periclesiastical mystery tour - concluded

[wytchcroft]

 This is for Eila and Betsy and Ana. Hope these fragments are worth the read!

Sorry for the delay with these! Thanks again to John, Aliasse and Julie 0.

…………………

And so to retell and briefly, Pericles the brave Prince of Tyre has by tragedy been struck – losing both wife and daughter – one at childbirth in the heart of a great storm, and the other kidnapped from under Lord Creon’s nose by pirates and taken to the scabrous ports of Mytilene. Pericles thus has taken to the waves for good, it seems, content to mourn in silence whilst all about him the great fleet of Tyre travels in circles. His faithful servant Helicanus struggles to find remedy. But then, glad news! Pericles wife Thaisa has been restored to life by the care of healer and magician Cerimon.

On the problems of subjectivity and objectification:

So here is Marina daughter of Pericles, in the house at Mytilene, ensconced in a brothel. But what a brothel!  For though the exterior may be unprepossessing enough, yet inside all is as a palace, a miniature palace made (wall to wall and ceiling too and even floors) from mirrors - a fun house then and circus to a curious carnival.

Each glass distorts what it reflects allowing the viewer to make sport with flesh of every kind that they can imagine into being, size, shape, form and mass or density, for all are quite perplexed. Within this maelstrom of blurring skin Marina, her outline quite drowned, struggles to call back that innocent body of her youth, oh honeyed days, when she and her beloved Philoten would marvel at their girlhood selves in Creon’s palace mirrors, many hours spent in a natural curiosity. But alas – like a ship and all at sea, the former land masses of home and country fair, all features are now misted and forgot.

And here, where all predilections are catered for there are no fashions, trends or types she can make comparison with, there is no in-house competition or rivalry between the working girls, within the house all flesh is democratic.

Marina, they say, is half mad with her wits a-wander, all that mumbling away to herself, all that talk, talk, talk. She talks to her invisible mother, the mother that gave birth to her at sea and then was lost. Lost, indeed, and yet not so, for Marina considers herself Thaisa’s living resurrection. Is she not her mother’s daughter and therefore does Thaisa not have breath again and sense and life through her and in her? Is that not nature’s way? The birth of a child is a blessed event in part for the continuance of a life before, the life of some good mother- and more, many good mothers, all the long glad line of ancestry.

Imagine then as I do, Mother, that we are in close communion, our correspondence spiritual, divine, piercing the veil of space and time arriving like glad bolts from the sky, the heavens bless such aether mail!

Oh Mother, they have taken everything from me, these villains, all the norms of living, stolen… Even time, there are no clocks, except for the hour glasses the girl use for work, no calendars. I have created my own. Would you like to know of it? There are five days, though hard to measure, I shift time on with my mood, anyway;

 Thaisa-day comes twice, at the opening and close of every week, (and so I get two days of you in a row!) to commemorate your life lived twice by you and me. Next falls Pericles, as is fit and dutiful (though he abandoned me it seems), and after? Why, Marina-day of course, as daughter follows her parents on. And then the day of Lychorida, my nurse of yore (she rests in peace I judge) and then Philoten, a day for my loving friend. Are these names not pretty and uplifting? For me they are armour worn against the sameness here. At least I can change the names of the days if not the content for all day and every day feels the same as I go through them, surrounded not only by lecherous gents but by the lewd and snoozing figures of the working girls draped over the furniture (such as there is) or parading before the mirrors and dancing between the ghastly and indecent figurines. Figurines, Mother, I cannot, cannot consider them sculpture, I cannot call them ART. Ugh, those buttery skins and puckering features, those breasts, dear heavens, jutting eternally forward, proffered for all the world like the pointed lumps of shish kebab!

It gladdens me to think of you looking out from some isle of Poseidon, sunk like Atlantis, hidden from mortal eye but not from the inner vision of a faithful daughter. My thoughts you may read, I hope with pride, even as, looking through me and out at the world, what surrounds your daughter be events most perilous and places so impure that any mother would indeed recoil. Have strength mama as I. Have strength!

Bawd and lodging:

Now where was I, can’t seem to get the time any more, busy, busy, busy – well who else is there eh, to get things done? Oh that’s right, I was telling you about our latest, Marina.

Very fine. Attractive – if your tastes are particular, refined, as they say.

For Heaven help a sensitive sort, she is the kind that invites the very worst attentions, for where a natural man of blood and vigour and with good trade might throw forth gold or other goodly coin, yet there are those whose ardour forms itself a shape more shameful, men whose excessive affections are rendered in a manner most gross and horrible indeed, by which I mean, in short, for ‘tis a noxious word, poetry.

And from this, alas, I can offer but some small protection. Aye, a real man even one with cruelty in his heart or callous cheapish touch (whom might indeed profess a wealth imaginary) and carrying in hand some sharp device, a real man I can dispatch, and swiftly, in at least a hundred ways (and have done so oft enough!). But a poet... why death just makes them worse – more voluble than ever, some of them, I tell you plain, nothing in mind is more cursed than the horror that is a posthumous poet. Mark my words.

And as for them, my words I mean, do they not demonstrate intelligence, vocabulary and a living knowledge of the world. Self taught I may be aye, but nothing less than diligent in my own education. I can speak the tongue of many a court and better than most courtiers. Therefore, heed me well. Give credit where credit’s due, I say; it’s a creditable trade I’m in though I get none, credit that is. What do I get? Scorn and insult, slander and accusation as if I were some criminal, some common pimp and my cloistered house of delight just a common knocking shop.

They call me ’slaver’. Slaver! I that do direct the flow of human traffic- without which all would soon be chaos, ants at a scurry this way and that and like a wound un-staunched the very life’s blood, humanity, would be spread and wasted. I should be known for this good office for have I not shown myself both charitable and philanthropic? A pox on bureaucracy! Illegal? Bollocks to the lot of them, some crowd of meal faced judges all of whom I would know better should they be topsy-turned to show their arses. HA!

Well, these are the days, eh, these are the times. I can’t even find any gratitude in my charges, not even when a fresh young thing gets saved from horrible murder, rescued mind and by some of my best gents, (and all gals like a pirate, right?) so where’s the bleeding gratitude? There’s none, none at all.

 

The pros and cons of living hopefully:

Helicanus writes;

…for I am aged indeed – and yet ‘twas ever so, for my head sprung white and my eyes did crinkle from the first moment opportune (and Pericles did make much merry of the fact!) and these, along with my honesty and blunt voiced manner, were known as my chief features. I have indeed a rugged heart and weathered but full of honesty and all that makes a man - and given with affection that pure heart still beats in the storehouse of my liege.

It is a black irony that men do hunger so for the days of their youth’s excitement – days which they did, back then, condemn as being of a life seen as fitful, fretting and episodic. Nostalgia is many an old man’s vice. Ah, and our motto then was ever “In hac spe vivo – in this hope I live” but now?

All is dormant in the body of my hopeless Prince, he who once would have chanced a jousting arm at all misfortune had it but worn a human face.

But implacable and unknowable are the fates, so taken from him each in turn, fiancé, wife, daughter and state. When strangers, by which I mean visitors, servants, trades-people and such, ask me, as they are wont from time to time, “do you not find the disposition of our King to be weakly, unmanly and indulgent?” little wonder then that my answer plain spoken already is often underlined by dagger or by rope.

Yet I admit, I shall confess as any man full aware of human frailty must come to do, that indeed there are dark hours, those times when the frustrations of dealing with an infirm threaten to expose my temper, to fray the tether of my emotions and loose them roaring out onto the deck like dogs or tigers. There are moments when the silence screams. And throughout, my lord sits rigid and inexpressive to all. There were occasions earlier in his depression when he would sit and shake like one afflicted with a dreadful palsy, buffeted like our Seabird was when the tempest took her. But no longer, the galvanic surge of painful passion seems quite over and done. I suppose that is why I am myself so calm and able to maintain a stoic’s disposition. I have learned from a good master. I have learned from Pericles how to be still through all, even now when the promise of light comes from you in Ephesus; that there may at last be happy reunion of husband and wife – if Pericles will wake his eyes to Thaisa when she is brought aboard.

Well, my friend, these troubles are our own belonging but to this court at sea, you have worked a miracle twice over in the recovery of our Lord’s beloved dame. So then, until I can at last shake your hand and give to you aloud the praises so richly deserved, I remain

Yours faithfully,

Helicanus.

 

Limbo:

Thaisa meantime is contemplative. She wonders about the nature of thoughts, feelings, bodies, and what flows between them, how the links between one person and another are formed – and how they are broken. Which may be real and which merely illusory; the heart’s own desires playing tricks with the mind. Cerimon is jealous of her child, she feels that. After all, she has caught the man often enough staring at her, at her belly, looking at her womb – and Thaisa has done likewise, following Cerimon’s gaze - making it hers, as she stands before his magic mirror, searching the spiral coral of her navel the place where mother and child were last one flesh and not yet sundered, but tethered and content with their umbilical chain. Oh curse these restless days – yet not so, for this is a healing season of sorts, for all the old man’s dominating ambitions to contain, restrain and recreate her. Cerimon is tender enough, in his fashion, and Thaisa has his promise of release when Pericles arrives.

But she wonders… what can be believed in this place… this place! Narcotic in its odours and atmospheres, the gold light behind the curtains, the lapping tongue of the sea, the figures glimpsed distant in the curling streets and wide avenues of the city, a city she is forbidden to explore. It is like a mirage. A city built of hazy recollections, half memories, with an architecture built from dreams only dimly recalled. A limbo, yes, place of waiting.

While somewhere else, somewhere unknown, her child is wandering loose - and free, as the wind upon the waves. Without a name even. Thaisa likes to imagine… likes to think of her daughter grown and named and living some other life. And what name then? Cynthia perhaps, for often has her mother sworn by the moon. And it is from the moon that Cerimon draws down his magic, her emblem gleams around his neck and shines upon the walls of his chambers. But the daughter was born and lost within the span of a single storm – and Thaisa doesn’t know any stormy names. Diana then, the huntress, yes – she’d do nicely.

And a virgin too! Ha, ha!

Yes, but she shouldn’t joke about that – in fact if Thaisa could have her way she’d be out of here and for Diana’s temple straight. Diana’s served her right, Thaisa knows, she’s alive after all and owes some Goddess thanks for that… 

What is this nonsense in my noggin, eh? She wonders. I am struck by fancies! I always thought myself a sturdier type, after all I am nothing if not a survivor. More than anything my child, whoever and wherever, I hope your head is high but your feet are on the ground, I hope you’ve got the common sense I used to have!

And Pericles, good husband… what of him, what manner of fortune, fate and face? Oh he was the daintiest dish that gave my appetite her fill. Glorious he was… when he’d a mind to be. And yes, I miss him, he’s – oh I don’t want to think about that, it’s too much for me. Let’s just see what life does next, right? Right.

Every story told between the covers has an ending:

Ah the pulsing of the Heavens, all the music of the spheres, the voices of stardust and comet, the mysterious rhythms of the cosmos pushing and pounding and beating a single cosmic song – creation, creation, creation! Life! Life!

And so with magical ropes Cerimon has Thaisa bound once again and he stands her in the circle and the star. She faces the points and braves all the opening elements without complaint, without murmur. Then he leads her down through the dark to the shore line and the ink black waves that glitter with the midnight stars all in them. And there Cerimon draws forth from a cave that box which first had carried her to Ephesus. Oh dreadful and beloved box!

Unfastening the decorated lid he gently places her within, on the russet silks and velvets – and fearing lest in dallying too long his affectionate heart would break and a manly nerve be quite abandoned, Cerimon closes down the lid.

As he does so, he experiences the oddest sensation – that in the compass of the action he has laid the final words of some glad tale, has reached the stop and nothing more but the blank page and the cover closing, and in the closing is the tale full told and all of Thaisa and her life and memory, all the tale of her and Cerimon and all his magic here indeed concluded and contained between the covers of that coffin shaped book.

But tomorrow he’ll read that drowned book once again, and thus a second time will Thaisa rise but fully known now and disclosed to servants and the general public – and thence to Dian’s temple and at last to Pericles.

………….

The arbitrary nature of narrative:

And as the Seabird rows in slow toward the  docks at Mytilene, come for supplies and some rest for a weary crew, the ocean seems as calm as a lake in summer stillness, a bright lens, a glass, a shining mirror.

Look! Look now! Surely that is Thaisa sliding into the glass, under the water, and Marina stepping entranced through the mirror, walking through the walls.

Pericles he opens his eyes.

The end.

………………………………………..

So what was all that about? Well, just a few riffs is all. It was never my intention to rewrite the story of Pericles. I just got some inspiration about a few side characters and issues (and after reading some angela carter books). The play itself is a lot more complex being something of a fairy tale, (with the language structured something like an old mummer’s play, it always reminds me of the death of Pilate “a ship never passed this way that was not drowned, he deserved not bliss but to be overwhelmed with fire”.) and including as it does riddles, dancing, jousting, magic, crude sexual comedy and the action of Pericles earlier and adventurous life as well.

Thematically it is really a Father and Daughter play, as with The Tempest and other late works of Shakespeare. It’s also a bit science fiction - as the setting is constantly island hopping it could easily be staged to be among strange planets in space!

Thanks to anyone patient enough to read these entries.

Comments

[kodzujoro.livejournal.com]

hello, dear friend! i'm glad to see you again! how are you?

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

ah it is so good to hear from you! i can't seem to access the russian parts of lj very well these days, alas.
but the very fact of dealing with some shakespeare (above) is partly your influence actually because i have got back into monologues and dialogues again!

i know Russia has been suffering of late an so i wish you all the very best my friend and i hope to be in better communication ASAP!
regards,
wytch

[stoshagownozad.livejournal.com]

I'm here I'm here and this is so strange and 'sleepwalking" story - so good to see you here again, alive and writing!

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

Yry! as Shakespeare says; "We are such stuff as dreams are made on - and our little life is rounded with a sleep!" :))

[aliasse.livejournal.com]

The birth of a child is a blessed event in part for the continuance of a life before, the life of some good mother- and more, many good mothers, all the long glad line of ancestry.

I found that very moving; makes it as much about Mothers and Daughters as Fathers and Daughters for me. Angela Carter, eh? I was interested to read about where your ideas came from, and I can see this influence now.

Once again I am amazed by your imagination. I find it hard to describe anything, but particularly anything that isn't here and now. But perhaps you were a sailor in a former life... About the island-hopping. I said to Mr Aliasse only the other day - 'well, obviously it didn't take them 10 years to get home, considering the distances. Unless it's Symbolic.' Yes, yes, I know my Greek myths (not much).

Anyway, bravo and all that!

P.S. I ate a Crunchie bar while I was reading this. It was a good combination.

mothers and daughters

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

thanks! that was the heart of the piece here - and i wasn't at all sure i could pull it off (not being a mum or a daughter myself!) - plus after the nice things you said about pt 1 i'm glad this wasn't a let down.

crunchie eh? you know your confectionery as well as your history i see!

angela carter, yes i love her stuff - this is a bit Fisher Price in comparison! :))

thanks as always for reading and commenting :))

Re: mothers and daughters

[betsycontent.livejournal.com]

how incredibly kind of you to dedicate this to us - three generations of women all so intertwined with one another by the bonds of unconditional love. your insights into women are astounding in their depth and accuracy. i know no other man, personally, who empathizes with us so thoroughly. thank you for letting me know about this piece. i have been remiss in keeping up with my dearest lj friends, and i apologize. your writing, as ever, is brilliant. such a fine mind. it shines like the sacred light at the end of the tunnel.

Re: mothers and daughters

[wytchcroft.livejournal.com]

what a beautiful comment! :)) thank you so much :)))