Archive | February 2013

conversation with the crow as parrot

calling card crow/parrot

(Why is crow a parrot?)

Where are you going?  Hello.

As far as I can tell I am not moving.  Well, I am, but only because I rest on this planet, which is repeating its one path around the sun.  Each night, when the sun vanishes, I feel sad.  It’s lonely in the obelisk without the sun’s co-habitation, once all you birds tuck your heads beneath your wings and roost, at least until I settle at my desk and set to work on my scrapbook.  Then I forget to be lonely or sad.   Day breaks the enclosing dome of night and I look up with a feeling of accomplishment.

Where are you going?  Hello.

I should get more sleep.   Maybe take a walk on the shore.  Pack up my scissors, throw some buns in my teapot, and head out for some free air.   I feel there is one right time for that walk and that it should lead me to one particular place.  It’s terrible, Crow, for that thought–of one time, one place–fills me with dread.  I do not know what time, what place, and I hovel up here bitter beneath this cosmic tyranny.   I want anytime, anyplace.  I would like the cosmos to operate with more ease, to unfold like the seed-head of a sea-thistle.  I resent being a wheel in this cosmic machine.

Are you?  Hello.

Odalisques are art.   I wanted to be real so I escaped the art in which I was trapped, but still I must make of my world art.  It gets very confusing.   There is a quote by a famous artist, “It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.”  I want to play with the world  like a child.

You?  Hello.

Yes.  My scrapbook is an expedition.  A paper ship on the unconscious deep.

Going?  Hello.

Towards no horizon.  I progress through fathoms of depth and height.

Where?  Hello.

Crow, here is the page I made last night.  What do you think it means?

I show Crow my latest scrapbook page.  I cannot show it to you because it has not yet resolved itself into a single image.  It is holographic, changing with angles of light.  In a forest looking down or at a city looking up or upon a dune looking out?  A figure, his back is to me.  No…he looks right at me, I sit on the ground, no now, behold, his arm reaches out… Crow says: 


ruined valentine

I’m not writing anymore about love, but I did make a Valentine.   My valentine has ruins in it.   Owl tells me there’s a fetishism for ruins called “ruin porn”.   Amidst the outer-world’s compulsion towards youth, development and progress, there is a counter-fascination with what has fallen apart somewhere so unprofitable it is allowed to remain-an aesthetics of inevitable capitulation, a poetics of collapse.   The stones that have crumbled, the rotting curtains, the empty rooms, the sunken roofs, all, all are ephemeral garlands upon absence.  Absence: the presence of what is no longer present remains, a meta-monument to impermanence.

my valentine has a hole in it

This valentine reminds me of an early conversation with the black swan:

…Is there a love otherwise made?  Of stone?
Its architecture, yes, toppled in weeds,
though an entablature on slipped columns
remains to frame the inorderable sky.

I could think:  Marking a grave.  Or
Its austere grace!  What time cracks falls away
to reveal a more essential beauty.

The ruins memorialize themselves.
Two might still walk among them hand in hand.

“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”   Let love, in its ruin, grace forgotten spaces, defy the spirit of our age which points, it would appear, only to annihilation.  Its shrill, destructive euphoria spares no room for soul-deepening ruins, lovely and bittersweet.

Happy Valentine’s Day!  May your love exemplify grace.

–The Odalisque

Movie Night! Her Greatest Love (2)

Another scene from my favorite movie (so far) HER GREATEST LOVE!  This scene might follow the previous one, or it might not.  This movie does not confine itself to orderly arrangements of space and time, which makes it extremely realistic, but difficult to transcribe.

movie night in the obelisk

movie night in the obelisk

In the previously transcribed scene, HAZEL discovers the white-eyed BOY with his arm around a pony-tail GIRL.  Evil forces gather, cosmic libraries are ransacked, and to her shame, HAZEL sprouts wings.  A spaceship-like car, summoned by the mirrors of pony-tail girls, aligns an inescapable magnetic field around the boy.  (Click to read Scene 1.)


SCENE:  An abandoned farmhouse, winter, late afternoon.

(Winged HAZEL on dilapidated porch watches a lone wasp buzz about its empty nest, a massive wad of wood pulp and spit stuck beneath the eaves.  Stunned and slow, it crawls inside.)

(HAZEL slips through boards into the familiar house.)

(Inside, a center hall of half-open doors.)

(HAZEL walks the wide hall like a time-traveler, her warm breath an animation in the dim, slumbering cold.)

(Doves depart their rafters.)

(HAZEL touches a door and disappears. )

(An empty room.  Large mullioned window.  Floor glittered with broken glass. )

(Panes of late-light waver on the crumbling wall.   One pane contains a dappled disk in which a tiny shadow furiously whizzes like an electron in an atom cloud.)

(Because, on the sill,  a glass bottle, like a distilling flask, refracts the last low bit of wintry light.)

(HAZEL picks up the bottle.)

(CLOSE UP:  HAZEL’s face, distorted by the glass bottle, peers inside.  Fluzz.  Tiny tinny whir.)

(HAZEL shakes the bottle into her palm.)

(What flizzles the glass shaft into her hand?  Compound eye black as a nugget of tourmaline?)

(It relieves itself of its confinement, elaborates its miniscule wings.)

(Meanwhile, moonshine, a derelict joint.   Pony-tail slips mirrors into a coin slot.  Subsequent narcotic arousal accompanied by whining ache from head to bowels.  Stupefying desperation to clutch something warm.   Pony-tail skips and spins like a lousy record.   The silence machines: semblant somnambule.)

(HAZEL looks up, out the window.  Nightfall.   Stars arrive like spectators.)


(Blasting glare; light slashes in.   Squint and shield.   Mullions reel over walls, ceiling, floor–black bars, skewed panes of shrieking light.)

(HAZEL shrinks from window.  Equine insect whizzes round about round about.)

(HAZEL and the tiny horse bottle fly urgent eye-to-eye.)

(HAZEL closes her eyes and opens her mouth as in AAAH.)

(Whiz.  Swerp.)

(HAZEL closes her mouth, convulses.)

(Outside, the spaceship car.)

(Its open door slams shut.)


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