There’s an old theater superstition that warns actors to only refer to Shakespeare’s “Macbeth” as “That Scottish Play.” To say the name aloud outside of a performance is to call upon a curse of bad luck, up to and including death. I always like to think it means one runs the risk of literally breaking a leg.
I was thinking about this as I awoke here in Denver, struggling with a massive sleep deficit brought on by an incurable insomnia and general downright Danish melancholy (to mix my Bard tragedies). Later today I’m headed to packet pickup but my morning is free. Lying here, I am scrolling through my email, as I’m sadly far too wont to do, especially first thing in the morning,
By the pricking of my thumbs… something wicked this way comes:
Well, hail. Might as well bet the trifecta — I’ll see if I can find a ladder to walk under or a black cat who will cross me… the latter (HA!) is easier as all cats vex me. They can smell my canine preferences.