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Apr 10 / Tiziana La Melia

Eye shadows


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

judy s ear

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.

Screen Shot 2014-04-10 at 4.04.28 PMKatherine Schwartzenegger talking about her new book “I just Graduated….Now What?”

Not a cure, but a tip —

Read it like you are choosing a bottle

from the other side of the counter.


Dec. 11

every should
bangs again for
most of her life

trying to be my
sister definitely

Yellow clinique’s classic
free colour
called nude again

yes or old
photobooth around

the trying definitely
to bang

from the sky.

judy s ear

subject line

the first major
line i stole in my
20s was from
ezra pound
who translated the line
from a chinese poet
Li Po

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
and his
and mine

about some girl
bent over

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
earlier self,
i do not mind.



billowing in the yellow


from the sky


shaping the sphere

every explanation

forms for


running down

turning around

not a form


but a tear

to say

to the face

you are dripping

and to the painting,

you are weeping

stained you.


the email

it was a small condolence

when i felt so lonely.

all alone

on this new earth.


sitting back


      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.

 judy s ear

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

 * From On The Mall by Joan Didion     judy s ear

air spill_Page_1



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.
Colour runs.

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. 

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