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why does the phoenix (6–tap tap beautiful)

  1. phoenix is a one-note bird.
  2. that note is on fire.
  3. bedside candle.
  4. no paper no pen.
  5. can’t write down dreams.
  6. owl listens, omni-ambient headphones around omni-acoustical eyes.
  7. odalisque your pillow is on fire.  lie down.  sleep.




tap tap, who will be beautiful, flesh sockets packed with black?

so beautiful, gnarled stick

the gods prize whose skin whose eye?

you’ll find time harsh because-of beauty

youth pulped, cored.

want seeds.  want soil.

[upper aside]: cracks melt smooth like wax

[lower aside]: blush flame, so beautiful.  balance ruin.


The phoenix burns billet-doux on my pillow.  Read the last one here.

find me

I work at a desk, taking scissors to centuries of imagery and pencils to pulped trunks of trees, to assemble in my scrapbook a story I am making from my life.

It was Owl’s idea to post my scrapbook in the world wide web.   Is my scrapbook a carcass cocooned?  Do I mildly festoon the near-invisible trap of an arachnoid collective consciousness?

Hawk scoffingly says the only world-wide-web is an opulent cosmic cloth in which I, not my scrapbook, am one of an infinitude of jewels, each reflecting every other jewel.

Owl asks what kind of jewel cat videos are.

I think Owl is being a wise guy.

Black Swan is right now two-stepping anxiously and flapping a wing.  Black Swan wants you to know that CATS ARE EVIL.  CATS WOULD TEAR NOBLE HEADS FROM LONG, LOVELY SWAN NECKS IN IDLE SPORT.  Black swan shivers.

I don’t have a cat.

What I wanted to share today is some of the word searches which have directed people to my scrapbook.  Owl brought it to me:

  • recursion girl
  • overwhelm falling on them
  • do odalisques still exist
  • love images of i will be no more
  • how to make a crumple tree
  • converse teapot
  • sharp handwriting
  • gloomy poetries
  • surrealistic crow
  • near ocean crypt
  • drowning in the sea
  • fashionable owls
  • sea woman portrait
  • picture of the word overwhelm
  • fantasy fashion doesnt know how to fashion
  • night light princess
  • deconstructing feminist art

I love this list.

Do odalisques still exist?  Yes, recursively, in a converse relationship with our teapots.  How do you make a crumple tree?:  picture the world overwhelm.  I will be no more a  love image.  I’m a night light princess in an ocean crypt.  I found myself a fashionable owl, a surrealistic crow (and some other winged friends), perfected the sharpness of my handwriting deconstructing gloomy poetry, and drowned, am drowning, in what wild and lovely sea?

I exist I exist I exist.

I am real.

–The Odalisque


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.


city dreams


owl on sill














in a dark and dated hotel room with the boy you tried to kiss his name the name of greek statues the ones that hold up temple porches

get ready.  before a plate glass mirror get ready

to fly north for an event.

planes to catch in metallic hangars it is so hard to get to these planes.

city streets treacherous they all drop down into round-a-bout  bottoms like the bottoms of bowls.  bowl bottom is stable equilibrium says math class.  no catching a plane in the bottom of a bowl without a dose of irrational energy.

intellectual inadequacy.

i fly.  afraid to lose the earth.  no worries.  boy and girl are bound to earth.  i bear them.

skateboard sky.

sidewalk man in suspenders makes chalk mandalas on the concrete very colorful they are.

maybe he is the one.

that girl has fantastic boots.  red cross-stitched.

maybe she is the one.

will the bicycle make it up the hill, out of the city, to that dark road running home?  see road slope and curve beneath o’erhanging trees shadow trees where insects sing.

OWL sings.

we / land / ground / earth on a paved plaza.

event hotel!  off-center lobby.  elevators to rooms where folded schedules are forgotten.  long brown halls.  stumble upon an intimate, semi-circular hall where businesspeople in frumpy suits karaoke made-up lyrics to classic rock songs.  in one room girl having an argument with staff about what she knows to be true.  time to go home.  surely the event is practically over time to catch another plane.  for vacation.  girl can’t find keys to room where her things are and can’t remember where her room is but

look a forest.  a cube of forest bounded by glass. stunning concept.  balanced with fore-thought / but wild.  red leaves / peacock blues of ever-greens.  deep deep ground forest sunk so to see into canopy

technicolor forest caged between glass viewing corridors of event hotel.

here was well thought-out.  here is worthy of contemplation.  here be still.





everything is up to you


owl on sill




coffee house you sit /imagine/ with blank paper and pen

listen music streams from responsive algorithms

listen there are conversations at tables with all chairs empty but one

talk talk about marketing /cause app art jeans/ marketing is a way to talk about money that sounds like sharing or making friends

listen gnat clouds of attention ghosting the nether-now of elsewhere and who

mesmerizing all the fingers on hand-held palm stones, light glass leaves.  swift fingers single shuttle a miniature loom weave /bandage veil fate/

or idly scroll as if skimming skin of a dull but distracting lover, heart battery in cellophane sleeve sealed with mildly-toxic adhesive

re pe ti tive         /pause/

fresh faces bathed in lightpalm glow as if looking down into unempty hands equals looking up at face of

dawn as if sky is

discrete on/versus/off

look up blank page

here is the future

it is very productive

what do you say

odalisque do you have anything to say

to the future


I don’t have anything to say to the past.  The past was no good for an odalisque.   Kindness.  Gentleness.  All anyone needs.

In this place you describe my unbelonging is fantastic.

I don’t know what to say to anybody anywhere.  I don’t know what to offer that is worth the time my offering would require for its meaning to become apparent.

Maybe I should be somewhere else right now.

But I am always here

I don’t know what to do.

Something else is not happening.  Elsewhere now was home.




transparent barI hope you think of me more than now and again.  Think of me now.  And now.  And now.  And now.  Again…

–The Odalisquetext_fingersthatskimdesire


vernal equinox, 20:44 (UTC).

everything is aligned.

and crow is crow!

our experiment

our experiment

transparent bar

<************update (20:45 UTC)************>

is [was]

broken egg with parrot

Sand [y]

It’s sandy here.  I don’t know what happened.   Wind outlandish wind a storm of wind that rattled the bed frame and deflowered windows, shattering glass.  In the morning, a pile of sand, like an hourglass emptied on the floor of my obelisk.  What duration was being measured?  What, now that the sand has sifted, will soon cease?  Is it bad luck to smash a glass of hours?  What will I do with this temporal pile of sand?

Crow would like me to build an impermanent castle.  Black swan says sand is good for wallowing in, shuffling grit into the itchy place between the wings.  The starlings swoon in discrete calculations- one grain per pursed beak, which will be more numerous?

Hawk sees in the pile of sand a microcosmic manifestation of our parched souls.

I need a broom.  It was Halloween and I wanted to be a witch because that’s what you call women who fly.  I want to fly but I don’t have a broom, so I dressed up as Owl instead.  Owl took one look at my costume and said “isn’t that a bit like gilding the lily?”  I’m not sure if “lily” refers to me or Owl.

Owl was disgruntled with all costume choices.  “Why can’t I be a fish or a movie star or a fantastic aviation device?” moaned Owl, clearly under the influence of my first movie (have you watched it?)  No, Owl is, this year, a very perturbed cupid.  Here we are, with my inexplicable heap of sand:

Owl has no access to electrical equipment at this time, so we had to take a photograph of ourselves in our costumes.  I will post a scanned version, soon.

-The Odalisque

**Here’s the scanned version of our Halloween costumes.  It enlarges :

Halloween, 2012

fashionable owl!

I forgot the owl!

Owl was not into fashion like the other birds.

Regard Owl, irritated, on the shoulder of an odalisque.

fashionable Owl/contorted Odalisque


The owl suggests that, after my recent rampage through gloom, bleakness, and crepuscular carnage, I write about something fun and frivolous to acquaint you with the more adorable side of an odalisque.   Fun, frivolous– both start with F suggesting I write about FASHION, one of wordpress’ more popular topics.  There are lots of very enjoyable blogs about what to wear/when to wear/ways to wear/what other people are wearing.

You may have noticed that most of the time I am wearing nothing but my head.

O!  My heads!  I’m sure it is my heads that wear my body.  My heads, like monks, waitresses, and attendants to flight, always don the same bodily uniform.  But they themselves are rapturous conglomerations of fallacy, frenzy, fortitude, fantasy and fanfare…words that start with F just like FASHION.

My heads are made of paper, tarnished pewter, fire, lapis lazuli, gold-leaf.  I have been known to bedeck my neck with samurai lanterns and a saint’s garland, a compass,  or no more than a feather!

I like to accessorize my heads with arrows.  Recently, when portraying gloom, I let loose the ornament of my hair.

I do have traditional clothing.  Have you admired my fantastic coat which I sometimes wear around my waist, other times draped around my shoulders?  My coat changes size…sometimes it’s so large it shelters me like a tent!   Or, it’s quite small– I tuck it inside a teapot to hide it from the crow, who is attracted to its shiny threads.  Every odalisque needs a fantastic coat to keep her warm and dazzling in dark times.

I also have an Edo period kimono, a gauze dress, a swim-suit, and a favorite party outfit.

I’ll write more about these topics in weeks to come.

Why does the phoenix want me to garb myself in fire?

–The Odalisque

cyberflaneurs, sycophants & odalisques

The owl says that WordPress says that if you want people to read you,  you go read them and then comment with charm, enthusiasm, and sympathy so that they will be flattered enough to click on your profile to see who you are.    Then, you will develop, like Jesus and the Grateful Dead,  followers.

As an odalisque of course I want to be gazed upon.  But the odalisque’s appeal is her sequestration.  She is couched in exquisite seclusion.  She is come-to, arrived-at.  She does not prowl or solicit.  She reclines in recumbent expectancy, like a saint awaiting the ecstasy of her god.

My scrapbook is something you–stumbled upon?

Cyberflaneur, how have you found me?  I am at a distance from the world.  I have nothing to offer but the sensuousness of my presence.  There is no gain in me because I have distanced myself from all that is gainful.  Will you come without motives of your own ascendancy?  Without sycophancy?  Will you come, then come again, delighting, quite simply, in me?

Why do I secret my scrapbook in a social sphere?

I have sequestered myself in this essentially inaccessible obelisk to unearth in my impossible-to-relieve state of  expectancy, what it is I wait for.  What is it I want as I gaze out windows that are not doors that men can open and close and journey towards?

The owl’s lids slowly shutter owl’s eyes.

When I wake up hours later, I see two yellow lanterns shine from a boat far out at sea.

Owl is still on the window-sill.  Eyes open.  Watching me.

–The Odalisque

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