about me & my scrapbook

Handwriting--I am the OdalisqueThe Odalisque

I have taken up residence in an obsidian tower.  It has no chinks for the intrepid to grip.  It is an obelisk.  I am the odalisque who lives in the obelisk.  I converse with birds.

This is my scrapbook about my life.

If you’d like to know more about me, scroll to the upper right corner of this screen.  The sky blue “about me & my scrapbook” menu has information about both things.

Here are some pictures from my scrapbook that I particularly like:

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–The Odalisque



if you’re in–The Odalisqueterested in–

sexual personae camille paglia decadence feminism male gaze deconstruction deconstructing

poetry yeats rilke  tanka haiku japanese female poets yosano akiko anne carson susan howe

surrealism feminist art collage

dream journey jung james hillman archetypes images personal myths eros impermanence

–you might like my scrapbo

8 responses to “about me & my scrapbook”

  1. Fantasy Echo says :

    Dear Odalisque, your work is beautiful.

  2. Simon says :

    Truly marvellous! How come art galleries and the rest of the world are not supplied with work of this quality? I will keep returning as I am able…

    • Odalisque says :

      What is an “art gallery”? Is it like a scrapbook pasted on the walls of a long, ill-lit corridor? I wish my obelisk had a corridor. The obelisk is rest from the world, not “of the world.” Does that count? with joy –The Odalisque

  3. bornbefore says :

    Sempre. Your blog seems to incorporate You into the world. Odalisque is new to me, but I do not resent that; rather, I am new to it and cannot think about it much for now. Your blog is like a streetlamp in the streets of Paris in 1924, perhaps — that’s how it seems to be, to me, at least. It seems like out of the past! Magnificent! Carry on! Rage, if needed; or, whatevs! All… okay, and thank you.

    • Odalisque says :

      Hello bornbefore, you resemble the beetle who brings me letters from Henriette. She and I once lived in Paris, around 1924. We did not walk the streets but secluded ourselves in the boudoirs of decadence. I try to escape the past and live in now. That’s why I’m in the obelisk. Sometimes I do feel angry. I make a paper airplane and hurl it out my window. Sometimes, it hovers over the sea. Othertimes, when the tree is there, the plane gets caught, like a torn wing, until the rain washes it to pieces. That’s so sad. Especially if I wrote a poem on the paper first. I don’t mind if you don’t think of me. I’ll think more about myself.

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