‘O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a
king of
infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams.’ [Act 2, Scene 2]
Dog
and one dreamy owner strike out over the thin pipes of the cut wheat field. So
easy here, the space so open, thoughts roll out over the landscape like distant
thunder. They don’t even form, just roll in fuzzy atmospheric waves, undulate
like deepwater weed, dip through elemental metaphors without care or
constriction. So much space, with a bit of a run up, flying seems perfectly
feasible. Hmm, brain interrupts the reverie with a tap of common sense; the
wind is likely to deposit you in the quarry. No flying today. Never mind, I
console my flumped imagination, remember how last night a steam liner sailed
you to the top of a mountain and there was a coffee pot that never ran out? Dog
and one whimsical owner scamper round the haystack, laughing. They find a slab
of wood, it looks like a pulled tooth. Rain comes, hits up that smell of damp
earth while we point paws and boots towards the front door.
On
the way to work, tyres make a pleasant sandy crunch over the new road
chippings. We open windows in the hall, warm from exertions, see the window
frames fringed with raindrops. They catch the light of street lamps, catch our
likeness in miniature. I think of Hamlet, crazy in a nutshell, in his snare of stale
dreams; I think of that and count myself a queen of infinite space.
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