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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

 

 

 

 

 

a tree is cut down and paper made. I then write on it.

handwriting if a tree is cut down

If a tree is cut down and paper or pencil made, and I then write with them?

If you were a tree

would you be my pencil?

my blank page?

my unblank page?

If you were a tree would you be the page preserved in an archive, its climate controlled with combustion, the burning of ferny compression we call fossil fuels?

Would you be my paper, my pencil, preserved?

handwriting a tree would prefer

A tree would prefer I crumple this page, throw pencil away.

Better yet, would I please bury both in dirt?

handwriting if you were a tree you would want

When I fall something shoot its pale cusp from the trunk that was me.

transparent barit begins

Come back wild moment from far before
I took up my sword call it pencil say paper or page.
Killing impulse, I took up pencil and page.
I ruined everything.

my dream

Owl recorded my dream.  Listen:  cosmic dream radio.

I woke up yesterday.  This is what I remember:

bird's shadow blackensleave 2 candles burning/ do i go out again

I can’t help but think that some of this was due to one of phoenix’ flaming billet doux.

But there was no ash on my pillow when I woke up?

enough (definition)

Each time I publish a scrapbook page, I feel I toss it from my high window.  Its conceptual origami catches an earthly wind.  I watch it disappear, blown far from my obelisk’s shore into a virtual populace.  Over a frantic boulevard it floats, settling on a concrete  median beneath a floriferous  tree, there on the packed dirt amongst chicken bones, leaves, plastic cups.   How is it it you reached down to pick it up?  How is it, amongst fumes, glare, pedestrians in tight pants,  honking horns (so many dangerous vehicles)  you even noticed my scrapbook page?

If my scrapbook page pleases you, orange stars and plus signs  shower my desktop (like like like), confetti tossed in friendly appreciation from you, out in that fleet & fleeting world.

I am grateful for your appreciation.

One year ago today I flung my first scrapbook page out into the world–a piece of notebook paper with some scribbled words (read it here.)     I’ve found an earlier  piece of notebook paper, excavated and illustrated it with figures about the complex concept “enough.”   I’ll publish these figures + torn text one-at-a-time this week.

To start,  I give you a graph, and a definition, of the word “enough”:

Is it enough?  I think so.  I think you are.  Enough.

Thank you for looking.  Thank you.

–The Odalisque

my refrigerator

When cicadas hum and green things spoil themselves for autumn,

let’s go to the kitchen and stand contemplatively in the light of the refrigerator door.

Let’s grab leaves and roots and pulpy ovaries, throw them on the counter and make choices.

Let’s use sharp knives and pull with our fingers.

Let’s put things in pots and boil them.

Let’s stir and sizzle and poke until they’re done.

When they are, bring out the earthenware and a bottle of something intoxicating!

Let the night burn like sugar!

Let the days be warm and crisp as a salad!

Let us be bountiful with each other and sharp.

Let us labor and be well fed.      (    oh

it’s  nice to smell oil burning

to cut into gourds and hearts

to come inside when the sun gets all teary-eyed

and sit close in the last bit of warmth.)

my refrigerator

sleepy Odalisque

 

learning to wait

1.  Slumber.

2.  Take a lover.

!!THIS IS NOT ALLOWED!!

3.  Obscure all outlets of communication.

4.  Exhaust yourself with a task that is never completed.

5.  Exhaust yourself by uncompleting your completion of a task.

6.  Slumber.

7.  Imagine the seeds in the earth.

If it is summer, and it has rained, imagine the seeds need to be scarified by cold, thus cannot sprout.

If it is winter, know it is not spring.

If it is spring, imagine it is unnaturally dry. Imagine the prescience of a seed that knows it is not yet time.

Imagine yourself slumbering like a seed in the earth but

Panic.  Swift flight from time, the static time, which you must spend waiting.  For?   If you are longing for a man (that man) do not think of death, of your body languishing, a flower with no fruit. You do not want to bear children but to be held full in the grip of a man, as he might take a fruit, whole in his mouth. What ripeness before rotting and how many men wait

with just the right curve o’ their lips, strength o’ their hands, for grasping, for lifting to their lips therefore to turn o’er upon the tongue?

You may–

(Snakes converge like sperm from all directions to the black stone, warm from a whole day’s sun, beneath which they nest.)

–find that waiting is only for death, all said and done, and that your most fertile preparation is for the moment of no personage when you fall without ceasing to stillness (not conscious of any distinction between the two) into a darkness that might be like earth or like outer-space, or the consciousness that there is no difference between them.  How does a bird distinguish earth from sky?  The earth offers roost and sustenance, the sky is ascent, never ascended.  Between them, the space it travels through.

But you are not a bird.  You are waiting.  You are turning yourself over like earth, in preparation.

 

 

 

coat

Lovers!   Do not fling your carefully embroidered coat beneath the feet of your beloved!  His beauty is appallingly evident but

you’ve pretty plumage, too.   Keep the coat.  There is a field littered with the stones that struck the sky’s tarnished mirror.  The cracks in its mirror are trees.  When you walk that field, wrap your coat close.  It will startle the landscape with a mis-stroke of color.  Tenderly, tenderly it will open (like an undergarment) for whomever watches, waits (tending what sure fire?)  for you to come home.


I will write no more of love.

I will write no more of love.

Is anyone ever satisfied?

A Japanese poet, maybe.

When her lover (a jade bead

slipping along a silk cord

which is a path

white with almond blossoms

or snow?)

hurries.

My garments do not tie closed.

The stairs to my room are

dirty and who ever mounts them?

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