As though my name isn't confusing enough, there's the complication of me not being actually Russian. There's not a drop of Russian blood in my veins - a fact that I was painfully embarrassed to admit growing up and now announce proudly on every corner. I am Mari. The Mari people live in the Volga area, and we are a Finno-Ugrian group of people. We are a national minority, and have all the problems that national minorities usually have, some of them quite serious.

My parents always spoke Mari at home, and still do. I used to speak it fluently, but forced myself to forget it when I went to school. I even lied about my nationality once, in an English class. Ironically. Everyone knew I lied, because I am quite obviously not Russian, what with high cheekbones and tiny eyes and a father involved in the Mari cultural community. I am still embarrassed, but hopefully, this post will be an atonement for my thirteen-year old self's smallness of soul.

I went to Finland with my Dad when I was twelve. I even spoke some Finnish as a little girl, because he would teach me phrases, poems and songs. And Kalevala, of course, and all the fairy tales, and every year, a Finno-Ugrian camp. This is me, people! My innermost being is Finnic, my innermost being is Mari!

I've been feeling guilty lately, a bit empty, very worldly. I have become attached to this apartment of mine, to my being young, careless and attractive in a big city, to my girls: Erin! Hannah! Kayla! I couldn't (still can't) bear to think about leaving all this. But - I am just passing through, right? Don't get me wrong, I am here in this moment whole-heartedly and forever. Still, there's something else: I have ancientness in me, a purity and a sadness.

I am less secure and less happy, but alive! Thank goodness!

Let me share the things I love with you. Wait, that's not strong enough. Let's try again.

Let me share the things I am with you.

Yuri Tanygin is an EthnoFuturist painter whose work I first saw several years ago in the Art Museum in Yoshkar-Ola.

Akseli Gallen-Kallela is Finnish. His Kalevala paintings are incredible, of course, but I also love the real people in his work.

Then there's Loituma. Not the leekspin girl, give me a break! Kun Mun Kultani Tulisi is a song from the Kanteletar.

Should my treasure come

my darling step by
I'd know him by his coming
recognize him by his step
though he were still a mile off
or two miles away.

Pampalche of the Silver Teeth is a Mari fairy-tale. I have been secretly working on its analysis, hoping that it will get published and change the world. What I wrote so far goes like this: "This is what Jung would have said. All hail Jung. This is what Freud would have said, bless his heart. This is what Bettelheim would have said. This is what Jack Zipes would have said. And this is why you must all love it exactly as I love it!!"
 
I think I am done for now. I feel strong, a bit bitter, but complete. Thank you all who read this.

The Fall of Usher

Disclaimer: This is going to be disorganized and possibly incomprehensible. I am not trying to contribute to the body of respectable criticism of Poe's writings, but merely to get this out of my system.

"You must not - you shall not behold this!"

The Fall of the House of Usher

Why, then, am I so fascinated by the story at this point in my life? Good question, Kayla, and I still don't know the answer, and might not want to know. I am unwilling to dissect this love affair. Here's how it happened, though: I saw a play at the Neo-Futurist theater in Chicago (very aesthetically pleasing and in general wonderfully made), then I walked around for about a week with Roderick and Madeline roaming about in my head, then I succumbed to the enchantment and bought a paperback for a dollar. Then I read it and found the writing alternately beautiful and slightly ridiculous ("I trembled with terror as I beheld the intolerably dreary landscape, as the deep dark profound gloom hung over all." This is not an actual quote, mind you, but a mockery produced by me). Having read the book, I went to see the Philip Glass opera, and Kayla has written about it beautifully and accurately. We had a good discussion afterwards, but I didn't profit from it as much I could have had I not been in a state of nervous agitation myself, like every other Poe's character. Too many thoughts and too many emotions, all disjointed. That's why I am writing this, to make sense of this dark and dreary literary chaos in my head.

Let's start with William, because I stole these ideas from Kayla. Has it all been his dream? Philip Glass seems to think so, that's why he drew William out into the foreground in the beginning and in the end. In this case, it's the story of William's guilty conscience and encroaching madness. The reader (or the viewer) can't help identifying with the main character, and rightly so. Is it my story as well, then? Is it my madness? What a thought, terrifying and - yes - delicious. This nightmare is mine.

Now Roderick. The opera portrayed him as a (possible) abuser of Madeline, the active evil in the house. I don't know if I like this view, personally. My Roderick is a victim, as feeble and pathetic as his ghost-like sister. He is bound to the house, imprisoned in it. The production in general was full of that imagery. William is trapped in his memory and his guilt, Roderick in his House, Madeline in her tomb. One's breath is trapped within one's ribcage.

One has to make an effort to see Madeline as a human being. As such, she is a tragic figure, an adult still playing with her doll and eventually buried alive by her perverted brother. Oh well, let's brush it off, because it's quite obvious that Madeline is not human and not real. What is she? This is what I say: Madeline is the part of our souls that is repressed and buried alive, only to come back and haunt us, as repressed things always do. Elphaba is another manifestation of this part of ourselves - the Elphaba in the musical, of course. The Elphaba in the book is much too human.

Roderick, being mad, and Madeline, being sick and (possibly) mentally underdeveloped, are perfect examples of the dangers of excessive family pride and consequential inbreeding. Of course, their relationship is fascinating. They were meant for each other from birth, mirror images of each other, twins and twin souls. Curiously, although I find their relationship offensive and disturbing, this love is oddly beautiful when understood as a metaphor or a dream, as an inner reality. Sister! my heart is like a lute suspended. Strike it and hear how it sounds!

I find myself unequipped with the knowledge to analyze the story within the story, the medieval adventure filled to the brim with powerful symbols. But I have to at least mention it. Just look at this: the Knight goes to retrieve the Shield, the Hermit turns into the Dragon, the Dragon is slayed but the Shield, the desired protection, is not there. Somebody please think and write about it, so we can all benefit from it.

Let me stop now, because there's no way I can explain exactly why recognizing myself in this darkness makes me feel so good - not oppressed, but liberated. Grateful. Happy. Forgiven. Open the windows and let the storm overwhelm us. It might be scary to behold, but we must, and we shall.

dangereux voisinage

Бог к кровати присел
И шептал мне: "Согласна?
Кричи на весь рай!"
Смотрят все, знают все:
Мы - соседи опасней,
Чем брат и сестра.

Будет Бог нашим другом;
За письма, что пишем,
За трагичность конца
Близость (ближе супругов,
Любовников ближе)
Простит - близнецам!

Xоть имение Ашеров
Рушится, падая
В прах и золу,
Только суд нам не страшен,
Не страшен, а радует.
Брат! поцелуй!



(I hate to do this, but there seems to be no point in not translating poems when most people can't read them. Suffice it to say that the following is not meant to be a poem, but a literal, informative translation of the real thing, which rhymes delightfully and is infinitely better. So don't judge me! Don't judge me!)


God sat down by my bed
And whispered: "Do you consent?
Shout for the whole Eden to hear!"
Everyone watches, everyone sees:
Our neighborhood is more dangerous
Than that of brother and sister.

God will be our friend.
Because of the letters we write,
Because of the tragic nature of our end,
He will forgive the twins
For this closeness (closer than spouses!
closer than lovers!)

Even though the Usher estate
Collapses, falling
Into the ashes and dust -
The Judgment does not frighten us -
Does not frighten, but brings us joy.
Brother! kiss me!

just like that

No one had noticed, but in the night
a god visited me.
The most real, golden-haired, admirable -
Left me gasping for breath.
The god kissed me and blessed me - me, the wild one!
Enveloped with - or rather, pierced by
the golden Olympian light
I want to fly into the purple sky of the West
like a wicked green witch.
I want everything in me to speak,
to sing, to sob, to rush forward -
not just my hips and hands  -
muscles, tissue, cells.
Anointed by the god, a blessed dancer.
Only let me stretch out my arms,
and the whole world will weep,
recognizing its own soul.

I shall move to unheard rhythms

I just finished Martha Graham's autobiography, Blood Memory, and feel somewhat changed, as I often do - by the smallest, most insignificant things. But Martha is quite incredible as a person - talented, of course, a genuis, as they say, so influential. Anyway, I was struck by how alive she was, and how she owned herself, faults and talents and all, and how she wasn't afraid to be a goddess and a woman.






I want to dance! Because of that, I dressed as Daisy Fuller, Cate Blanchett's character in 'Benjamin Button', for Halloween. I am taking Bharatanatyam and incorporating some moves into my bizarre party dancing. Kayla and I took West African dance, and she wrote about it in her blog.

Wish me luck. My Dad says I am crazy for wanting to take up modern dance. He's right, of course. I want to be crazy, if that's what it takes to become a slender, self-willed and enchanting creature - a real dancer.



Click on this link, it will take you to Night Journey, a dance based on the story of Oedipus - or rather, Jocasta, created by Martha Graham. I promise it's much better than the I.R.I.N.A. link.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fFNsKeMbW20

Our revels now are ended

Standing in the narrow crowded hallway, I listened to him. And although he was laughable, although I could see clearly through all his tricks -
how happy would I have been to give in! Give in and fall in love for this only: because he came, saw, and conquered, because he picked me up and carried me off like a jewel or a toy.

радостное, сама себе

Очередная среда, но такая особенная!
Легче обычного ножки мои невесомые.
Столько волшебностей в сердце мое не вместится.
Кто я? неужто Ирина прошлого месяца -
Ta, что была любовью ополовинена?
Ныне же всем открыта душа Иринина!