It’s sandy here. I don’t know what happened. Wind outlandish wind a storm of wind that rattled the bed frame and deflowered windows, shattering glass. In the morning, a pile of sand, like an hourglass emptied on the floor of my obelisk. What duration was being measured? What, now that the sand has sifted, will soon cease? Is it bad luck to smash a glass of hours? What will I do with this temporal pile of sand?
Crow would like me to build an impermanent castle. Black swan says sand is good for wallowing in, shuffling grit into the itchy place between the wings. The starlings swoon in discrete calculations- one grain per pursed beak, which will be more numerous?
Hawk sees in the pile of sand a microcosmic manifestation of our parched souls.
I need a broom. It was Halloween and I wanted to be a witch because that’s what you call women who fly. I want to fly but I don’t have a broom, so I dressed up as Owl instead. Owl took one look at my costume and said “isn’t that a bit like gilding the lily?” I’m not sure if “lily” refers to me or Owl.
Owl was disgruntled with all costume choices. “Why can’t I be a fish or a movie star or a fantastic aviation device?” moaned Owl, clearly under the influence of my first movie (have you watched it?) No, Owl is, this year, a very perturbed cupid. Here we are, with my inexplicable heap of sand:
Owl has no access to electrical equipment at this time, so we had to take a photograph of ourselves in our costumes. I will post a scanned version, soon.
**Here’s the scanned version of our Halloween costumes. It enlarges :
The owl suggests that, after my recent rampage through gloom, bleakness, and crepuscular carnage, I write about something fun and frivolous to acquaint you with the more adorable side of an odalisque. Fun, frivolous– both start with F suggesting I write about FASHION, one of wordpress’ more popular topics. There are lots of very enjoyable blogs about what to wear/when to wear/ways to wear/what other people are wearing.
You may have noticed that most of the time I am wearing nothing but my head.
O! My heads! I’m sure it is my heads that wear my body. My heads, like monks, waitresses, and attendants to flight, always don the same bodily uniform. But they themselves are rapturous conglomerations of fallacy, frenzy, fortitude, fantasy and fanfare…words that start with F just like FASHION.
My heads are made of paper, tarnished pewter, fire, lapis lazuli, gold-leaf. I have been known to bedeck my neck with samurai lanterns and a saint’s garland, a compass, or no more than a feather!
I like to accessorize my heads with arrows. Recently, when portraying gloom, I let loose the ornament of my hair.
I do have traditional clothing. Have you admired my fantastic coat which I sometimes wear around my waist, other times draped around my shoulders? My coat changes size…sometimes it’s so large it shelters me like a tent! Or, it’s quite small– I tuck it inside a teapot to hide it from the crow, who is attracted to its shiny threads. Every odalisque needs a fantastic coat to keep her warm and dazzling in dark times.
I also have an Edo period kimono, a gauze dress, a swim-suit, and a favorite party outfit.
I’ll write more about these topics in weeks to come.
Why does the phoenix want me to garb myself in fire?
The owl says that WordPress says that if you want people to read you, you go read them and then comment with charm, enthusiasm, and sympathy so that they will be flattered enough to click on your profile to see who you are. Then, you will develop, like Jesus and the Grateful Dead, followers.
As an odalisque of course I want to be gazed upon. But the odalisque’s appeal is her sequestration. She is couched in exquisite seclusion. She is come-to, arrived-at. She does not prowl or solicit. She reclines in recumbent expectancy, like a saint awaiting the ecstasy of her god.
My scrapbook is something you–stumbled upon?
Cyberflaneur, how have you found me? I am at a distance from the world. I have nothing to offer but the sensuousness of my presence. There is no gain in me because I have distanced myself from all that is gainful. Will you come without motives of your own ascendancy? Without sycophancy? Will you come, then come again, delighting, quite simply, in me?
Why do I secret my scrapbook in a social sphere?
I have sequestered myself in this essentially inaccessible obelisk to unearth in my impossible-to-relieve state of expectancy, what it is I wait for. What is it I want as I gaze out windows that are not doors that men can open and close and journey towards?
The owl’s lids slowly shutter owl’s eyes.
When I wake up hours later, I see two yellow lanterns shine from a boat far out at sea.
Owl is still on the window-sill. Eyes open. Watching me.
I am the odalisque who lives in an obelisk. I converse with birds.