Crow is a parrot. Why is Crow a parrot? To ask me regularly where I am going? Crow is the trickster of the obelisk, never sincere, always accurate. Crow caws for shiny things: broken nib, gold earring, my white hairs. Crow stole me something precious to rob me of my luster. My scrapbook recalls these things about Crow.
Hawk eyes have been spying on Crow. Hawk wishes to be helpful to me, but is also motivated by jealousy: Hawk is metaphysically inclined and feels that if someone is going to shape-shift, it should be Hawk. But Hawk does not see that Hawk metaphysics are conceptualized rationally, through the lens of personality. Hawk shape-shifts in evolution towards a true Hawk self. Hawk is rational enough to believe that Hawk can never be anything but a more radiantly manifested Hawk. Which is, after all, quite-something. It is enough.
Crow, on the other hand, radiantly-manifested black, logician of the irrationally inevitable, master of minute probabilities, infinite leverager of the cosmic shuffle farce…
knows anything is possible. Crow travels fast when looking lazy. Crow is prone to fuzzy logic: howcome time stops where mind is light?
Soaring Hawk spotted, with hawk-eyes, the rim of something hidden beneath stones.
It is a strange record of peculiar happenings. We don’t understand them. We detect fragments: stones, childhood, art, the self, the real. Disappearing. Crow is in this record. Also a stag. And a “he”, named Cursus.
Hawk and I call this found-arcanum “CROW MORPHOLOGY”.
Imagine you are on a boat far out at sea. You see a large twinkling star: it could be nearby, or very far and very bright. You sail towards it. As you steer by its guide through the black waters of night, your boat scruffs a sandy shore. Still the star is there. You see nothing else. You are stuck. You drift…to sleep.
Wake up. See, where the star was, a black impenetrable tower. The star flickers in an open window. The star is a candle fueling the work of an odalisque and her friend Hawk. The candle heats a teapot which generates steam to turn round and round a record with a pen nib riding its groove.
You, on the shore, hear from that pen what sound?
It is very hard work.
We will incorporate the bits we can decipher here in my scrapbook.
I’ve been asleep. I dreamed of a desert.
My last scrapbook page was portraits of the birds in hats. You may remember that Hawk chose a white plumed hat with a blue ribbon.
I was surprised by Hawk’s preferred hat. Hawk explained that it was not an aesthetic choice, but a metaphysical one. This particular hat reminds Hawk of an avian creation myth which he relates thus:
White Bird laid an egg.
The egg was the world.
White Bird sits on the egg; it is night.
White Bird flies, up up up, away; egg is cold.
White Bird goes to her friend, Blue Snake.
Snake gives her a but-recently shed skin.
It, like Snake, is shimmery blue.
White Bird carries the blue strip of Blue Snake back to the egg.
Now, before she flies up, up, up, away,
she wraps the egg with blue skin.
It is the sky.
Sometimes a few downy feathers stick to the skin.
They are clouds.
Hawk is far too worldly to believe in this myth, but, does believe personal journeys constellate in mythological structures.
Hawk asked me to share this primitive bird story with you before I fall back asleep.
I don’t know why I’m so sleepy these days! I am a worn-out Odalisque. Maybe that will be my next scrapbook page: “worn-out Odalisque”. It must be the birds, with all their bitter questionings, exhausting me.
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:
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:
Crow-as-parrot with a parrot in a hat so naïve, I think it is surreal:
The phoenix thinks this hat is bad-ass, especially with a ruched tunic:
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:
WHERE ARE YOU GOING!! squawked Parrot-that-was-crow.
I could go outside. If I knew where to go.
whose skin, like wax, melts towards a core flame
whose pleasing balance cracks like a Kouros’
whose eye sockets are packed with black poultice
the tap tap of Oedipus’ gnarled stick
his daughter is not half so beautiful
the gods blushed grapes are not so beautiful
beneath flesh pulp find but three smooth seeds
sweet potential youth
I want beauty actualized
because of time
the knotted root wrought in harsh soil
the scant juice prized aged