MYTH - 3

At a time before place, in a cave before time, Boh the Creator folded the darkness and nurtured it, and a tiny spark of light became an Egg.  This seed of life was tossed into the darkness where it formed stars and planets, and other objects and secrets not given to understanding.  As nothing created is ever undone, Boh needed a place to hide the Egg, and selected a haven we now call Earth, and placed the Egg beneath a mountain.

 

This planet already had many forms of animals, birds and fish, but only one was able to dream of Boh in their sleep and remembered their creation.  So he called them forth and divided the world’s lands and seas amongst them according to their cries and wishes.  But seven of these men, filled with pride and importance, quarreled and complained of each assignment, until Boh became weary of their attempts to subvert the joy of all the peoples.  At the end of the giving Boh discovered that one tribe had remained silent, claiming nothing, asking for nothing.  The only land left was the place where they all stood, at the base of the mountain of the hidden Egg.  Because it was the valley of the people’s joy it was of that and called, ‘most beautiful’; and Boh pressed a finger into the rocks at the valley’s end and filled it with laughing tears, and it is called ‘Bohinj’ which means ‘gift of God’.

 

The seven cried foul and felt they were more deserving of these treasures – and they stomped about and crushed part of the valley into bare rock and caverns.  For this Boh banished them from the Earth, though their memory still lives in every man’s heart, such was the force of Boh’s decision.   As the seven ran away they each left a footprint as memory of their greed – seven lakes within the ruined land – each of a different color and without life.

 

Then Boh, in his wisdom, decided to guard the simple people and the Egg from these seven beasts and all others of pride and covetedness.  So he crafted a mighty chamois with golden horns to walk the barren slopes; and to distract those who would come, directed three virgins to act as companions and remind the Zlatorog of its duty.  But man became lazy and forgetful, and forgot the Egg and the gifts of Boh, and men lusted for the graceful goat with the golden horns.  A hunter bribed his friends to offer the maidens fruits and delicacies and distract them with music and praise; and he followed the Zlatorog and struck it with an arrow unto dying.

 

The buck struggled to the mountain top from which its blood flowed out to carve many ravines and sharp peaks to the north.  It tossed its horns into the mirror lake below than no man could have them and their magic – and watched as the three virgins change to stone for their treachery.  Yet, with his parting breath he placed them on the mountain top and stripped off all trees and grass that they might rest alone, and with a single tear formed the first Edelweiss as the only flower that would grow in their memory.  And man knew of the power and magic of the place though not why, for they had forgotten the Egg, and came to worship the strange mountain instead of the source of its creation – naming it the ‘three headed god’ – Triglav – and it is said that all who climb and talk to the virgins can see beyond – and remember something of creation.

 

The Duuran

KRAS THINKING

Understanding of karst topography began with the ‘Kras’, the stretch of earth running from the base of Mt. Triglav to the Adriatic Sea; starting with the ‘Sea of Stones’ and gristing to incredible beach sand by forces unseen:  “a three-dimensional landscape shaped by the dissolution of a soluble layer or layers of bedrock … resulting in caverns, waterfalls and weirdly shaped formations … forged by underground streams, wind and glacial creap.”

 Given the spiritual and mythological trace of both Mount Trigor and the ‘Valley of Whispers’, I would ask that you extend these images to metaphysical form and power. We see a person approaching, a crone perhaps; visage etched by daring to care in a world seeking only ‘whom to blame’, form bent by carrying other people’s crosses, fingers crippled from crafting art from heartless stone!  What then of her soul – slowly gristing to dust? or more alive than can be imagined?  “a multi-dimentional person shaped by the dis-illusion of vulnerable layers of being or core principles and standards … resulting in memory loss, tears and unpopular opinions … forged by the flow of passion, ancient whispers and the bigotry of frozen minds.” So, I will sit within the Kras and listen to eternity –and walk beside the crone to learn of its meaning –and be one with hidden waters,the Silent Breeze,relentless entropy —  and somewhere twixt stone and sand,find out who I am. 

 The Duuran……………. 

Near the Cabin

 

 

 

Just left of yesterday

and ‘round tomorrow’s bend,

there is a place where I can be alone –

where all the theoried strings

cross or are snarled hopelessness

such that I can be ‘all one’ again.

 

but not today …

 

I choose to never be lonely

which is something else again,

for I am of knowing rather than believing.

So you cannot go there with me

for you are already of its creation,

and I but the singer of the EverSong …

and by simple faith alone

I will be there when you find

the special wonder of just being you.

 

Trigor

Myth - 2

I would take you back,

or forward depending on Trebusca view,

to and ‘embracement’ of Chemmis –

a Chaldean myth by attribution,

foundation of early Egyptian religion,

the ‘floating isle’ where Horus and Antaios

were split into being divinely human,

and being humanly divine …

That of this came Alchemy and Chemistry,

the making of science from things unknown,

the latter revered in our ‘Practical’ Zone,

while the former chastised-condemned,

because it also dealt with the soul.

consider this –

         CHEMMIS                (based on a mythological trace) 

In a time so ancient that mighty

Ur was but a cave beside two streams,

the Chaldaeans sang in whispered shadows

of seven beasts that bound our destiny.

Their names are ever lost to chaos grasp,  

                 but not voices that speak in thunder and fire;

for this fragile world was divided into dominions of awesome power,

with man but a pawn in faintest shadow  

                 of what might have been, had he been bold.  Yet the small space where power did sit                     was overlooked in the frenzied claim.This lonely island of tranquil blessing  

                     was set adrift, lost to the demon’s clutch.

It is often seen by sleepy children,    

                   yet never discovered in ready search.

Priests of Mother Nile named it Chemmis,  

                     calculating its path by the stars,

and many desired to travel there,  

                 called by pulse of the yearning heart. 

It is not a part of heaven or earth,                   but a place that has escaped our pain.It courses not across the clouded sky,  

                 nor beneath mysterious churning seas.

You will not find it by map or chart,  

                 or secret chant or powdered spell.

Chemmis travels betwixt the mind and will   

                in myriad dreams and lover’s hope.I

t has no power but defeats them all,     

               for I have no limits when I am there.……………………………………………………….. 

these ‘seven beasts’ became the ‘seven deadly sins’ and more,for many cultures has a ‘memory’ of the seven –and it could be said that Chemmisis any place where we escape from their clutches –

at least in meditation or reflection. 

What if you could go to place

where all of the universe complexity

could be seen in order;

and one could at least hold in balance

the ‘seven beasts’ of human nature? 

What of that drifting island

became ensnared in the talons

of a mountain? 

  the Duuran

Myths - 1

You have seen writings of faucon of Sakin’el

about the ‘Lantern of Orbe’ and the structure

of Trebusca, which he learned from Kiyan the Gusari.

Learn now of their source, translated as best I can

The Duuran

………………………………………………………………………………………

 

COLD - HARD REALITIES

Three by Three and More

The Sacred Mountain is of the Earth

and gives three choices, hence its name –

select a route for ease of Mind,

ascend that you may know your Spirit,

or challenge fear bound in your Heart.

Three rivers flow by Spirit’s grace,

that a tear might flow to boundless space –

Emerald Saca with twisted Mind,

while Sava will tease the Danuba Heart,

and the third will hide ‘neath glacial Earth.

From Trigor’s crest the world unfolds

in six directions as foretold –

four embrace both Mind and Heart

while Spirit and Earth do entwine

in clouds above and lake below.

Twenty-four are then the lenses

through which to view eternity,

or allow your being to shine forth

as a blend of Tegsh and reflection

of self as seen through other’s eyes.

 

……………………………………………………

 

NOTE: there is a Glossary on the trigor@wordpress blog to explain some of these terms and concepts; but generally it means that “understanding” can be divided into six realms or sources of knowledge, each viewed from the perspective of mind, heart, spirit and earth — The ‘Magic 24″ called Trebusca — or the faces of a cube shaped lantern that both absorbs all experience and reflects an image of your being ( all is explained in Phinomininal Propengics available free or at low cost)

Song of Trigor

I stand on the barren Sea of Stones between the call of the sacred mountain and the mystic Valley of Whispers — hoping my singing will not awaken the Cabin dreamers. Trigor (silently cursing that WP messes up all formating) ……………………………………………………………………………………….

 KARST DREAMS

  I am but a leaf on that Tree, you know;

Proof of creation and humanity –

Gifted to pull energy from the sun

And caress it into bright green delight.

Then I can climb — dream of distant stars,

Claim each handhold on Trigor’s triple face

That would keep me within my directed space,

Though I stand in sharp contrast to the clouds.

But surely I must fall, now free in death

To lie unnoticed ‘midst the bitter stones

That deny my roots but forgive my birth

To be more than a weed, yet never bloom.

Down, down I slowly drift as softest snow

To brave cycle my drops of fervent dew

As tears for those who never had a chance,

Or still lie dormant in blue glacial fear. 

Yet I hear laughter — a feel dancing mist,

To float in a tiny pool of spring –

Swirling, cleansing, praying for fulfillment

As I shake off the dust of earthly toil.

Then a throbbing pulse and spirit rushing

Transports me in steps of Seven Lakes

Of sunlight smiles and smoothest stones

To purify my vigil of awareness. 

Oh, now to leap so free in timeless space,

Bound by faith and waiting depths of desire

To be one with all and send ripples forth

To join in song with a cascade of joy.

Gently I am kissed by flowered hints

Of still more life beyond perception;

A tumbling crash of chaos and mem’ries

Of a Source of simple innocence.

At last a place of peace and gentle rest

Where my last vestiges of humanity

Can molder away ‘neath Bohinj calm

’till rebirth in the fane Whispers of Kham. 

Among the Ruins– Revised Repost

I first posted this at the Hermitage last May.  It seems appropriate for a Grand Tour.  Here it is again, slightly revised and with a different image…..

Among the Ruins

When I think of ancient ruins, I think of those in other parts of the world, not the American Southwest; however, I was astonished one day, a number of years ago, when, on a lonely stretch of road in northern Arizona,  we stumbled across the Wupatki ruins, a series of apartment-like dwellings estimated to be about 900 years old.  Constructed of sandstone masonry on a plateau about fifty miles from the Grand Canyon,  these dwellings may have sheltered as many as 30,000 people at one time.    These buildings were probably inhabited by the Anasazi and Sinagua peoples, though no one really knows for sure.  Similarly, no one is sure why these communities were abandoned, but it is hypothesized that an eruption of the nearby Sunset Crater volcano around 1100 c.e. drove the inhabits out of the area.  

On the day we came across the ruins, it was bright, sunny, and such a glorious morning that we decided to stretch our legs and take a look around.   The older folks in our party decided to just sit and view the ruins; I decided to go hiking among them (at the time there was no prohibitions about entering the structures). 

After a while, the sun got the better of me and I decided to duck into one of the rooms inside the structure.   As I stood inside the cool darkness, I chanced to look up through a window near the top of the room.  I could see brilliant blue with tuffs of white clouds through the opening.    

As I savored the moment, a strange and sudden feeling overcame me.  I felt that I wasn’t alone any longer.  I didn’t hear anything and as I swung around to look about the small room, all I could see was a barren dirt floor and nothing more.   I continued to stand there, the feeling getting stronger with each passing moment.  I stepped outside the doorway of the room to see if there was anyone else nearby.  The closest tourists were way down the path, too far away to be the source of the sensation.   I took one more look around the room and quickly left. 

The feeling of being watch left me as soon as I found my group and headed back to the parking area.  I didn’t mention my experience to anyone, but I pondered this odd sensation.  I honestly felt as if, not one, but many people, were watching me in that room.  Not given to much belief in the paranormal, I chalked it up a flight of imagination brought on by being in such an old and mysterious place.   

However, in a country where sometimes historical edifices are knocked down in the name of progress, perhaps I WAS feeling the presence of the Ancient Ones.  If so, I hope they were pleased that I stopped by to pay homage to their memory.

Text and photo:  Lori Gloyd © May 6, 2006; Revised December 5, 2006

Of Tegsh and All

WITHIN THE CRACKS OF STONE AND SONG

 

I pause a bit in place and time – neither Trigor not The Duuran, or simple man-self at all; and ponder on the give and take – the ‘faire trade’ of this market place of Tour Grand.  I read the postings of you who travel here, ands those who stayed away; amused by some of the information you present, bemused my the confusion often born of child-like excitement, and pre-lamentive of wisdom’s sorrow – that each of you will get from your journey more than you expect, and less than you hope (or the other way around).  For you should know the “Duuran” is also part of an ancient process of divination.

 

In the 13^th century words of Eskiyalı of Györ,

 

 “you might be right or you might be wrong – why I should care is the question.”

 

Your adventure quest in either Lemuria or imagined
Europe is nothing compared with the journey of your soul – by which I mean the place where mind and heart and spirit and earth must blend, and is only as religious as you choose to make it.  To avoid confusion (or churning of belief) I will call this ‘seat of being’ “tegsh” borrowed from Mongolian Shamanism (the beginning) – an ever-sought balance ‘tween spirit and humanity’.

 

So the question remains, “why should you care?” to listen to the weaving of information, believing and knowledge that Trigor offers in the ‘Sea of Stones’?  If you consider the braiding of myths to unfold as a exotic dancer  – swirling in light and shadow while removing one veil at a time, then you might also be in a

Paris
Cave, or Bavarian Ratskeller or Italian Shrine – they are the same.  For I know that you may not have come for the dance at all, but for the heady drink to escape from turgid memories, or to seek the music that is both magick and prayer, or to catch the eye of that tall gentleman in the corner, or …

 

I will use the sacred mountain of Trigor as a Tegsh of sorts in palpable form – a balance point on which to spin your dreams or teeter in some gyrations between who you are and who you are perceived to be – yet it could be any place – any person – any sense of awe encountered on your Journey that can serve as well.

 

As you stare at a magnificent structure of old
Europe – say the Louvre de Paris – do you see a museum of fine art and craft past which to march at blinding speed soas to say you did?  Do you marvel at the dedication and commanded faith the built the palace as an amusement of vanity?  Did you allow time to watch the families picnic in the park outside – a ritual of stern supervision and guiless play and delicious ‘glace’?  Do you close your eyes and reach out and in to why the City of
Lights was build here instead of there – of whether the Earth claims the City or the City an homage to the Earth?

 

The gift (or curse) that The Duuran gives you is discordance of joy!  Each slice of life so easily defined in physical terms is always a choice of Tegsh – touched by tunes of four melodies – mind, heart, spirit and earth.  As a writer, artist, teacher, parent or child, your duty is the same – to see something of awe and wonder and retell it in some simple ways that others might understand.

 

I have tricked you my friends – by taking you on a Journey to the Sea of Stones, I am able to be a stow-a-way on your Tour, to see the world through your special glasses, to see into shadow lit by your candle, to allow my spirit to drift beneath your wings – should you choose to use these items in your pouch.

 

………………………………………………

 

aye, but the waning embers need tending and the morning fire rebuilt, and the dawn to be harkened as a line of divine light marches up the many faces of  Mt. Trigor.  This day has come – let us sing!

 

The Duuran

Sea of Stones - 5

Silent Whispers

The Cabin of Duuran is a conflict of choices for visitors, but a resolution of demands for Trigor – and it should be so; as the tales I might tell will bring peace of spirit to some, while stirring the cauldron of mystery for others.  This log structure, built by my own hand, has no floor that I might sleep directly upon the earth – and listen to the silent whispers.  On the sunset side is the spirit mountain Triglav, claimed by some as the hiding place of the Divine Egg.  The sun rises above the valley called Logarska Dolina, which means ‘beautiful valley, but in ancient times was known as ‘Khamici’, the place of ‘shifting dreams’ – but also “here lies Chemmis” – sigh, I get ahead of myself.  The early Romans called it ‘
Pannonia’, theland of
Pan – and those whispers are heard by all.If you enchant up a travel-log by ether-magick, you might read, “The peaks are steep, the valleys deep, and the streams full of clear water. The slopes are blanketed by thick forests and the meadows filled with wild flowers …one mountain visible from far around reigns supreme. Celebrated as
Mont Blanc, the
Matterhorn or
Grossglockner, mount
Triglav rules over a dream world and therefore has no equal. Majestic, dreamlike in its monumental and filigreed steepness and at times dangerous beauty, it is the true representative of the Slovene Alps. But Triglav is also the mountain where Slovenes touch the sky. Deep valleys, springs, waterfalls, rivers and lakes, romantic panoramas and countless picturesque details are along the trails.” 

Between the valley of ‘silent whispers’ and the ‘three headed god’ is an area of barren loneliness called the ‘Sea of Stones’ – a karst field where strange animals live but man cannot – when glacial waters flow underground to surface occasionally in seven lakes – each of a different color – footprints perhaps of the Seven Beasts, but that myth must wait.  So much to tell –

As a tutor I should be able to simply provide facts and information and allow you to form your own beliefs; but as a son of the Alan my blood course back eight thousand years – as a child of Varengian brigands Thor hammers upon the anvil of my soul – as I hear also the echo of Celtic Goddesses and Gypsy dancers and the Golden Eagle cry – I must tell of things that I know – beyond believing – of the spaces between the stones.  I did not choose to come here – it chose me.

But I will offer a few thoughts born more of fact than dreams –

when the Western world was small and mostly limited to the lands touching the ‘Middle
Sea’, and wandering more than a day or two from home was guaranteed of strangeness.  From the entrancing Adriatic beaches one might follow an emerald river up the a high pastures, enjoying twisted canyons and myriad waterfalls, and is called by many the most beautiful river in
Europe (the Saca).  From here would be seen mountains higher than any imagined – pristine white with limestone and the only glacier they would ever know.  They might stay a while to enjoy abundant berries and grapes, but would also find the chamois which could climb vertical rocks and the mufflon with angry horns, and the Linden Tree beneath which everyone fell asleep.  It would be easy for you then to imagine that this place not be part of the natural world, but from another – a place of dreams caught upon the claws of the forbidding peaks – and understand that here those truths called myths live a bit longer than by the shore.There is room for you by my evening fire – a place to hear whispers; but you must do so as an innocent child, soul naked upon Mother Earth, or you might only hear the screams of man’s history.  But do not fear – for ‘Duuran’ also means Watcher, and I will be near.

Trigor

 

Sea of Stones - 4

 

 

There is an echo, methinks,

in each writer’s soul –

a rustling perhaps of moldering leaves

‘neath a forever tree in a forest of dreams,

“Unto the ends of the earth!”

 

words of a forgotten song?

whispers to a lover never quire forgotten?

a missing page of scripture?

a command from a liege lord?

“here be dragons,” on an ancient map?

 

Nay – none of these in truth,

for there is such a place claimed by history;

at least information upon which believing might find roots –

 

A Roman general, impatient with bloodlust after defeating the Thracians,

followed an emerald river north from the sea; drawn by a glittering white peak,

proud as a crown of three jewels.  But when he reached the ends of the valleys,

there was no was to pass, just a circle of pristine stone beyond vision’s eye,

and he wrote, “I have reached the end of the earth.”  – and returned home.

 

Traders from the great caravanserai trading faire of Györ followed a pleasant stream of sapphire purity, seeking an easier pass to new silk markets in Milan – but their way was barred by cold mountains with no trees or grass or bush – and snow that never melted –  and stories spread of having found, ‘the end of the earth!”

 

The Golden Horde found no barrier to its religious calling to bring light to the West – no fortress they could not defeat – until they wrote home to
China of the most beautiful valley in the world – protected by a sea of stones with seven lakes but no soul – where nothing lived at all – and of the triple mountain.  They stopped their western charge and turned north to
Moravia – having reached by their words, “the end of the earth.”

 

The Ottoman Turks swept up the Danuba and Dann Rivers bent on reaching
Vienna – hard fought battles against fortified positions.  So they attempted a flanking approach through the Julian Alps – only to find an impassible wall of white above “blackened lakes”, and marked on their maps of the “valley at earth’s ending.”

 

I have found these stories, and am sure there are more – as many as there are wandering tribes, but these are written — these are more than just memory – and all have in common having found “the end of the earth.”  “The Mountian of Three Heads” is also documented as the furthest Eastern reach of the Carolingian Empire — an easily recognized landmark as travel sight, but also a barrier — and end to the ‘earth’ controlled by the Holy Roman Empire.

 

This wall of barren stone has a center peak of the three heads – the remains of three unfaithful virgins it is said — a source of many myths.  The Alani came and stayed in the valleys and called the Mountain Trigor.  Of this you surely knew.  It was here these refuges from the Steppes mixed with the Celts before they continued across Europe by more Northern routes.  It was here that Kiyan was borne in the 12th century — the one who became known as ‘The Gusari’.  Mt Trigor kept watchful eye over the first recognized Salvic State of Karantania, where the modern Slavic languages found identity — and in whose words the sacred mountain came to be called ‘Triglav’ (pronouced tri-claw’ — and I cannot but envision that it was here that Prometheus was chained.

 

so I would venture that the ‘end’ must also be the ‘beginning’ – and of this I will tell you more…

 

I am called Trigor becuase I speak of ancient facts and information

 

I am called ‘The Duuran’, because people believe the stores I tell