to the immense tracts of forest
that ring the Northern Hemisphere
the worst is yet to come.
Vast stands of spruce and other resinous trees
the resinous trees of the boreal zone
become more susceptible to fire
intense fires that are nearly impossible to control.
Forest fires are a natural part
of the history of the forest
suggest they may be reaching an unnatural level of frequency and intensity.
“We’re kind of at a crossroads.
“We anticipate more fires, and more intense fires, in the future.”
The forests return to the atmosphere.
Fig: Yet to Come
text excavated from here.
archer compress night like an accordion
usher its scenery into outer wings
the lady wears her black mantilla
archer fold nightmares into paper fans
fetch fanned breezes for the mothy air
the lady day dreams.
archer lower your bow
the lady dreams leaves out of bare wood
she dreams trees for the forest where
you will have lease to shoot.
My scrapbook, of late, has looked like this:
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.
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:
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.
[Shhhh. She’s sleeping.]
I’d trade this song for you. Unless…it’s going to be remembered. Who’s going to remember me? Who’s going to remember you?
Throw it all into the combustion of history. Throw it up against the annihilation of stars. Back yourself up in the cloud….racks of machines o’erheat the desert. Before everything. Powers. Down.
This is my coast my shore. The sea crashes, shapes, heaps, carries away. My coast. My shore. Here a wrecked shipman would long for fresh water and hot food. I weep salt and speak-sputter wet wood. My house is built apocalyptic on sand there is no rock here. Shifting sands. Nomad- I of miniscules, foot by foot my house moves, between dune and shore.
The jewels of my country are secreted. Secrete/secret the thick glossies that mollusk thumbs fist. Spiraled, scalloped, with fishy smells. A captain landing here would find no treasure except what the ocean will break and cleanse. My wealth is all paper on a standard of feathers and shell. I’m worth nothing without irrational faith.
Here no ships but maybe. Here no sails but maybe, too far for hawk-eye to see, one trawls, nets too knotted and tangled to sail home. Better to be a boatman in the hollowed trunk of a tree, steadying his gaze, hand to a spear. Better skim the deep waters armed with knives and spears, sharp and precise, than drag behind a powerful vessel indiscriminate nets.
Feed me. I will eat gold kernels out of my hands and sea eggs, grey yolked. No more nets, knotted and tangled, in constant need of mending, They dredge the dark living sea dusts up I will not feed on its bottoms.
Gold grain and grey yolks. Feed me things that might be born. Feed me the raw germ of wanting-to-be-born.
Don’t force. Little things. Days. Hay the heap in which pricker lost, scintillant sharp-eye.
Pay attention. A haystack is a stack of needles. Needles of hay. Stop scouring gold for cold steel.
Engage the operative. Draw the lines taut and subtle like muscle tissue like sinew bow strings, foreleg of deer drawn taut to down the fleeing deer.
The deer enables the hunter. Without her there is no hunt<h>er.
Or is there? Her taut-strung sinews string his lyre. Therefore, he thinks, they commune.
Head too heavy to lift up?
Look down, upon reflective surfaces.
Try cans of spent motor oil. Try backside of spoons. Try sphericals. Try eyes of adoring animals. Try shiny-ing your shoes.
Yes, we are here. So soon after the solstice it’s Happy New Year. Year THREE of my life in the obelisk has just passed by.
This year Hawk found a record underneath a rock. We called it crow morphology and tried, unsuccessfully, to decipher it. Henriette sent a postcard–she found a job in Venezuela! I invited her to visit us in the obelisk, but I haven’t heard from her again. I dreamed on cosmic dream radio: deer crashing, and a song from the sountrack of my favorite movie. I wondered “Are you bringing me flowers?” (YOU. YES YOU.) Black Swan did bring flowers from the marsh but Hawk brought me a squirrel tail which Owl promptly ate. I was so glad. I mean, sad.
For the solstice, the birds made me a niche. Three years in the obelisk and I finally have a niche!
Here are some pictures from my scrapbook this year:
Here is a dream I dreamed: