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.
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.
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.
ODALISQUE IS POOR SCRAPBOOK MAKER THESE DAYS.
DO YOU KNOW WHY?
OWL KNOWS WHY.
TO NO AVAIL.
COLD IT IS AND HARD TO FLY.
OWL WANTS STARLING FOR FOOD.
ODALISQUE SAYS NO.
BUT STARLINGS ARE SO MANY AND OWL ONLY ONE. WHY NOT EAT A STARLING, ODALISQUE? WARM STARLING BLOOD SQUIRTS THICK IN OWL GULLET.
ODALISQUE SCOWLS AT UNCIVILIZED OWL.
OWL SEES FROM OBELISK LAND BLISTERING COLD. STARVED.
FEED ME FEATHERS FED ON GRASS THAT ON THE SUN FEEDS.
NOCTURNAL OWL SEEKS SUNLIGHT
SOLAR FUEL POWERS NIGHTLY FLIGHT.
SUN IS STAR WHOSE LIGHT OWL EATS
IN BIRD AND MOUSE FROM BLADE AND SEED,
ODALISQUE, IN CUSHIONED NIGHT
OWL WINGS ARE QUIET, OWL CLAWS PRECISE.
OWL IS UNCIVIL, OWL DOES NOT SLEEP
OWL HUNTS FOR LIFE TO ON LIGHT FEED.
what lies beneath?
Side 2, Groove 4: [audible]
the stones memorialize the stones entomb
the stones are the threshold through which the beginning embarks upon its end
the stones are the threshold through which the end returns where it began.
the stones’ mass warps the field so that a journeyer setting out in any direction with any goal will quest his way back to them. the stones.
above hawk soars scanning the damp field for food.
below, a burial ground of childish things. let the rapture resurrect them with child-like wisdom.
to the east a wild horse, spiral horned, departs through the shell shellac of dawn, in search of dark.
to the north, crow remains always crow for the wolves are hungry but easily outsmarted.
to the west a stag retreats in the deep blossom of the ever-dying sun.
to the south a pleasure garden, fragrant and fruitful, walled with fire.
in the middle a stone laid on its side maybe toppled maybe placed that way who knows? and what matter?
she sits there, in her afternoon gown.
Cursus, too heavy to speak, cotton-mouthed and miserable, drags himself towards her.
The toppled stone is not hers, but she has done her best to dress its dark mourning for pleasant repast. here find flowers grown in the pot of her hand, basalt for three, silver spoons to hold tongues in place, claw-edged tongs to pick words, desiccated lumps of sugar, from his dry mouth.
She has her pitcher of cream, and knives, too for piercing or spreading thin.
Cursus heaves himself upright and collapses on his table.
his mouth is parched but his heart is drowning.
Side 2, Groove 3: [inaudible]
Side 2, Groove 2: [audible]
Castle to making art found as soot and burnt paper. Drawings, texts, and handmade books all untitled. Artists look at life, bear lyrical remembrance, fix time/narrative, now/the self, use print to produce highly romanticized portraits, indelible relationships between past and present, people and everyday objects…
That trouble real can do a lot of damage.