Shakespeare – Page 2 – Deborah Makarios

September 18, 2015

Of Flags, Fire and Our Piratical Destiny

There is a tide (Shakespeare informs us), in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

What Shakespeare is saying (or would be if he had sufficient foresight) is that New Zealand should change its flag, and so doing, steer the ship of state toward our remarkable and unexpected destiny. His metaphor is a well chosen one.

Let me explain.

The present referendum is our Prime Minister’s idea. It’s to be a two-part postal referendum: in the first, we’ll narrow down a shortlist of four to the lead contender, and in the second, we’ll choose between that and the status quo.

It’s rather like the America’s Cup, really: contenders fight for the right to duke it out with the present holder of the title. Unfortunately, the long-list of forty was released to the general public, even though they were not permitted to have a say on which made it to the short-list – rather like allowing thirty-six yachts to sail past but not to actually race.

We are now in the first (or Louis Vuitton) stage of proceedings, in which we are asked to rank the four contenders in order of preference. And here they are, not in order of preference (or at least, not mine):

This design, by Kyle Lockwood, is probably closest to our present flag, at least in the lower right, and maintains the traditional red, white and blue colour scheme.

Great minds think alike, you say (or fools seldom differ, depending on your vexillological tastes), but no, this design is also from the teeming brain of Kyle Lockwood.

This design, from Andrew Fyfe, of a simple black and white koru is, in my opinion, the winner of the unofficial “which flag will look best whilst burning” competition.

There is also talk of including the Red Peak design (by Aaron Dustin) but as of this writing, no decision has been made – or at least, no decision has been announced.

It is, however, the fourth of the designs on the current short-list (designed by Alofi Kanter), which is my favourite.

Please, do not mistake me for a rabid sports fan. I can, if I concentrate, remember which sort of oval-ball game it is the All Blacks play, but that is about the extent of my sporting knowledge and interest. I do not even own a pair of red socks. No, I favour this design for two simple reasons.

The first is its similarity to this, the flag of anarcho-pacifism:

New Zealand has long been a leader when it comes to waging peace. Te Whiti o Rongomai, one of my personal heroes, was leading indigenous people in non-violent resistance before Gandhi was born or thought of.

Later, we declared our entire nation a nuclear-free zone – despite being the first to split the atom. This was enforced, even to the extent of refusing to allow the vessel bearing our own Head of State to enter our waters. (For the record, totally the Royal Navy’s fault. They refused to “confirm or deny” that they had nuclear material on the Royal Yacht Britannia alongside the Queen.)

Let us be frank: New Zealand has never been known for its devotion to, or respect for its leaders. Hierarchical we are not. Hence the anarcho-pacifism.

The second reason is that black and white flags are traditionally emblematic of pirates. But wait, I hear you say. How can you possibly pair anarcho-pacifism with anything of the genus Jolly Roger? Isn’t it a symbol of murder and mayhem? Well, no. Pirates didn’t actually fight under it.

To my surprise on looking into the subject, I found that the black and white flag was not flown by pirates all the time, but only when about to attack. (You are not helping your case, I hear you say. Bear with me.) Pirates would fly false colours – or no colours – until they had approached their prospective victim, at which point they would run up the jolly black-and-white: declaring their intentions, rather like a Victorian suitor.

The ship thus surprised then had the choice of surrendering or fighting. If they decided to surrender, they would be spared. If they decided to fight, the pirates would then run up a red flag: no quarter would then be given. (Privateers, on the other hand, weren’t allowed to kill you regardless of how hard you had fought before you surrendered.)

I have even heard it said that any ship flying under a black and white flag can, under international law, be treated as a pirate ship, but, to quote Wikipedia, [citation needed].

New Zealand is a nation surrounded by water (in fact, the furthest you can get from the coast is in the middle of a lake) and therefore eminently suited for being a pirate nation. With our cheerful disregard for other nations’ demands (surrender those children to the Communists, stay away from that atoll…) we are half-way there already.

In fact, with the TPPA demanding that we extend copyright protection to seventy years after the creator has shuffled off this mortal coil, now is an excellent time to go pirate. Being pacifist pirates, we will of course resort only to culture piracy, which unlike old-school piracy ensures that, post-pirating, the piratee still has their goods (this in kindergarten lingo is known as “sharing”).

Furthermore, anarcho-pacifism and piracy are practically enshrined in our national anthems. “Confound their politics / frustrate their knavish tricks” says the one (that’s the anarchism) and “Peace not war shall be our boast,” says the other (that’s the pacifism), going on to add “May our mountains ever be / freedom’s ramparts on the sea” (that’s the piratical bit).

The whole point of a flag (although to be fair, flags aren’t usually pointed, unless you’re Nepal) is that it is symbolic of the entity it represents, in this case, the country of New Zealand. As the flag is, so shall the nation be.

I therefore call upon the people of New Zealand to use their Louis Vuitton vote to move our nation one step closer to fulfilling its destiny, as the world’s first anarcho-pacifist pirate state. Arrr.

May 24, 2014

Love

A movie I saw the other day set me to thinking about love, about the great lovers of fact and fiction, and what it is that makes their love stand out. Who do you think of?

People have been writing about Hero and Leander for the last two thousand years. As the story goes, Leander drowns trying to swim from Asia to Europe to visit his lady love. In a storm. Amantes amentes, indeed. (Lovers = lunatics.)

Of course, love is not simply a feeling (or a mental condition), but a choice – a perpetual choice. Witness Edward Ferrars of Sense and Sensibility, who though no longer in love with his fiancée, refuses to dump her when he is offered the choice between her and continued financial security. Though he does not feel love for her, he continues to behave in a loving way.

In contrast, we have John Willoughby from the same novel, who, though very dashing and poetic, chooses wealth over the woman he loves – he’s got the feels, but one scorns to call that love which plays second fiddle to self-interest.

As Shakespeare so memorably wrote: love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Another distinctive of great love: that it doesn’t change, though all changes around it. Constancy despite circumstances.

Great lovers have also been known to defy society’s conventions. People who marry across the lines – though frequently unmarked by history – would, I argue, fall under this category. Joseph, for example, who marries his pregnant fiancée knowing full well that this will be assumed to be admission of paternity and thus send his reputation after hers on the stony road to ostracism.

The reputation of unrequited love has taken a hit of late with the increased awareness of stalking – but obviously, that isn’t love. And we might still have a grudging admiration for someone who loves from as great a distance as the loved one is comfortable with – even as we think they’d be better off getting over this one and moving on. One thinks of the medieval knight who chose to fight for the honour of a lady who wouldn’t even agree to meet him for the first fifteen years or so.

More rare is the one who loves despite knowing that their loved one is unworthy of that love. Hosea, for example, who marries a prostitute, knowing she’s going to cheat on him, and that the children she bears may well not be his.

Or the completely different man known as Sinner, of Simon R. Green‘s Hex and the City, whose love for his wife is not altered by finding out that she is a demon succubus sent to entrap him. Hell can’t stomach that sort of love, so it spits him back out.

Rather more famous: Romeo and Juliet, who defied the strictures of their families (Thou Shalt Not Fall in Love with One of Them) and eventually killed themselves rather than live without each other – although to be fair, each thought the other was dead first, so it’s not like they considered suicide as their Option A.

Then there’s the classic tale of Orpheus, who dares go living into the world of the dead to save the one he loves. Unfortunately for her (and him) his bravery is greater than his ability to follow instructions – but that’s another story.
And you could fill a compendium of omnibuses (omniboi?) with tales of those who have died for the ones they love. As it is written, “there is no greater love than this…” (John 15:13).

Great lovers put their loved one ahead of their own comfort or convenience; ahead of their own lives. Their love does not change, even when their loved one does. They will defy family, society, and even death itself to be with their loved one. Sometimes they are even portrayed as defying God himself – as though their love is stronger, and forces him to give way.

And this is where I think we are making our mistake.
This kind of love isn’t against God – because this is God’s love.

This is the love which leaves paradise to be with the beloved. A love that refuses to be bound by convention. A love that is unchanging and unchangeable, constant in the face of fickleness and betrayal. A love undaunted by indifference, neglect and even loathing. A love that will sacrifice its own life for the good of the beloved and to avoid being separated from them, and yet despite all this will not force its love on them – this is the love of God.

The qualities we admire and venerate in the great lovers of time and tale are facets in the complete and perfect love of God. It is in our love that we come closest to the divine.

April 23, 2013

Licentiousness

I have decided to put a license on my blog.

To be precise, a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 New Zealand licence.

This means that you can copy, reuse or even alter my works, providing that you give attribution and share yourself. (Sharing is good. Unless you have a cold.) You can even make money from them.

There are several reasons why I am doing this.

The first (at least chronologically) is that I have actually heard of CC licensing, thanks to the Caped Gooseberry.

Many people haven’t, particularly writers. Most advice for writers on the subject of licences is how to protect yourself from having your ideas ripped off.

Except the advice I received as a student in writing for theatre: don’t bother trying to protect your writing: theatre does not make enough money to be worth pirating.

Clearly, times have changed since actors made a handy side-income in reciting the latest Shakespeare to a printer. (Fascinatingly, you can actually tell which role they were playing – those lines are perfect, the other lines in their scenes are pretty accurate, and the scenes where they are offstage are complete rubbish.)

The biggest reason is that a lot of what writers do these days is publicity – book signings, library visits, blog tours and what have you. And these are the writers with publishing houses behind them.

Frankly, that isn’t my cup of tea, as much as I love the sound of my own voice. I’d rather be holed up in a rather cozy garret somewhere, writing.

A CC license allows me to allow others to spread my works far and wide (should they find it worth their while) while I stay curled up in afore-mentioned garret.

Ah, I hear you say, but what about the money?
There isn’t any.

Well, that’s not entirely true.
There are those who do quite well out of their writing – everyone knows about the fabulous wealth of J K Rowling, and as for no money in theatre, well, Yasmina Reza doesn’t do too badly.

But – and this is the point I would stress – there is not a lot of money in it either way. Unless you are JKR, you would, as one writer on writing I read said, be making a better living as a professional knitter.

Even if you can get a publishing contract – and they’re harder than ever to come by – there’s still a lot to be done for relatively little reward, considering the hours put in.

I remember meeting a bloke in a pub once who told of his best friend admitting how guilty he felt at not buying a copy of the bloke’s recently published book.
“That’s ok,” he said, “give me a dollar twenty and we’re even.”

Somewhat counter-intuitively, you can still make money by giving your work away. Exhibit A: Nina Paley.

But even if there isn’t any money in it, there’s still the joy of telling stories. And knowing that they won’t be restricted to those who can fork out forty bucks for a copy. Stories for everybody.

The world has changed. Reciting Shakespeare to a printer is no longer good money. Books don’t sell like they used to (although I would be the last to announce the death of the book).
As Curly says in Oklahoma, “Country a-changin’, got to change with it!”

Myself, I long for the old old days, when rich people would display their wealth and taste by having a writer on the payroll. Bed, board, mansion garret and possibly access to the library, in return for writing all day? Where do I apply?

So, if you see something you like, take it. Use it. Pass it on. Feel free.

The world is changing, and “the first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers”.