The story of Antigone flows like a symphonic dream. It’s soft and gripping; it is dramatic and with a hint of fantasy. The main theme is that of justice, but more subtly so is that of a woman, a cultural inferior, standing up for what she believes is right. Even though she gives the ultimate sacrifice in the end, she is able to accomplish her goal. Her goal was to bury her brother, giving him his last rights and keeping her integrity. In doing this, she keeps a king from abusing his power. This plot flows at a mezzo-forte through the beginning, but it mostly climaxes uncontrollably to it’s grippingly end. It reminds me of my past and also the music from it. I don’t see the past clearly however, when I read it. What I see is a memory glorified by emotion.
The story, though, it surges like music. I can feel it as I read. I can feel the music pulling me, the orchestra of my past playing scenes in my mind. If I close my eyes, I am there, in that orchestra, playing a song of passion and victory. I can feel the orchestra preparing to play so I join them. I sit down with the other musicians. With a careful arm, I rosin my bow and lean over my cello, waiting. Our conductor, Sophocles, is no where to be found at the moment, so we practice on our own. It is a trying time for me. We are playing a song I wrote, “Ocean Current”. It is a composition I have spent my life working on.
Doing as I have always done, I begin to practice the music. The bass, pompous and arrogant, decides to mock me. He plucks at the strings, playing a humiliating rendition of my song; Creon denies everyone the right to play the music with him. In anger, I reply back with a few bow strokes of my own while Antigone buries the dead. The bass is outraged and begins to bow heavily, loudly. The other musicians are too afraid to play the music with me; I am alone against the bass. Even with odds against me, I fight him. My cello may be small, but I will not back down. We fight Creon still. As we get louder, Antigone is soon drown out by his power and size. He is much louder, but I am the better performer.
This enrages the other cellists, and they play my song in my defense. A violin from across the room squeals in anger and joins the song. Soon the whole orchestra engages in this battle. The melody intensifies, becoming louder and louder. The reason shifts from the music to justice. As the musicians fight together, I slowly roll my fingers across strings with the bow hair sliding gently back and forth. I wait for them. The orchestra becomes deafening, piercing to it’s climax. The threshold has been pushed, and the bass catches fire. Flames spread and burn all of the music from the stands. Blood pours from the roaring instruments and strings snap from the wooden monsters. They crack and split and all music ends abruptly. The orchestra is dangling from a nylon cord.
Amid the now silent musicians is the sound of bows and splintered wood falling upon the floor. A broken flute chirps before it, and it’s lover, fall to the floor. The room is a dusky dark and smells of a soft, sweet smoke. It is apparent that her struggle, however painful, has reason. Every musician lays limp in their chair, some still clinging to their instruments, others dropping them to the floor. The lovers have died and the wife is gone too.
A lone figure stands, slumped over a burning pile of wood. He is motionless but alive. Creon now lives with his overwhelming pride and arrogance, watching the instruments burn in front of him; knowing he killed the music; he killed Antigone. He looks across the room at his fellow musicians, his family, as they lay lifeless around him. My cello and I remain still. With only a crack in it’s neck, it is unharmed. I rest the tired bow upon the strings. Sparks softly fall from the now dim lights. The wooden beast vibrates. It’s cherry-red wood like a fire in the room, in my eyes. I pull the bow, and it plays; it plays a monotonous, low A. The cello is weeping the orchestra’s last song. They were sacrificed, but the point has been driven home. My fingers roll across the neck of passion. From within the wooden body resonates a sound of magnificence.
I open my eyes and lift the bow from the strings. The song is over. As if handling a babe, I set my cello gently in it‘s case, the bow and rosin as well. I stand up, smiling wryly. The bass is still smoldering and Creon is sobbing, wishing to have died with the rest of his family. I maneuver past the lifeless musicians and their instruments. I stride through the doorway and into the dark hallway, never looking back. My cello did justice for the orchestra, for the music. Zeus did justice for the people, for Antigone.
