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.
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:
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.
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.