please, you answer.
You cannot hide your sudden sense of doubt; why me?
What is on your mind, she asks, you look concerned.
I still don’t understand why you choose me, you answer with a hint of agitation in your voice, as if you feel used by her, like a puppet, or a toy.
I told you, she answers, you have an inquisitive mind. I also think you are a gentleman. Most men would have tried to put their hands on me, you haven’t, she says while wiping crumbs from her skirt.
How did you know I was like that? You press.
She pours both of you more tea and suddenly starts to talk with a serious tone. In my profession I meet many men, she says looking at you straight. That is my job, I entertain them. They are all the same to me, they have just one thing in mind.
What is that?
She points at my cock. That, she says, is their mind. But what really strokes their ego is coming in and seeing a group of girls staring at them, wanting them. You however, I don’t see you enjoy that. You don’t want to flatter yourself. I know you have an interest in accessing my loins, but you are curious first, and analytical, and you want to learn. I don’t know anyone who was able to learn how to read so quickly. You are almost proficient now.
You can see that in my eyes?
Yes, she says. The same way you saw something in the eyes of that young man you helped. We have kindred spirits.
Is there something you want from me? You ask. She takes a sip from her tea.
I do, she answer mysteriously, but not now.
She says it with a decisiveness that doesn’t invite further inquiry.
We’re going to the arena, she suddenly says.
But there is no show today, you reply.
They’re working on their new show, she says smiling.
You inhale the tea and are instantly transported to far away lands where people live with horns growing from their foreheads and where women have tails.
Can I have another cookie? You ask.
She shakes her head and closed the tin. We only take one, she explains.
She and you and one of the guards, she is not allowed to move around unaccompanied, enter the theater arena through the back stage are where people are sowing costumes and polishing stage swords.
Marga points at the clothes. They are creating a pull-system, so that when someone is stabbed the shirt opens and the blood and guts fall out. They use pigs bladders filled with beans to practice one of the actors used,
On the stage men are practicing a sword fight. An old soldier commands with a screaming voice: step in, retreat, step aside, slice! No! No! No! Again! The men stop. They are sweaty and tired. You are the reason people pay good money! It must look real, the old man screams.
The place looks cleaner and smells less than the last time I was here, probably because there came so much rain the last couple of weeks. The inside of the arena looks dreary and impoverished without people on the stands.
Marga! A friendly voice sounds from the stage. One of the actors jumps off the stage.
Ah, there you you are, she says. It’s him, she whispers to you.
Shag Speer? Before you can give it any further thought he has both your hands in his.
How wonderful to see you Marga, he pronounces her name the Dutch way with a hard G.
This is my good friend I told you about, Marga responds.
Ah, the one you found here at the theatre. Please to meet you sir. We might be in need of your services we require 21 bushels of wood a week and are also interested in straw and hay if you can obtain that as well.
You are overwhelmed by his offer. Quickly you do the calculations; this order means you can buy a second cart and double your business.
You shake his hand. I’m sure we can agree on a price, you say. He looks suddenly weary, uhm, we pay in tickets. He grins sly. You feel cheated, how are you going to make money from tickets? you ask. You can sell them at any price you want, he answers. You suddenly remember Esmeralda, she wanted to sell you tickets as well, for half price.
How many? You ask, just out of curiosity.
You’ll get as many as you want, he explains.
You don’t want to have any part in this business, but are afraid to say it out loud to Shag Speer himself.
He feels your hesitance. If it doesn’t work out you step out not a big deal, he says. Oh, and we can tell the audience your name so they can come and buy wood from you too. That might be good for business too.
You remember the stealing and whoring audience very well and wonder if they’d remember your name being mentioned at all. I’ll think about it, you say, leaving the deal as open as the roof of the theater.
Margo nods to me as if to say I made the right decision not to go in bed with him.
May I ask, how did you get that name, Shag Speer?
He looks up at me with glistening eyes, do you want to see… it? He asks, pointing at his cup. That’s my main muscle my friend. That is the alpha and omega of my entire being, that is where life begins and ends.
Amen! laughs Marga. Be this horny man my husband I would not be able to walk freely, she jokes. That man is unstoppable..
I wish I could afford you your highness, he grins. He turns to you, these Dutch girls give you the best fuck in the world but it cost you an arm an a leg and your wife’s arm and leg to bet.
You save your money, Margo says. Or better yet, invest!
I have the inside on another ship leaving Amsterdam in two weeks there are still shares available.
Not again with that scheme, Shag replies.
You are an old fashioned turd Shag, she says, do you know how much I made last year?
You have no idea what they were talking about, but are afraid to ask. However, you do feel you want to connect with him, you don’t want him to think you are just an insignificant passer-by.
Is love a sickness? You hear yourself say.
He looks at you, disturbed but also glad to be out of the investment scafuffle. He thinks for a moment, a serious frown appears. Yes, he answers. It is a deadly sickness, not a normal curable sickness. For true love my friend is the worst of all diseases. There is no cure to it nor will there ever be. I have tried to cull the immense pain caused by love with bloodletting and herbal treatment, but to no avail.
Oh shut your mouth, Margo says smiling.
I have!
You are in love with yourself I’m sure.
In love is in love my dear.
I should have never read you the Narcissus myth, she says teasingly.
It’s a force, a destiny, he continues clenching his fists dramatically.
Have you ever been in love? He looks at you with pronging eyes. Not the way you describe, you say.
I’m not talking about wanting to possess a woman, I’m talking about wanting to be with a woman, he explains intentionally referencing his big cup with his eyes.
You shake your head, I don’t how it feels.
How about you Marga? Tell him how it feels.
She slowly shakes her head. I’m not supposed to fall in love, it comes with the trade, I have to pretend to fall in love with all of them that’s what they are paying for.
Interesting, he replies. That is not what you told me before.
She shoots a few Dutch fire bolts at Shag. For a moment she actually strikes fear in your heart.
Tell him, he urges.
How it feels to be in love. Well I can tell you this… Earlier she spoke in a bright comprehensive manner but now her Dutch accent rang through more as if she was speaking from her heart. I can tell you that physical pain bleaks in comparison with heart ache.
And?? Shag knows he has her hooked and pulls in the line.
And since then I have rolled a giant bolder over the access to my heart. I am invincible to love.
But how does it feel? Shag touches her underarm.
It’s feels like someone grabs your hears and squeezes it. It feels like walking barefoot on hot coals. It feels like falling into freezing waters. It feels like rubbing a hot pepper in a wound. It feels like losing your whole family in shipwreck. It’s the worst thing that can happen to a person.
I have never felt that way, I said dryly. Most women I liked I fucked.
Shag patted me on the shoulder. You are blessed with having no heart my friend. And no soul. You are truly one of God’s chosen ones.
I am not sure if he is mocking me or praising me. Marga has tears in her eyes. Here nose is dripping.
The rock has moved? I asked sheepishly.
She nods.
Is he still…. I dare not say the word.
She nods, yes he is still alive, he is the captain of an East India man. His wife and I we had a wager and then she sold me off to Liz.
You should hear this, Shag said. I should write a play about it.
Don’t you dare, she bit at him.
I thought he’d chose me, I’m a romantic, what can I say, she explains drying her tears.
Shag looks at you. This woman, he says… He is suddenly at a loss for words.
Marga shrugs. It has to be mutual, she says. That’s the only way it works.
The pain I feel for you is like the pain you feel for him.
She smiles, you feel pain in your purse because you’re too stingy to pay for me.
Her disarming laugh at that moment, in that filthy theater, is so honest and disarming your guard suddenly drops. You could never see yourself fall for a whore and that was what she is to you, until now. Even when she was leaning over and touching me you always kept your guards up an avoid thinking about why she just left and who she was going to. But now, at this moment, the first time in your life you are having a conversation about love, the wall comes crushing down. You grasp for breath.
You are still not really sure what love is but you think you feel it at this moment, or maybe you felt it before but wasn’t aware because you weren’t able to put words to it.
He sees your confusion of the heart and grins with satisfaction. I’m just a jester with words, he explains, language is like a child’s toy to me.
Marga also notices your sudden emotional cramp. Are you all right? She asks.
You want to give her an answer but your mouth doesn’t move.
The Woodsman has been stabbed in the heart by a miscreant from the Lowlands. And I, mere servant of the people, sharpened the sword of love with my simple words. I poisoned that sword you stabbed him with with words. Now he has tools to express what his illness is. Love my friend is no laughing matter and I would love it if the two of you would be my guest of honor at the upcoming performance of Romeo and his Juliet. It has great fights and you will laugh so hard you will cry. I bid you adieu, I have to go back and practice my sword wielding, and guts dropping.
Like a young deer he jumps on the stage and disappears behind one of the curtains.
Marga turns to you, let’s go back and have some more tea. I want you to explain to me what your feelings are.
You have to decline, you lie politely, I have work to do. You feel the need to be alone for some time, to think.
She smiles, I’ll see you at the play then, you can sit with me. We will use Shag’s box, not ours.
That is a relieve to you because you don’t know if you are able to sit with her and the man who will later go with her and lie with her.
The thought evokes a vision and it hurts seeing it.
Without saying a word you turn around and run away. You want to run away from these feelings, but you can’t. The harder you run the stronger the feelings. What is going on with you?
