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monarda didyma

Summer is here!

All winter  I imagined days so long long long I would have nothing left to do by the end of them but wait, far into the evening, for the light to finally fade.

All winter I imagined today.

Let’s stir up some spirits; spirits of evergreens, angelica, ice.   Blesséd spirits cool the hot temples.  Phoenix fire will lure the fire-flies to the obelisk;  I look forward to the show.  Black Swan is undoubtedly bringing me a beak-full of beebalm, little red firecrackers just for me.   Hawk is hoping to celebrate the solstice with a squirrel.  Well, not exactly “with”: the squirrel won’t be celebrating.  Hawk promises me the tail–I am supposed to wear it somehow.  I don’t want a squirrel tail but Hawk doesn’t listen.

Owl, who knows everything I think and feel, promises to swallow the tail when Hawk, drowsy full with squirrel not-tail, falls asleep.

Owl, oh owl, the-one-who-fills-in.  Owl dreams of newborn spring rabbits, velvety soft sausages wriggling through an Owl esophagus.

Dinner can be pretty disgusting around here. It’s not my fault: I only eat art, mostly painted by dutch masters.  Very civilized I am, dining nightly on lustrous silver, pewter and crystal.

Black Swan floats upon the table, neatly munching duckweed.

But tonight!  Beyond spirits, a fast.  I will break-fast tomorrow, perhaps on a Manet bun.

Yes.  I will have a Manet bun.

I can make tea from the beebalm leaves, without disturbing the flowers.

They are a favorite flower.

 

 

icy spirits

The days only get shorter from here but let’s not think about that now.  It will be warm for some time yet.

Happy Summer Solstice!

–The Odalisque

PS:  Crow is hopefully being crow, not parrot, off performing his own rituals.  Crow-as-crow, upon a heap of stones.

The starlings are raising their nestlings.  Lots of little mouths practically an insecticide fumigating the marsh.

 

birds in hats

As I mentioned in my last post, the birds think I should hang out on the sea shore this summer.   To distract them from this discomforting vein of conversation, I indulge their penchant for FASHION.

The birds like trying on hats.

Black Swan likes hats more than anybody.  Black Swan would like me to do a whole series of portraits entitled “CROWNING THE INEFFABLE:  Hats O EPHEMERAL GARNISHING Across the Centuries as CLASSICALLY DISPLAYED Upon the TIMELESS HEAD of the Rare BLACK SWAN.”

I refused and made him share a portrait with Hawk:

hats for black swan & hawk

Hawk was deeply moved by the metaphysics of the plumed, dove-white hat, bound as it is by a ribbon of blue sky.  I don’t really understand Hawk’s line of thinking; it has something to do with avian creation myths.

Starlings swarm beneath a veil as if it were mist over the autumn brocade of the marsh grasses:

hat for starlings

Crow-as-parrot with a parrot in a hat so naïve, I think it is surreal:

hat for crow as parrot

The phoenix thinks this hat is bad-ass, especially with a ruched tunic:

hat for phoenix

I put on a hat, too.  The birds suddenly silenced themselves; their heads cocked to eye my every move with beady-black intensity.

They thought I might be going outside:

Odalisque in a hat for the shore

WHERE ARE YOU GOING!! squawked Parrot-that-was-crow.

I could go outside.  If I knew where to go.

–The Odalisque

movie stars

The publicity photos for my upcoming movie HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK have just been released!  I’m a little bit miffed that the black swan is more prominently featured than me…as usual he’s flaunting his large wingspan.

This movie may be rated X.  As usual, I’m not wearing any clothes, but this movie is especially scandalous because I’m not wearing a head.  I feel shy about it, somehow.  It’s awkward having so much exposed.  For the publicity photos they shot my legs separately from my head.  That was much easier for me.

I am very eager for the release of my movie!  Final tweaks are being done.

HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK

STARRING:

along side

A FISH

and an

by Jimi Hendrix & the Experience

SEE YOU SOON

FAR FROM THE SILVERY MOON

ON A GLOWING SCREEN

–The Odalisque

portraits: transitive property

Portrait of the Odalisque as a young girl:

Portrait of the young girl as an artist:

Portrait of the artist as odalisque:

fashionable birds

Sunday I published a post on FASHION.   Monday morning, I was abruptly aroused  by a commotion.  The birds were prodding, poking, mooning at the window, desperate for me to roll over and let them in.

Miffed by their presumptuousness, but now awake,  I climbed out of bed to make a small breakfast.  I watched the kettle boil (it does happen, but it takes a long long time, as I anticipated), and sat idle for a full six-minute tea steep.  I baked a bun from scratch, ate it morsel by morsel, dropping all sorts of desirable crumbs which the birds could not eat.   I read my very first piece of mail seven times seven times over.    At last, I opened the window.

To a spazzle-dazzle flurry of highly-excited, almost agitated birds.

Apparently, birds are very FASHIONable, a fact I had failed to observe in all my days in the obelisk (though I had noticed the black swan’s exorbitant vanity).

All week damask and leather occlude my view, collars and pantaloons sail over my head, shifts and roses hover mid-air, borne in beaks of birds.  Or claws.  There are swords in here.  Ridiculous stockings.  A crook-necked staff?  Jewel boxes.

FASHION squawk the birds, preening.  REGARD ME.

To appease them, I’m making portraits.   Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends, the birds.

REGARD THEM.

First, the black swan, of course:

fashionable black swan

(Conversations with the black swan are indexed in the “Black Swan” category to your right.)

conversations with birds: the swan drifts

(the swan drifts over the reflection of real ruins around which an architect has arranged lake and trees:)

I am not pure enough to believe in
love, its archaic masquerade.  I am
not pure enough to believe its silken
cords won’t fray but

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.

my friend. the black swan.

(feathers swirl the feather bed’s sacked black swan trumpets arches his long neck squalls

mindless bird!  great beast!

shakes his feathers grooms sails black feathered from the high black room.)

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