Notes from “The Wire” 406

Kapiw & Apappo

Petites Planètes

On Mary Jane Leach, “Her interest in sounds outside the score finds a corollary in an obsession with multiples—pieces made for single instrument ensembles—of which she maintains a publicly accessible database of composed works on her website.” Geeta Dayal, “Unsound Mass”

“In the 80s and 90s, an influx of Western cassettes started flooding Chinese ports. These were ‘dakou’, overstock from Western labels which had holes punched out of them and were sent in bulk to be recycled in Hong Kong, but found their way into music shops in mainland China via grey market entrepreneurs.” Josh Feola, “Psychic Hearts”

Grupo Rumo – Rumo (1981)

Tuluum Shimmering – Linnus and Lucy (2017)

Litüus – 2236 s Wentworth Ave (2017)

pan y rosas discos



You coordinate your meals with your clothes

If I could surmise patterns into colour yours would be sand

Coordination on ice

Coordination with sound

Your hair stands or curls at points

Moving changes



Bland can be a taste too

Blow wind over the desert

From east to west


Please stay

Room service your own home

Dancing in a Richard Serra

Kiss the floor

Are we ready

Too ready

Too bland

Too tasteful

You’re sensitive to light

You’re also sensitive to feeling


Knives like dresses

Promise to delete

Promise to not speak

Promise to isolate

You like dancing

Whenever I write N, the words spread out into filigree enclaves, spaces I don’t normally touch, more comprehensive in their reaching than anything I consciously sit to write. I usually text her while walking, or inbetween doings. I recently have come closer to understanding a short attention span. When you can’t focus, you are lost in what surrounds thought, always lost around the labyrinth rather than within it. I don’t care to get lost in something constructed for such an experience, but rather all digressions questioning the fact and matter, bathing in the writing written over and over as dirt paths, for no one in particular. I am thinking of texting her while writing this, keeping that as a subconcious focal point. I am supposed to be typing out many numbers right now. Many numbers around me. I listen to music incessantly. I can’t keep my mind off of the world sound so easily creates within me. A wedding at The Arts Club, with all of it’s Picasso’s and Picabia’s. A labyrinth of snow waiting outside. -8 F when I move to my new house, with the radiator shaped like a canopy around my bed, where an ex lover used to live hours prior.


mesh guides us.

to be enmeshed. i hesitate to cite timothy morton, he is not a guiding point for us. but, his idea is. a non-hierarchical web of things, strange strangers, that connect and inform each other in orbit. a cup and a table and a strand of hair and a buckle and a cat and the sea and a candle and love and desire and longing and emotion and the anthropocene.

yma makes garments from variously weighted mesh fabrics. large openings. a fine weave. all of these garments are made in black and neutrals. starting points. shades and tones. she plays with light and shadow like a photographer or painter. ochre. the various colours of mud around the globe, coming from the soil, clay and pink and green and brown and grey.

mesh is erotic.

mesh is used for mourning veil.

mesh is used for lingerie.

mesh of medical gauze.

i wore a mesh shirt, i wrote, “undress me, un-mesh me.”

enmeshed memories.