Macbeth, the character, in Macbeth, one of Shakespeare's funniest comedies, upon hearing of the death of his wife, starts prattling on about
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
Essentially he's doing the uber-goth thing of reflecting on
the pointlessness of life, because tomorrow - or at least some tomorrow in the
future - everyone is going to die. Unfortunately for him he was born after Gone
with the Wind, otherwise he’d know that Tomorrow is Another Day, and so there
is no point getting stressed and all miserably nihilistic about it.
Macbeth’s main problem is that he knows he’s fucked – he’s
probably going to die soon – and so, naturally, his disposition is not so shiny
as it might be. His other problem is that he hasn’t learned the joys of
procrastination. He may be going to die tomorrow, but it’s not tomorrow yet,
it’s today. He should stop getting in a tither, crack open a can of Stella (Or
a Bottle of Buckfast, given that he’s Scottish) and enjoy the good life while
he can.
Because the fine art of procrastination is one that requires
little skill other than the realisation that there’s always going to be
something that you ‘should’ be doing. As I type I know that the kitchen is in
need some of desperate attention – dishes are piling up, lunch is not being
prepared, and the art of bread-making is being sadly neglected.
In front of me, a pile of books is accusing me of being an
incompetent teacher, a half-written novel is goading me with jibes about having
no staying power (a goad I am used to, from many sources, for many reasons).
But to get all of these things done would wipe out my entire
Sunday, and that would leave no time for the real pleasures of Achieving Fuck
All on the Sofa – an activity at which I am a master. There is mindless
Nazi history to be watched, and Arsenal/Spurs game to come, and many and varied
Facebook statuses (stati?*) to be liked. These things don’t take care of
themselves.
Recently, I bought my niece a Riverside Shakespeare for her
Eighteenth Birthday, because that’s the kind of fun-lovin’ uncle I am, and
wrote in it ‘ Everything you want to
know about life is in here somehwere’. *** Taking that sweeping statement
as my cue, I’m learning from Macbeth. He frets, and strides, and furies and
clangs. But tomorrow does eventually come, and he does eventually die.
Painfully and humiliatingly. And his head gets put on spike, and people
probably piss in his eye sockets. Although Willie doesn’t explicitly mention
that in his script. Probably censored.
So not only does Macbeth lose his life, but he spends his
last day getting worked up about it. You can’t avoid the inevitable, But you can
pretend it’s not there. If he’d known this, he’d at least have enjoyed his last
few hours of life.
Eventually I will have to plan my lessons for tomorrow –
including, not coincidentally, Macbeth with Year Nine. I will have to do the
dishes. I will have to eat. But if I wait, I’ll get them done with the minimum
effort required. Right now, there is televisual learning to be done, and
reclining to be practised.
I’m learning from Macbeth. Procrastinate, procrastinate and
procrastinate.
I’m learning from Macbeth. You may die tomorrow, so enjoy
today.
I’m learning from Macbeth. Now how do I turn this into a
lesson for thirty fourteen-year-olds?
I’ll tell you tomorrow.
* It’s fourth declension - of course – so statuses (Anglicised usage) or status. Not stati.** D’oh! I’m such a
dumbass pleb at times. How could I have forgotten that?
**And I also bet Toby ‘kill me with a battered copy of Lewis
and Short’ Young doesn’t know that either. Because he’s a twat.
*** Unless, of course, you want to know about Angry Birds or
the Harlem Shuffle.
