CLINTONIUS: Omelet, thou seemeth still sad about your father’s loss, and yet it’s been lo these many couple months: approaching two. What’s the problemmo, son? The man is dead, and dross. ‘Tis still water under brackish bridge. Let it lay, pray.
OMELET: Easier done than said. (For thee.)
QUEEN GERTIE: Why buggest thou it so?! O Omelet, Omelet, Omelet, wherefore grievest thou, O Omelet? It’s no uncommon thing, this dying. We all kick the bucket at some sprung time, shucking off this mortal coil to thus denatured go bouncing ga-boing-boing, ga-boingetty-boing-boing into eternity, a slappy slinky slung. ‘Tis common.
OMELET: Aye, most common. Common common common. A common spring, like unto the wound-up winter of my discontent.
QUEEN GERTIE: Then if such commonality it be, why seemeth it particular with thee?
OMELET: Seemeth? Seemeth, say thee? But my lady, a seeming is but seeming, not what’s so. A seeming is what appearance outward show, whilst underneath, something else mays’t grow. Say…I seem to be this, but I’m actually that. I seem to be Chris, but I’m actually Pat. That’s seeming for you. And if all the world’s a seeming, some artifice perceptual—why then our goose is cooked, an’ all knowing ineffectual. Let me seem what I am, and all that I am, an’ there an end. As for the outward force of calm, the inward whirl, the regal outward state, yet inward churl; that’s not me, but such as others be. Yea, the flood of tears, the dullish gaze, the twitching leers, the pukish phase—could all be faked and gussied up for show, zealous mourning on the rocks, as we’d well to know. But my grief is real, and mine own, no trapping suit of woe. I respect not seem, nor any seam do sew.
QUEEN GERTIE: All right then, you are particular. Particular indeed!
CLINTONIUS: He’s particular particular.
QUEEN GERTIE: If scrambled eggs could talk, an Omelet would they be!
CLINTONIUS: Of ham and cheese. [Aside.] I’ll say this for him. ‘Tis a dish with a sprig o’ holly on ‘t. [To Omelet.] We laud thee thy sincere lament, which sure we be is sure well meant. That’s your bent, most heaven-sent. But…now, relent. For t’allow eaternal vent to so rageous ‘plent is to the gods impious, to this crown anent annoying. It’s sweet, the way you burble for your daddy. No, really. Touching. We loved him too. I was his brother. Message: I care. I knew him longer than you did. But you must know your father lost a father, who had lost his, and that one too, and so before him, and that one also, and his one prior, and so ad infinitum, the lot entire. Mourning is good: yes. Gnashing of teeth is fine. For a while. Granted. All right. But that while is up. Stop crying. It’s getting cloying. Be a man. Your father is dead. So are many other men. It happens. We laugh. We cry. We live. We die. I don’t know why. Accept it. Try. Defy, and you but offend God, nature (the grass, the trees, the rocks, the bees, the flies), the regulations of our state, thy own seeming better self. Forsooth, each very quark and fiber of the universe, its each jiggling protean proton, doth cry instantient out, “This must be so!” Ah, eh? All weakening, decay, disintegration, corpuscular inanition, the last ragged pointless wretched gasp, the rigor mortis—verily conspire to deport us. And so an end. Why then contend it? Buck up, Puck. Get a grip, Chip. You’ll reign some day, and a raining reign reaps but wet hay.
Now, as for your request to journey out of town for school, we beseech thee not, such being most retro-reverse to our desire. Stay here and observe events unwind, like some unthreading spool, instead. That’d be better.
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