madE sympathetic, woRks apathEtically...how_pAthetic
As children we are thought a number of things with the major ones being socializing and moral. Because children are so impressionable it is detrimental as to who it is educating them in these fields. It is also depending on the environments of both society and home as to how the child may grow.
An oddity surrounding this is that we are born with instincts and skills to sense how others feel. As babies and on forth through early childhood years this skill is heightened to be extremely sensitive towards their parents. This is something that can be observed; if a parent is feeling down, though they may not show it in order to appear strong to their child, the child will pick up on this and attempt to comfort them. As we get older these attributes tone down but are apparent when it comes to those we put attention to.
This means that we are born with sympathetic attributes and we use these skills. However, as we grow and go from simplistic to complex apathy comes into play. Esspecially when we are aware of true-right from true-wrong it is a matter of how much of a 'fuck we give' at that moment that determines the following action.
At what point will the veils of minute differences not get in the way of what we do next?
When will we do something out of sympathy and it not be selective?
since the post by @saint-arthur has broken links now, here’s the The Seventh Letter play at the Panopticon. And Order Ovate medals bonus. In what I believe is the correct order of scenes:
BIG SPOILERS for the conversaton with Lilac during the Feast of the Rose below
Scene 1:
This year, an unproven young actress – an alumna, it's rumoured, of the Foreign Office's mysterious choir – has taken the part of the Raven. Her rendition of the Hymn of the Shames sends a bankerly fellow fleeing from the auditorium in tears. Millicent mouths the words along with her. "The glowing-hearted mountain / the river in the sky / the near night and the deep night...'
Order Ovate, Night:
RAVEN: Truly my voice is sweeter than the song of the stone, the swan, the storm...
(Enter a MESSENGER beribboned with RAGS of CLOUD.)
RAVEN: (in haste) ...yet no sweeter than yours, great master. I acknowledge it so.
MESSENGER: O blackness, o blackness, wherefore should I sing? When all of my songs are seared on my skin?
The Messenger is – you've heard – always played by a man and a woman, alternately, scene by scene. In this performance, there are three actors, and you're not sure any of them are a man or a woman, precisely. The Messenger-actor who receives the flattery of the Owls, and warns the Hunter against greed, is bald and burning-eyed. Millicent watches closely. "Not so very unlike," she murmurs to you. "I think that had the Messenger succeeded, I would not love it so – but I know that had it given up, I would despise it—"
The Hunter begins his litany of solar insults, and Millicent goes guiltily quiet.
Order Ovate, Blood:
MESSENGER: What do you among my spires?
OWLS: Why, great master, we watch. We wait. We eat.
MESSENGER: You watch and you wait and consume, you say. But is there not one who will make you his prey?
OWLS: ....pray, great master, preserve us. Let us hear his shriekings no more, and we will serve you always.
MESSENGER: Ah, were it only my unfettered choice. But I owe him his hunts and the joys of his voice.
The role of the Phoenix is taken by a thrillingly beautiful visitor from the floating city of Khan's Shadow. There are whistles and cheers from the audience when she appears on the stage: and the more boorish audience members punctuate her lines with further whistles, even the soliloquy for which the part is so well-known – "I am so very tired of flames. I will drown myself in snow, and emerge in perfect serenity. Or emerge not at all." The point approaches where the Phoenix usually disrobes to undergo her Last Immolation, and two gentlemen become so excited that other better-mannered theatre-goers eject them.
But when the Immolation begins, the Phoenix does not disrobe – her feathered robe bursts into cold blue flame and she stands in the middle of it like a wick in a candle. You could swear that from the box you hear her crack and creak like new-made ice. The curtain falls, and there's a long pause before anyone applauds.
Order Ovate, Ice:
PHOENIX (to herself): I am so very tired of flames. I will drown myself in snow and emerge in perfect serenity. Or emerge not at all.
MESSENGER: What’s that? You have no more use for flame?
PHOENIX: Oho! A visitor!
MESSENGER: A pleasure. Will you guess my name?
PHOENIX: I know you. All we things of fire do. You are the ragged messenger who carries a troth from the Sun to -
MESSENGER: -name her not! Name her not, the b___h!
The Dragons who bring the Messenger to justice are seven in number. One carries Time gored on a horn. Another has the Hunter carelessly slung over one huge shoulder. Two more each are daubed with red – 'The Blood of the World,' Millicent whispers. They drag the Messenger screaming, up the steps to the scaffold at the back that represents the Wound in the World, where the Chained Sun and the Messenger's Daughter wait. The Seventh Dragon recites the crimes of the Sun and the Messenger – Betrayal of Messages, Undelivery of Words, Vile Breeding, Conspiracy in Darkness, and Unlicensed Love.
When the Dragon says the words 'Unlicensed Love', its fellows set up an astonishing, breathless scream of rage – metallic, like the tearing of ships' hulls, and so loud! Loud as thunder or the collapse of buildings. You see others in the audience rise from their seats, clutching their heads. Millicent dabs at her own ear – a trickle of blood runs down her pale neck. And the screaming grows yet louder! The stage, the roof, the box you sit in, all shake like a ship in the grip of a hurricane. The audience are rushing for the exits now. It is a relief when the Dragons cease their screaming and lunge forwards, to feed on their prisoners. The curtain falls on the sights and red sounds of their feasting.
