The formation of a small bump versus the formation of a series of small bumps inroads (or like city, like Creede, a “series of small deeds that fell through.”) The horsetrack deeds. A fight. A vote on Hermes.
It was eternal search history, a ring of female role models that might. Because during the summer E. and I went to Next, not a sacred edit, to have helix holes, hold. Gulp alliteration. Which closed, which for friendship, which apparently in email archives, want to talk about when folders were fabric, when folding was clothes away, when text was textile. A story of a dryer to full to clean. A line by J.R., that “poetry is embarrassing,” a lot of trust there. Focus, take action, cultivate, fashion. Sense, remember, was, works, did, search, fell through.
- Correspondence with Emily Fedoruk
In that beginning I was alphabetizing real-estate advertisements and she was writing dance snacks. We met in a creative writing class; I think it was called Poetry and the City, I hardly remember now.
False Impressions. Circumstances. We only talked after the course was finished, and then after another class with Roy Miki, on the biotext, or in other words, autobiography.
We had quoted each other it each others poems, mimicked rhymths and structures and intonations. It’s not that unlikely to happen when you are hanging out with someone, or reading their emails. The assemblage began last year and we stopped early last summer.
Yesterday, while waiting for laundry to tumble dry, I began reading parts from Joan Didion’s The White Album, (in certain geographies this seemed as correct as cutting my hair straight across my forehead/tonsures like halos, but what does my trim say about me?). It brought old thoughts to the forefront. Impatiently, I downloaded City of Quartz by Mike Davies, while remembering my first encounter with subdivisions (not on my face) but on the orchard I grew up on. Suddenly this correspondence felt like something to pick up again. Maybe its a spring thing that has more to do with the trees in Vancouver than the trees in L.A..
And so I position the texts like objects along a shelf.
Not a cure, but a tip —
Read it like you are choosing a bottle
from the other side of the counter.
bangs again for
most of her life
trying to be my
Yellow clinique’s classic
called nude again
yes or old
the trying definitely
from the sky.
the first major
line i stole in my
20s was from
who translated the line
from a chinese poet
a line about a hairstyle
graphically producing a line
the line along the forehead
of a girl.
i took this being unformed
and ill informed
and also emotionally ill
those were forming years i
can’t undo, i try.
the line was something like
i cut my hair straight across my forehead
in the original poem, his
about some girl
i picture her grey-blue dress
something a mennonite might
wear, but without the gathering
below the waist.
an identity crisis
again and cut
my bangs again.
i look like an
i do not mind.
billowing in the yellow
from the sky
shaping the sphere
not a form
but a tear
to the face
you are dripping
and to the painting,
you are weeping
it was a small condolence
when i felt so lonely.
on this new earth.
i don’t believe in things
i waited for a mood
and missed the beam
i waited for a mood
and felt like i was outside
of my own ravings.
remember when we were afraid,
the lipstick we wore, too bright
two daughters and the perceptions, of us,
too light, could have been anything
but your paranoia, it brought me down
and i wanted to throw our efforts away.
today at the coin laundry,
i was reading joan didion’s essay
on the mall
and after reading banham’s
ecologies i tried to picture your time here
sometime after 2008
you had blossomed, in your own words
blossomed. in a billowing peach blouse,
studded belt, apricot lipstick, sharp jokes
soft all over.
The inner revolution began with
They float on the landscape like pyramids to the boom years, all those Plazas and Malls and Esplanades. All those Squares and Fairs. All those Towns and Dales, all those Villages, all those Forests and Parks and Lands. Stonestown. Hillsdale. Valley Fair, Mayfair, Northgate, Southgate, Eastgate, Westgate. Gulfgate. *
I still have not visited a single castle here.
I still need to visit a counter. Not a need, but
how do we buy new foundation
Infer in Furs * *
Voiceover: He wasn’t in very good shape, and he had this comb over that was rather elaborate.
He had this confidence that drew me to him. He was who he was. I didn’t care. *
The rather elaborate comb over had a confidence that drew me to it.
The action felt convenient and sympathetic to reverse tapestry. Fully made up.
Sheep and periwigs, yet astonishingly not sheepish and more of a wig out than a wig.
Back combed. Matted together.
Alberto European Styling gel is a postition.
Vertical colour across sympathic horizons. Rolling across the floor, a situation
blushing. Depth with funk in both modes. Not out of embarrassment.
The world’s not black and white like you think, it’s extremely grey.
The actions list is an instant.
That falsely altered noun, rossetto.
What do you feel when you dye?
Direct application faster than the ocelet coat,
the journalist’s pensive robe.
I looked up the meaning for the word rug and ended up with a toupee.
Heat escapes from your head. And the wall, it could also be said bald.
I think about H.F…
I think about that portrait, 1952, where she is sitting on her painting, surrounded by attractive stains and spills.
You know the one.
A runner jots by.
This mood is more act than fact, because I don’t run into this mood much,
sometimes that second you dip a brush carrying pigment into a cup of water, or roll around a painting by E.H..
and do a voice over next to rainy day and mondays,
the edges bathed with sips and slips and runs and recedes.
As I sit here, the sunlight is indirect, and I am thinking about lying in bed with D., using the
word flocculent for the first time and arriving to it again here, in the laundry room, fixing my
comb over in the mirror above the plastic sink.
And I wonder, How is my hair?
I stand in the motel room facing the mirror. Curtains drawn. It’s sunny. I tilt my head, my eyes rolled back, checking all the angles.
Have you ever seen a woman put on mascara? This is what it looks like when I inspect my hair.
On the counter there is a non descript amber bottle (I’m not sure what it’s filled with, but I use it to set it all in place), L’Oreal Paris Elnett
Satin Hairspray, a towel. The sun casts my shag as fawn and I reach for the bottle and take out the applicator that carries the shoe polish dye.
I drizzle it over parts of my scalp, blending it in with the lightest touch. I use my right hand to lift the pillow over which I set the real hair in
place. I pat. It sounds like hay. I reach over to a tuft of hair that has fallen to the right of my face. I tuck the hair behind my ears. For a
moment I look, at myself coyly. I carefully place the fringe of hair at the back over the front and pat again gently. Pressing firmly and using
the the other end of the applicator to separate strands of hair. The gaps resemble bar codes. I leave no footprints in the sand. I think I’ll ask A.
some questions later about her fringe.
There were plants and birds and rocks and things.
The final touch — pssst of hairspray.
* * Written thinking about Air Spill (2014), an exhibition (and poster image) by Emily Hill.
* Sydney Prosser/“Lady Edith Greensly” describing her attraction to the con artist Irving Rosenfeld in the movie American Hustle (2013)
The bottom of a wine glass.
I found myself this afternoon walking up and down a short stretch of Sunset Blvd., in Silverlake.
I met up with Mikael, sipped smoothies. Walked smooth. To and from our respective crossroads.
He mentioned Philip Glass Opera Einstein on the Beach, which feels like the right thing to be looking at right now.
She says, it feels right.
Feeling encouraged by the abstract dance sequences by Lucinda Childs, and the endurance of non-narrative form.
Philip Glass says, “We had taken a person, and made it the subject of the piece. In a way the person replaces the idea of plot. In other words the character of the person becomes what the piece is about. The more you know about the person the better.”
Another approach to Opera, f’r instance, the late Robert Ashley h’re, who I have been late to but getting into, nat’rly
from Part 5: The Living Room (The Solutions) of Perfect Lives, a Television Opera (1978–83)
I participated in a chain letter through which I began receiving uplifting songs and quotes from people, some of which I knew, others complete strangers.
Like this one from Raymond:
Or like this one from Scott: all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you
Part of the original chain letter goes, “We’re starting a collective, constructive, and hopefully uplifting exchange. It’s a one-time thing and we hope you will participate. We have picked those we think would be faithful, and make it fun. Please send an encouraging quote or verse to the person whose name is in position 1 below (even if you don’t know him or her). It should be a favorite text verse/motivational poem/prayer/meditation that has lifted you when you were experiencing challenging times. Don’t agonize over it–it is one you reach for when you need it or the one that you always turn to”.
Below are some lines I reached to while still in school, during challenging times in the studio:
We call it minimalism but it is really rococo. Where realism is a form of archaism.
- Charles Bernstein on Richard Tuttle
Through a forest of mystic meaning, Religion hunts for Poetry’s freedom, while Poetry roams Divinity’s sovereign source.
- Susan Howe on Emily Dickinson
“Human consciousness is in perpetual pursuit of a language and a style. To assume
consciousness is at once to assume form. Even at levels far below the zone of
definition and clarity, forms, measures and relationships exist. The chief
characteristic of the mind is to be constantly describing itself”.
Making images and objects while also making sentences and words. It takes time to do both.
A friend on Facebook, who I have never met in person, posted an interview of Etel Adnam in Bomb Magazine. Many things she said make me hesitate.
I linger in places
Images are, in one way, what we receive, but they are also the tools with which we think. To make images, you think with them, somehow. You mentioned Baudelaire. For Baudelaire, images work not like shapes, but like ideas made visible. He was particularly interested in the encounter between what we call the inner world and the outer world. And poetry deals magnificently with that. It is one of the major definitions of poetry. It addresses that relationship between what we call the subject and the object, which melt in what we call consciousness. Sometimes we transcribe this state of mind into words and call it a poem or a text. The same is true for the other arts. Writing is a very mysterious activity. When you write, you say things that would not have occurred to your mind otherwise. I don’t know if the fact that we don’t use paper and ink anymore affects writing. On a computer it’s a new situation.
Excerpt of Q & A with Ada Smailbegovic, who recently published The Dense and the Rare on Triple Canopy.
Tell me what happens when the fibre from a sheep’s coat absorbing the pulverized bodies of cochineals? Protein over protein. Protein into protein. Transubstantiation or?
\ 0.0 \
(a diminutive form related to Spanish, cerdo and chancho, ultimately from French cochon, meaning “pig”)
A Route of Evanescence
Opunta brushed down yellow spikes – a deer tail duster
“tuna blood” dye
forms a joint with anthraquinone structure
\ 0.1 \
“cochineal extract”, “carmine”, “crimson lake”, “natural red”
with their beak-like mouthparts
With a revolving Wheel –
immobile unless alarmed
\ 0.2 \
for shades of purple, add lime to alum
A Resonance of Emerald
long wax filaments
protein based animal fibers (including silk)
a sculpture beaded then folded
\ 0.3 \
history of histology
the acidity of the mountant caused significant fading
A Rush of Cochineal –
fixed materials have a similar refractive index
appear very dull and uninteresting
so that a dull grey colour is all that can be seen
\ 0.4 \
powder quite variable in composition
And every Blossom on the Bush
a complex of aluminium and carminic acid
which makes the insides of the insect look dark purple
cochinilla = “wood louse”
\ 0.5 \
ionic staining powdered and red spread on lips
Adjusts it’s tumbled Head –
cochneal coelom on coelom tissue lacks contrast
delicate manual labour
any excess dye can easily be removed with 1% HCl
\ 0.6 \
glycoside with a glucose derivative
slightly soluble in water
The Mail from Tunis – probably,
oval-shaped scale insects
females, wingless and about 5 millimetres
males with wings – much smaller in size
\ 0.7 \
when they were mounted in Canada balsam
van der Waals forces
An easy Morning’s Ride –
a similar color
karmin = lipstick
Back bends inside a model & beside a photograph.
Sometimes it is easier to replace the answer with a thing or a colour. I feel blue. I feel like the model of a pyramid with its side pulled out. How do I feel? How do you make me feel? I’m open to negotiating what this space might mean, to movement. Weighed and pensive, is the title for Bojana Stancic’s exhibition – it is utilitarian, but also a descriptor, and evokes an answer to the question hi how are you?
There was a picture on my bedroom wall when I was a child. A girl in the woods. A tiny house in the distance at the end of a path. Midway between the girl and the house a man carrying an axe. During the day it was beautiful. I pictured myself as the girl. The long wavy hair, a pink ribbon, the dress. But at night the second figure and the axe shifted the mood. The only way to console myself was to meditate on a glint on the gold plated picture frame.
Reflecting space reflecting space. Reflection of a space within a space. Reflection of the space on top of glass. The room within a room. A room without walls. A room with a wall pulled out. Enter. Description eases the difficulty. Its sunny here. I’m squinting and my eyes are tired. A full moon. A moon that is a window to my soul. A window that is a pupil. Lisa Robertson’s recent chapbook Thinking Space published by the Organism for Poetic Research in New York describes the room as an aperture. This metaphor makes sense when thinking about Bojana. Still movement. A room that is a model. A room that emphasizes the ellipsis between the photograph and the object.
But surprisingly it had some thing to do with movement. Or the simultaneity of it. I think about Diego Velázquez‘s Las Meninas; the mise-en-abyme; Matisse’s painting of a room within a room. Is it the red room? Lazy takes on new levels when even with the information at my fingertips I’ll linger outside the fact. And even when I sit here trying to evade my reflection, I see layers of reflection, the reflection of the sculpture across the model and myself on the screen at the same time as my torso and the laptop is reflected in the window behind me. My hands typing. A hang nail. The reflection off a brass button within the reflection. Reflection reflecting.
( – I feel it my gut.
- Baby parasites. )
Looking out the oval
of the airplane window
the day before
Placing thoughts within a form.
In the middle of the night,
a bitter phlegm.
a just reflection.
Catching a breeze at the Etymology Resort.
A gymnast bending backwards
Thinking about the little acrobat
‘this tragic candy, time’ *
Last night, after dinner, I saw tiny cockroaches scurrying between the keys. I sealed the computer away at once, terrified that one of them might crawl into the machine’s innards and cause a short-circuit — making my sophisticated word processor the world’s most expensive cockroach motel.
- Jeff Greenwald, excerpt from the first post on the world’s first travel blog, originally published January 6, 1994 on O’Reilly’s Global Network Navigator.
early march of 2014/ we are looking up motels for the night/ we talk on the terrace blooming with flowers/ winter is hot and fluorescent/ getting to know the streets of LA/ between beds/ unless the red velveteen interior of the 92 ford ranger will fix us up for one night/ desk top scattered with word docs notes notes to self dialogues about michael snow and cutouts and form/ just discovered snow’s life & work by martha langford// expectations with what we see and know/ LA delivers/ hard boiled eggs at a hollywood deli/ copy-paste etymology for emotive: ORIGIN mid 18th cent.: from Latin emot- ‘moved,’ from the verb emoter (see emotion)/ started reading joan didion’s white album again/ got into it and then i had to shelve it like last time/ it seemed like the time is right and there is something truly magical about actually encountering the description, decades later, slightly skewed, glitch-y? double takes and body doubles/ young faces and old bodies/ matching/ it’s a thing/ i see an actor eat a boiled egg and I need a copy/ i read it and i need a copy / i need to buy my own copy/ thinking about the air pressure of my tires and what they hold/ the weight of all my things over hot asphalt/ copy-paste pensive: ORIGIN late Middle English: from Old French pensif, -ive, from penser ‘think,’ from Latin pensare ‘ponder,’ frequentative of pendere ‘weigh’: of Germanic origin; related to wagon and wain, and to Dutchwegen ‘weigh,’ German bewegen ‘move,’ from an Indo-European root shared by Latin vehere ‘convey.’ Early senses included ‘transport from one place to another’ and ‘raise up.’/ feeling the emptiness that comes with new encounters, it is hard to find the words so maybe its ok to practice description/ later