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| UPDATE: I discovered more pages of this story. Scroll down to see them.
Every time I move, I tend to discover old journals. Here's a fairy tale, written in the Russian zhili-byli style. I don't recall, anymore, whether it's finished or not. But I still like it.
There lived, there was, a smiling woman.
She wore strange clothes, she spoke strange words.
She walked, she moved, she nowhere stayed,
but when she came, she told us tales.
Her tales were old, from times unknown,
before we came, before our people
crossed the mountains, found the lakes,
and built our homes.
There was, she said, another time,
when those like her, with darkened skin,
and dressed in colors from the sun,
had cities here, and wrote their runes
on stones that we still see today.
We ask her what these markings mean,
she tells us tales, of strange cruel gods,
of animals who walked the woods
and talked with men.
One day I came on such a stone,
with narrow runes cut deep inside.
I had been fishing. My small boat
carried me to a rock-closed bay
where the stone rose.
I told my tale to Storilka--
that's what we called the story-holder--
and she told me she knew it all.
So she began.
There lived, there was, a pretty girl,
who fifteen years had walked the woods,
talked with the beasts, and climbed the trees,
had learnt at home to weave designs
in violet cloth,
to sing the songs of ancient days,
to plant the garden, berries pick,
do everything she needed to.
Her father travelled in his youth,
traded with the southern towns,
became a merchant, found a wife--
a prince's daughter-- from somewhere south,
became revered, for he worked hard,
and in the town he had some power.
The pretty daughter of a rich man,
happy Whitark-- that was her name--
knew the truth that soon would come
a marriage with somebody proud.
Many men came to her house
to trade with father, business talk,
and always they would see the daughter,
speak of her,
and when approached the summer day
that would complete her sixteenth year,
the day she would become a woman--
that winter, spring, more men would come,
merchants from small towns around,
a prince or two, from south plantations,
strange-looking folk from far away.
Father was kind to one and all,
invited them to a summer feast
for Whitark's day.
And they all knew that on that day
would decide their fate, and hers.
Whitark played games with other girls,
sang her songs, performed her chores,
and didn't worry about the day.
It would come, and she would go
with the man her father chose
and she would live like mother, who
was glad and proud. So Whitark waited.
Came the day.
The food, my childred, can't be described,
as it was from the ancient times,
when different beasts walked in these woods.
But all the same, the feast was large.
Fires burned high, wine was poured.
For the whole town, that day became
a holiday.
Whitark, to them, was the local princess,
The symbol of their not-bad life,
the happier times.
The guests arrived, and all brought gifts.
A southern prince, with hard black eyes,
but an understanding, curling mouth,
brought a colored bird in a shining cage
of bark and peeled, polished twigs.
A northern trader, with many boats,
gave one fine raft to father, and
a chain of gold from far away
to dazzled daughter.
Others came, and all were welcomed.
Whitark beamed, and cried with joy,
when on the branch of a young, clean birch,
she saw a bird with marking strange
who sang and sang in a low, fast voice.
She watched the bird, and listened always
as it sang throughout the feast.
While father feasted, gave a speech,
Whitark, amazed, watched the bird,
and as it seemed, the bird watched her.
At last it came, that at the end
of father's speech, he raised his glass,
the guests raised theirs, and even the bird
raised both its wings, dropped to the table,
and lighted soft on Whitark's head,
its silver claws clasping close
her braided hair.
"Golden girl," the winged thing sang,
"your hair is soft, your voice is kind,
and I alone know what you're worth.
Leave this rude crowd, come home with me."
"O white-bright bird, from far away,
what home you have beyond our hills
I wish to see. I do, I do."
"You choose me, then," replied the bird,
his voice more loud, and rasping now.
"She chooses me--"
And here Storilka's voice increased,
she bellowed as she spoke the words--
"SHE CHOOSES ME--" and what a bird!
His claws grew heavy, his white wings flamed,
and from his weight, poor daughter fell,
and clutched the ground.
"FINISH YOUR FEAST, EAT YOUR FILL.
DRINK, GET DRUNK. SHE CHOOSES ME.
I'M LEAVING NOW, AND WITH MY WIFE."
Father stood. "O flaming bird,
with talons cruel, of size unheard,
with strength from feasting we cannot
prevent your crime. But tell me now
what I must pay to keep my girl."
"I'll take her place!" the south-prince cried,
"let daughter free and, startling bird,
every year I'll send you virgins,
gorgeous slaves from my estates.
But let her be..." The fire-bird laughed,
his cringing caw broke the table,
and then he rose.
Whitark, weeping, rose with him,
held in his sharp and probing grasp.
Straight they flew, up towards the hills,
and to an eyrie in the cliffs.
So steep and far that wingless folk
could never find. But straight they flew.
The northern shipman, with telescope,
watched them fly, and told the place
to mourning father.
"Saddle the horses!" cried host-harrassed.
"I'll save my daughter! Who with me?"
The guests, and all the town, arose,
found their weapons, saddled steeds,
or prepared their boats, and to the hills
they gathered fast.
Long they explored the mountains steep,
they knew where lay the dread bird's perch,
but not a path to reach those heights
was ever found. The weeks grew long,
and they returned, to wait, to think,
to find a way to reach lost girl.
The town, the guests, sent heralds far,
to friendly lands, for adventurers,
told one and all that he who saved
the captured girl would with her wed
and so become rich father's heir.
They told sweet tales of Whitark's charm,
and so there came adventurers
to do great deeds and win their fame.
Came one lone man without a horse,
who'd hitched a ride on a merchant raft.
He was not young, not finely dressed,
but his stern grey eyes told many tales.
At the dock he asked the way
to father of a young goods-handler.
--Another seeker? asked the boy.
Eight years it's been since summer day,
since bird appeared.
You think that she can still be found?
--It may be so, strange man replied.
Where is the house of famous father?
--The man is there-- and there he was,
grey hair, grey beard, overseeing
a shipment in. Stranger approached.
--Respected sir, are you the man,
grieved and bereaved by bird of fire?
--That is my tale. Tell me your name.
--I never carry my name this far.
It stays at home where it is needed.
But call me Hill, for that is my home,
in the iron lands southeast of here,
by a churning sea, where the mountains live.
From their hot wombs writhe burning worms,
and from those bowels fly birds of fire,
shape-changers, strong and fearsome things.
Eight years your loss is not heard there
(too far it is)
but I was near on other tasks.
That work is done. I've said my share.
Speak of the bird.
--Night is for speaking. By day, there's work.
So Hill-man helped unload the goods,
tally them up, arrange the stores.
He worked in silence, but he worked well,
and his still grey eyes told that he knew
this work and other.
That night he ate at merchant-house
and after dinner, under soft stars,
heard all the tale of the firebird.
Concluded father-- to all who come,
I say the same. Find the bird.
Save my daughter, and she's your wife,
you my heir. Such I say to you,
though I can see that your eyes speak other,
distant things,
and a wife you may not want.
You're old already, man from the hills.
--Yes, old as you, though in my youth
fortune was not so kind to me.
A wife I have, sons, and a daughter
the age of yours. They're far away.
Why this must be I will not say.
But I have no want to wed your girl,
nor to give a son to her.
I've come to you with another aim:
the firebird. You described him once.
Now do again.
--Again, I shall. A changer of shapes.
When first seen he was small and gold,
his voice was soft, his songs were low.
They warmed our hearts; he made us glad.
But when he grew, his gold came red,
his feathers plates of blazing iron.
His face is bare, he has no beak,
but red-skinned jaws like forest bears.
He smells of sulfur. His eyes are green.
--His eyes are green. I know the kind,
and in my youth I had some dealings
with a few. Where lives he, then?
--We've mapped the spot. From green-leafed hill
a ridge runs east, tall and steep.
As it rises, the mountains curl
amongst each other, make such a maze
of cliffs and peaks that none may pass.
There you can see two peaks converge
to form a gulf of sheer red stone.
Within those walls lives bird of fire.
--A canyon red. And father dear,
what shall I do if daughter is dead?
Slay the bird, return the bones?
--Such scarring words!
--They must be said.
--You have the truth. Return my daughter
for burial here, destroy the bird
if strength you have,
And I'll reward you as I can.
--I promise nothing, but now will leave.
Such journeys start best in the dark.
--You need supplies.
--I have my bow.
The hills have food, the rivers drink.
And hill-man left. Years he was gone.
Father knew he'd lost his path,
been killed, or simply given up.
Other adventurers came and went,
returned distraught, but man from hill
returned no news. Then came the day
when Whitark gone was twenty-six.
Father marked his daughter's day
with silence, working like all days.
This day was dry. The forest flamed
in a small valley to the south,
and smoke rolled north, grew up false clouds,
dense and dark. The town kept watch,
prepared their homes to ward of fire.
Late night's dull sun, low in the sky,
lit from the ash, burned evil red.
Father worked late but at midnight slept.
The smoking sun shone in his dreams,
and from its flames flew red-bronze bird
with bear-toothed mouth and talons iron.
The bird flew from the sun and down,
to a ruby mountain, peaked in sparks.
There father watched, and soon it saw him.
Iron-eyed bird smiled small and mean,
raised its wings. In their feathery ends
sprang sharp-tipped claws. Unarmed man
faced sharp-spiked flame, scowled and cried
--Lead-hearted thief! Face me here!
Bird wheels down, but in his path
stands old Hill-man, who speaks
--I'm back.
And sleeper wakes.
Awakes and stands, walks to his gate,
there strides lost friend, long-wanderer,
back from high hills. Hill is untouched.
His eyes steel-grey, silvered hair,
scratched clothers, hard boots.
To greet, he calls:
--Long-lonely father! Give me some food!
They eat, they drink, and kind host says
--You're tired tonight, far-journeyed friend.
The sky is light, but night is heavy.
Sleep and rest, tomorrow talk.
--Day is for work, steel stranger frowns.
We speak at night, and while I'm weary
I leave tomorrow. I'm going home.
I found the bird.
I found the bird. You know his home,
but the path to the peak is hidden hard.
Two years I roamed your jagged hills
to find the way. Two days ago,
I hit it right, and without rest
climbed to his nest. There, in a crack
of the silver cliff, pocked bright with jewels,
chambers are carved. Their only door
opens to air, to steep sheer stone.
Long time I climbed all nearby hills,
and watched the nest by day and night.
Red bird goes there. It's not his home,
if home he has in these cold lands.
Red bird goes there, twice every day,
sometimes more, and in his claws
he carries food. At times he leaves,
and on his back rides a bright woman,
light-haired girl of sixteen years.
UPDATE
This, said Storilka, is the end
of the story in the runes
an ancient tale of sorrow deep.
"Can't be!" we cried, and many folk
had come to hear the spinning tale.
A hermit-man, a wanderer
or holy fool had come to hear.
"There's more," he said.
"There's no more of the ancient tale,"
replied the bard, with narrowed eyes.
"But of the child, the bright Whitark,
I have been told."
"The people who lived here of old
left their runes, and left this place
whe your ancestors came with spears
from over the eastern mountain wall,
but Whitark's eyrie in the hills
remained untouched, and every day
that lovely girl, still sixteen years
though father's death was ages past,
that lovely girl with firebird guard,
remained young in the climbing hills.
There lived, there was, not long ago,
in my own lifetime, eighty-four
short years before this very day,
a golden youth. A brilliant man
of sixteen years who read the skies
and sang their hymns.
And in the hills he'd seen the bird.
From age of twelve he'd watched the skies,
and firebird.
He'd seen the high and sheer-walled cliff,
the eyrie to where he oft returned.
And this brave boy, by age fourteen,
had found a nook from which to watch,
and there at last, he saw the girl.
He saw and pined, for two long years,
over golden, bright-eyed girl
who never aged but watched the world
grow old beyond her window-sill.
And for two years he worked and wove
a sturdy rope of unheard length,
and built a grasping, sure-fingered claw--
a grappling-hook for windowsill.
And Whitark long had seen the boy,
and wished him well and pined for him.
And he grew lovely in her eyes.
The summer came. One thousand years
since bird of flame had first appeared,
approached the youth.
With grappling-hook he scaled the wall
and climbed to girl. She welcomed him.
They could not speak.
They spoke, but words of distant times
and long-gone folk are not the words
of children now.
They spoke and could not understand.
But they could love.
The breadth of girl's long loneliness
had never dimmed her love of life,
had never dimmed her beauty great.
But mirror tall beside her bed
had greatly grown her own self-love,
the knowledge of her ever-youth.
She knew, to see in young man's eyes,
that she had found a worthy match,
a man as great as greatest prince
at father's banquet long ago.
She told him, "Stay!"
With language strange but motions clear,
she begged the youth to live with her,
in eyrie high and beautiful.
The firebird, with iron beak,
allowed her just a single guest,
to live and eat the flaming fruit
he gathered and delivered her.
"Come!" the young man answered back.
With language strange, but motions clear,
he told her of the land much-changed
where he would take her as his bride.
Of cities young and beautiful,
of mother, father, families
to welcome the young and ancient girl.
"Together," he begged, "the two of us
will see our children, grandchildren grow.
Together we will live long years,
and some day hence, when we are old,
will die in one another's arms."
Whitark young had not seen age
in many ages. She recalled
her great-grandmother, a century old,
with crinkled face, a toothless smile,
and limping step.
And Whitark looked back in the mirror.
The boy beside her would not stay.
Very soon, he would grow old.
And if she loved him, so would she.
Her unmarked face of a thousand years
would dry and crack. Her downy hair
would bleach and break. Her face would fall.
Her teeth would rot.
Alone, she lived. In love, she'd die.
Whitark wept. Bravest boy
held her firmly in his arms,
stroked her hair and kissed her head,
and told her: "Come!"
Through window far, a red spark shone.
Bird approached. Boy arose.
"I go. You come."
And Whitark looked back in the mirror.
"I will not go." And so, boy went.
Grieved girl watched.
He left his rope. She kept the relic,
hid it underneath her bed, and ate her life-filled supper lone.
That night, she dreamed.
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| Many things are changing; everything is changing in my life and times and future. It's scary and exhilarating as all get out.
One result of all this is that your faithful buddhagazelle will begin, in a small way, to have a public face and to be a public representative of things much larger than hisself.
I started blogging on xanga in 2001, after a spambot named Bianca Broussard (anyone else remember her?) visited my angelfire website and left a comment about what a brilliant writer I was and how blogging would just suit me perfectly. That act of corporate deceit led to eight very enjoyable and fruitful years in this world. None of my original xanga friends are still active bloggers (did anybody else know Rabid Squirrel?), and my oldest still-active friends (hi Saakara) have, like me, deleted and re-started their accounts at least once.
I've been quasi-anonymous here... while many readers also know the flesh-and-blood me, I try to avoid saying things that could pin me down. But xanga is nonetheless a public forum and my life is moving to a stage where public opinions can no longer be halfonymous, and can no longer be entirely my own. What I say from here on out faces the risk of being understood as the public position of entities larger than I am.
All this is to say is that my xanga blog will be winding down. I'll keep reading all my favorite xangans and won't stop commenting. But the changes you'll be seeing on this space will result in less, not more.
There is another blog, an entirely not-anonymous blog that looks rather different from this one. If you'd like to know about it, send me a private message with your email address and I'll email you the url.
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| Today He who hung the Earth upon the waters is hung on the tree.
The king of the angels is decked with a crown of thorns.
He who wraps the heavens in clouds is wrapped in the purple of mockery.
He who freed Adam in the Jordan is slapped on the face.
The bridegroom of the Church is affixed to the Cross with nails.
The son of the Virgin is pierced by a spear.
We worship Your passion, O Christ.
We worship Your passion, O Christ.
We worship Your passion, O Christ.
Show us also Your glorious Resurrection.
........
Lament not for me, Mother, as You behold Me in the grave, Whom as a Son you conceived in your womb without seed. For I shall rise and be glorified, and as God, I shall ceaselessly exalt in glory those, who in faith and yearning, magnify you.
My eternal Son, I was spared the travail at Your strange Birth, and was marvelously blessed. And now, beholding You, my God, a breathless corpse, I am torn apart with the spear of bitter sorrow; but arise that I may be magnified.
The earth, O Mother, covers me of my own will, but the gate-keepers of Hades trembled seeing Me clothed in a blood-spattered robe of vengeance; for as God I have struck down the enemies of the Cross, and I will rise again, and magnify you.
Let all creation rejoice, and all the earthborn be glad; for Hades, the enenmy has been despoiled. Let the women meet me with myrrh; for I redeem Adam along with Eve, and all their descendants, and will rise on the third day.
Lament not for me, Mother, as You behold Me in the grave, Whom as a Son you conceived in your womb without seed. For I shall rise and be glorified, and as God, I shall ceaselessly exalt in glory those, who in faith and yearning, magnify you.
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| Κύριε, η εν πολλαίς αμαρτίαις περιπεσούσα γυνή, την σήν αισθομένη Θεότητα μυροφόρου αναλαβούσα τάξιν, οδυρομένη μύρα σοι προ του ενταφιασμού κομίζει.
Οίμοι! λέγουσα, οτι νύξ μοι υπάρχει, οίστρος ακολασίας, ζοφώδης τε και ασέληνος ερως της αμαρτίας.
Δέξαι μου τας πηγάς των δακρύων, ο νεφέλαις διεξάγων της θαλάσσης το ύδωρ.
Κάμφθητί μοι προς τους στεναγμούς της καρδίας, ο κλίνας τους ουρανούς τη αφάτω σου κενώσει.
Καταφιλήσω τους αχράντους σου πόδας, αποσμήξω τούτους δε πάλιν τοις της κεφαλής μου βοστρύχοις ων εν τω Παραδείσω Εύα το δειλινόν κρότον τοις ώσιν ηχηθείσα, τω φόβω εκρύβη.
Αμαρτιών μου τα πλήθη και κριμάτων σου αβύσσους τις εξιχνιάσει, ψυχοσώστα Σωτήρ μου; Μη με την σήν δούλην παρίδης, Ο αμέτρητον έχων το έλεος.
Sensing Thy divinity, O Lord, a woman of many sins - takes it upon herself to become a myrrh-bearer,
And in deep mourning brings before Thee fragrant oil - in anticipation of Thy burial; crying:
"Woe to me!" For night is to me, oestrus of lechery, - a dark and moonless eros of sin.
Receive the wellsprings of my tears, - O Thou who gatherest the waters of the oceans into clouds.
Bend to me, to the sorrows of my heart, - O Thou who bendedst down the heavens in Thy ineffable self-emptying.
I will kiss Thine immaculate feet - and dry them with the locks of my hair;
Those very feet whose sound Eve heard at dusk in Paradise - and hid herself in fear.
Who shall reckon the multitude of my sins, - or the abysses of Thy judgment, O Saviour of my soul?
Do not ignore Thy handmaiden, - O Thou whose mercy is endless.
-- Kassiani the Hymnographer
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