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The Tapestry

Othello: Thou’st the look of it. The gleaming in thine eye. All things of dreams and phantoms cleave unto thy very breast, knowing that the dawn is yet near to the skies. I’faith, thy weird finds company with Verity, as were they bedmates or yet twin girl children, indistinguishable and inseparable.

Othello sits down in the armchair opposite from Hamlet

Othello: Does’t think then that the heavens guide thine steps, gentle Hamlet?

Hamlet: Nay, I do not – cannot – imagine such a happenstance.

Othello: Whyfor, say’th thou nay?

Hamlet: The notion that my life, my steps, my very will is writ among the stars, in the books of the Norns, written into the very machinery of being; Fie! This I cannot abide. My own hand, rather, at the tiller, my destiny made manifest with mine own hands and arts.

Othello: Just so! I shall speak upon thy coming, giving voice to that which nests silent and sleeping within thy heart. Truth, like a phantom barb stings thee in ways for which no poet nor prose can compose or recite. Like a madness, it drives and twists thee like a shrewish lover, ne’er relenting but ne’er emerging to take any shape within thy thought.

Wot thee of this?

Hamlet: The Tapestry?

Othello: Would’st apprehend this faceless chimera, and having so taken hold of it then seek for understanding?

Hamlet nods.

Othello: The Tapestry is all about us, enfolding us more gently or more roughly, one than another. Omnipresent, in every room and chamber. It cloaks invisibly the scenery beyond thy jalousie. Its weave brushes against thy skin at thy labours, and at Vespers, and midst thy tithing and tolls. The Tapestry is the very fabric of the world, cutting thee off from Verity for all time, as a blindfold man may not regard the sun or the heavens.

Shakespeare should have written The Matrix. Totally.

I blame Abel Undercity.

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Categories: Culture, Humour.

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