I have taken up residence in an obsidian tower. It has no chinks for the intrepid to grip. It is an obelisk. I am the odalisque who lives in the obelisk. I converse with birds.
spring is coming!
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.
Congratulations on your new position! Will you get a day off?
The birds say they know a very fancy song called Peter and the Birds. The birds, assisted by Peter, trap a wolf. The wolf winds up in a zoo.
But don’t worry. I’m no Peter. And in their song, the wolf manages to eat one bird…duck, I think?
Black swan (who most resembles a duck) says he doesn’t remember anything about that.
I asked the birds if odalisques die. Phoenix got very excited and tried to turn my scrapbook into a pyre. The rest of us aren’t sure. Owl points out that we’re art. Black swan believes we are therefore immortal. Hawk suspects we can die, but we’ll be created at another time in a new, more relevant form. Hawk sees no reason why that form couldn’t be a wolf, so that should please you. Crow (did I tell you crow turned into a parrot?) says “all all perishes.” All, I suppose, includes odalisques, and even the impulse towards art.
I can’t find the starlings, not that it matters as they don’t seem to think actual thoughts. They are feeding on and fertilizing some forsaken marsh.
Mary! How’d you wind up with her coat? Sacre Couer! An odalisque, in Mary’s coat?! What’s she wearing? Have you seen her?
Will we see you soon?
happy new year (2)
Happy [obelisk] new year!
This year Henriette escaped from her prison (where is she where is she?), I watched the same movie over and over again, Crow became Parrot and started asking existential questions, I dreamed in sound, the phoenix sent me several flaming notes, and I redid my home page.
These are my favorite scrapbook pages from the past year:
- Ruined Valentine–My MOST VIEWED page!
- I go with my parrot to London, Paris, Bermuda…or…I would if I wanted to…
- What words do I teach my parrot-who-was-crow?
- Hello. I am an astrolisque and I travel in space.
- I receive a piece of spam and think it is a call to arms (join sexy women in their bedrooms!)
- Birds dress-up for dancing and I have to choose.
- Welcome to the winter solstice. The world will not end (yet).
- My weird dream about true love (black black bulldog).
Thank you everyone who shared my scrapbook pages with their friends…more people saw me because of you!
let me sleep
Quiet, please, quiet.
Let me sleep.
Let me pull this sudden darkness (this darkness that is natural in many places of this world) over my face like a black hood wrung in cool water.
Let me be blind inside it.
Let me sleep as deeply as sleepers in the dark regions.
Let me sleep, fists curled like a skinned animal who dreams of the moldy earth, of thick plush fur. A dream that closes on waking
like a heavy door heaved against a beast who wants to tear my bones away from themselves with its jeweled claws.
the ice has melted, unchaining the cold.
do you think I don’t care? The dictionary inelegantly defines vortex as “a mass of spinning air, liquid, etc., that pulls things into its center”. it is good to be centered, but not when that center is supposed to be your north pole.
in the summer, the poles will miss this cold, and the ice will melt more than it ought too, exposing corpses, campsites, fossils of people who lived there thousands of years ago. they will decompose before we learn anything from them. they lived in the climate we soon inherit. who died and left it to us? a miniscule planet’s ecosystem, exhausted by our habitation.
so much sadness. salt waters rise.
do you think i want this? i wanted to throw open the window and throw a dazzling balcony smile at a sparkling sea. but i got hit in the teeth with cold like the sea threw up a handful of ice (or was it you, did you do this to me?). I am sitting on the middle of the earth under a lopsided arctic wind and I don’t have the right clothes.
crow/parrot and phoenix are conducting experiments. crow is flash-freezing eggs on a branch outside, then phoenix slowly heats them on the stone sill. owl tells me this is the latest in culinary technology. that’s interesting but will it be ready for teatime?
maybe I’ll burn myself some fossil fuels. put the teapot on the fire and crawl inside.
i’m so cold i think i can feel the heat reflected off the moon.
yes, i did. because now i’m colder.
the moon just set.
are you awake?
are you awake, too? hush holy in the old days, before people like you and I understood the earth’s axial tilt, how it—not the sun—moves. There was a time when night-wakers-we would labor with rites and song to call back the cold sun. come back, chariot of cosmic fire! run your course directly o’er, you barely crest the distant edge of our apparently flat fields.
people like you and I, night-wakers-we, would worry about star-lit days and moon-less night. the trees are already dead and if the sun said “no, i won’t come back” and didn’t, they would have stayed that way, bare of leaf, electrical snappage in a voltless day-called-night. we would have been eaten by the night-hunters, like owl.
crow-who-is-parrot cracks one eye as if crow were wholly crow, and croaks “some day some day”. it is true. one day the sun will burn out. go back to sleep, parrot-who-is-crow.
I am glad to KNOW that this is the longest night this solar year. Tomorrow night will be a little bit gentler than this one here.