Quick. My heart quops softly and my breath, breath! the flutter of my breath is coming forth in short sighs. Just act real. Stay in the shadows. Keep back from the lamp. Pretend to be writing something. My heart! Be still my beating eyes! I smell as if I’ve made a trumpet of my ass. Stay back. Try not to waft close. Maybe they won’t notice. Get my bearings. Listen to the kid. Listen. Seven is dear indeed to the mystic mind. Threw that one out for me to catch. Ho ho! Good. That sounded like a real laugh. I can make sound! Indulge the kid; wait to speak. Let my particles and molecules complete their formation around me. Wait. Oh no. Look at me. Look at me! Look at my typing hands! I don’t know how to say this but I think I’m soft. I’m soft. I’m out of focus. I don’t know why. Is there anything I can do? I can’t adjust for this. I need to sharpen up. Well, I expect the world will adjust to the distortion I’ve become. Now focus on the kid. Hamlet. Ok, talking Hamlet. Lyster speaks the obvious, Hamlet unfit for the job. Eglinton: today’s youth not up to creating another Hamlet. My turn. O I have much to say! The mysteries I can reveal. But how, how? Must be careful.
Whether Hamlet is Shakespeare, or James I, or Essex, or the historical Jesus or any other mortal shade softens in focus when we think of the true purpose of art, which is to reveal to us spiritual realities, formless spiritual essences which are the truth of eternal existence. Art is art when it comes from a soul who Knows eternal wisdom, who has visited eternality and has returned filled with truth, who has eaten from ideal forms of tables, and has communed with Plato’s world of ideas. Mortal, I mean to say, academic speculation is the pastime of schoolboys.
There, that should hold them. Pretty good I’d say for my first appearance after reincarnating. Plant a seed. Now, if I could just sharpen up.