Haunted

Olivia: Why, what would you?

Viola/Cesario: Make me a willow cabin at your gate
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night;
Hallo your name to the reverberate hills
And make the babbling gossip of the air
Cry out "Olivia!" O, you should not rest
Between the elements of air and earth
But you should pity me.

-Twelfth Night (I, v, 268-77)

It is a while before I notice that the actors are difficult to hear. Several friends and I are sprawled on blankets on a lawn in Seward Park, attending a free outdoor performance of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I've never one before, though I've heard that these performances happen several times each summer. Attendance is sparse today; perhaps forty people are scattered across the grass, most of us huddled in the shade, far from the stage. It's almost ninety degrees today--the hottest I've experienced all summer--and outside activities are by necessity very sedentary, languid affairs. We sip soda, nibble on string cheese, adjust purses to be more comfortable pillows, and watch Shakespeare. But all of it slowly, lazily. In combination with the varied tones and pitches of the acting company, who have the unenviable task of acting on the hot, sunlit stage, this summer torpor has confused most of us.

I realize after a while that I am not listening, either. Not to this. I am not listening, but I know what they are saying. I hear the speech above and know what words are coming next, like they are lyrics to an overplayed Top 40 song on the radio. I know this play, know it better than I thought.

As I continue watching, the story unfolding as it has dozens of times, conversations, voices, faces rise to the surface of my sun-soaked consciousness. I remember explaining love triangles and mistaken identities, remember the in-spite-of-themselves engagement of the kids with the ridiculous mishaps of the plot. Their final projects, scenes from the play (was it only two months ago?) come to mind, as I hear, in chorus, their voices mingling with those of today's actors. We tried to relate to it, to understand it, to make it our own.

Today, two months into the summer, I see that this play has become a part of me, at least. But not just the play. Twelfth Night is haunted with extra characters, with words spoken and heard and added to the mass of the literature. Like any book shared, this silly comedy is greater than itself. And only important to me because they--the critics, the students--stay with me now, as I start again.