One of these days I am going to figure out how to photograph my stuff better…. These look much nicer (not so bright, and not so shiny) in real life. Finished this evening to be put in the mail to a friend tomorrow. A return on a favour she did for me early this fall and also because she rocks. Like the last toque and scarf set I made – this is Mulberry Wool/Silk blend and it’s not only super-soft but really warm. Which is good because this set is going to Ottawa where it gets real cold.
Despite the sickness and the harriedness of this last week, we managed to get our house decorated for Christmas (plus, I got the second curtain hemmed properly while on one of my sick days, so our living room is technically “done”). We don’t do a Christmas tree because 1) it’s horrifically wasteful, 2) trees are messy, and 3) we don’t have any room in our tiny house to put one up. Instead, I have instituted the tradition of the “festive branch” which entails branches in a vase which get decorated with only the prettiest, most delicate glass ornaments. Twiggy branches just don’t hold up anything heavier than blown glass, so I’ve been collecting nicer ornaments for just this purpose in the last few years. (Before I met Brian who came with a kid, I had never decorated my home for Christmas – but now it’s something I enjoy doing as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.)
I made several other decorations this year which I will feature here as well, but for now you get a picture of this year’s festive branch(es). Below is a photo of my favourite ornament which I bought the first year Brian and I were dating at the Bay for less than $5. I still think she’s the best, and I’d love to find more like her:
Not being a student of the stage, I only recently became acquainted with the concept of the “Machiavel” in Elizabethan theatre. This (according to the best defnition I’ve found) is “primarily a person who puts his own personal survival and power above any traditional moral restraint. He is a person who believes that the assertion of his individual desires is more important than observing any traditional ways of dealing with people and who is prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve his personal desires. He is, thus, a self-interested individualist with no traditional scruples about communal responsibilities and morality. The Machiavel is thus commonly an inherent source of social disorder.” (Ian Johnston, VIU) Makes sense that the character-type named after Machiavelli would be those whose power-seeking (and maintaining ends) justifies all sorts of means… ultimately drivers of the plot from one point to the next.
Interesting too that there is rarely just *one* Machiavel in a given work – the villain without a worthy match is rather boring – and so rarely does Shakespeare depict good actually winning out over evil. Rather it is the operative with the most cunning who often comes out on top – independent of their moral weight – even as we may sympathize more with the characters who fall. King Lear and Cordelia in King Lear being our example from last term. In this term’s Shakespeare Antony and Cleopatra it is difficult to distinguish a character with any particular morality, but the Machiavels are everywhere. Both our title characters, plus the character of Octavius to varying degrees share these characteristics. Antony least, Cleopatra moreso, Octavius the most. Guess who wins in the end? But ultimately it doesn’t matter because we aren’t sure how we feel about any of them throughout the play – so Shakespeare paints a picture of even the most ardent star-crossed lovers as being willing to throw each other under the bus if the power stakes are significant enough.
Despite what is supposed to be a deep and abiding love, both Antony and Cleopatra make arrangements in opposition to the other’s interests throughout the play – Antony by marrying the sister of Ceasar to seal his bond, Cleopatra by making promises to Octavius which emasculate Antony’s military prowess in order to save her sovereign Egypt from submission to Rome. And yet, we are left to wonder whether or not these characters ultimately believed they could play off Octavius to ultimately end up with each other *and* all the power.
Hard to believe in Antony who is the weakest manipulator of the three – his greatest downfall is his desire for Cleopatra and a certain arrogance that he can do what he likes, no matter what is being alleged, or what his wife Fulvia (who dies near the start of the play) is doing in his absence. He is irresponsible in his wants and the marriage to Octavia is not his own plot for dominance, but one that is suggested to him, and which he picks up on the merits of. He is not the master of his own fate, and his judgement is questioned by many throughout the play because it is obvious that even in his final anger with Cleopatra (after she militarily betrays him) that he cannot imagine living without her. Ultimately Antony is manipulated by Octavius and his friends, as well as his lover Cleopatra – so we might choose his side of things if he wasn’t so weak and if he didn’t show his own propensity towards morally questionable behaviour. (Not to mention his pitiful death scene where he can’t get anyone to kill him, so botches his own suicide).
Cleopatra is a villain with a bit more going on. Reigning monarch of Egypt she loves Antony only so much as she can control his actions and is furious when he betrays her by marrying Octavia. One wonders if its this first break between Antony and Cleopatra which sets the stage for her military betrayals later in the play…. that she ultimately doesn’t trust Antony enough to risk it all for him. Twice she betrays him militarily in order to save her own sovereignty, and close to the end of the play we find her entreating Octavius (falsely, it turns out) to allow her to maintain her sovereignty as ruler. While Antony kills himself over the lost love of Cleopatra (she arranges for him to think she is dead), Cleopatra kills herself over the loss of her power and the fear that Octavius will parade her through the streets as a prize of war, a fate she cannot bear to envision. Cleopatra can not live without herself, her self-image as a noble and powerful woman, and is required by her dignity to take her life which she does in a pseudo-erotic manner, followed by her maidservants who adore her.
And Octavius? He has it all by the end of the play – acheiving through force, manipulation and broken promises – but its with a hollow ring that he closes the play with the lines:
Take up her bed;
And bear her women from the monument:
She shall be buried by her Antony:
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
A pair so famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them; and their story is
No less in pity than his glory which
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall
In solemn show attend this funeral;
And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity.
Now soverign ruler of Rome, Octavius must still kneel before the strong personalities of Antony and Cleopatra, as well as their passionate love for one another. Not only were their lives notable, he says, but their deaths are the kind which make legends (who has ever forgotten that Cleopatra died from the bite of an asp, likely self-inflicted?). Tragic though their deaths are, they make the life of Octavius even moreso as he must live in the shadow of these events which he set in motion through his own struggle to acquire power.
Despite her glaring faults (the dishonesty, the vanity) – I find Cleopatra to be the most sympathetic of the characters – if only because she forces the male rules around her to accept her presence as *one of them* despite her gender. Frequently throughout the play we are treated to the perception of Cleopatra as a temptress, a witch, a mesmerizer – not to be trusted. And during battle scenes, her presence as commander of her forces is questioned because she does not belong in this most masculine of spheres. Even her self-inflected death is an act of self-empowerment as she cheats Octavius out of the victory of her debasement. ” Bravest at the last|She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal|Took her own way.” Only Cleopatra has any real dignity at the end of the play, though Octavius honours Antony, we can’t quite get the image of him staggering around after stabbing himself out of our minds.
Some other areas of inquiry I am interested in exploring further with this work include:
I have been home sick since about Sunday, give or take a couple small errands, and so I am updating my blog from bed this morning. Finishing off my coffee before I shuffle into the bath and then get on with whatever household chores I can do before I get tired again. Colds! Such a small illness, such a large effect on overall energy. But I am on the mend, so I expect to be back to work tomorrow (I actually thought I would be back today, but I’m still too exhausted and snuffly). So far this week I’ve missed three meetings (2 union, 1 work), a union xmas party and today’s work luncheon for Christmas. But whatev. I used to push myself into everything despite illness, but last autumn I had a major health problem brought on by doing that and it took months to fight. (Lung infection which I had for two months while traveling the province on bargaining business – probably one of the most miserable periods of my life).
In any case, I did manage to finish a small sewing project yesterday:
A perfectly-fitting tank top which I started on the weekend. Really, it was a short project, but it took me feeling a bit better to finish it. I wasn’t sure how this fabric would work as a top, but it looks great on and I do so love this wall-papery design…. hopefully I can put it to use under a cardigan until the weather gets warmer.
Tonight we are decorating for Christmas which means that I have some cutting out and finishing of handmade ornaments to do today. Perfect since I don’t want to move too much. Plus we put together a gingerbread house structure last night so it will be ready to decorate tonight as well. This year, as always, I am so glad that we don’t do a Christmas tree. It seems like enough work to get lights and decorations happening without also lugging five-seven feet of greenery into the house as well.
So I’m off to bath and shuffle and drink tea while I work my way slowly through the house and its many little chores – with naps in between of course, and possibly some more reading for my January classes. I finished Antony and Cleopatra yesterday and have begun Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry – good times.
This poem, by Archibald Lampman (1861–99), turned up as the preface to a book of lectures by the same name (taken from Lampman by Northrop Frye). I loved it immediately, and then read about how it was written to express trepidation at the rise of the modern century in Canada. I haven’t read any Lampman before, odd considering he was a Canadian poet – but then again, we didn’t read almost any Canadian writers in school. I hope that’s changed since I was in English Literature twenty-two years ago, but I somehow doubt it.
The City of the End of Things
BESIDE the pounding cataracts
Of midnight streams unknown to us,
’T is builded in the dismal tracts
And valleys huge of Tartarus.
Lurid and lofty and vast it seems;
It hath no rounded name that rings,
But I have heard it called in dreams
The City of the End of Things.
Its roofs and iron towers have grown
None knoweth how high within the night,
But in its murky streets far down
A flaming terrible and bright
Shakes all the stalking shadows there,
Across the walls, across the floors,
And shifts upon the upper air
From out a thousand furnace doors;
And all the while an awful sound
Keeps roaring on continually,
And crashes in the ceaseless round
Of a gigantic harmony.
Through its grim depths reëchoing,
And all its weary height of walls,
With measured roar and iron ring,
The inhuman music lifts and falls.
Where no thing rests and no man is,
And only fire and night hold sway,
The beat, the thunder, and the hiss
Cease not, and change not, night nor day.
And moving at unheard commands,
The abysses and vast fires between,
Flit figures that, with clanking hands,
Obey a hideous routine.
They are not flesh, they are not bone,
They see not with the human eye,
And from their iron lips is blown
A dreadful and monotonous cry.
And whoso of our mortal race
Should find that city unaware,
Lean Death would smite him face to face,
And blanch him with its venomed air;
Or, caught by the terrific spell,
Each thread of memory snapped and cut,
His soul would shrivel, and its shell
Go rattling like an empty nut.
It was not always so, but once,
In days that no man thinks upon,
Fair voices echoed from its stones,
The light above it leaped and shone.
Once there were multitudes of men
That built that city in their pride,
Until its might was made, and then
They withered, age by age, and died;
And now of that prodigious race
Three only in an iron tower,
Set like carved idols face to face,
Remain the masters of its power;
And at the city gate a fourth,
Gigantic and with dreadful eyes,
Sits looking toward the lightless north,
Beyond the reach of memories:
Fast-rooted to the lurid floor,
A bulk that never moves a jot,
In his pale body dwells no more
Or mind or soul,—an idiot!
But some time in the end those three
Shall perish and their hands be still,
And with the masters’ touch shall flee
Their incommunicable skill.
A stillness, absolute as death,
Along the slacking wheels shall lie,
And, flagging at a single breath,
The fires shall smoulder out and die.
The roar shall vanish at its height,
And over that tremendous town
The silence of eternal night
Shall gather close and settle down.
All its grim grandeur, tower and hall,
Shall be abandoned utterly,
And into rust and dust shall fall
From century to century.
Nor ever living thing shall grow,
Or trunk of tree or blade of grass;
No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,
Nor sound of any foot shall pass.
Alone of its accurséd state
One thing the hand of Time shall spare,
For the grim Idiot at the gate
Is deathless and eternal there!