Shakespeare prose and writings

This is Hanno.  My email is hraudsepp@aol.com  Look me up on facebook


My, Hanno Raudsepp's, phone number is 1 - 613 - 394 - 6412

This is Hanno, naked Angelina.  I believe Brad Pitt is in prison.  I believe there is more than a single Brad Pitt, and I believe the younger Brad Pitt is in prison.  You were married to him.  I believe Quentin Tarantino can get him out.  Come meet me with naked Monica Bellucci.  Come by plane to Montreal and meet me by limo.  Just make sure the limo doesn't have a cell phone attached to it, attached to the dashboard for instance, and make sure the driver doesn't speed.

Ralph Fiennes William Shakespeare

Maybe Ralph Fiennes could play prince Hamlet of Denmark, Macbeth, Claudius or Iago again.

The steps of the middling-arched castle were weary with dusty death. The steps were made of crumpled wood and rock.. A crumbed, crumbled stomach of a stairway.. The door seemed to answer perpetually to call from an evil soul.. from a soul known to abysmal chimes .. to knowing chimes of dungeons.. dungeon chimes...

Within the castle lay Macbeth. He was mute. A ghost had consumed his speech. The dread judgement of his self-tyrannizing soul buy lay exchange-prices gold indexes gold kryptonite gold indexes over Scotland.. He was a study in tyranny. A frailty of spirit was his tyranny. His souls was a snuffed-out candle. Repeatedly snuffed out. The flip of a coin. Of Cain's, of Two-Face's, coin. Cain slaying the Abel Harvey Dent of himself. A vacuum replaced it in the interum. A vacuum which was the vacuum of a starless night, a death sky. A foggy sky, a pitch dream congregation of vapours, a bad dream, the fog of his bedimmed soul. His soul a foul congregation of fapours, of vapours. What was fair in him was foul and fair was foul. He remembered the light-colour hair of Banquo. A blond ambition. Travis Stork. A hellraiser. An ambition which seemed to merge with a blond sky. Into a nothing blandness, a nothing ambition.

Hamlet felt a dizzying situational matrix all in his mind. His situation was his own mind, nothing else. The petty limits of his own mind was his infinity situation in a nutshell. The petty infinite. His soul was bad dreams. A pettyness of grit-dirt was what was left of his soul. The left-over dirt of bad dreams. Black as pitch was still something beyond what remained. His soul was brown as pitch, blond-Banquo bland as pitch. He sometimes had vivid dreams but a blandness of life rendered them with all the meaning of a shadow. All the substance of a shadow. He had long lost all his mirth 'till mirth was but a vivid dream and no more. Dreams for nostalgia. His dreams were a nostalgic quintessence of dust. He had no delight in dreams, Were dreams ambition? His ambitions then were empty stones, stones which promised nothing but their own interior emptiness. Stones which promised nothing. No stone for a philosopher. No gold to hearken from a stone when stricken. If he was a philosopher, his soul was an empty call.

Iago felt a will to war. But a will merely double-plumed in knavery? Aristocratic war? The trumpeted pomp and circumstance of war? Was that Iago's war, merely proverbial bells and whistles? Bells and whistles of double-plumed knavery? Was he a Virag? All the plumage of war? Was he a superficial fellow? Why all the question marks? Was he a man of plumage of questions? Superficial war? Somehow he always seemed a frivolous fellow, a Frank Finlay fellow. Bamp-bamp-bamp. He lacked enough will to steady a purpose. His will was no abyss, it was a shallow well. He had only a shallow motive, divided into many still shallower motives. He defied all consistency. His perpetual search for himself was a perpetual search for a motive. He was empty of will. He was a nothing. He was Ethan Hawke.

Iago is a picnic of motives. He is King Hamlet.

Othello was a man of vision. His career of soul led into metaphysical origins. The romance of romance was his legend soul. His breadth of romance soul allowed a breadth of soul for fully 'supped horrors. The brooder, the broader the romance, the broader the capacity for horrors, for rumination of horrors, for rumination of romance, for horrorred rumination, for romanced rumination. For inward horrors which derived from bad dreams, from nightmare visions. His past was a vision. A hankerchief.

Claudius was alone. He was checkmated. He was waiting for his execution by political powers. It couldn't come too soon. He had only done good, but he had been the bad. The bad was in check. Fortinbras had been his avowed salvation, but he had rebuked that salvation, as if he had wished to castle himself. Fortinbras, the sly thief had wished to cut the gordion knot and steal back lands so legally by his father lost, land to damn Claudius's soul to eternal perdition. Fortinbras had wished to steal the damnation from Claudius. But legality was legality. And Claudius was king. To manner of plausive manners born. Too much leavened legality A law's delay into infinity. This infinity was Claudius's checkmated stay of execution. An infinity of political hesitation. A political dram of eale. Poison in the soul.

Iago was war turned in on itself. Iago was equally both a female and male character, available to both sexes. Iago may have been Shakespeare's most important character, the only one I can't read. Along with Macbeth. Iago was an inward call to war. He was a warlike Hamlet. He was a Hamlet with a war within himself which found no situation to anchor or context itself by. He or she was a war without situation, therefore without motive. He/she was a situation which was a puzzle-box cube self-contained within him/herself. He/she was the inverse dimension of Hamlet. Situations were amorphous, dream-like, hypothetical, almost pacifistically cerebral with Hamlet, but situations with Iago were volcanic, volnacic, interior apocalypes, within Iago's consciousness- but nevertheless, just as with Hamlet, with no co-ordinate outside himself whatsoever. Iago was action in a void. He/she was a ship at sea, lost at sea, moorless. She/he needed a Moor. She/he needed an anchor. So Othello became his/her anchor. Othello became his/her lighthouse, his/her beacon, his/her co-ordinate. NakednudeCleopatra knew about lighthouses. She designed optics for them. But by what optics could Iago operate. All the people around him/her were false lenses, except for the ever-loyal, every-savvy Roderigo, who had common-sense in his groaten' wallet. So Iago knew he/she at least had common sense for a purse.

Faust was a doctor. It was- what was it? A licence to kill? He had made a deal with the devil- the medical establishment. They were in the practice of slow murder. It was a willful neglect of obvious truths. A misdiagnosis of an illness which would be a death sentance if it had been true- blank, blank- was a matter to be forgotten. Forgotten forgotten. Forget forgetfullness. She was forgotten back into the hands of those who had mistakenly diagnosed a death sentance illness for her. Now that she was back in their hands, she was in deep pain again. She was Gertrude. She is my mother. The mobled queen with a disease which was a mote to trouble the mind's eye, the mind's eye of the “professionals”. She troubles them. They don't know how to cure her. It was only an ulcer. An ulcer. But she's been lying in bed in hospitals for at leas three months now. Her legs are wasted away. How can she even start walking? She was supposed to be brought to a physical rehab where she would, through swimming exercises in shallow pools, regain the motility of her legs. She has often said swimming is the best form of exercise. But she was brought back to incompetent hospitals instead, and the one she was in for months refused to let her go.

Batman looks up the Grail cult, Czeckoslovakia on the internet and looks up Czeckoslovakia, prison, amnesty international on the website “Mens Activism”, and has an epiliptic seizure.

This is a message from Hanno Raudsepp, using the identity of Batman:  There's been an epidemic of women shooting females in the privates in Hollywood, females like celebrities, producers, extras.  Scarlett Johannson may be in great danger. Ask her if she's okay. It's important that doctors from the show "E.R", who I believe are real doctors, especially Eriq la Salle, and Donald Sutherland, of the TV movie "Bethune", who probably knows a lot about Chinese medicine, are involved in treating them.  Chinese medicine, I'm not certain, but I believe involves medicinal colour-schemes, and I know Chinese medicine involves a rigid sense of precision.  Definitely call Anthony Edwards and Noah Whyle as well.  The other doctor/actors from "E.R" will know there own areas of specialty. George Cloony might know something about using an oxygen-tank to de-alcoholise the blood, as the victimized women will naturally and logically and healthily have been drinking alcohol to numb the pain.  Julianna Margolis might be able to use prodigious diplomatic skills to negotiate through the hospital beaurocracy. There was something that had to do with, I believe, de-alcoholizing the blood with a device involving, sorry, oxygen, on the first episode of "E.R".  Noah Whylie may know much about biofeedback, a fairly simple method of monitoring I'm not sure, the pulse, circulation, through a feedback signal monitoring device.  Maybe Thomas Gibson alone on "Chicago Hope" would qualify as an excellent doctor.  Peter Berg might be good at getting through hospital red tape.  And Mandi Patinkan and Christine Lahti might have studied more esoteric forms of medicine.  And that the victimized women assist at their own surgery.  It's important that the "E.R" doctors choose the hospital at which the victimized women are operated on, because some hospitals may be partially mob-run, although those same partially mob-run hospitals will have legitimate agencies working for them as well, which will allow for restaurant food to be brought in for the afflicted women.  It is important that, if the victimized women are left in seclusion, that bodyguards of the ilk of Sylvester Stallone, Arnold Shwarzenegger and Daniel Day Lewis be guarding the doors, or that the victimized women, if they wish, be in a crowded hospital room, where they can be protected by the fans for whom they sign autographs.  Glubb Pasha fans unite!

P.S.

Miso soup, the kind with spinach and little square tofus in them, would be good for the victimized women to drink while in the hospital.  And also maybe herbal tea, like earl grey tea.  Not peppermint tea though.  That gives a stomach ache aka heartburn.  Also, take the tea bag out of earl grey tea fairly quickly to avoid a stomach ache. "Tums" is an ideal pill- take two- for a stomach ache.  The complete relieving effects are instantaneous.

P.S.

The male doctor who came after Eriq La Salle and Laura Innes in the "and" area of the credit sequence of "E.R", I forget his name, I believe is extremely, extremely important. 

P.S.

Most likely there are innocent women who are shooters in Hollywood who shoot blindly but may cause grevious damage to women like Kate Moss.  Women shooters who are extremely remorseful.  Call Obama to get Kipland Kinkel out of prison so Kipland can work as a social therapist for these women, a personal therapist who's been there.  This could stop further blind shootings.  Not the deliberate one's in which horrible women shoot deliberately into the privates of female, but the blind ones which are committed by women with no free will.

P.S.

Call Travis Stork from "The Bachelor".  And Andy, the most popular bachelor.  And any other bachelor whose been a doctor.  But especially Travis Stork.  I believe he's a hellraiser.

P.S.

Maybe some of Johnny Depp's former bouncers at the nightclub he used to own could also be employed as bodyguards for the women and for the rooms they're in.

P.S.

Call Michael Sabatino as an uber-resourcefull bodyguard.  He's a big, tall guy, very tall.  I've imagined him as Mr. Fantastic for a long, long time.   Also call Matthew Fox and Josh Holloway- aka John Constantine- as bodyguards.  Make sure teeny Evangiline Lilly is okay.

P.S.

Megan Gale and Daryll Hannah may be in great danger.

P.S.

Tobey Maguire and Andrew Garfield may be in great danger.  As well as Kate Moss.  Make sure they're out of Hollywood.  A safe place should be an eskimo reservation.  Tiffany Fallon as well.  Heath Ledger left me a one word message- "eskimo".  I couldn't get this message in its complete state on my webpage.

Batman:  There was a heroic young black doctor on a pivotal episode of "E.R." who was devoted to saying the life of a preemie, a prematurely born baby.  I believe the doctor/actor who played the devil's advocate "doctor" on that episode is equally important as the black doctor/actor in reality to saving the lives of preemies.  I believe the actor who played the devils advocate doctor character on that episode might have spent the rest of his life studying how to rescue preemies, prematurely born babies, to make up for his role in that episode.

 Batman:  Batman believes in the VIA rail.

Batman:  Is John Travolta a qualified pilot?  Or Tom Cruise for that matter?  Or Ryan Reynolds?  Pilots who are Gulf War veterans are most likely veterans who were former POW's and were abused/tortured and "programmed".  The fact that some of them were prosecuted when they came home for missing child support payments while they were prisoners in Iraq may have also been a part of their programming.

Batman: Hmh.  Another message I can't get on to my webpage completely.  Batman believes Kipland Kinkel is the reincarnation of Douglas MacArthur.  He is Kipland Kinkel MacArthur.  Both were obsessed with China.  Douglas MacArthur was trying to manipulate the Korean War into an American war against China.  Probably with good reason.

Batman:  CALL MICHAEL TARSHI- sorry for the capitalizations- he'll be able to figure out the potential hospital-police labyrinth

Batman:  The cops are using cell-phones to track me.  I'll never escape them as long as I carry a cell phone.   The cell-phone tracking technology is most likely built into the police cars.  They can geographically track the exact location of anyone carrying a cell-phone or in a limousine, which usually has a built-in cell-phone.  It's most likely a satellite-managed satellite-coordinating and targeting technology. A pay phone at Wendy's is a good place to call from.  Thank God Bell isn't the only company doing pay phones any more.


Batman:  There is an active VIA rail in Canada which goes to small towns.  One can take a cab from the small towns to other nearby towns.

The steps of the middling-arched castle were weary with dusty death. The steps were made of crumpled wood and rock.. A crumbed, crumbled stomach of a stairway.. The door seemed to answer perpetually to call from an evil soul.. from a soul known to abysmal chimes .. to knowing chimes of dungeons.. dungeon chimes...

Within the castle lay Macbeth. He was mute. A ghost had consumed his speech. The dread judgement of his self-tyrannizing soul buy lay exchange-prices gold indexes gold kryptonite gold indexes over Scotland.. He was a study in tyranny. A frailty of spirit was his tyranny. His souls was a snuffed-out candle. Repeatedly snuffed out. The flip of a coin. Of Cain's, of Two-Face's, coin. Cain slaying the Abel Harvey Dent of himself. A vacuum replaced it in the interum. A vacuum which was the vacuum of a starless night, a death sky. A foggy sky, a pitch dream congregation of vapours, a bad dream, the fog of his bedimmed soul. His soul a foul congregation of fapours, of vapours. What was fair in him was foul and fair was foul. He remembered the light-colour hair of Banquo. A blond ambition. Travis Stork. A hellraiser. An ambition which seemed to merge with a blond sky. Into a nothing blandness, a nothing ambition.

Hamlet felt a dizzying situational matrix all in his mind. His situation was his own mind, nothing else. The petty limits of his own mind was his infinity situation in a nutshell. The petty infinite. His soul was bad dreams. A pettyness of grit-dirt was what was left of his soul. The left-over dirt of bad dreams. Black as pitch was still something beyond what remained. His soul was brown as pitch, blond-Banquo bland as pitch. He sometimes had vivid dreams but a blandness of life rendered them with all the meaning of a shadow. All the substance of a shadow. He had long lost all his mirth 'till mirth was but a vivid dream and no more. Dreams for nostalgia. His dreams were a nostalgic quintessence of dust. He had no delight in dreams, Were dreams ambition? His ambitions then were empty stones, stones which promised nothing but their own interior emptiness. Stones which promised nothing. No stone for a philosopher. No gold to hearken from a stone when stricken. If he was a philosopher, his soul was an empty call.

Iago felt a will to war. But a will merely double-plumed in knavery? Aristocratic war? The trumpeted pomp and circumstance of war? Was that Iago's war, merely proverbial bells and whistles? Bells and whistles of double-plumed knavery? Was he a Virag? All the plumage of war? Was he a superficial fellow? Why all the question marks? Was he a man of plumage of questions? Superficial war? Somehow he always seemed a frivolous fellow, a Frank Finlay fellow. Bamp-bamp-bamp. He lacked enough will to steady a purpose. His will was no abyss, it was a shallow well. He had only a shallow motive, divided into many still shallower motives. He defied all consistency. His perpetual search for himself was a perpetual search for a motive. He was empty of will. He was a nothing. He was Ethan Hawke.

Iago is a picnic of motives. He is King Hamlet.

Othello was a man of vision. His career of soul led into metaphysical origins. The romance of romance was his legend soul. His breadth of romance soul allowed a breadth of soul for fully 'supped horrors. The brooder, the broader the romance, the broader the capacity for horrors, for rumination of horrors, for rumination of romance, for horrorred rumination, for romanced rumination. For inward horrors which derived from bad dreams, from nightmare visions. His past was a vision. A hankerchief.

Claudius was alone. He was checkmated. He was waiting for his execution by political powers. It couldn't come too soon. He had only done good, but he had been the bad. The bad was in check. Fortinbras had been his avowed salvation, but he had rebuked that salvation, as if he had wished to castle himself. Fortinbras, the sly thief had wished to cut the gordion knot and steal back lands so legally by his father lost, land to damn Claudius's soul to eternal perdition. Fortinbras had wished to steal the damnation from Claudius. But legality was legality. And Claudius was king. To manner of plausive manners born. Too much leavened legality A law's delay into infinity. This infinity was Claudius's checkmated stay of execution. An infinity of political hesitation. A political dram of eale. Poison in the soul.

Iago was war turned in on itself. Iago was equally both a female and male character, available to both sexes. Iago may have been Shakespeare's most important character, the only one I can't read. Along with Macbeth. Iago was an inward call to war. He was a warlike Hamlet. He was a Hamlet with a war within himself which found no situation to anchor or context itself by. He or she was a war without situation, therefore without motive. He/she was a situation which was a puzzle-box cube self-contained within him/herself. He/she was the inverse dimension of Hamlet. Situations were amorphous, dream-like, hypothetical, almost pacifistically cerebral with Hamlet, but situations with Iago were volcanic, volnacic, interior apocalypes, within Iago's consciousness- but nevertheless, just as with Hamlet, with no co-ordinate outside himself whatsoever. Iago was action in a void. He/she was a ship at sea, lost at sea, moorless. She/he needed a Moor. She/he needed an anchor. So Othello became his/her anchor. Othello became his/her lighthouse, his/her beacon, his/her co-ordinate. NakednudeCleopatra knew about lighthouses. She designed optics for them. But by what optics could Iago operate. All the people around him/her were false lenses, except for the ever-loyal, every-savvy Roderigo, who had common-sense in his groaten' wallet. So Iago knew he/she at least had common sense for a purse.