Of Criseyde

            It’s a difficult decision – should you follow blindly into a love affair of which you know nothing? Today, we would say no without a second thought, and the character of Criseyde would be perceived as, well, something of a trollop. But hers is a different time. In a city under siege, and a time when men went to war and women learned about waiting and fate and grief, one learns to take chances, to love and live in the moment because tomorrow may never come for you. Even more to the point, tomorrow may not come for someone else. Today we think so much; we must analyze and plan and act with caution to avoid the heartbreak we know is imminent. Why do we consider it so wonderful to stay wary? We've developed an awful connotation of the word 'mistake' to include an element of regret. Regret is wrong. It keeps us from moving on and from learning. Perhaps we will never fully realize that regret is a superfluous feeling that does not belong in our emotional vernacular (not to say that we should not recognize when we have done something wrong). But Criseyde lives not in this time, she exists in a world of battle, torn between two enemies, two classes, and two loves. And with Troy on the brink of collapse, she is running out of time.

Of Troilus

            How would any of us react if all at once, a man we trusted came to us and spoke of another who loved us dearly, who desperately wanted us, and who would die without us. It gives you pause, as it did Criseyde. But Troilus is a complex man. How to describe him? First and foremost, a knight, brave and skilled in battle, one who, like his brothers, drives the Greeks away from his city. His skill is impressive; the training and diligence mark his commitment and maturity. He bears all the same superficial merits of men from an age long past, however, Criseyde notices there is something more to Troilus as she watches his victorious parade through the streets. She sees a man tired and worn from battle, bleeding from his wounds, still in armor, but vulnerable to her eyes in his uncovered head and, thanks to Pandarus, his unveiled heart. For this is not merely a mechanical general who has won a battle, this is a humble man who has put aside his broken heart, his all-consuming love, his every emotion and thrown himself entirely into battle, to fiercely protect his city and countrymen. As all of us know, one of the greatest and most tragic challenges we face is putting aside our sorrows, heartbreak or grief to put one foot in front of the other. Troilus has gone even farther; he has driven back an entire army, all the while, Criseyde knows, suffering inside.

Troilus and Criseyde, An Overview

            The point of these entries is my humble attempt to put forth a general reasoning of why Criseyde is a character for which to have sympathy. This is in three parts because I think long posts are obnoxious and frankly, I have a short attention and don't expect any more of you than I do of myself. Ergo, one post of summary, two posts of thoughts. 

            This story takes places primarily within Troy during the Trojan War when Paris made the mistake of stealing Helen. Thank you, testosterone. Troilus is a younger brother of Hector and Paris. He sees the widow Criseyde and falls madly in love with her. Criseyde's father has abandoned Troy to join the Greek forces. Eventually, Pandarus, Criseyde's uncle persuades Troilus to tell him why he has been so sad and Troilus confesses he is in love with Criseyde. Pandarus arranges for the lovers to meet, etc., etc., until Criseyde's father foresees  the fall of Troy and demands that Criseyde and a POW be traded. Criseyde is reunited with her father, and Diomedes, a well off Greek soldier decides he is in love with her. Troilus catches wind of this and dies in battle lamenting the despondent lot of lovers. 

(Read it for yourself, it will be far better than any synopsis I can give.)

Color: Often an Adjective, Seldom a Noun.

Many days ago, I thought about how we describe color. Most often, we only think about the color in the sense of the object on which it appears. But what if we thought about color only in the sense of a color? An abstract concept that is only ever utilised in relation to a tangible object. For example: yellow. A pure yellow, roughly the color of the sun (perfect example of the above statements), but described in a way that speaks only of the color, not the object. When I look at yellow, I see it being very bright, but also with great depth to it. Even if it does not take on a shape, there's an angular quality to the color itself, as though corners exist in a shapeless body. If one were to add just a touch of white to it, the shade would immediately soften, round, and one could almost see the swirling undulations within it. 

The other day I saw a strange color, a shade of blue-green, and I thought of all that I had seen within yellow. I closed my eyes and stared intently at the color, void of all its earthly objectifications. Something strange happened. There was a thin shell all about its surface, not unlike that of the caramelized sugar atop crême brûlée. The color was so weak, I perceived, that it was almost like a colored water filled the thin shell. I looked at it a while longer because something just didn't feel right about that description. It would have sufficed, but what is sufficient is never satisfactory. I then realized that the difference was the 'water' was not quite water. It possessed all the fluid dynamics characteristic of water, but I realized that the substance filling it was denser than water. The laws of science need not be obeyed within human imagination.