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of late

My scrapbook, of late, has looked like this:

notebookpaper - horizontal lines

Lines.  Pale blue lines.  Blank paper.  With lines.

Having spent most of my life in works of art, I know all about lines:

Horizontal lines suggest a feeling of rest or repose because objects parallel to the earth are at rest. Horizontal lines delineate sections which recede into space.  The lines imply continuation of the picture plane to the left and right.  [Elements of Art]

Please orient your screen so every line is parallel to the earth.

notebookpaper - horizontal lines

Do you feel rest do you feel repose?

Imagine the lines extend out of your screen, infinite continuation, left and right.   Let’s walk towards the blank paper’s beginning.  Or do you prefer its end?

Maybe these horizontal lines do not begin or end, but circle like latitude lines.  We walk inside a column of paper, round and round.  The white space, delineated, recedes.

Here I am, stuck in the middle of a cyllindrical blank-paper drum.

Hit my head, see if I thrum.

Turning the page the other way changes things a bit:

notebookpaper - vertical lines

Vertical lines often communicate a sense of height because they are perpendicular to the earth, extending upwards toward the sky. Vertical lines suggest spirituality, rising beyond human reach toward the heavens.  [Elements of Art]

My obelisk is a very strong vertical line rising from the earth’s horizontal plane.  I’ve conveniently positioned myself between heaven and earth.  I don’t want to ascend any further (like the birds) or go down to the shore.  I like it right here.  For now.  I can see the sky and I can see the shore and the birds come into visit, bringing seeds and grasses from the out-of-doors.  I open my window.  The wind carries in its light arms molecules of pollen and salt.

Would you rather face heaven, earth or a the delineated white page?

Of late, I’ve shown my back to the conceptual page, and faced my little world.  The kettle’s on!  We’ve buns for tea!  The weather is unseasonable, but the starlings will flap their wings to create a gusty breeze so phoenix can blaze pleasantly for the rest of us.  The warm weather has made black swan molt.  I’m collecting the downy feathers to stuff a new bed.  Crow has flown north on the annual spiritual strengthening retreat, but will return on the solstice, through my new niche (remember my solstice niche?)  May crow return as crow, not parrot.  What celestial bodies must I implore to bring that about?  I don’t know who crow listens to, so I implore crow:  be black black crow, not flashy parrot.  Stop asking me where I am going.

Hawk is reading Adorno.  Eyeing the ethereal blue lines on the blank pages I’ve taped one-by-one to the obsidian walls, Hawk quoth thus:

In her text, the writer sets up house.  Just as she trundles papers, books, pencils, documents untidily from room to room, she creates the same disorder in her thoughts.  They become pieces of furniture that she sinks into, content or irritable.  She strokes them affectionately, wears them out, mixes them up, re-arranges, ruins them.  For a woman who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live.  In it she inevitably produces, as her family once did, refuse and lumber.  But now she lacks a store-room, and it is hard in any case to part from left-overs.  So she pushes them along in front of her, in danger finally of filling her pages with them.

..In the end, the writer is not even allowed to live in her writing.  [II.Memento, Minima Moralia: Reflections from Damaged Life]

I hope you bear well the shortening days!  We’ll celebrate the turning very soon.

‘Till then,

–The Odalisque

I look out my window

I look out my window.  The moon is inside.

 

 

The veil is thin.

 

–The Odalisque

 

(can’t see the movie?  try here.)

mooning

I know.

I did not make an equinox page.  Did you miss it?

Here we are again.  Dark days.  I mean nights.  I mean LONG nights.

They are coming.

I’m depressed.

Maybe I should move closer to the equator so I don’t have to go through this every year.  Otherwise, I’ll have to go back to being an unravished bride of happiness, i.e., art.  Oh happy happy art!  Music unheard is sweetest and in truth, beauty such as an odalisque’s may be eternally still, fading century-by-century to fall at last in entropic decay.

You may have noticed I don’t make so many scrapbook pages anymore.  At first it was so exciting to be out and about in my own obelisk.  But everything passes so fast.  Like starlings sweeping the sky time is, a hypnotist, and I, Odalisque, am hypnotized, with a soft focus dream-floating in all the flux.  Why stamp myself upon this flux of time?   Why afix myself to the pseudo-permanent?  Why art?

I miss crow.  Parrot-that-is-crow doesn’t talk anymore, doesn’t ask me where I’m going.  It’s obvious to all us birds that TIME is what’s going.  It’s a sensation, round and round.  Parrot is plucking her own feathers.  Maybe beneath all that caricature will step my black crow.

Crow would know how to party in this mad, strung-out scene.  We’re all exhausted and too paranoid to  get out o <f/i>n time.

eq2015_owlhereeq2015_oisstupid

OWL HERE.

ODALISQUE IS STUPID.

ODALISQUE!eq2015_become

YOU HAVE SOMEWHERE OR WHO TO BE

THERE IS A PLACE TO ARRIVE AT IT IS NOW TO BECOMEeq2015_mooning   owl_signature

 

 

 

My face is like the moon /the night grows long /long reign of moon.

Don’t moon about.  Wane.  So you can see the stars.

Here we go again.

It never stops does it.

 

–The Odalisque

 

 

 

 

 

bellyful of light

owl_handwriting_owlagainHELLO.

ODALISQUE IS POOR SCRAPBOOK MAKER THESE DAYS.

DO YOU KNOW WHY?

OWL KNOWS WHY.

OWL TAKES HATS FROM SIMPLE RUNNING FOLK TO WEIGH DOWN ODALISQUE BRAIN.

TO NO AVAIL.

COLD IT IS AND HARD TO FLY.

OWL WANTS STARLING FOR FOOD.

ODALISQUE SAYS NO.

BUT STARLINGS ARE SO MANY AND OWL ONLY ONE.  WHY NOT EAT A STARLING, ODALISQUE?  WARM STARLING BLOOD SQUIRTS THICK IN OWL GULLET.

ODALISQUE SCOWLS AT UNCIVILIZED OWL.

STARLINGS MAKE PICTURES IN THE SKY.  STARLINGS SWARM.  STARLINGS TWITTER UP DAWN  FEED ON MARSH GRASSES THAT FEED ON LIGHT.  STARLINGS, SOMETIMES, WEAR HATS, AND ARE FASHIONABLE.  STARLINGS LIKE OWL FLY.

OWL SEES FROM OBELISK LAND BLISTERING COLD.  STARVED.

FEED ME FEATHERS FED ON GRASS THAT ON THE SUN FEEDS.

NOCTURNAL OWL SEEKS SUNLIGHT
SOLAR FUEL POWERS NIGHTLY FLIGHT.
SUN IS STAR WHOSE LIGHT OWL EATS
IN BIRD AND MOUSE FROM BLADE AND SEED,
ODALISQUE, IN CUSHIONED NIGHT
OWL WINGS ARE QUIET, OWL CLAWS PRECISE.
OWL IS UNCIVIL, OWL DOES NOT SLEEP
OWL HUNTS FOR LIFE TO ON LIGHT FEED.

owl_signature

 

 

 

owl love

stolenhatWhere did we all get our warm caps?

Ask owl.

 

oforowl

swoops o’er the unwatchful, their head-tops to swipe.

O, Owl.  Hunting mind cozies.

My head is an eclipse, crowned with woolens bound with vine.

I descend the red carpet of my heart

allying rose and sword.

–The Odalisque.

crow morphology (she)

what lies beneath?

Side 2, Groove 4: [audible]

the stones memorialize the stones entomb

the stones are the threshold through which the beginning embarks upon its end

the stones are the threshold through which the end returns where it began.

the stones’ mass warps the field so that  a journeyer setting out in any direction with any goal will quest his way back to them.  the stones.

above hawk soars scanning the damp field for food.

below, a burial ground of childish things. let the rapture resurrect them with child-like wisdom.

to the east a wild horse, spiral horned, departs through the shell shellac of dawn, in search of dark.

to the north, crow remains always crow for the wolves are hungry but easily outsmarted.

to the west a stag retreats in the deep blossom of the ever-dying sun.

to the south a pleasure garden, fragrant and fruitful, walled with fire.

in the middle a stone laid on its side maybe toppled maybe placed that way who knows? and what matter?

she sits there, in her afternoon gown.

Cursus, too heavy to speak, cotton-mouthed and miserable, drags himself towards her.

The toppled stone is not hers, but she has done her best to dress its dark mourning for pleasant repast.  here find flowers grown in the pot of her hand, basalt for three, silver spoons to hold tongues in place, claw-edged tongs to pick words, desiccated lumps of sugar, from his dry mouth.

She has her pitcher of cream, and knives, too for piercing or spreading thin.

Cursus heaves himself upright and collapses on his table.

his mouth is parched but his heart is drowning.

she says:

crowmorph_she_qtrszcrowmorph_she_txt

Intro to  Crow Morphology.

Previous Groove.

crow morphology (blurbs)

crowmorph_record

savor the strangeness.

Side 2, Groove 2: [audible]

 

crowmorph_castleblurb_qtrsz

Castle to making art found as soot and burnt paper.  Drawings, texts, and handmade books all untitled.  Artists look at life, bear lyrical remembrance, fix time/narrative, now/the self, use print to produce highly romanticized portraits, indelible relationships between past and present, people and everyday objects…

That trouble real can do a lot of damage.

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 Intro to  Crow Morphology.

Previous Groove

crow morphology (side 2: the moment)

 

crowmorph_record

Side 2, Groove 1: [inaudible]

 

crowmorph_spread_strange_qtrsz

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

 

crowmorph_savorstrange

Intro to  Crow Morphology.

Last Groove, Side 1

crow morphology (ice stone)

crowmorph_record

crowmorph_loss_txt

Groove 6: [audible]

here there are stones.  stones that were books that were songs that were warm hands warm from weeping.  black silk worn deep blue by years of weather, macabre tablecloth on a slab of stone.  sacrifice who?  it is done.  stones are not hungry nor do they thirst.  flesh nor blood.

where the stones are there was a forest.

the winds are harsh and the ground stays damp without roots to drink from it.

night is wholly visible, they say.

 

[silence]

 

Groove 7: [audible, hidden]

Fret:

 stone time a dream marvel impetuous f/light streaking across night sky

deploy fire icy dust because core changed very little and still in icy depths

the mission ends [

deep cease]

Intro to  Crow Morphology

Previous Groove.

crow morphology (depicted)

crowmorph_record nowhere comes close.  he steadies himself on a stone.

Groove 5: [inaudible]

ROOMS

in childhood recall reading books that seal fate.  Selections will be displayed in the MUSIC ROOM (above).

TAKING TEA

childhood simplicity: a lover of artifacts.

LOSS

Mourn the commonplace.  Stitch the embroideries (depicted ).  Hold

the black silk, unassuming, over the beloved.

crowmorph_rooms_crop

Intro to  Crow Morphology.

Previous Groove

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