Tag Archive | art

the worst is yet to come

 

A threat

to the immense tracts of forest

that ring the Northern Hemisphere

grim proof

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

but records

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

firestag_crop

 

 

text excavated from here.

–The Odalisque

 

compressed into outer wings

 

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.

spring_equinox_2016_qtrsz

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Welcome, Spring.

–The Odalsisque

happy new year (4)

Last night we celebrated the end of my FOURTH year in the obelisk.

Today, my head is crossed and quartered call it a head-ache.  Too much elder-flower wine.  Sambucas Canadensis have you tried it?  It’s one of the flowers the black swan brings and a batch I began when I first moved here was uncorked yesterday.

I have a head-ache, today, which is Imbolc, the cross-quarter day.  Imbolc means:  we’re half-way to the equinox!

Is it a coincidence that I moved into the obelisk on a cross-quarter day?

Yes.  It was only a coincedence that I moved into the obelisk half way between solstice and equinox.

But is the coincidence  meaningless?

I decide it is not meaningless.  I thank my inside-self who was, it seems, attuned to the turning earth, though conscious odalisque had no idea.  I have grown wiser in four years and when things coincide, choose to honor them.

It was right about now, half-way between the longest night  and some kind of light/dark balance, that I got the bright idea to move into an obsidian tower.  I saw it, as I stood on the shore, far across the salt-marsh.

My pagan ancestors celebrated with Imbolc the maiden.  So do I, sequestered here in black grounded stone, whole unto myself.

Here is one of my favorite scrapbook portraits EVER, of me celebrating my inner maiden:Odalisque portrait as a young girlThis new year, rather than list my favorite posts of the past (I like this one and this one and this dream song  but Owl complained that I didn’t make enough scrapbook pages here.) I thought I’d stick in some of the scrapbook pages I never finished.  Something to look forward to in the coming year?  Will I manage to contextualize and complete them?

 

 

 

of late

My scrapbook, of late, has looked like this:

notebookpaper - horizontal lines

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.

notebookpaper - horizontal lines

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:

notebookpaper - vertical lines

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.

‘Till then,

–The Odalisque

I look out my window

I look out my window.  The moon is inside.

 

 

The veil is thin.

 

–The Odalisque

 

(can’t see the movie?  try here.)

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

 

 

 

 

 

zenith

Here we are again.

sun top high shine shine shine the live-long day.

long live the sun king.

–The Odalisque

three’s a charm (Happy New Year 3)

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!

Owl just lifted one foot then stomped it on my desk to remind me that Owl, also, made scrapbook pages while a certain Odalisque was off dreaming in a funk.  Owl wrote about Owl things here and here.

As usual, I got more crazy notes burnt on my pillow by the phoenix.   And google eyes agoged (FIND ME YOU YES YOU).

Here are some pictures from my scrapbook this year:

Here is a dream I dreamed:

 

vinyl

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?

Crow knows.

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”.

crowmorph_record

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.

More soon.

–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.

 

spring is coming

Ah, Bacchanal!

Spring is coming!

There are no birds in this picture.  Saturn and his wise centaurs.  All a-flutter and creepy-crawly.  Floriferous, sword in scabbard and spear.

Rummaging through loose papers to find out where on earth/in space I found that face!  Faces are unusual in my scrapbook!  Here’s the only other one I can think of.  It’s from my favorite movie.

Are you bringing me flowers?  I like flowers.  Particularly the ones that open themselves so fully they fall apart.  Hearts do this, and the ego, yearning for transcendence.   So, too, the prismatic doors of glass, with no hinges and no handle.  You (yes you) must crash through.  Oh the light, smashing everywhere and glass shattering like a fist smashed into still water drops like glass throwing light.

My favorite flower, the petals dropleted with moisture, shatters on the sill.

Wait, just a little bit.  I will make you a bouquet.

–The Odalisque

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