Merry Wanderer

You're at the best coffee shop on campus, hunched over your laptop. You imagine yourself through another's eyes: squinted face, glasses perched up on your head so that they slide across your hair every so often. Short nails so they won't interfere as the pads of your fingers hit the keys. Your coffee's gone cold, and it's been shoved to the side in order to make room for [[the enormous book]] balanced across the table.

The book is a copy of //The complete works of Shakespeare//. It's the kind of book that destroys even the most sturdy of knapsack straps. Your mom has to squint when she rests her head on your shoulder when you're reading it at home, because the print is small and cramped. The pages are thin so that if you wet your finger to turn them, you risk soaking through. Instead, you turn the pages by gently flicking the [[side of the page]], waiting for the curve to come up, then setting it down gently.

You sigh, and a scene from //A Midsummer Night's Dream// ruffles slightly. The book was your father's, once. He made a career as a business lawyer but before that did an undergraduate degree in English literature, back in the days before [[tuition rates]] were so high. Your dad made it through a semester of his MA before dropping out to apply to law school instead. There's a sense among your generation of procastinated achievement, of spending all your days waiting to do something great. Sometimes, you wish you lived in a simpler time, before the rigid expectations of creative production, often leading to academic exploitation, came about. You've developed a problem with procastinating your imagination.

You're lucky enough to have government funding for this year of your graduate research, though there's no promise that this will continue when you start your doctorate. Still, doing a [[Master's degree]] is costing you a pretty penny, forcing you to remind yourself to play the miser. The day when student fees were due was, indeed, the dawn of the [[winter of discontents]] for you and your cohort.

Sometimes you wonder if you'll be dead by the time you finish your Master's degree. Reaching over the //Complete Works//, you draw a cartoonlike tomb stone on your spiral notebook. What quotation should adorn the tombstone marking the imaginary end of your academic life? [[The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.]] [[Villain, what hast thou done?]] [[Bad is the world, and all will come to naught, when such ill-dealing must be seen in thought.]]

Your internal monologue about the //winter of your discontents// reminds you of the task at hand. Being an academic is about many things. Being someone who can [[teach]]. A researcher who can [[publish]] and bring prestige to their department and their own career.

For you, teaching is what really makes you passionate. You've had the chance to teach a tutorial and to give a few guest lectures already, and you've got another one on a Shakespeare play coming up next week in the class you TA for. You've spent the last couple weeks doing secondary research on your play, and pondering how to best present the material to the group of first years. Mostly they just go on Facebook during class, you know, but this is a play you really enjoy and have a lot to say about. Maybe you'll be able to get some good discussion going about the gender roles or contemporary controversies of the play. Clayton is your main rival - he's the other TA in your class, and the two of you have a secret but blood-stirring rivalry over who is the best renaissance scholar, both in your TA class and in your other classes. You're not even sure if you'd want to specialize in renaissance literature and culture, but you do know that you want to show your [[power]] over Clayton. It's a small victory but one you have control over, at least. The other day, Clayton stole one of your ideas in a seminar when he said that several sonnets could be identified in //Love's Labour's Lost//, and how does this alter our expectations of heterosexual love in the play? That was //your// idea. Clayton had overheard you talking to a student about it in the office. You'd really like to get [[revenge]].

You haven't published anything yet: your first submission to a journal was rejected at the abstract stage, and you've reconciled this with the promise to apply to conferences instead. You're presenting a [[conference paper about Richard III]] next month at a graduate conference out west. It's just a small thing, but you're excited to get out of the university for a bit and meet some new people.

You blink your eyes open. You're in a cold, dingy room, with small slits for windows. meet the princes [[Who are you? Are you here to save us?]]

//Richard III// is an interesting play, with one of the most iconic anti-heroes of early modern and renaissance literature, in your opinion. But what intruiges you even more are the historical events surrounding the eventual writing and performance of the play by Shakespeare in the early seventeenth century, over a century after the events of the play had occurred. Much of the controversy over Richard III in general stems from the narratives which were preserved and told about him. He was the last Plantagenet King, and his death signalled the end of the bloody civil War of the Roses which dominated England for decades, as two royal families - the Yorks and the Lancasters - battled for the crown. Richard ruled for only three years. Before he succeeded as king, arguably stealing the throne from his young nephew, the so-called Edward V, Richard was a popular figure. The Duke of Gloucester had been fiercely loyal to Edward IV, his brother the king, standing by his side even when their other brother, George, betrayed the family. The legend, perpetuated by Shakespeare's play, was that Edward and Richard drowned their hedonistic brother in a [[vat of wine]] in the Tower of London.

Deciding that it's acceptable to take a short break from your Shakespeare, you rest your head briefly on the //Complete Works//, breathing in the stale smell of the crinkly pages while being careful not to bend them. Clayton and some others were making fun of you for using such an old book - they don't understand how it helps you feel connected to your dad. You have new editions of the plays to annotate with your purple pen, of course, but there's something refreshing about reading them in this form, or seeing them performed in person. Shrugging off Clayton, you [[close your eyes, dreaming of revenge]].

Instead of all of this procastination, what you should be doing is working on your [[conference paper about Richard III]].

You are woken with a start from the daydream. Feeling embarrased that you let your guard down in public like this, you blink the coffee shop back into focus. Except... something is different. Instead of the familiar coffee shop smells and sights and sounds, you've woken up in someplace utterly unfamiliar. People are milling about you, shouting in your ears, and the smell of unwashed bodies mixed with hay and smoke fills through your nose as you wrinkle it in disgust. There's music coming from somewhere, lively, wild instruments. As you fight to hold your place in the crowd, you look around you: the scene is a medley of painted wood and faces. Are you in a mob? How did you get here? Side-stepping a woman in a curious, long dress with a dirty hem, you dart through the crowd, scowling as a man falls on you as he stammers back. He smells of sour grapes and slurs his words in an already convuluted English accent. Reaching the margins of the crowd, you realize that the people are gathered in a large, full half-circle around a platform adorned with carved posts - a stage. A scene is playing out above the sounds of the crowd: words you know so well, yet which take a moment to register as they are spoken before you. Two players stand on the stage, [[dressed as a man and a woman]].

When you think of fairies, you think of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//. The play is one of your favourites: it's so light, full of mistaken romances and fairy flirtations. One of the funnest essays you ever wrote in your undergrad was about the homosexual undertones in the relationship between Oberon and Puck. While your professor (an old white dramatist with tenure) didn't agree with the paper, he jovially suggested that you transform it into prescriptive ways of performing //Dream// rather than firm authorial truths. You never got around the revising that paper. Life just caught up with you again and again. You are woken with a start from the daydream. Feeling embarrased that you let your guard down in public like this, you blink the coffee shop back into focus. Except... something is different. You appear to be in a [[forest]].

You don the dress, pulling the strings as tightly as you can. You've never worn anything like this before, and the idea of what your parents would say makes you laugh. It's fun to pretend to be someone else, sometimes. As Shakespeare says in //As You Like It//, all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. You've considered writing about Shakespeare in terms of Judith Butler and gender performativity in the past: after all, there's a delicious irony in the fact that all of the iconic female roles from Juliet to Ophelia were played by boys. Not to mention the obvious gender-bending and shifting sexualities in the sonnets. What does gender mean, truly, in a world descending from this tradition? As you admire your new outfit and walk back towards the din of the stage with your newfound confidence, [[a taloned hand grips your wrist]].

They think you're a [[dude]], judging by your clothing. How thrilling!

"Oi, you! You're meant to be on stage shortly!" the stage director hisses in your ear. "Who, me?" you scuttle back. "No, you're--" "Silence, and get your costume ready, lad," the director says, shaking his head. "Bloody actors..." You stand, uncertain but eager, as two stage hands wrap your hands in bandages stained with red. They tie a wrap around your head, as if you were a modest young nun. In dramatic irony as perfect as if it came out of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//, there's been a terrible mix-up. You're about to go on stage and play [[Lavinia]].

On the stage, Bassianus is meeting his death, and the sons of Tamora are leaping wildly about, to the joy of the audience - the same audience who, not so long ago, was ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the love between Bassianus and Lavinia. You realize that, apart from the players, you are the only one who knows the script in its entirety. They are simply dancing the same steps over and over again, following the prescriptions set out by a writer from a long-ago time. Somehow, even if he could be here, you have no desire to confront the real Shakespeare. He is, after all, the one who birthed this [[horrific play]].

Somebody shoves you out of the way as they hurl something at the stage. "Who do you think you are?" you cry, breaking your rules about Canadian politeness. These people could not care less. The lady you saw before is swirling through the crowd. She accepts a penny from a groundling in exchange for a [[soft fruit]] and a squeeze which leaves a dirty mark on her skirt. This seems to be the cue for the groundlings to hurl their fruits at the players, who duck behind the pillars, artfully dodging their audience. They are like toys, targets, laughing merrily. This is all part of the act. This is Shakespearean theatre.

They hurl the fruit at the stage. Fake blood splatters everywhere as Titus attempts to ward it off with his sword. The crowd roars with laugher. "Hey, [[ouch]]," you shout, as one of the plums intended for the stage hits you smack in the face.

There are two logical options here. You could: [[hit the man in the face with more fruit]] [[surge towards the stage to get lost in the crowd]]

In a smooth gesture, you dump the basket of fruit over the aggressor's head. He bellows with excited rage, no doubt gunning for a fight. Rolling your eyes, you dart out of the audience, back towards the [[dressing room]].

outside world is a [[scary place]]

//The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.// These are beautiful words, spoken by Theseus near the conclusion of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//. The play is one of your favourites: it's so light, full of mistaken romances and fairy flirtations. One of the funnest essays you ever wrote in your undergrad was about the homosexual undertones in the relationship between Oberon and Puck. While your professor (an old white dramatist with tenure) didn't agree with the paper, he jovially suggested that you transform it into prescriptive ways of performing //Dream// rather than firm authorial truths. You never got around the revising that paper. Life just caught up with you again and again. You are woken with a start from the daydream. Feeling embarrased that you let your guard down in public like this, you blink the coffee shop back into focus. Except... something is different. You imagine a [[fairy]].

//Villain, what hast thou done?// The words make you laugh, since they seem to connotate that somebody has killed you, and your final nod to this is through your tombstone's encription. It's a weird image, like most things that pop out of your head when you're lost in procastination. It was probably Clayton who killed you out of jealousy, you decide, and smirk to yourself, not really caring if the other patrons of the coffee shop are paying attention. You decide that your ghost would come back and torture Clayton for the rest of his life. Haunting his future office might be a good pursuit of your spectral days. Or perhaps your family would step up and get [[revenge]].

//Bad is the world, and all will come to naught, when such ill-dealing must be seen in thought.// You would recognize a quotation from the play anywhere. The birthplace of playing the devil. Of my kingdom for a horse. Like so many plays claiming history, however, not all is as it seems. Indeed, you're currently writing a [[conference paper about Richard III]].

As you reach the doors of the theatre, you pause to look at the people sitting on the benches surrouding the groundlings, where the upper classes could have seats, the monarchs themselves sometimes making appearances. For them, the groundlings, the foolishness and thirst for blood of the common folk, is perhaps just as much the spectacle as the events on the stage - why else cross the Thames to the south bank of London to be among the wretched? Turning away, you have two choices. You could: [[continue down the street]] [[run back to theatre]]

You see things out there, things that frighten you, [[worse than the stage]]. You see the destruction of your imagination.

You're determined to make the most of this nightmare. Being frightened never got anybody anywhere. Surely, you are here for a reason, and that reason is to prove yourself, to break the melancholy which has been plaguing you and keeping you from being productive. With courage, you find your way, and [[step back on the stage]].

There is a [[dead body floating in the Thames]], right in front of you, as you move away from the noise of the theatre and towards the river. The river becomes a dangerous bondary, separating the real and the imaginary. You look closely at the body's face, and realizes that it is your own.

Playing Lavinia is as heartbreaking as might be expected. She has no hands, no tongue, with which to accuse those who harmed her. It is cruel and unfair, and you are hating this play even more by the minute. You vow, that should you ever get out of this dream, you will work towards ruining the glamourization of revenge tragedies for modern audiences. Titus is mourning the deaths of his sons at the hands of the Goth princes. "For why my bowels cannot hide her woes..." he moans in iambic pentameter, looking expectantly at you. Then, to your disgust, the player Titus gives you a creepy look, dodging towards you as if to touch you inappropriately. This, you will not stand for. But, should you follow the script? Is that the face of your rival, Clayton, looking back at you through the beard and grime? Should you: [[go fetch the fake heads from backstage representing your brothers]] [[kick some Titus ass]]

You carry out the fake heads, keeping yourself from gagging. Apparently this was not the exact blocking this version of the play called for, as the Messenger trots out from the stage, looking confused and probably a little drunk. "Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid..." the Messenger says, his voice quavering. The play continues for a moment, and you remember to look as sad as possible, holding the fake heads to your chest as if you were embracing them. The Romans were a bloody lot, absolutely. In the play, your brothers were killed because they were framed for murdering your husband, Bassianus. The whole script is terribly unfair as the characters pursue their fates. Titus reaches out for you, grinning, and you realize that it's time for Lavinia to kiss her father, that kiss that Marcus Andronicus will describe as "comfortless as frozen water to a starved snake." Lovely. Instead, you [[step back on the stage]]. This has gone on long enough.

For Lavinia, for all of Shakespeare's victimized heroines and the players, male or female, who have had to deal with inappropriate behaviour from senior theatre members, you summon everything you have and spit in Titus's face, then whip your leg under him as he stumbles backwards, then slips on some fake blood coating the wooden floor. You've messed with the plot, but the audience doesn't care about that. The groundlings surge forward, and you feel hands grabbing at the bottom of your skirt, and [[fruit hits your face]].

Stumbling back, you look desperately for an escape route. Where can you find refuge in this theatre that is more Roman ampitheatre than civilized art? [[get lost in the audience]] [[step back on the stage]]

You charge away through the audience, yelling for people to move as you go against the pressing crowd. This has gone on long enough. The theatre is not a magical place like you imagined it to be: instead, you found restriction in the script, danger in the art form. The relationship between the players and audience, so important in all plays, has been destroyed, no longer the romantic construct of your scholarship. This world is a [[scary place]].

Where can you go? Inspiration strikes: all Shakespearean theatres were equpped with the [[trapdoor]], even in an early play such as this.

Stepping carefully, you nudge open the latch with your foot, hoping that there is no poor player below you. Most likely there is a mattress or a net: at least you will have a brief reprieve from this nightmare. Why couldn't you have gotten lost in //A Midsummer Night's Dream//? You pretend that you're the player being the ghost in Hamlet, falling back through the the netherworld from which to harrass the imagination of his angsty son. You [[fall through the trapdoor]].

Snapping your head up, you expect to absorb the smells of the theatre: the rotting fruit dripping from your clothes, the stench of feces and filthy mud and the things rotting within the river, carried through on the wind. Instead, there is... coffee. Perhaps this tragedy could have a [[happy ending]].

//Cowards die many times before their [[Death]].//

"Um, who are you?" you ask the closest maiden, whose eyes are frantic as she pauses close to you. You notice that she's very beautiful, with long blond hair. You are about to follow her, when you are pushed to the ground, your nose sinking into a pile of fragrant moss. You hear a cackle on the wind, as if some wiley sprite were standing somewhere in the ceiling of leaves. You open your eyes, peeling them away from the floor. There are four possible directions you could take, you realize. Should you follow: [[the blond girl]] [[the brunette girl]]

You decide to follow the blond girl. She was the first one you saw, after all. You comb your way through the forest, setting your gaze at last on her oval, pale face. You are instantly struck by a deep, desperate clawing from somewhere in your stomach. Something tells you that this is what love feels like. You consider moving forward to kiss her. But something makes you pause. Do you: [[grab her face in a passionate embrace]] [[smile shyly]]

You decide to follow the brunette girl. You comb your way through the forest, setting your gaze at last on her oval, pale face. You are instantly struck by a deep, desperate clawing from somewhere in your stomach. Something tells you that this is what love feels like. You consider moving forward to kiss her. But something makes you pause. Do you: [[grab her face in a passionate embrace]] [[smile shyly]]

She pushes you away, screaming bloody murder. You feel...well, your thoughts are all confused at the moment, as if something came over you to alter your very nature. You were never the sort to kiss someone who didn't show any signs that kissing was what they wanted. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think..." "How dare you, foul beast!" She cries, and runs away into the forest. The place within your stomach urges you to run after her. But you have enough self-knowledge to know that these feelings are [[irrational]].

"I am in love, pure, true, love!" she cries out. Turning around, she flees, the leaves crunchng beneath her feet in the exact, recognizable way that you would expect leaves to crunch. Something about this dream is all too familiar. Full of the feelings of love, you fight to dissect why you are feeling this way. This must be no more yielding but a dream, but still the puzzle fills your mind. Could it be that you're trapped in the story of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//, born from how the thoughts of the play and its possible interpretations have consumed you? If so, then perhaps, like the Athenians, you have fallen victim to a [[fairy joke]].

"Helena!" A youth charges out of the brush, brandishing a lute in his hands which he uses to swipe the branches out of the way, despite its obvious value. "Tell me, pagan, hast thou see mine love?" He demands, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you with desperation. "Hath thou seen mine beautiful Hermia?" You realize, all of a sudden, what is happening. You're trapped inside the story of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//! [[Wow]].

You know a lot about this play. In fact, you've been trying to write a paper about it. You have no idea about what happened, if this is a dream - ha, a dream within the //Dream//! Something is messing with your senses. Though you can see everything around you, there are no smells, the sounds are muted, the youth's words artificial. You realize that you must be somewhere in the middle of all the confusion, and you've been thrown into the play to cause some mischief. The work of Puck, no doubt. "Listen..." You sigh. Which one of the human lovers are you dealing with here? [[are you Lysander]] [[are you Demetrius]]

Nope, it's Demetrius. This is a play of mistaken identities, remember? And not only is he cruel and selfish from the beginning, but he's caught up in love. Thinking you are his (coercively chosen) Helena, the youth's eyes light up, only to be met with rabid anger as he realizes that he has mistaken your identity. "Foul fairy creature!" he cries. "Thou hath separated me from my true love!" Eyes crazed, Demetrius raises his sword. The last thing you know is the sharp taste of metal slicing through the air. You embrace it. [[Death]].

Nope, it's Lysander! But he was always the kinder one, so it's ok. In fact, if you had to fancy one of these hooligans, you would probably pick Lysander. You point him in the direction of Helena and send him on his way - after all, it will all turn out okay. [[call the fairies]]

This is it. The end of your journey, of your adventures as a player and a writer. You'll never know just what magic was wrought from the power of your imagination. You'll never contribute what you most desired to do -- scholarship -- to the world at large. You have failed to decode the signs and re-interpret the texts you loved so well. Because what is life without creativity? What is the past without re-creation? What is literature without imagination? You muse on the ideas of fate and choice, something which plagues the scholar of theatre. Do any players truly have a choice when the script is laid out for them? Are they convinced to follow certain paths which will lead them to their doom? Or are we independent, free from social guidelines or constraints, pushing through to forge our own paths? Do you follow a script? Most of all, you sure wish you hadn't procastinated. ''The End''

You look up and a curious scene materializes: Titania and Bottom! You see Oberon descending. You close your eyes as Bottom slips away, his ass head transforming into the face of an ugly man. You blink. This is all the makings of a [[fairy joke]].

"And this concludes my presentation." Everyone claps, smiling, interested faces looking back at you. The presentation went perfectly, you tell yourself. You've played your cards right. Sometimes, you credit that strange, coffee-fuelled dream as igniting your inspiration. The players you encountered are perhaps just constructions based on your ideas about the works which you have dedicated so much of your time to studying, yet you have internalized those ideas: of bravery, acceptance, of questioning the dominant narratives and standing up to interrupt them, even if they exist only in your mind's reconstructions of history. You nod out at the crowd, proud of your research, proud of your voice. ''The End''

You here a rattling outside. Who is breaking into the room? Where are you? "We're in the tower of London," the older prince says. That is when you realize it: you've been sucked into the plot of Richard III, and these are the princes in the tower. You've been studying not only the play Richard III, but the [[controversies]] surrounding him.

Background on the controversies. The princes draw you back to reality. "They've finally come to kill us," Edward cries. He puts an arm around his little brother. In the play, the Duke of York is a spritely, mocking child, always toying with words and dancing circles around the other characters. In this illusion or dream, he's more true to life: regal for his status, yet ultimately just a little boy. "Please help us," the children cry, as the rattling at the door gets louder and louder. Your heart goes out to them. Do you: [[go for the window]] [[fight back against the door]]

But history cannot be stopped. As you stick your head and body through the window, you catch a glimpse of Plantagenet London: the walls of the tower, a glimpse of the Thames, torches shining from a few boats making their silent passage, the serene quiet of the past. But the quiet is broken by a scream - your own, as, impossibly, you slip through the window and tumble down to the cobbles below, [[leaving the princes behind]].

You are torn by a question - whether this is a dream or a hallucination or not, who is on the other side of the door? If you are truly here, in history, at this pivotal and mysterious moment in time, then you have the chance to discover who truly killed the princes in the tower. If you fight back, if you alter history, then who knows how much could change? You cannot decide if this is logic or fear talking. You have the chance to solve this mystery that you have wondered about so many times. Is it true that Richard was a child-killer, like his contemporary critics claim? Or was there a different killer, perhaps agents of the future Henry VII, who stood to benefit from the boys' death. Even if this is a true dream, and just your subconscious creating interesting scenarios for you, then perhaps you could discover what your own [[opinions]] are about the mystery.

Since the Tudor contendor, distant cousin Henry VII, defeated Richard in the Battle of Bosworth, Tudor propaganda turned against the Yorks. Shakespeare, writing for the Tudor queen Elizabeth I, of course benefited greatly from slandering the Yorks in a country that was still wracked with religious and political uncertainty simmering beneath the surface. From George and the vat of wine, and the princes in the Tower, and Richard's alleged affair with his niece, Elizabeth of York, the future wife of Richard's successor, the context surrounding the play is even more fascinating than the mere play itself as an artifact of Shakespeare's genius. What really happened in the time of [[Richard III]], you wonder as your head drifts down to rest on your desk.

"This is the day of doom for Bassianus: His Philomel must lose her tongue-to-day, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity And wash their hands in Bassianus blood..." As the man continues his speech, bellowing out the secrets of the treacherous plot to the groundlings, the player dressed as a woman embraces him. Her arms are bare save for several rings of bracelets: you recognize that she is Tamora, the captured queen of the Goths, speaking to her lover, the Moor Aaron. Even though you know the story well, you feel sickened at the idea of the form the revenge they are discussing will take. And yet - is this a hallucination? You pinch your arm, hard. Nothing changes. Could you be dreaming, or caught in some strange fantasy? You have not been experimenting in opium, like de Quincey or Walter Benjamin would have done to experiment with their imaginative genius. Dreams are not metafictional: you should not be able to acknowledge the unreality of this moment. Defying all reality, you are sure of it: somehow, you have been deposited into a performance of[[Titus Andronicus]]. And by the looks of things, this performance is happening as it would have when the play was first performed. In the sixteenth century.

''Warning: mentions of extreme violence'' [[continue with Titus]] [[wake up from this nightmare]] Nobody can quite explain what drew you to study Titus Andronicus, other than a fleeting course of impulsive choices that you clicked through in your academic development. Perhaps it was a quotation that drew you in, or a repressed desire for revenge and power over those who have dishonoured you. The brutality of the play gives you that power. Modeled after the great renaissance revenge tragedies, like Thomas Kyd's //The Spanish Tragedy//, //Titus// shocked and thrilled the bloodthirsty Elizabethan audiences with its cruel, yet entertaining and jaw-dropping violence. Unlike //Hamlet//, where the bulk of the play is psychological development and the blood comes only at the cost of this delay, //Titus// thrills on shedding blood and mutilation. You've always been nervous to see it performed. It follows the deadly consequences of warring families, until all of the major actors have been killed, leaving room for a new order to emerge. //Titus// spares few boundaries: there is rape, murder, grotesque body mutilation, cannibalism. It perverts natural family relations by having a mother feast on a meal made from her dead sons. The characters have no mercy: Tamora gleefully approves the rape of Lavinia and the murder of Lavinia's husband, which Aaron so aptly compares to Philomel, the nightingale, and to Lucrece, the central figure in one of Shakespeare's two epic poems. Lavinia's lovestruck happiness with her new husband as she flits about the stage, immune to the prejudices of her father and her role as a daughter of the Andronici, is sharply contrasted with the Lavinia in Act II onwards - without hands, without a tongue to speak or write of her tragedy. While Lucrece spoke her silence through death, the scene in which Lavinia struggles to write the names of her attackers in the dirt with a stick is one of the most painful to read about or watch, presumably for a Shakearean audience as much as a modern feminist. The play is, for all intents and purposes, brutal and unforgiving, yet you notice that the audience is laughing, drawn in by the charisma of the players performing the treacherous Moor and his tyrannous lover.

As the context of the play courses through your mind, you are startled by another body shoving into you. Some man shakes his fist at you, and you notice that he hasn't got any teeth, his gums red and swollen and his eyes fixed on you. You've never been considered that tall, but here you are one of the tallest people, possibly making you an obvious target. You're too clean, as well, and you're dressed oddly. Impulsively, you slip through to the fringes of the crowd beside the stage, and through a curtain to the side. You've studied designs of Elizabethan theatres, and remember finding old maps in the archives of how the backstage areas would have been laid out, with easy access for the players to adjust their costumes or enter through the iconic trapdoor. Luckily, your thoughts were correct, and you find yourself in a small, smelly dressing room. No doubt you'll be stealing somebody's costume, but the show must go on. You have the choice between a [[doublet and leggings]] and a [[dress and hood]].

Your head shoots up: no way to you want to be involved with that horrendous play, even in dreams! Trembling, you are reassured by the sight of the comfortable coffee shop, and turn the pages of the //Complete Works// to another favourite passage. Still in that sleepy, imaginative state, you put your head on the book for just a moment, thinking back about the imaginary tombstone of your [[Master's degree]]

"Oi, you! You're meant to be on stage shortly!" the stage director hisses in your ear. "Who, me?" you scuttle back. "No, you're--" "Silence, and get your costume ready, lad," the director says, shaking his head. "Bloody actors..." You stand, uncertain but eager, as two stage hands wrap your hands in bandages stained with red. They tie a wrap around your head, as if you were a modest young nun, and give you a bloodstained dress. In dramatic irony as perfect as if it came out of //A Midsummer Night's Dream//, there's been a terrible mix-up. You're about to go on stage and play [[Lavinia]].

There is something off about the forest, besides the fact that you're not supposed to be here. Though it looks like the average stretch of woods, like you might find near your cottage in rural Ontario, there's an artificial quality. It's almost as if a painter set down to create a realist masterpiece and gave up when they were almost finished. Or perhaps that if you look too hard at the trees they might turn out to be cardboard cut-outs or projections. Suddenly, you are pushed over by a cacophony of people and rustling clothing. Falling to the floor, you see two [[maidens]] in dresses and two people in tunics running all scattered about the place, as if they have no sense of direction.

In the play, Puck promised to "put a girdle round the earth, in forty minutes." Puck's a wily character, sometimes male, sometimes female. Certanity kicks in, and empirical logic wins out over the irrational passions awoken inside you. You are not in love with the lady, lovely as she was (indeed, though she be but little, she was fierce). You know better than to force your affections onto people. It occurs to you that the love potions used so mischieviously by the fairies are a form of non-consenting. How can the love proclaimed by one who is victim to the spell be true? Demetrius, cruel as he is at the beginning of the play, was at least acting to his true feelings. His love for Helena at the end of the play, brought on by fairy trickery, is marked by coersion. It seems wrong. You can't believe you revered this play as a romantic comedy, when there were so many darker things beneath the surface, waiting to be unpacked. What [[happy ending]] can be found?

"You've got things to sell, lass!" the voice hisses, shoving a bouquet of ragged flowers and oranges into your hands. The woman frowns, then, licking her fingers, with one quick //swoop// she pinches your cheeks, hard. "That's better," she says, nodding. "Now, penny each, and nothing less!" You've read about the young women who would work the crowds of groundlings at the theatre and try to sell flowers - and other things, if they thought it was work the money. You try to retreat, but the woman is watching you. You step into the crowd, cringing as a large man staggers towards you, shoving other groundlings out of his way. One the stage, Bacchianus is reaching his grisly end. You have [[flowers to sell]].

When you get to the relative shelter near the side of the stage, a [[hand grips your wrist]].

Looking back at the boys, though, you find that you can't go through with it. Mystery or not, changing history or not, your priority should be to help these two helpless people, the way you would want to be helped. Stepping back from the door, you urge them to [[go for the window]].

You realize, then, that it is not your task to re-write history, to re-discover absolute truths. Instead, as a scholar, your task is to intepret it according to the evidence given, to use your imagination for idea generation, not speculation. Instead of hitting the ground, you awake to the smell of coffee and the sounds of someone laughing at you as you peel your face away from the text of //Richard III// - something about a wicked hunchback killing his nephews. Is there truly a [[happy ending]], here?