crow morphology (depicted)
nowhere comes close. he steadies himself on a stone.
Groove 5: [inaudible]
ROOMS
in childhood recall reading books that seal fate. Selections will be displayed in the MUSIC ROOM (above).
TAKING TEA
childhood simplicity: a lover of artifacts.
LOSS
Mourn the commonplace. Stitch the embroideries (depicted ). Hold
the black silk, unassuming, over the beloved.
why does the phoenix (billet 5)
I wake up. Fiery pillow note yet again. Ashy pyles. Phoenix remains.
Phoenix:
ODALISQUE:
<The phoenix wants me to burn, and leaves flaming billet doux on my pillow. Read the last one here.>
figures (overwhelm) redux
I feel overwhelmed. So I decided to reblog these figures from some time ago. Figures, as I mention on my about page, are what I use to illustrate complex concepts. I am working on some new figures, too, which I will publish later. I think they are about the word ENOUGH, but we’ll see.
Black swan would like you to know that he is overwhelmed, too. He is squawking and flapping his wings in the tidal marsh below to communicate his persistent shock and dismay. We ate TURKEY on Thursday, not swan, but it still was not a good day for the black swan. (click here if you don’t know what I’m talking about). Soon, I’m going to have to dump out the bones, and I just hope they’ll fall somewhere he’ll never see them.
So here’s an old post, on the word OVERWHELM.
Figures [click to enlarge]:
fig. 1
- figures 3, 5, & 22
I look up
like I’ve fallen down stairs.
recursive figure
Figure [recursion]: a figure approaches
—
I’m reading about art and the abyss. The book was first published in France in 1955. I read then gaze–longingly, futilely–into the depths of my teapot. I struggle to disclose in dissimulation some ceaselessly murmuring silence, some infinite-far which cannot be arrived at, though it entombs me. If only, I think, suffocating in the extremity of my super-abundant exclusion, if only I could SPEAK, not of art and the abyss, but of odalisques & the abyss, which is practically the same thing.
But first I have to answer the question that one amongst you– oh creatures of flight known as readers–posed…how did I get into my obsidian obelisk? I will answer that, in my first attempt at popular entertainment, very soon.
Questions for me, The Odalisque? Comment or email me here.
“In this communication it is obscurity that must reveal itself and night that must dawn. This is revelation where nothing appears, but where concealment becomes appearance.”–Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, tr: Ann Smock
–The Odalisque
figures (obelisk triangulation)
[click to enlarge]
figure [unenumerated]: boreal
figure 2: perspective/aquatic
(cross-reference & view verso)
figure [unenumerated]: astral/beloved
—
figure 17: traverse (the obelisk)
figures (overwhelm)
Figures [click to enlarge]:
fig. 1
- figures 3, 5, & 22
Early morning
when birds start the grey rustling of their undergarments and dawn spills into its bowl like piss
I look up
like I’ve fallen down stairs.
fashionable birds part 4
Fourth and final in my series of Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends.
Crow insisted I make the first portrait. I’m sure it’s some kind of trick.
The second portrait is more representative.
Crow approved them both.
crow?
fashionable Crow
(Conversations with crow are indexed in the “Crow” category to your right.)
fashionable birds part 3
Third in a series of Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends.
fashionable phoenix
fashionable starlings
(Conversations with both birds are indexed in the categories to your right.)
fashionable birds part 2
Second in a series of Immortal Portraits of my very FASHIONable friends:
As usual, hawk was torn between el duende and the desire for repose. We went with el duende, I am delighted to say.
trying on repose
fashionable hawk (el duende)
(Conversations with hawk are indexed in the “hawk” category to your right.)
fashionable birds
Sunday I published a post on FASHION. Monday morning, I was abruptly aroused by a commotion. The birds were prodding, poking, mooning at the window, desperate for me to roll over and let them in.
Miffed by their presumptuousness, but now awake, I climbed out of bed to make a small breakfast. I watched the kettle boil (it does happen, but it takes a long long time, as I anticipated), and sat idle for a full six-minute tea steep. I baked a bun from scratch, ate it morsel by morsel, dropping all sorts of desirable crumbs which the birds could not eat. I read my very first piece of mail seven times seven times over. At last, I opened the window.
To a spazzle-dazzle flurry of highly-excited, almost agitated birds.
Apparently, birds are very FASHIONable, a fact I had failed to observe in all my days in the obelisk (though I had noticed the black swan’s exorbitant vanity).
All week damask and leather occlude my view, collars and pantaloons sail over my head, shifts and roses hover mid-air, borne in beaks of birds. Or claws. There are swords in here. Ridiculous stockings. A crook-necked staff? Jewel boxes.
FASHION squawk the birds, preening. REGARD ME.
To appease them, I’m making portraits. Immortal Portraits of my FASHIONable friends, the birds.
REGARD THEM.
First, the black swan, of course:
fashionable black swan
(Conversations with the black swan are indexed in the “Black Swan” category to your right.)
I am the odalisque who lives in an obelisk. I converse with birds.
