Tag Archive | love

join sexy women in their bedrooms

I love getting messages from you, even though I sometimes don’t understand them.  This one, for instance, which Owl brought me today:

JOIN SEXY WOMEN IN THEIR BEDROOMS

Name: Jocelyn Age: 19 Turn Ons: horny gentle men I love to please and willing to do anything to satisfy and make your visit one to remember! Hey Hun I`m giving away free passes to see me naked on my webcam! All you have to do is click the link below and you can start chating with me INSTANTLY!!

JOIN SEXY WOMEN IN THEIR BEDROOMS suggests that this is a new liberation movement that supports odalisques in pursuit of their own obelisks!   Come be one of us!  My obelisk is even better than a bedroom!  It is a living room for all that living requires!  For me, that means a decadent bed, a teapot, my desk, an easel, pen, paper, glue, a glass bottle for flowers from the black swan, and a window to look out.   I would love to be part of a world-wide liberation of odalisques into self-sequestration, the privacy and comfort of their own rooms!

But the message itself suggests no such solidarity.  Jocelyn is only 19, and although revolutions generally start among the young, she loves to please which isn’t a desirable characteristic in a leader for social or aesthetic change.   She turns on when horned men appear–satyrs, I guess.  Or fauns.   She must have some kind of button or switch, and it is apparently connected to a “webcam” which she reclines naked upon.  Webcams must be webbed, (cane?)  récamiers, as all odalisques recline on elaborate furniture.

Why does she call me Hun?  I have nothing against any group who terrorized conquering Rome, both treated odalisques barbarically, but I don’t think Huns had much use for odalisques, seeing as they were nomads and we are very stationary.

Dear Jocelyn,
I am always happy to hear from fellow odalisques!   I imagine you reclined in your sumptuous web cam.   This would be a soul-cheering image–if your letter did not make me worry about you.   When love is escapism…you are trapped.   It’s a common problem for us odalisques–mal-using “love” to make us feel real, to pad the emptiness we cannot face in ourselves.  Will you let me advise you, as an older, if still un-wise, comrade?
I know it is hard to believe now, but we all encase an emptiness which it is best not to fill–not until we can populate it wisely.  Let your emptiness compel you towards a wholeness which escapes the confines of your ego.  Let the emptiness fill you like air fills a balloon.  Eventually, it is true, you may burst.  But then–oh yes, then–you will truly be in this world!
Thank you for the free pass to unlock your door (that’s what you mean by ‘click your link’, right?) and chate with you.  I stopped chating when I gave up frenemies.  It happens too INSTANTLY like cheap coffee or a merciful death.  The world may not be white (friends) and black (enemies), but everything, blessedly, is not a shade of grey.   My friends are very colorful.  And they fly!
“All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare.”  A wise odalisque cultivates rarity.  She will be treasured, or she will be alone.  Either is preferable to an easily clicked link.  Lock your door!
When I read the title of your message, I thought it was a rallying cry for odalisques worldwide!
Just a thought.
Your friend,
–The Odalisque
PS:  I am not a Hun.

I secretly suspect that Jocelyn, is really just a vamp intent on making your visit unforgettable because you’ll NEVER ESCAPE.

If you write me, I will reply.  Ask questions etc. as a comment on a post, or at:

handwriting email address

Roman villa in Gaul sacked by the hordes of Attila the Hun, with abducted odalisque off-center and chained odalisque in foreground.

odalisques in space

Last week the owl posted my dream about outer-space:  click to listen.  We’ve been talking a lot about space here in the obelisk.  The birds think I am too sheltered.  They nag me to go to the shore.  I  distracted them with hats, but fashion bores birds as quickly as it does people (I’m so glad I don’t wear clothes!), so I’ve devised a new strategy…I am regaling them with tales of outer-space.

Little did the birds know of heights that are not sunny or blue!  Of regions too vacuous for sheltering clouds!  Of volumes so vast our sun–which could hold one million earths–is but a miniscule, ordinary prick of light!   Little did they know that odalisques in ships of the imagination can zoom far beyond the flight of birds, into outer-space!

It is my favorite place to go when things get rough for me here on earth.

astrolisque

astrolisque

I tell the birds of strange  phenomenon: impotent white giants, doomed red dwarves…

A star's spectacular death in the constellation Taurus was observed on Earth as the supernova of 1054 A.D. Now, almost a thousand years later, a superdense neutron star left behind by the stellar death is spewing out a blizzard of extremely high-energy pa

crab nebula shooting x-rays

I have not yet told them about the dangerously attractive black holes:

Black holes are one of the most intriguing and mysterious of all astrophysical phenomena.  while astrophysical theory has long supported the existence of black holes, it has been hard to fathom an object that is so incredibly dense that nothing, not even light itself, can escape its grasp.

Black holes are intense and powerfully attractive.   It is good astrolisque practice to steer clear of them.  This can be difficult as black holes are invisible.  Mere light-seconds after you feel an intense attraction towards nothingness, you find yourself spiraling towards an oppressive, inescapable doom.  The savvy astrolisque must be wary:

How does one go about locating an object that can’t be directly observed?…this can be accomplished by observing the effects that a black hole has on its surroundings.

Whenever you see a celestial object moving in an odd way…beware!  It is probably under the influence of an invisible black hole!  This celestial object was moving fast enough to not fall in…but you may not be so lucky!  Nor do you want its fate to befall you:  aeons in perturbed orbit around an obliterating absence?  No astrolisque desires sinister stasis!

There’s nothing an astrolisque can do about a gravitational field that overwhelms all other forces in the universe, funneling space-time into its own interminable darkness.   There is nothing an astrolisque can do about astronomical facts.

But she can use astronomical facts to her advantage.  Basic physics tells us that an astrolisque traveling with enough speed through the cosmos will never ever be trapped by a black hole.  The astrolisque must prepare herself for space travel with a lightening quick imagination.  She must craft her coat to spirit her swiftly on breezes of suggestive thought.

What happens if an astrolisque is sucked into a black hole?  Time drags.  The astrolisque’s bottom is stretched out of proportion to her head, at least until she reaches the black hole’s interior singularity–a volume-less place of infinite density, where time ceases and she is squashed into one dull dimension.

Beyond the singularity, results vary.  One astrolisque came-to in an alternate saddle-shaped topology in which she was saddled with a mini-van, 2.5 kids, and a closet of unending despair.  Another astrolisque resurfaced in an inverse universe where everything switched sign: her positives became negatives, and vice-versa, causing an crisis of morality which could only be resolved by quaffing moonshine.  Another  leapt into black hole after black hole, each time desperately hoping things would turn out different.  He eventually became a black hole himself.

These are your average black holes.  But there are super-massive black holes that are not sinisterly invisible…they emit tremendous amounts of energy and light (including radio waves, which I pick up in my sleep).  They are the brightest objects in the universe.

artist-s rendition of an optically violent variable quasar, with nearby astrolisque

artist rendering of a quasar, with nearby astrolisque

I’ll talk more about quasi-stellar radio sources some other time.

These tales discombobulate the birds.  Their spirits are dampened, and they can’t soar carefreely through the sky.  They are afraid their wings will carry them through some unseen membrane of blue, into inhospitable outer-space.

I assure them that they can’t possibly fly that high…they would soon suffocate from a lack of oxygen and fall back down to earth.

This does not comfort them.

Astronomical facts are not for everyone.

–The Odalisque

Black hole quotes here.
Space images from NASA.gov

Henriette libre

A new letter from Henriette!

(Read her previous letter and my reply in bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket.)

staghorn beetle stamp

Odalisque,

Henriette libre!  Chávez became a bird, and I emulated him, slipping through the bars of my cage.   For his corpse my guards were sent to herd the queues of mourners clogging the streets.   I got my coat and walked right out, stood beneath the red portico of my prison de bellas artes.   Nearby, a confused man (at the wrong museum).  I smothered him with my coat, and stole his clothing.  Left him naked, recumbent as an odalisque upon the threshold of the museum.

I wish I could have stayed to watch him come-to, humiliated and exposed.

Do you still measure time with grains of sand?  Caracas is no desert.  I will learn to blow rings from a pipe.  Ceci n’est pas une pipe.  It is my life, lovely halos of smoke, disintegrating.

You ask if I ever learned how to love?   I try to love myself.

Here’s a photo of my new self.  I mean, my disguise.

On the lam,

Henriette

henriette with pipe

Henriette was always the wilder of us two.  Some cruel justice in her…smothering a man with her coat!  But she escaped she escaped!

Henriette,

What kind of bird is Chávez?   Maybe we have mutual friends.   We could convince him to give you a visa and you could visit us here in the obelisk?   I’m not sure how you’d get up but maybe you can rig something with smoke rings and your coat?   I have bones here–I cooked a turkey for Thanksgiving, and kept the bones because I didn’t want to upset black swan by throwing them into the marsh.    They’re in my sugar bowl.  You can have them if you want.

I put your picture in my scrapbook with a collage that is not a pipe.

If you are seen, I hope you will be appreciated.

Your (treacherous-less) friend,

The Odalisque

ceci n'est pas

Do I still measure time in grains of sand?

ruined valentine

I’m not writing anymore about love, but I did make a Valentine.   My valentine has ruins in it.   Owl tells me there’s a fetishism for ruins called “ruin porn”.   Amidst the outer-world’s compulsion towards youth, development and progress, there is a counter-fascination with what has fallen apart somewhere so unprofitable it is allowed to remain-an aesthetics of inevitable capitulation, a poetics of collapse.   The stones that have crumbled, the rotting curtains, the empty rooms, the sunken roofs, all, all are ephemeral garlands upon absence.  Absence: the presence of what is no longer present remains, a meta-monument to impermanence.

my valentine has a hole in it

This valentine reminds me of an early conversation with the black swan:

…Is there a love otherwise made?  Of stone?
Its architecture, yes, toppled in weeds,
though an entablature on slipped columns
remains to frame the inorderable sky.

I could think:  Marking a grave.  Or
Its austere grace!  What time cracks falls away
to reveal a more essential beauty.

The ruins memorialize themselves.
Two might still walk among them hand in hand.

“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”   Let love, in its ruin, grace forgotten spaces, defy the spirit of our age which points, it would appear, only to annihilation.  Its shrill, destructive euphoria spares no room for soul-deepening ruins, lovely and bittersweet.

Happy Valentine’s Day!  May your love exemplify grace.

–The Odalisque

Fig. 1 (enough) questionnante

A series this week!  On the complex concept, “enough”

[click to enlarge]

[Fig. 1]

[Fig. 1 DETAIL]

[With words a beautiful, strange creature, all scales and song and shimmering fins, I bring out of the deep]

[for you to give you con       ]

[The beast sings in the air then submerges.  The sea folds over it.]

transparent bar

Fig. 3 (enough) enough

Part 3 of a series this week!  On the complex concept, “enough”

[click to enlarge]

[Fig. 3: Perspective]

enough frayed rope flayed eel

enough_text_etc

[for years a frayed rope tied to a timber]

[floats in the tide like a flayed eel]

[etc.]

Fig. 16 (enough) shimmer

A series this week!  On the complex concept, “enough”

[click to enlarge]

[Figure 16: Variation]

enough_text_emptiness

[Emptiness, she thinks, is the reward of an open heart.]

enough she thinks

Fig. 18 (enough) bleakness

A series this week!  (Read intro here.)

[click to enlarge]

enough_text_whenisee

enough_bleakness_ship_qtrszenough_text_starspebbles

[Fig. 18]

enough_bleakness_qtrszenough_text_traveler

[You were always welcome here, traveler]

transparent bar

crushed cans v/s broken shells

Cans and shells are both abandoned when no longer useful.

One, when empty (by man). One, when full (by glob-footed organisms).

Glob-footed organisms cannot live inside aluminum cans.

Shells do not litter the streets of major cities.

Broken shells can mulch flower beds.

Crushed cans cannot be flower vases.

Neither makes a tasteful ashtray.

Neither illustrates prayers or sells in tourist shops.

Neither is likely to be gilded, to impress ladies at a luncheon party, or to evoke true love.

Either might evoke memories of an ex.

Neither can nor shell should be clutched too tightly to the bosom.

Neither is an apt metaphor for the muse.  Neither inspires odes.  O cracked bit of shell O crushed aluminum can

And so forth.

The shell, broken, reveals a lustrous encapsulation of roseate dawn.  It is pleasing to the thumb.

The can, crushed, is  illegible.  Its crinkled lip flashes in the sun like a razor.

More sea trash (read bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket here).

–The Odalisque

bones, candy wrappers, a winnowing basket

It came it came!  A letter via staghorn post from Henriette!  (read about Henriette here)

Dear Odalisque,

Everyone I know, used to know, is trashed and wavering in filthy board-rooms, louche galleries, swanky trashheaps.   I hear their twinkling laughter, drunken howls and outrageous tweets even here, in my climate-controlled basement.  I know they mean no harm.  They are indifferent to me.

Thank you for writing.  It is true I still have my coat, moth-eaten but sustainable, in this old trunk Matisse sketched for me.  It is true I have few visitors–but few is more than I’m used to, having desired only solitude, like you.  I with the company of bones.

Oh the bones, Odalisque.  Lacunae of exquisite topology, elaborate curvatures, like dessicated ovaries flowering against a shockingly blue sky.  Fractal erections.  Antlers.  Femurs.  Knucklebones.

We are not growing young.  It is only with labor, much much labor, that our extinguishment is not a snuffing out, but an ecstatic obliteration in light.

A guard is coming.  He will peer closely at me to assure himself I haven’t disintegrated into an obvious fake.

Write soon.

Your friend,

Henriette

On my very first scrapbook page I wrote these words:  “I will write no more of love.  Is anyone ever satisfied?”  Henriette and I both experienced a disillusionment with “love”, whatever “love” is when you’re an odalisque who everyone wants to look at.   At some point, bathed in gazes, thoughtful odalisques react to submersion in viscous adoration with the apparently outrageous question “What am I?”

Lovers come, lovers go, the retreat of street-shoes across elaborate carpets upon which we, barefoot, barely concealed by shimmering drapery, lie.  What does an odalisque feel?  Who is there, not feeling, not known?  I felt trapped inside my own desirability.   Inches beneath my skin I felt a barricade between all-but-my-surface and everything else: an unknown quantity <– my skin–> the world.  The “real” world.  I could see it, as if through chinks of  mounded rubble.   But what or who was in there looking out, so fiercely protected from invasion or intimacy?  I felt a faint wind.  I could see nothing, and the sound was a soft emptiness, a downiness into which too much had collapsed and suffocated.

The options available to Henriette & I ?  Jaded hedonism, vengeful vampishness, feverish tragedy, or domestication, a settling down, settling in.  We considered our options and cried “fuck this!”  We meant these words metaphorically, not literally, and that, that delineated something raw and fibrous  that we resolved to call “I”.  We grabbed our coats and ran.

We were never afraid of living our lives alone.

I WAS afraid of becoming brittle and sopped, trash spit out of the ocean that crumbles at a touch–corroded aluminum, brittle cellophane, the shattered foil wrapper of something toxic and sweet.  Better to be a seashell, empty and clean, or a beat-up piece of glass.  Better to be a crab scuttling away from the encroaching foam, or even the dry rasp of the dune grass, if not the dunes,  if not the collapsed lungs of the sea creatures upon the sand, if not the moon’s liquidity on the ocean’s trembling musculature, or the moon itself.  No, not the moon.  The winnowing basket woven across the sky by its mensual arcs.

That yes that.

Dear Henriette,

Did you ever figure out how to LOVE someone?

The birds all say hi.

Your friend,

The Odalisque

HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK

One of you, fair readers, wrote:  “Odalisque, your obelisk is very tall, and you say it is made of obsidian–a glass-like volcanic rock–with ‘no chinks for the intrepid to grip‘.  So how did you get into it?”

I rested my chin in my palm and got all misty-eyed, gazing towards an empty sea.

Why do I hate the ocean?  What good are bird friends?  Why does every odalisque need a fantastic coat?   I, The Odalisque, reveal all (even my head) in my first very low-budget movie (shot entirely on scrapbook paper):  everything I remember about HOW I GOT INTO THE OBELISK.

Rated X for cerebral exposure and unexpected violence.

Links to:

See the movie poster

See the publicity photos

Read about my heads

Read about my coat

My feelings about the ocean

How I avoid type-casting

BONUS FEATURE:  my SWIM-SUIT

Thank you for looking.  Thank you.

–The Odalisque

figures (o’er the hills), soliloquy, stage directions

[click to enlarge]

figure [unenumerated]: boreal

ODALISQUE

Midway on life’s journey, the right road lost, I find myself in dark woods

pursued by armed men crying: Nymph!  Goddess!  Celestial Queen!

They say they are artists.

Their eyes are on me.

They do not presume that my solitary repose is neither for being seen nor to better see them.

(I include the confounding nor:  boys, you forget how

pretty you are.)

I will not play hunter, bewitcher, or conquered prey in this interminable masquerade.

Is there love otherwise made?

Leave me alone.  Go away.

(foot fiercely stomped.)

(bows lustily drawn. )

(swift incurable flight.  hooves.)


figure 7: boreal (otherwise)

otherwise

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