Coming to a nightmare near you!

Richard III

(Encylopedia Britannica)

Richard was the last of the Plantagenet kings, defeated decisively at the Battle of Boswell Fields by Henry Tudor in 1485, ushering in the Tudor era. Elizabeth I of course was Henry VII's granddaughter. As Shakespeare's continued success as a play maker — the contemporary phrase —  it was perfectly reasonable to paint the vanquished king as more dreadful than he really was. Reasonable but also politically expedient to keep the queen happy. 

Both Shakespeare and Thomas More portrayed Richard as a dreadful man, conniving, cruel and physically malformed but history has softened its judgement. 

He was born with scoliosis which twisted his spine but was neither hideous nor a hunchback though he was small of stature.

He took shocking care of his minor nephews, the older of whom had a stronger claim to the throne than Richard. Their deaths were announced but never clarified though none of this matters to Shakespeare’s play.

Richard is a villain from the start. Toward the end of the play as he loses confidents and enemies through his own behaviour. his increasingly frightening justifications for his actions  and cruelty are delivered straight at the audience who become unwilling witnesses to an unravelling soul who explains his seduction of the widow of a good man whose death Richard has arranged to an audience both mesmerized and horrified.

Was ever in this humour woo’d? 

I’ll have her but I will not keep her long.

What, I that kill'ed her husband and his father,

To take her in her heart’s extremest hate,

With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,

The bleeding witness of her hatred by,

Having God her conscience, and these bars against me —

And I, no friends to back my suit at all,

But the plain devil and dissembling looks —

And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!

Ha!

Hath she forgot already that brave prince,

Edward, her lord, whom I some months since,

Stabb’ed in my angry mood at Tewksbury?

A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman,

Fram’ed in the prodigality of Nature,

Young, valiant, wise and no doubt, right royal,

The specious world cannot again  afford.

And will she yet debase her on me,

That cropp'd the golden prime of that sweet prince.

And made her widow to a woeful bed

On me whose allot equal Edward’s moiety?

That halts and am misshapen thus?

[I.ii.232 — 55]e4

King John was not a good man

History, Shakespeare and even Walt Disney's animators agree: the reign of King John (1199 — 1216), the younger brother of the wildly popular Richard the Lionhearted was a dismal time. He may have been a decent administrator — reviews are mixed — but was also known for his bad temper, irrational rages cruelty and many losses including all of Englands French lands and much of the power of the English monarchy. In June, 1215, John was forced to sign the historic Magna Carta or Great Charter which curtailed royal power in matters of taxation, justice, religion and foreign policy.
Thenews was not lost on cartoonists more than 700 years later. The 1978 Walt Disney movie, Robin Hood portrayed John as a weak snivelling imposter king imposing punitive taxes on his subjects which his brother, the rightful king was off on Crusdades (all true) 


(King John and Sir Hiss, Walt Disney Corp. 1978)

The Life and Death of King John (1590? — 1594) as Shakespeare's play is formally known ir rarely staged these days but contains one of the most vivid characters in all of Shakespeare, Falconbridge, the Bastard, the natural though illegitimate son of Richard the Lionhearted whom John has betrayed. The Bastard earns the begrudging respect of all the characters in the play with his loyalty and courage and serves his unworthy uncle to the end.
King John ends with one of the great Shakespearian rallying cries, spoken not by the miserable dying king but by his fictional nephew, Falconbridge,
          O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
          Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs.
          This England never did, nor never shall
          Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
          But when it did first wound itself.
          Now, these her princes are come home again
          Come the three corners of the world in arms
          And we shall shock them! Nought shall makes us rue
          If England to itself be true!
                                        [V vii. 110 — 18]

He's everywhere....

He's everywhere....

If your father was an English professor (as mine was) it makes sense that Shakespeare and his many plays were just part of the furniture.In the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined my father's study just off the dining room, were separate books of all the plays in addition to the well worn Complete Works of Shakespeare with its tattered paper jacket that travelled with us to the cottage every summer. While the rest of us were carrying in stacks of beach towels and groceries, my father would be busy taking down the framed print of small sailboats that my uncles had hung above the fireplace, putting that in the corner and standing up the Complete Works where the print had hung. It never stayed there long. We would find him re-reading the text of whatever plays were being performed at the nearby Stratford Festival that year, plays he had read and taught for many years but nevertheless wanted to read again before loading us all into the station wagon for the long drive to the theatre. Shakespeare was a much a part of the cottage as corn on the cob and playing in the dunes.

In the decades since, I have thought little about Shakespeare or his plays.

This winter I decided to Get Back to the Bard — as they say — only to discover he is everywhere: in documentary and regular films, art museums, all over literature and journalism, psychology and ordinary conversation. Those are some of the places I have found traces of William Shakespeare. I suspect his influence may be encountered in science, medicine, and professional politics, areas I know little about.
What I know so far is that the more Shakespeare I read, the greater his reach seems to stretch. 

Cut out into little stars

Cut out into little stars

I was no more than 25 the first time I read these lines in an essay written by a father mourning the loss of his child after a long and heartbreaking illness. They certainly made an impression. 

Somehow I failed to notice where they came from, missed that they were spoken by a love-struck young girl or that this poetry came from one of most famous plays of all time.

I have thought of these words many times over the decades since and they came back to me as I took in the news of the recent death of a good man: the sudden silence, the clarity of the unreachable stars in the cold sky, the unbridgeable gap.

 I find these lines from the most romantic of plays very comforting in their simplicity. 

“When he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.”

― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act lll, Scene 2 

Macbeth

I saw many of the Shakespearean plays as a child but certainly not Macbeth. I suspect it was deemed to be unsuitable, what with all the death both bloody murder, despairing madness and suicide.

It continues to elude me why this play was assigned to teenagers in their high school English programs after the happy sunshine, enchantment and fun of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and as a warm up to King Lear. 

As a 15 year old, I found the witches entertaining but unconvincing, Macbeth irrational and Lady Macbeth her own worst enemy. Having passed the course, I wanted nothing more to do with the whole miserable bunch of murderous Scottish depressives in their dark cold castle.

Perhaps Macbeth is meant for older people who have lived more years and seen enough of life to better understand what the play speaks to: that greed and envy could lead to hatred and an impassioned justification for violence wildly beyond the scope of the people we believe ourselves to be.

Another mystery: why would Shakespeare give his character the name of a real Scottish 11th century king? Mac Bethad mac Findláech (known s Macbeth in English) killed Duncan, not after a dinner party but in battle, a well-worn path to power and was himself killed fourteen years later by Malcolm Canmore, Duncan’s son (later Malcolm III). His rule “was marked by efficient government and the promotion of Christianity” (bbc.co.uk). He was a good king, not a madman consumed by illegitimate greed.

To be continued….

Macbeth

Juliet

Most people know who Juliet is, even those who don’t go to the theatre, 

The name has become a synonym for all the bright optimism, and headlong passion our golden youths when everything seems within reach and every sense is turned on high

I remember the vivid clarity of city parks in spring as I strode past them on my walk to school in the mornings as well as the sound and colour of fresh leaves as they shook in the warm wind of an ordinary day. I remember liking how well my body worked and how fast I could run. Music was brilliant, even food tasted better, emotions and feelings never stronger.

The thing is, I don’t think I’m unusual in the vividness of my memories — I suspect we can all summon these distant echoes though, of course, my parks and leaves, tastes and loves are different to yours. If we try, we can conjure up the magic of being young and hopeful which is why we don’t scold Juliet for her reckless plunge into life. We are on her side, faces toward the brightness of buoyant belief, and away from the inevitable crushing of the passion that gave her decisions flight.

The realist in me knows that Juliet is just a name like any other but the eternal youth in me perks up whenever I meet a Juliet, 

We hired a lovely young woman, described by one of the guests as “Botticelli-like”  to play her harp — yes, a harp! — at our house for a few friends in honour of the New Year.: our very own Juliet sitting by the window on a winter’s afternoon filling the house with such gentle beauty.

“ But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."
(Romeo, Act 2 Scene 1)

Little but fierce

For Maddy,

Billy has a way of turning up and saying exactly the right thing when I find myself in a tight corner, even though he’s been dead for hundreds of years.

Today, this quote from A Midsummer Night’s dream (1597) was on my mind.

Here’s to you, Maddy, wrap yourself in the warmth of this thought and be well (and happy and brave and …)

Billy and me

I have the best of intentions around New Year’s resolutions. Every year, I dream up a list of Very Good Ideas which I quietly proclaim and manage to forget all about by mid-January.

This year, I have decided to tackle a more manageable learning project instead of the usual lifestyle change or addition:  2019 will be my year to finally read  Shakespeare. 

He  turns out to have been a busy guy: 37 plays, 157 sonnets and two long narrative poems. 

I will start with the plays and a few reliable guides: a famous Yale professor of English, assorted members of the Royal Shakespearean Company (UK) and my own childhood memories of seeing many of the plays performed on stage. 

Call to Arms (or Invitation to the Waltz)

January 1, 2019


A new year beckons, fresh and unsullied. The door is open a crack. The trick is to bring nothing from the old year, however dear or cherished that thought or habit might be, however right that old judgement felt.


It’s a new day, a fresh slate and everyone gets a pass. The way forward might go to the left (where the river is running rather quickly) or turn sharply to the right and disappear into the darker, unknown reaches of the forest: no matter. This is the year not to listen to the sensible, or go exactly along familiar paths.










As has been said by many braver people, “What could possibly go wrong?”

Time to open the door and find out…

Back from a long, long time-out

If I ran the world — and we must all pause here and be grateful I don't — the New Year would begin on Labour Day, that wonderful day-long intake of breath before the plunge into fall with its busyness and many demands.
This is the first year in decades that today didn't involve getting someone ready for school. No backpacks, university dorms or student apartments, no shopping for linen, books or sharp knives (culinary school), no odd food for packed lunches.
Instead, the day was spent alone on the back porch overlooking but not working in the gardens and breaks in the quiet house packing up things I am ready to live without: novels I won't find time or passion to read, clothes that don't suit the future, sheets or dishes of more use to others.
This is a good day, a gift, one blessed with sweet memories of the summer just gone.



Happy Fall everyone!

I think this is an amazing image (from today's Guardian) of a small bird lightly perched on razor wire. I don't see any blood.

My guess is that the very delicacy of the perch is what keeps the bird safe.

There's a worthy ambition: to light so softly on the negative aspects of life and thus be unharmed by their potency.

It is an important lesson and one I need to take to heart after more than a few recent heavy landings.

Winter walk

You say labyrinth, I say maze....

Hard to imagine a more contrasting example of a British maze than this one, recently built to overlook a lovely bit of British coastline.

People say the design above is Celtic, and anything is possible, of course, but these classic spirals date back to the heady days of King Minos and that disagreeable Minotaur.

The Athenian architect Daedalus, on the run from the law at home, built the king a labyrinth to house his monster but betrayed its' secret to the lovers, Theseus and Ariadne and in punishment was himself imprisoned within the maze with his son, Icarus, potential dinner for the always willing Minotaur.

One could easily conjecture that this incident was the first in the unending line of unsettling disagreements between contractors and clients.

This is the classic Circuit Labyrinth design:

The maze is resting

This is the maze behind Russborough House in Ireland but not the image one usually sees of the dense passages of closely cropped boxwood, winding in on themselves in a lovely pattern, intended to be mildly perplexing.
The lush green is gone, replaced by a bright and pleasing russet tone but no one plans to walk the maze in the winter: too cold, too dry; not at all what we had in mind....

Break's over!

A month and a day since the last post and high time to get back to work!
The first order of business is the election of a mascot for February, this brief month of dim mornings, short days and long, cold nights. Many people wish the month away before it even gets going but I think that is unjust. Perhaps our disdain should be reserved for miserable March, author of dashed hopes, late storms and icy mud.
No, February deserves a reprieve from our harsh judgement. Instead, let us notice its' brevity and the flashes of sunlight that arrive unexpectedly and remember that it willingly takes forward the mantle of newness that fell on us in January: full of optimism and energy as yet untapped.
In that spirit, I elect this little fellow, a 2 day old elephant, resident of an British zoo seen here taking in the world beyond the wall of his mother's presence for the very first time.
It won't be dignified but it would do us no harm to be as impressed by the ordinary world as this boy clearly is.

January's mascot

I have decided to nominate slugs, all of them, as a group mascot for the month of January. Most of the time, I feel like a slug, just an ordinary land one, nothing too fancy.

Slugs suit this endless month which seems to take forever to pass: day after grey day, cold, and wet dark.

Most January days are hard to distinguish.

In honour of those few lovely days when the wind abates and the sun catches the facets of snowflakes as they fall from the skies or lie in perfect drifts, I offer this stylish fellow, a Sacoglossan Sea Slug (Cyerce nigricans), surely one of the most dapper 2cm beings on this or any other planet.

What we all miss

Imagine being a member of a scientific expedition exploring the remains of a rain and cloud forest, 95% of which has already been destroyed to make way for farming.

Think about how crowded any forest is with countless bits of life (and death) — the newly born or hatched and therefore hidden, the flash as a fully mature animal streaks past, the numberless array of growing plants and trees as well as all of these in their different stages of long decay.

Now imagine having the both the skills and luck to isolate something this small, a previously unknown species of gecko, the same dull grey in tone as parts of the leave litter on the ground or perhaps the filigree mould colonising a small tree.

It is one thing to notice what we expect to find but another thing altogether to strive to see what was there all along, in plain sight but beyond what our narrow imaginations could dream of.

Remembering Butter

This is my late cat Butter, a tabby of questionable character.
She was born at a rural dump and was found under a pile of broken windows at the tender age of four days, eyes closed, ears still folded down. The vet pointed out that she possessed an indomitable will to live, having mewed loudly enough to be heard over the cacophonous racket of heavy machinery and screaming gulls at the local dump. Nose to tip of tail, she fit nicely into my open palm and spent her early weeks in the front pocket of my overalls peering out at the wide world now and again and drinking expensive canned cat milk from a small needle-less syringe.
When she got a little older, the expectant Jack Russell used to welcome her into the whelping box to snuggle up against her taunt sides, but the welcome was immediately rescinded once the puppies arrived to claim their mother for themselves. Too big to return to my pocket, Butter felt she was on her own.
She lived in the farmhouse but at a distance and took to disappearing whenever possible and hissing at guests or positioning herself in advantageous corners to take an experimental swat at passers by in the halls or halfway down the stairs. Her reputation spread. House guests would trade Butter tales, many involving an evil presence beneath the guest room bed, detected too late. Only my daughter could handle the cat and then only briefly, and with careful planning.
The problem of a hostile cat isn't really solvable. Unlike the friendly barn cat, no one wanted to adopt Butter when we moved away from the farm and she was not equipped to stay there either.In the end, she came to live in the new house and after a short period of adjustment, resumed her reign of terror, cornering guests and frightening old ladies.

Dublin retriever

This dog, built on a Dublin sidewalk in mid-December deserves to live on!
The artist whose name I didn't learn, is seen in the first shot in the final moments of the sculpture's creation. In the last shot, my husband, sand builder enthusiast and lover of all things creative, is giving the sleeping dog a light pat so light that it will not awaken the slumbering creature