My Byzantine Triduum Adventures

Happy Easter, one and all! Christ is risen!!

I just spent the most wonderful Triduum and Easter Sunday visiting with lovely people in Pittsburgh. It was absolutely delightful to be able to spend the end of Holy Week with one of my oldest and closest friends, Sara, and her family.

The weekend was filled with many exciting occurrences, which I may recount here in the future, but by far the best and most important of these occurrences was my discovery of the Byzantine rite of the Catholic Church.

I mean, I'd always known that it existed. I have a few Byzantine friends, I knew that in the Byzantine rite they cross themselves from right to left; and that married Byzantine men can become priests...but I'd never been in a Byzantine church, and I'd never been steeped in that culture.

My friend Sara's parish does this thing every Holy Thursday where, after Mass, they get in a bus and make a mini-pilgrimage to seven different churches in Pittsburgh. This year, the theme was Byzantine churches.

So, we went and visited all of these Byzantine churches, and there were icons everywhere and frescoes and gold leaf and huge enormous gates (some as big as walls) that veiled the sanctuary from the rest of the church.

And guys, I'm obsessed now.

Here are some bits of lovely Byzantine knowledge that I gleaned from this epic visit:

- In the Byzantine rite, the first part of Holy Week is called 'Bridegroom Week', in reference to Christ, our Divine Lover. At Holy Ghost Byzantine Catholic church, an icon had been placed in front of the sanctuary to be reverenced: Christ scourged and wearing the crown of thorns. The image was titled 'BRIDE – GROOM'.

- One priest talked about how, while the western Church focuses so well on Christ's great condescension in coming down to earth, the Church in the east focuses on what Christ came to do: bring us up into Heaven. This is why Byzantine art and architecture is so ethereally lovely. It's designed so that a person walking into the church will be transported, and will feel as though he's celebrating the Sacred Liturgy not on Earth, so much as in Heaven with the angels.

- “Icons aren't decoration; they're theology in color.” A priest at one of the churches was talking to us about the symbolism in an icon of Christ. He said that, in iconography, blue usually stands for humanity, while red or a certain shade of purple stands for divinity. In the icon, Christ was wearing a red garment, and had wrapped a blue garment around himself, indicating that he who is God the Son has clothed himself in humanity, so to speak, in the Incarnation.

- Probably my favorite church (in terms of visual beauty) out of all the ones we visited was St. John Chrysostom, which is located in the Greenfield section of Pittsburgh. Incidentally, it's well-known for being the church where Andy Warhol was baptized.

When the priest at one of the churches invited us to join him and his congregation for their celebration of the Jerusalem Matins, Sara and I were super intrigued. So, at 9 am on Holy Saturday morning, we went on over to St. John the Baptist Ukrainian Greek Catholic church to participate. The service wound up being just shy of three hours! Almost everything was chanted, even the Scripture readings. It was three hours of praise to Christ in the tomb, specifically, and a symbolic 'tomb' had been placed in front of the sanctuary. There was an icon of Christ being lain in the tomb, and it was surrounded by a whip, spear, and other objects associated with Christ's passion and death. The liturgy ended with us walking in a line up to the 'tomb', on our knees, to kiss Jesus' head and feet in the icon. It was super intense. I just kept thinking, I am walking on my knees to get to Jesus. How am I this blessed?

So, to sum up this very long story, I'm now entirely entranced by the Byzantine rite and its gorgeous art and liturgies. I'm resolved to check out the nearest Byzantine church...I'll get back to you on that.

Thanks for reading, and, as always, God bless you!

Hummings from the Beehive: Perilin, the night forest

Spring fever, The Neverending Story, and Rilke.

*

Truly, is there anything so beautiful in the whole of non-sentient Creation as the flower?

Maybe it's because it's spring. Maybe it's because I miss the countryside. Maybe it's because my inner vagabond is itching to take off into the mountains yonder (oh wait, this is Steubenville... make that imaginary mountains) and commune with nature for a month or so. At any rate, I just can't seem to get flora off my mind.

I took part in a voice recital this past Saturday, and to my great delight, I received flowers afterward from several people: a red rose from one friend, a yellow rose from another, a card with a paper flower attached to the front (it is so charming!), and, my favorite of all, a bouquet of tulips from my family, fresh from our garden back home. These tulips are the most breathtakingly gorgeous things I've ever seen (although, given my current obsession with flowers, I might be biased). Some are pink, some are yellow, and some are a vibrant red streaked with gold. Both the petals, and the pale, minty-green leaves are lush, matte, and apparently flawless.

Looking at them, I can't help but think of the depiction of Venus in C. S. Lewis' Perelandra. My tulips seem, to me, to be every bit as otherworldly as the strange, exotic vegetation that Ransom discovers on the Eden-like planet.

If you've read Perelandra, you'll remember that, in it, Lewis' celestial paradise is saved from the Fall that the Earth has already experienced. The Satan character (who is grotesquely but insightfully portrayed as one who wants only to harm the physical and spiritual integrity of Perelandra's creatures) is defeated by the self-sacrifice of Elwin Ransom. Perelandra is able to continue on in unbroken communion with Oyarsa, the God character.

But what of us on Earth (and outside of Lewis' beautiful fantasy world), who do live in an undeniably fallen world? What of those of us who have experienced darkness and suffering, and want nothing more than a new beginning? This weekend, I was recommending favorite books to a friend, and The Neverending Story by Michael Ende came up. I started telling him all about my favorite part, where the boy Bastian finally enters into the mysterious book that he's been reading. Bastian is very much like a little Ransom (and therefore a little Christ), in that he saves Fantastica - but not until after it has already been destroyed. Once inside of the story, Bastian is met by utter darkness, nothingness. Fantastica is gone, but the Childlike Empress explains that it is Bastian's mission to rebuild and restore the magical land. At first, he's frightened by the darkness:

“'Moon Child,' he whispered. 'Is this the end?'

'No,' she replied, 'it's the beginning.'”

With the help of AURYN, a magical amulet, Bastian wishes a nocturnal garden into existence...

“...Soon some of the plants were as big as fruit trees. There were fans of long emerald-green leaves, flowers resembling peacock tails with rainbow-colored eyes, pagodas consisting of superimposed umbrellas of violet silk. Thick stems were interwoven like braids. Since they were transparent, they looked like pink glass lit up from within. Some of the blooms looked like clusters of blue and yellow Japanese lanterns. And little by little, as the luminous night growths grew denser, they intertwined to form a tissue of soft light.

'You must give all this a name,' Moon Child whispered.

Bastian nodded.

'Perilin, the Night Forest,' he said.”

In the story, Perilin becomes a constant presence in the new Fantastica: it blooms anew every day, but only at night. How lovely it is to think of beautiful things growing in the darkness after the storm - growing, despite the shadows. Though it is sometimes hard to see, times of waiting, of dryness, can sometimes be the most fruitful of all. This brings to mind a quote from one of Rainer Maria Rilke's letters to Franz Kappus, the “young poet”:

“Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don't know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better. In you, dear Mr. Kappus, so much is happening now; you must be patient like someone who is sick, and confident like someone who is recovering; for perhaps you are both. And more: you are also the doctor, who has to watch over himself. But in every sickness there are many days when the doctor can do nothing but wait. And that is what you, insofar as you are your own doctor, must now do, more than anything else.”

Don't discredit the hardships in the your life. A lush, verdant night-forest is blooming within you. The fruit and flora is all the more beautiful for having lived through the darkness.

This is not the end. It is only the beginning.

*

Also, let's talk about how the Childlike Empress/Moon Child is TOTALLY a Marian figure. Totally (says this currently-enrolled in Mariology theology major).

Thanks for reading, all.

Untitled

I walk the streets alone these days,
teeth chattering and
lids quivering
(the colors around me often
so bright and strong as to
give me chills, and startle my sight).

Muscles ache and bunions complain,
but these feet know better than to
loiter.

(Oh, I cannot wait for the good haven.)

I stride forward broadly,
brave and bowlegged.
My ear is accustomed to
inclining slightly
(even through this constant motion):
it is listening for the right
murmur-song.

- or perhaps, perhaps
it is my head waiting ever for the pillow
or shoulder
which will whisper,

yes.
It is safe now, finally,
to fall.

I walk, warm and fluttering,
I, who am always longing for

the sighing closed of sleep,

and the trembling open of love.

In defense of Louisa May Alcott

Does she sometimes feel the need to broadcast the many morals of her stories in utterly un-subtle ways?

Does she regularly douse us with flowery, over-descriptive prose?

Does she, at times, make awkward executive decisions regarding the romantic destinies of her characters?

Yes, yes, and (read: Jo + Laurie) yes.

But if you're about to surrender the entirety of Alcott's corpus into your dark sea of bad 5^th grade American lit memories, then you obviously haven't discovered the world of Eight Cousins and Rose in Bloom.

The premise of Eight Cousins presents (in my opinion) the pinnacle of feminine escapist literature. 13-year-old Rose Campbell is shy, melancholy, and, on top of it all, recently orphaned. Her world changes entirely when she goes to live with her father's side of the family. Into her life step a total of seven male cousins – some are younger than her, some are older; but each comes to dote on her in his own way. And as if it couldn't get any better (being suddenly surrounded by seven guys who can be both brother figures AND potential love interests, because of the social norms of the 1800's), the package comes with a dashing, eccentric guardian to boot. Uncle Alec is the type of uncle who shakes his fist at the idea of corsets (because they constrain growing, breathing girls); instead, he dresses his niece in Indian harem pants that he picked up during his travels, so that she can run around and climb trees and such, and also encourages her to read lots of books and eat as much as she likes. (Last time I checked, life doesn't get much better for a teenage girl in 19^th century America.)

Oh, yeah, and the whole family is SCOTTISH, and delightful cultural references abound! Tams and kilts are worn! Bagpipes are played! Jigs are jigged! Drinking songs are sung! And they're all Catholic, too, which is such a sweet touch that just makes me want to give Louisa a hug, seeing as she, herself, was Protestant (although perhaps a non-traditional one – her papa was a transcendentalist and bff's with Emerson and such).

Rose in Bloom begins when Rose is 20ish. The book tells of her coming into her own as an intelligent, independent woman – and also of her dealings with romance, and how she ultimately falls for and ends up with one of her cousins (of course!). I won't tell you which one it is, but I can promise that it will be exactly who you were rooting for (and you'll probably have already decided who you're rooting for by the middle of Eight Cousins). Alcott pulls out all the stops in creating a satisfying love story here: you will be jumping up and down by the last page!

Now, no review of these two books would be complete without a tribute to whom I consider to be one of the most swoon-worthy characters in all of western fiction. (And anyone who is familiar with how frequently I crush on fictional persons knows that this is a hefty claim.)

Alexander Mackenzie Campbell, or Mac, is essentially perfect. If he were real, I would marry him. He's a book lover to the point where he's known as “the Worm”. He has eye problems (at some point in Eight Cousins he almost goes blind from reading too much by candlelight - so romantic!), and therefore wears big ol' glasses (so stylish!). He's as sweet as can be, but hopelessly socially awkward. His hair is always a mess. He's perennially absent-minded. He's a science geek (becomes a doctor). But he also reads poetry. And writes poetry. He quotes Keats and references ancient Greek mythology. Basically, he's the guy every hipster chick wants. (amirite?) But he ALSO also takes in and cares for abandoned children, saves the lives of beloved uncles with his M.D. skills, and is just all-round a true gentleman with a heart of gold. Check out this passage from Rose In Bloom, where Mac calls on his cousins to respect women and aspire to real manhood:

“...'this I will say,- the better women are, the more unreasonable they are. They don't require us to be saints like themselves, which is lucky; but they do expect us to render 'an honest and a perfect man' sometimes, and that is asking rather too much in a fallen world like this,' said Charlie...

'No, it isn't,' said Mac, decidedly.

'Much you know about it,' began Charlie, ill pleased to be so flatly contradicted.

'Well, I know this much,' added Mac, suddenly sitting up with his hair in a highly dishevelled condition. 'It is very unreasonable in us to ask women to be saints, and then expect them to feel honored when we offer them our damaged hearts, or, at best, one not half as good as theirs. If they weren't blinded by love, they'd see what a mean advantage we take of them, and not make such bad bargains.'

...'Going in for perfection, are you?' asked Charlie...

'Yes, I think of it.'

'How will you begin?'

'Do my best all round: keep good company, read good books, love good things, and cultivate soul and body as faithfully and wisely as I can.'

'And you expect to succeed, do you?'

'Please God, I will.'”

Perfection, indeed! If only there were more Macs in this world...

On a more serious note, there are two timeless things that I simply adore about Alcott's Campbell clan books. One is the celebration of both authentic femininity and authentic masculinity, by way of contrasting the two. In Eight Cousins, Rose is very much a girl, and her seven cousins are very much boys. She's like a wild, red rose, and they're like the leaves and brambles that surround her – also wild, but in a different way (actually, this metaphor might actually be employed at some point in the book...). Their differences are what make their interactions exciting and beautiful. Rose is utterly intrigued by the Campbell boys, and vice versa: it's the fascination with the beauty of the other, the different-than-I. And yet, it's these very differences that allows Rose to grow so close to her cousins.

Side-note: I have to say, one thing that Alcott is good at just about all the time is promoting true femininity. The first feminists (Margaret Fuller also comes to mind here) really understood what it's all about. We're not celebrating women if we think that women should be encouraged to imitate men in all things. We're different. That's the whole point. That's what makes it so bewilderingly, breathtakingly, head-spinningly beautiful when man and woman fall in love: on a superficial level, it doesn't seem as though it should be sustainable, or even possible. And yet, it happens: harmony is achieved, and it's a positive, creative achievement, for new life comes forth, adding to the harmony. It makes so much sweet sense when, almost in a crowning of what has come before, Alcott's story ends with the romantic union of Rose with one of her male cousins.

The other thing I love about these books is their unadulterated celebration of big families. Rose is surrounded by dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins. They're loud and boisterous and they're clashing personalities. But there is so much life in such a world. And because there's life, there's also a lot of love – and that's what heals Rose's heart; that's what helps her grow into the beautiful young woman referenced in the title Rose In Bloom.

So, if you're in the mood for something different this spring, give these lovely little novels a shot. Keep in mind that you'll easily be able to find racier, edgier, less morally-grounded, and more concisely-written teen fiction by just browsing through the B&N website. But there's something undeniably attractive about these books – they paint the idyllic sort of world that everyone wants to escape to. Alcott's writing glows, and I think it's at least partly because she's not afraid to extol the beauty of virtue. It's wonderful, and it's something that we don't often see these days. So take a look. You'll be pleasantly surprised.

*

Image source found here.

Hummings from the Beehive: There is a balm in Gilead

Thoughts sundry, scrambled, and sometimes silly.

*

1. Love. Don't stop. Keep going. Love especially in the small, small ways. Mother Teresa says, “we can do no great things, only small things with great love.” The temptation to curl up into a ball, to put up a hard, crustaceous exterior, may be great – but don't give in. Let love flow forth. The love that passes through and out of your heart at this time, of all times, will be the richest and most precious love you have given yet.

Blood flows most freely and wildly from a broken vessel.

A constant current will both bless those around you, and wash your heart of all the sickness within. Urge others to be gentle with you – but accept love, too. And, most importantly, open yourself up to the hands of your Creator, as he tenderly tinkers with the pieces of the wondrous organ that he himself first fashioned. Know that his sorrow for this brokenness is the greatest, greater even than yours, and that he mourns the wounds dealt to his beautiful handiwork, which he created out of pure Love. Remember that He suffered and died not just to redeem our souls, but to redeem the entire human experience – even suffering itself. We are no longer helpless victims of the evils of this world; we do not have to numbly accept suffering as some sort of meaningless, frightening ordeal. His sufferings have given our sufferings meaning and purpose – we can unite all our hardships to the Passion of our King at Calvary for the sake of eternal life. We can be soldiers, we can be warriors, we can be princes and princesses. We can set this world on fire.

2. Beauty. Sense it, seek it, hunt it out. Or sit back and let it romance you. Or do both, in turns. Strive to know it with the three cardinal virtues: have faith in it, hope in it, love it. Love in and through it. To me, Beauty is what constantly and eternally whispers, “it is going to be alright. And in the end, it is going to be glorious.” Beauty allows me to laugh in the face of my fears. If Nikolai Berdyaev is right, if Beauty will, indeed, “save the world,” then it can, beyond all doubt, save the broken heart.

3. Time.

But we all knew that already.

*

Image: "Hope" by George Frederic Watts.

He's alone, he's blindfolded, he's slumped over in weariness...but that doesn't keep him from making beautiful music on his harp.

Hummings from the Beehive: On Faces

Thoughts sundry, scrambled, and sometimes silly.

*

Upon getting to the campus chapel for 10:30 Mass the other morning, I realized that I had left my mantilla in my room. I wound up just draping my long pashmina scarf over my head and laying it over my shoulder instead. As I sat in the pew, waiting for Mass to begin, it occurred to me that anyone sitting behind me would be clueless as to who I was, since the scarf completely concealed my hair. (According to my friends, my most distinguishing feature is my hair, which is dark, very curly, and can easily be spotted from across a room.) Someone would have had to have been very familiar with my form, gestures, etc., in order to recognize me from behind. And not only that – I could pull the scarf forward far enough to block out my peripheral vision. That way, I didn't have to distract other people, and other people didn't have to distract me (said the timid, antisocial homebody within).

I realized how comfortable I was, curled up in this little shell of anonymity. I began to wonder why I don't wear a scarf during Mass more often. Thoughts began to run through my imagination: what would life be like if we all wore big helmet-mask things when we went out - gear that completely obscured the head and face? Or even if I was the only one wearing a helmet-mask-thing? So concealed, I'd be able to get away with all sorts of things. Maybe. I imagined myself going out into the center of the busy cafeteria and breaking out into ridiculous dance moves, or whistling at cute boys in passing, or watching silly Asian dramas on the internet in public. And best of all, I wouldn't have to worry about eye contact with strangers – all those moments which are sometimes exciting, sometimes scary, sometimes both. I could people-watch without shame in public places! It would be awesome! I would be free. I would be safe.

And...I would be pretty lonely, because no one would really know me. After a while, perhaps I would not even know myself.

[and I would look pretty silly, but this is not the point.]

I'm very much an introvert. A crowd of strangers often has the same effect on me that a tiny closet does on the claustrophobe. But I'm always hesitant to call myself “shy”: it's more like I can be super bashful because I generally think other people are amazing, and I'm afraid of disappointing them. A pretty universal fear, although no doubt different personality types respond to it in different ways. But regardless of individual social habits, haven't we all, at one time or another, experienced the urge to cover our faces and run away, whether it be from one “other”, or from a whole sea of “others”?

Here, C. S. Lewis' great allegorical novel, Till We Have Faces, inevitably comes to my mind. In this retelling of the ancient Greek myth of Cupid and Psyche, our narrator is Orual, Psyche's unattractive older sister. Throughout the near-entirety of the book, she utters grumbling accusations against 'the gods'; “especially the god who lives on the Grey Mountain”, who has spirited away her beloved Psyche in order to make her his bride. At the climax of the story, when Orual at last stands before the court of the gods to read her little book of complaints, it is as if she is truly hearing herself for the first time:

“The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered.”... “When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you'll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?”

Ultimately, Lewis uses the motif of the face to represent a means of focused and mature communication – and, when it comes to the Divine, the means of any communication, period. Knowledge of self is necessary before knowledge of other can be possible. Only when one hunkers down and gets serious about his identity can sincere and meaningful communication with the other begin.

To reference one of the best animated features to ever come out of Disney: Nala certainly enjoys running around with Simba in the jungle and playing around in the water with him, etc., but she is also confused and frustrated by how he has changed. “Why can't he be the king I know he is, the king I see inside?” Since Simba has totally rejected his true identity as king, his methods of communicating with the girl (lioness?) he loves are limited to flirtation and physical affection. When she challenges his decision to run away from himself and his responsibilities, he reacts with childish defensiveness.

But ok, I'm done analyzing children's cartoons.

Now consider this: if I do not accept my true identity, as well as (a) the responsibility that comes with living it, and (b) the vulnerability that comes with revealing it to others, then I am safe; but I am also essentially powerless, for, ultimately, I cannot love properly. If I hide my face behind a mask, and choose to identify myself with it – whether out of self-loathing, the desire to please others, the desire to conform, or whatever else - then I cannot love; I can only lie. I can only engage in empty, twisted actions. The human person was created to love. But before he can do what he was made to do, he must be who he was made to be. I think of (oops, not really done with children's cartoons) the eerie spirit called “No-Face” in Hayao Miyazaki's Spirited Away: without the anchor of identity, he's aimless, reckless, gluttonous, deceptive – and, as he says to Chihiro: “I'm lonely, I'm lonely!”

Now, to be completely honest, neither ancient Greek gods nor anthropomorphic lions nor masked Japanese spirits play a substantial role in my day-to-day life. How can all this be applied to me, along with any other socially awkward girl out there?

Like this: by always striving for wonder, gratitude and sincerity in our interactions with other people. In the end, I'm thankful for the thrill of intimacy that comes with the glance of every stranger, even when it is accompanied by awkwardness or self-consciousness. I'm glad for the gift of the other, as strange as he or she always is, even after years of familiarity: always strange, but always beautiful. Most of all, I am thankful to have been given a face – a part of my identity through which the microcosm of my soul can bridge the gap into your own. Who can quite explain the magic magnetism of eye contact? It is the simultaneous consciousness of two people that “I am looking into his eyes, he is looking into mine, we both know it, and we both know that the other knows.” What happens when we dare to really look? Every time is an opportunity precious as gold: the human face unfolds to reveal what lies beyond. Let's take every opportunity. Let's dare to look. Let's resolve to live out the common human vocation to know the other, and to be likewise known by him.

*

Image: "The Baleful Head" from Edward Burne-Jones' Perseus Cycle. Interesting note from commentary I once read on the painting: Perseus is showing Andromeda Medusa's reflection in the (pool? birdbath's?) surface, because obviously, Medusa is so ugly that she'll turn ya to stone if you look at her directly, even when she's dead. Also obvious is the fact that Perseus is checking out the object of his budding affections to see how impressed she is. But if you look into the water's surface and follow Andromeda's eyes, you'll see that she's not looking at Medusa at all. She's just as engrossed in Perseus as he is in her. GAH SO MANY FACES AND EYES AND GLANCES AND MEANINGS.

and FEELINGS, for this Pre-Raphaelite-obsessed girl.

Thanks for reading, all.

The Artist's Explanation

Now look here:
I don't want to shock anyone,
truly.

That's not what I'm about.

Electrification is, beyond doubt,
a sensational way of catching attention,
but, in the end, it numbs the senses.
The body is dulled,
damaged.
Over time, degraded.

No, if I am to surprise you,
it will be with the surprise of revelation.
I generally don't create stirs
for the sake of stirs;
if that which needs to be said will cause
a stir, then there we go.
But these are rich stirs,
ones that spin us back into new life,
old love.
Ones that shake us awake.

And it will be a rich pang,
if I must hurt you with my art,
like that of a gilded arrow
straight through the pounding heart.
It will rush you back to reality,
back to beauty.

I just want to show you something
that's good and sweet,
something that's worth living for.
Something that's bigger than
either of us.

I go by way of
the well-brewed cup of tea.
The handmade coat you've worn
since age twelve.
The way your mother
dresses her hair every morning.

Simple. Steady.
Overlooked. Old.

Made new, because
here we are, doing it all over again.

We're drawing back the curtain once more.
The room beyond this hidden door
grows in beauty with a second glance,
I promise.

So, I'm not here to shock.

Well, I'm not here to play games, either.

There's no time.

I'm here to stretch out both my hands
upon the table, palms-up,
my sleeves pulled back,
my wrists pale and fragile.

I'm here to show you
how wildly I can speak,
and how much I can mean it.

How solemn I can be,
how solemn joy can be.

So, try me.

Come a little closer.

Sit down.

You look at me,
and no doubt see a small, tired
pilgrim whose words are not nearly as
exciting as whatever it is
they're chanting outside the window.

Only, know that this is the
path that I have freely chosen,
and that, as yet, I have no regrets.

Please, just give me your ear,
give me a chance.

Listen to my whispers, and
let the feathers of the firebird
fan the flames bright within your ribcage.

Listen, and let your blood turn to liquid gold.