Spring 2010 (Memoir of An Artstudent 1) - Canada Line Troubadour

langara 101- nasrin khosrowshahi- stab @ writing (creatively, that is)
Another day, another day
So she sits here in this library, it is so very busy, it is a day in march, people all around
her, she is too tired, her eyes hurt, she tried again and again to use the “youtube-send-to-your-
blog- application” which did not work. In December it worked, and now it doesn’t. So this is
how it is. She will not be able to hand in her homework, she will graduate anyways. She types
and types and types. Nothing really works, she did not get into grad school, her paintings rot in
her locker, she types and types and types. It is noonish, she left her car in Oakridge, she took the
Canada Line to Langara, she ponders if she should even include all of this so very personal info.
She has to become more creative, construct a protagonist, an antagonist, she has to search 4 the
perfect storyline, the perfect arc. She has 2 write and write and write and write, she will go back
to do other stuff, but at this point she’ll just write. Seems doable, seems doable. She has to find a
title 4 this, how about “langara”. After all she is sitting in the langara library. Though she is not
quite sure if she can come here again. She is not a student here, just uses this typewriter as a
guest. It is cold in here. She should go over to the YMCA and try to lose her last 60 pounds. She
should not include this personal info. This is all so very top- secret. Weight and height and age
and ethnic background and gender and education and personal interests, big bro might be
watching. Oh, that big brother. Outside, the sky is so very nice, the woman at the other computer
is laughing while chatting, the other guy is so very pokerfaced. The computers at langara are
kind of funny, you sit around the station. Reminds her of the library in the eth. At this time in her
life she hovers at different computerstations the world over, always trying to pen her ah so very
perfect texts. She will publish them, on scribd, on scribd, no publisher will ever publish her
dribble, thus she puts it into cyberspace, that is life. She writes and writes and writes.
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She ponders, what else, what else.
Her life is so utterly boring, nothing ever is happening, this calls for a beer, whine,
schnapps, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. Something to keep the nice people at betty ford
occupied. Let’s drink, let’s drink. In solitude, like a loser, like a loser. Let’s talk to ourselves, like
a loser, like a loser, ah, why not, why not.
Outside trees against the sky, she ponders, there should be more poetic ways to describe
that, she should go up to the third floor, read, on Orwell, on art, on art or lit, those are her
preoccupations these days. Film too. But it stays within the general field of the arts, visual,
literaturial, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. She ponders if she should still get a donut, it
would be her second today, after a steady diet of sugar and fat, life is fun fun. Clogged arteries
4ever, her art career did not go anywhere and that is how it should be, who needs fame and
fortune when you can wallow in obscurity. Fame, fortune, that’s 4 the birds, 4 the birds, she
writes and writes and writes and writes. Yep, the process it is, we love the process. Like legions
of artworkers who did not go anywhere, they have 2 love the process, because, hey, what else
can they do? Shoot themselves? Ah, nah. And she writes and writes and writes and writes.
Writes some more. End of page, end of page.
This computer screen is so very nice,. The letters are big and strong, readable. It is cold
here, cold and cold and cold. She ponders if there is any coherence in her writing, there
sometimes is, there sometimes isn’t. She still has two novels to type up, they are rotting in her
basement. Ah, longhand, longhand. She ponders what she will name this. Langara, but she said
that already. Repetitions are so very pre-Alzheimer, dribble writing is fun and it is all dribble.
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Too many words too many words. Two pages a day, two pages a day. She will send it out,
eventually. But at this point getting a donut in the main building seems more feasible, so much
more doable. She ponders whether feasible and doable are the same, they might be and they
might be not. And two pages are finished, and we’re outta here.
---
Nauseated she feels, but it is still this so very busy library, she posts stuff, emails stuff,
no donuts yet, the software is so very temperamental, because, hey, that is how softwares are.
She ponders if she will be back in time in oakridge, she tries to remember when she left that
place, her car is not ready 2 be towed, ah, her life, her life. She watches herself type, type into
cyberspace, words and words and words. Someone will read this, people are paid to read, in
offices, in places, so she heard, so she heard. She laughs to herself, she is still able to push down
these keys, she is insane, she is arguably insane. Harmlessly so. Still. Most writers are insane,
because, hey, who would choose writing as occupation. Yesterday she was a painter, today she is
a writer. It changes. Let’s figure out what we’ll do when we grow up. And why the royal we?
She just looked up the scribd site, images of all those ppl in the san francisco office. She can
imagine them chuckle at her dribble, but who cares, who cares. Words have 2 be typed have 2 be
typed have 2 be typed. It is still way 2 cold in here. She watches her fingers, she looks down so
very stoically. Words, words, words.
There should be a protagonist, there is none. A story sans protagonist. A non-story. Once
she is dead these her non-words will still exist. Mumblings, utterings. The woman to her left
does stuff, the woman to her right does stuff. The author does not feel like describing that. Like
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describing anything. Words are so very highly overrated. There are no stories anymore,
everything worth saying has already been told. Death of painting, death of literature, death of
science. Just pure and simple death. Or not, or not. She assembles words, randomly, so very
randomly that is how dribble should be, with mustard. She ponders if the “with mustard” quip is
logical. Probably not. But who cares, there are so many people around her, while she types,
while she types. She will come here more, this is the perfect place to write her award winning
novel. Her man-booker prize winning novel, pulitzer prize, writer-of-the-century-award-
winningish novel, nobelprizewinning novel, well, technically authors win nobelprizes, not
alonestanding pieces of shitty writing. Dribble dribble dribble, the author seems 2 have probs.
The words are stupid. And she is hungry. Donuts, donuts, spellcheck spellcheck. Compliment.
Random words.
She sits up straight. She should pen something meaningful, something about the meaning
of life. Meaning, what does that even mean?
She ponders, what would james joyce have done? Would he just hurl Ulysses into
cyberspace? In2 cybaspaihs? It is loud here, she writes, writes. Way too many ppl, way 2 many
words. She should use better words, elegant ones sophisticated ones, grown-up ones. She
ponders, she will never be the best writer never be the worst writer. Just a writer. And that, my
friend, is more than enuf. Drink 2 that. The “drink 2 that” phrase is a tad too grande and cheesy,
cheezygrande, but, hey, we have to fill up the page. And anything will do. Has to, has to. And
once more, has to.
---
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Again, again, again. Again the langara library, somewhere, sometime, the afternoon, the
afternoon. The author had sushi in oakridge, ah, fun. For some reason the monitor of this
computer shows all the letters soooo much smaller than the one in the morning. There must be a
button somewhere that will magically zoom in, zoom out, ah, these machines, these bloody
machines. And buttons do not zoom in and out, they tell the machine what 2 do. She writes,
writes. Now the garden is behind her, she writes, writes. There should be a story, there still is
none. Only typing, only writing. Pushing of keys, again and again. Mouseclicks every now and
then. She writes, writes. So much movement around her, so many people here. Constant coming
and going, she feels like she is sitting on a racetrack. She tries 2 come up with fascinating,
mindboggling metaphors, there are none, none. Camus used them all up, dostojewski, tolstoi.
Men. She ponders if she could make this sound quasifeminist, nah, these are postfeminist times.
Wordsmithing counts, but how do you take words and smith them. They are all unsmithable, so
utterly smithresistant. And she writes and she writes. March 31, 2morrow aprilfool.
It is getting hot in here, they must have turned up the heat. And she writes. And she
writes. Spellcheck. Maybe that will generate some new ideas. Page 5 page 5 page 5. Outside the
garden, buildings, people walking and she writes and she writes and she writes. Some more
words some more words. There should be something interesting in the news, something 2
somehow push down into this text. Push down into these square keys, so that magically some
fascinating text appears on the monitor. Something fascinating, anything fascinating. Something
on the other side of boring, somewhere where action lives, drama, the usual, yep, that kind of
stuff. The nonbanal, the hip and happening. How can a writer come up with stories, a writer’s
life is so blah, so utterly prosaic, so devoid of action. Scribbling words, typing words, what kind
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of life is that? And painting, huh, even more boring. Boring, boring. Well, at least she is on page
6. If she writes 20 pages per day, she will finish up in ten days. If she writes 100 pages, she will
have 1000 pages in ten days. If she …
The day slowly, reluctantly motions forward. What does that mean? Not much, but it
sounds good. And that is what we are shooting 4 here. She ponders what this is, an essay, a
novel, a masterpiece. One of many masterpieces. Genre is irrelevant, masterpieceness is what
counts. So it seems, so it seems. 1779 words, every month is nano month. Nano stands 4 national
novel writing month, November of each year, for the last ten or eleven years. She writes, writes,
feels nauseated, but not nauseated enuf 2 barf all over the sparkling keyboard. She writes and
writes and writes. 1827 words. Yippieh. Mark twain did not use words like yippieh, slang, slang.
And there are arguably nuances of slang, hipper slang, less hip slang. What would be the slang in
a geriatric place. Does slang have to do with age? Age appropriate slang, gender appropriate
slang. She types, types. The lady at the other computer reads a book about short story criticism,
the author ponders if she is writing a short story. Nah, more a long story. Where is the cut-off
word count of short stories, when do they melt into epics. When are they stories and when are
they, well, non-stories. When are they texts, simple, simple, simply texts. When are they logical,
and where does coherence stop. When does clarity march out the door, making writer and reader
stumble splashingly to the ground. In utter demise. Disjointed words, happily dysfunctional.
And she writes writes writes. Ah, page six, not bad, not bad at all.
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She ponders, if she should type more. This is tiring, nauseating, annoying, not good 4 the
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body, fresh air would be so much better, icecream, s-e-x, that kind of stuff. But writing? Nose
against the grindstone? And 4 what? No monetary gain, not yet at least. She ponders, ponders.
Looks around, not much is going on in here, not enuf to describe. She writes, writes. The interior
of this library is way too blah, there should be more contrast. To inspire her to write superb
wording. She cannot write in this environment, not to the best of her abilities. Not high enuf, not
fast enuf. Writing is not an olympic sport, is it? Well, is it?
THE DAY motions forward, langara happening, this place is so much more hectic than the art
school. She ponders what to write on, what, what? She amasses stupid questions, that should do
the trick, should sprinkle her quasi-lit.
And the day motions forward, and the text motions forward. It is 6:41, 2155 words, seven
pages. Her literature stinks, her painting stinks. She should do the dishes instead, not let them
pile up. She ponders ponders. Ponders some more. Discussions of domesticity do not interest her
much, who cares, who cares. Finding the perfect wording is where it’s at. And she will never
find it. Everything sucks sucks sucks. Page seven seven seven. She should have a chocolate
cherry mocha, with cream, with sprinkles. Fun in sugar and grease. That’s where it’s @ @ @.
And she writes, and she writes. 2242 words, not bad, not bad. She could be at home now, on the
green sofa, watching Seinfeld. Instead she types. Nothing intellectual, nothing scholarly. Only
dribble dribble. Dribble is good. Goes well with the whipped cream, with grease, with sugar.
Junk, low quality. Non-insights. Insightless texts. That’s where it’s @. Bad writing. So much
better than good writing. Bad art rocks. And she writes and she writes. Still not barfing, only
reluctant nausea, brought on by this constant hunching over and typing away. And she ponders
how 2 end this, how to stop this text, how to wrap it up, how to go home and feel good about the
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text the text the text. Her masterpiece this is not, but who needs masterpieces when you can write
sheer pieces, quasi shitty pieces. Words are words are words. And it is getting late late, shadows
are getting longer, even the busy langara library can have a feel of reluctant desolation. Even
here one can hear the deafening song of the air conditioner hum.
She is on page 8, not bad, not bad. Modesty is not her thing, she is happy about every
word, anyword. That’s the kind of author she is, full of lower expectations. Always fishing 4
compliments. She writes writes. 8 pages and 2457 words. The day marches forward. It is seven.
Yep, seven pm. She should do laundry, she does not really want to wear the same jeans twice,
threetimes. Twenty times. And she writes, and she writes. Another day another day another day.
Fragmented texts hammered all thru fragmented days. Whatever that means whatever that
means.
She ponders, this kind of writing gets way too weird, texts so very far away from the right
spelling, orthography should still rule, could still rule. She ponders if omitting commas and dots
will submerge these her sentences into an ocean of excellent wordings. Probably not. But, hey,
who cares who cares who cares? Might not be a good write, but, hey, I filled eight pages, not bad
not bad not bad. And we’re losing readers here, who cares who cares who cares.
---
somewhere in the morning, in between trying to figure out how to use the computer,
somewhere in the soundplace, somewhere on the 4th. Floor. Time moves slowly, sometimes
pretty fast, she tries to type as many words as humanly possible, just to work away on this her
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masterpiece. They are all masterpieces, some more than others, at the very very least they are
words, compositions of sound, because words are after all utterings that may or may not have
certain meanings attached to them, there is a paper in there somewhere, some insight floating, if
she could only find her glasses, she might be able to formulate this in a better, more refined
form. Music on the computer next to her, talking, screeching of shoes, some clapping and
clicking outside on the floor. She types, types. Later on she will revise this, 4 pages have to be
written, each and every day, why not, why not. She looks at her black and white umbrella, today
is april first, random fragmented thoughts enter her field of perception and walk out, words and
words and words. There is an essay due, there always is, essays on art, on media, on design. This
is an artschool after all, somehow different from langara, which teaches about everything under
the sun. In the end you get some piece of paper, an aa, a phd, whatever. A certificate, totally
unusable. Or maybe usable. For her this is just a place with a typewriter, where she can feed
words to the monitor, put it on scribd, wait for the sound of hands not clapping, never clapping.
She ponders, if she cares for clapping or for real hard cash, or if there even is a difference, at this
time, everything mushes together, watching her fingers tap at the keys is what matters. Very fast,
slightly melodic, slightly on the acoustic side. No one seems to mind her constant typing, after
all this is a sound studio, lots of laptops, all talking together, people working on all their different
projects, the metallic noise inside the walls is still snarling away. She writes and writes and
writes. Feels slightly nauseated, but that seems to be the underlying theme these days. And
spellcheck and type and write, yep, type, type, type. These are her minutes, dispatches from the
computerroom, and any computerroom will do.
---
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still in the art school, still in the sound room, the machines do not really work, one
computer does what it should, the other does its own thing, the one in the paintingstudio
marches to a completely different drummer, which kind of makes it different to do the digital
homework, but, hey, who really knows how and why these machines work or do not work, they
do their own thing, we do our own thing, as long as she types, life will be fine, stoically staring
down at the keyboard, feeding words to the computer, that has to fill in 4 art, it is not visual
enough, it is way too visual, typing, typing, typing, she feels slightly on the idiotic side, that
happens when you log in too many, way too many hours in front of a computer, she still has to
type up her longhand stuff, still do her paintings, still find protagonists battling antagonists in
order to construct the perfect storyarc, the one that is so utterly elusive, would be fun to go and
have lunch, but, first some more words, page 11 already, or is it page 10, the perfect essay, the
perfect novel, marching onto the page or into cyberspace, or both, spellcheck spellcheck
spellcheck.
---
Now we are in the library, now we have three point two one eight words under our belt,
now we are slightly happy. Her shoes are wet, not soakingly, just a hint, just a hint. Enough to
make her stay, enough to feel uncomfortable in her skin, she looks out at the bridge, wetness,
freshness, maybe that is what is more fun, who needs sunshine when you can live in the rain,
walk through the rain, feel the mix of freshness and chilliness in the air, the contours and
silhouettes being crisper, chipper, ah, rain rain. And she types and she types. Nothing else to do,
she has to kill time until another class, until six. So words should do, to entertain her, books in
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the library, that is where it is at. The person in blue, knealing on the ground, one knee up, one
knee down, seriously looking thru the magazine, ah, libraries, so much info, so very little time.
Three thousand three hundred seventy, words and words and words. Nothing much to say, but
still enough, still enough. The bridge, cars driving over it, the sheer immenseness, the reluctant
beauty, industrial construct, some steel, some wind. She writes and writes and writes. One day
she will paint again, but not today. Will animate again, draw lines on paper, make tiny tiny films
that no one watches and that is how it should be. She was on vimeo and dailymotion, so many
many films with so little viewers, that is where it’s at its at its @. Who needs 2 appeal 2 the
masses when you can work in utter obscurity. Cyberspace embraces us all. She writes writes
writes.
---
Feeling slightly sick, she still types, ‘cause sitting and typing is so addictive. Yuh, there is
a new disorder, typing addiction, and she ponders what to say ‘bout that. Ah, maybe nothing.
Outside she can see steam lurching up from the concrete factory, she can see the steel of the
bridge, everything looks fresh, crisp, rained-in. A bus over the bridge, via downtown. Twenty
after five, still forty minutes till the lecture. She will go down to the market, buy something, eat
while walking next to false creek. The bridge is still there, a flag flying in the wind, writing,
writing. Well, not the flag, well, obviously. Too much “well” 4 a short text. And, well, should
there even be “well” in a text. She calls this text “essay”, “long essay” if it will become a 1001-
page treatise. Ah, it’s still an essay. Something smells funny in this place, whiffing around, that
can’t be good. Words, words, kaleidoscoping onto the page, galloping, pausing, the smell is still
there, something too perfumy, too toxic. There is still some time left to go to the market, she
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might as well save this, fresh air is always good, so much better than penning a masterpiece,
masterpieces, as said before, are only there 4 the birds. And that’s it and that’s it. 4 2day @ least.
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it is a reluctant Saturday, she rolled outta bed, coffee, now she is sitting in the library,
in front of the computer that faces the wall. Thus there is not much to observe, not much 2
describe. How will she be able to pen at least 300 words, when there is nothing to describe.
Should she just philosophize. Should she find a theme and kill it to, to, she ponders what kind of
word should follow “kill” in order to make a point, she scratches her head, she ponders if today
is paintingday or writingday. She ponders if she should concentrate on painting or on writing and
if filmmaking is not much more fun. She ponders if she really has to have a career going here or
if she should just jump around. Do we really have to have tangible products, do we have to
produce little tiny units, that show off our abilities? Why? what for? To what end? Just to kill our
time. She ponders, she is not really the “contribute 2 society” type, she does not have inclinations
of that kind, she is still the newtonian child playing at the beach. She writes and writes. This
keyboard is kind of off, the table hurts her left wrist, she moves the monitor towards herself, so
that the keyboard is more near the edge of the table and she can have her hands hover over the
keyboard, kind of like eagles ready to grasp their victim, here the fingers pack a word and smush
it into the keyboard. It is a lowly Saturday morning, somewhere between good Friday and easter,
she types meaningless stuff, this place is quiet and desolate. 3996 words for “langara 101”, her
so very new writing. She ponders if she wants to be a writer or a painter. She used to be an
animator. She ponders if she can pen 2 million words just describing this dilemma, and she
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wonders if 2 million individuals would read that. Writers are people with too much to say, who
cannot find anyone to listen so they put it on paper and hope for the best. There are lots of quips
‘bout writers, all true, she feels slightly nauseated, even though she slept enuf, even though she
had the obligatory banana loaf and coffee with cream in the starbucks on arbutus. Where
everybody does not know her name. (you know, cheers). She ponders what to write what 2 write
what to write. 4130 words, not bad, not bad. She could take this keyboard and hurl it against the
wall, her writing is so utterly shitty, she ponders if she will get a bad back by always staring
down at the keyboard, holding her head tilted down, will she get wrinkles in her neckskin, which
should be ok, it goes with the rest of her wrinkles, lines in her face, lines in her face. She is older
than half a century, 55 in may. Much 2 old, much toooo old. She looks at the monitor next to her,
slowly a turquoise wave moves over the screen. All the three monitors to her right are green
turquoise, they have this dirtied look to them, she writes, writes. There are scanners everywhere,
there is a camera in this thing. She could make a film and post it to you tube. Yeah, why not? ah,
technology. 4281 words.
She shot a movie, put it onto you tube, it is processing, it is 36 seconds long, it is very boring.
She used a footage of a leaf which is still in this computer, and 18 seconds of herself staring into
the webcam, a person walked by in the back in front of the slide drawers, the film does not have
sound, and the pace is way too slow. It is a self portrait and she named it “ time stands still”, she
is the queen of producing shitty artwork. And it is not getting better. Everything has a smell of
staleness, of “the artist hates being an artist”, everything looks like” I’d rather be playing golf”.
And playing golf should be pretty boring too. Where does it say that writing, films, paintings
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should be interesting and entertaining, lots of people make boring work, she is just another one
of the sleepinducing artists crowd. What is wrong with putting people to sleep. What, what.
She types and types. Does not feel like it, does it anyways. There is nothing going on here,
nothing. She could put her movie on facebook, yeah, why not. And she types and she types. 4482
words.
It is getting cold in here, it is getting boring, she is getting hungry, she does not type all the time,
she surfs, she puts films of herself on you tube, artmaking, attmaking, or something like that. She
ponders, a tad, a tad. Spellcheck would be good, at least something tangible to do.
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she will eventually go down to the market, a cup of chamomile tea would be good, it is
still way too chilly in here and way too quiet, libraries should be quiet, but not this quiet,
especially if you want to pen your next amazing novel in here, your super-sized essay with all its
new features, obviously books do not have features, but she is so confused by writing on one
hand and browsing the internet on the other hand, especially when she sees all the new features
on scribd, somehow this online stuff and the writing just mush together into one state of utter
incoherence, words are flickering over the screen, paragraphs become films, insanity is so very
palpable. The woman at the other computer snores or something, librarians talk, she walks over
to see who is talking, she turns around and looks at the red shiny car parked outside, someone
sneezes, she writes, writes. 4694 words, yippieh.
---
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still sitting in front of this computer, it is 1:44 now, she is sitting here in the same place
since ten, that is about 3 hours, she only once stood up to look at the librarians, this is just plain
insane, sitting here, glued to this computer, movement would be nice, some motioning thru
space, well, at least the chair can be turned 2 the left, to the right, she types types types. Someone
makes noise with the books, yeah, and you thought libraries are boring. So much going on, there
is some music in the back, should be a cell phone, a musical one, a door opens, two women are
speaking. And besides, the author is penning this her masterpiece, one of many, one of many.
What exactly is a masterpiece. And aren’t masters men, so it should be a mistress piece 4 her.
Ah, language. And are we vyeing for mastery. And isn’t all this typing so very redundant. She
should go up to the fourth floor and start painting. Wield a paintbrush, that kind of stuff. At least
it is more physical than sitting hunched over and typing. Then again, she uses both hands
whereas painters just use one hand. Ah, all these profound insights and she is sharing them for
free with the world. Puts them online, doesn’t charge for this. Not yet at least. One day it will be
nicely bound and in bookform. Not yet, though, not yet. She ponders what intelligent thing she
could say thereon, but intelligence does not live here anymore. She wishes she had her glasses,
the keys are kind of swimming. Ah, old age, old age. And it will not get better, it will get worse.
So they say, so they say. Okeedok, we scratched the issue of mortality, we are really hungry
here, we should have some kind of food here. Tea, a piece of cake, sugar, sugar. 5023 words.
---
it is still chilly here, it is 2:37 PM, it is still april third maybe, it is cold in here, pretty
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cold. She types pretty fast, she should paint, but first she writes. Painter, writer, eeneemineemoo,
ah, why not both. films, writing, paint, it’s all the same all the same all the same. Or not.
Profusely profound insights peppered over the screen, text text text. Words. She will send this
out, she is still waiting 4 the response for her 312 page text. Waiting waiting waiting. Someone
will like it someone will hate it. She ponders if she should still keep on writing but apparently
there is no real option, we are plucking on, plugging on. The words are not concise but who cares
who cares who really cares. Two years ago she was writing, she is still writing. Who needs
publishing, I can put it online. In bookform it is more ordered though, like this it is hily hily
convoluted. She types, types. The library is a tad more fuller, it is still a very quiet library
compared to the other libraries around town. Ubc, sfu, langara, downtown library, this is a more
subdued place. She is not very much into clear construction of sentences, it is more about
pushing down of squared keys. Fingergymnastics, she should learn how to type with ten fingers.
Writing with a pen is pretty bad too, the hand just cramps up after a while. she types and types.
Ah, how many words, how many words. 5277.
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And now at the other computer, the keyboard here is different, it is a real typewriter
keyboard, you have to really push down the keys, she ponders which one is better for the hands,
the one where one basically just tabs at the keys or one like this. Is there a difference if you have
to push the key down two millimetres or six millimetres. Which one makes 4 better prose. Ah,
she types, types. Suddenly a group of people are hording into the library. Hording is the wrong
word. It is really chilly in here, cold, icy. She can see the bridge, the sparse leaves on the tree, the
flag. She has seen the tree in fool bloom, she has seen it sparse like this. She has seen the
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oceanfactory from the computer next to the window, she has seen it from this computer. She
ponders if anyone is interested in reading this bullshit, irrelevant dispatches from an irrelevant
life. We tend to all be irrelevant, that is who we are as a species. Some of us more than others. So
it seems, so it seems. She is pondering, she is not @ the height of her game as a writer, not @ the
lowest either. Today is a soso day for writing, a soso day for painting, a soso day for filmmaking.
Though her last film became pretty good, the right mix of tempo and pause. Ah, all these 11 to
37 second shorts for you-tube, they are sketches, and she cannot hear the sound because she
does not have earphones. She could go up to the painting studio or the sound studio, one can hear
the sound there. She should eat something , all she has in her body at this time are a: the funny
bananaloafbread and b: a coffee and oh, c: some cream. She should lose weight, should be thin
and beautiful. Though at age 55, thinness is not really that beautiful, thinness means more
wrinkles. She ponders, what is better, wrinkles or looking like a gazelle. She is not really the
gazelle-like kind, more the round type. Women should not be round, they should be gazelles.
Antelopes. Fragile. Ah, we can provide fragility. Who can’t. She ponders if she should discuss
gender issues, but, really, who cares who cares who cares who cares. It is cold in here and she
has no clue why on earth she is typing like crazy. She wants to meet a certain wordcount, well, at
least 50 000, 100 000 would be better. A million, ten million. Who will read this? And she has to
make shorts for you tube, she has 100 already. Ah, quantity, quantity. Don’t gimme da shit ‘bout
quality. She writes, she writes. There should be some romance, some action in her writing, well,
dammit, there is none. Profanity we can provide here, vagueness, incongruence. She has no
bloody clue what the meaning of “incongruence” is, but, hey, it sounds good. Weighty with a
feathery flair if importance. Whatever that means whatever that means. Word, words. And 5793
of them, not bad, not bad @ all. Patonthebackworthy. Selfcongratulation rules. Ah, why not why
17
not why not. And repetition rules. Why not why not whynot. And insanity rules. Well, maybe not
maybe not maybe not maybe not.
---
Somehow the software on this computer works better, maybe it is an older form, which
hopefully will work with the other form. She writes, writes. Outside the ocean factory, up there
the bridge, inside here, chilliness, some movement, some motion. A saturday in the library of the
art school, not much is happening, not much not much. Just words splashed onto paper,
hammered into the monitor, her days, her days. Outside the brownish roof, people walking by,
she types, types. Not feverishly, very feverishly. She has to hunt down a publisher, one day one
day one day. She has to do this, do that. Hunger, hunger, words and words and words. She can
hear the words stalling, not a nice sound, the sound of screeching words that hault, refuse to be
thrown into space, elegant acrobats that refuse to take off, words that aren’t. She hates 2 write,
hates 2 paint, hates to animate. This is all so veryveryvery boring. A walk by false creek would
be good, seabreeze, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. Fish from the market, peppermint tea,
chocolate. A beer, glass of wine, ah, whatever. some more words, some more words. Some more
insanity, some more, a tad, more. And 6043 words it is.
---
It is still very cold here, she ponders how much longer she can do this, the library will
close, but she can still go to the maclab, to write some more write some more write some more.
Her new thing is to leave out the commas, writers do that, if they feel like it, it is cold here cold
18
here. Especially if one has nothing to say one can always leave out a comma, that sounds ah so
very poetic. Because, let’s face it, there is nothing 2 say nothing 2 say. She is hungry and cold,
but repeating that does not really substitute for good writing. There should be something
worthwhile to describe, something important to discuss, something about bigger issues,
something devoid of smaller issues, something with a message. An important message,
important. What does that even mean? Hierarchy of importance. Pah, everything is important
nothing is important. Take a fuckin’ stand, nah, don’t feel like it. Today is not a “take a stand”
day, today is a blasé, soso day. A day of nonchalance. Yep, no chalance here. Words upon words
upon words. Woman with red coat walks by, the coat makes a lotta noise. 4:23, 4:23. Omgd, this
is what you did with your day. You sat and typed. Typed slight bullshit. Not that heavy bullshit,
though. Ah, words, ah, words. She ponders ponders ponders. Her stomach starts aching, maybe,
just bananabread and coffee is not enuf. Spellcheck spellcheck spellcheck. 6295 W O R D S.
---
And now, 6306 words. The novel is marching forward, there are reluctant antagonists,
slight protagonists. The writer, the keyboards, the days of 2010, vancouver, the bridge, the ocean
factory, dilemmae, that kind of stuff stuff stuff. Dilemmae or dilemmas. Dilemmata. She writes,
writes. Listens to her own typing. Still cold still cold still hungry. Sentences without much
meaning, that’s where it’s @ where it is at it’s @. Chicago manual of style, ah, who needs it.
Great poets don’t need it. The great great great ones. Yep, those. The ones whose words fall in2
place. The ones who are blessed by the gods. Those ones those ones those ones. She is hungry,
still, cold, still, writing, still. And words, and words. And some more words. All 6434 of ‘em.
19
---
6:53, evening, still the same day, finally @ home, the tv is on, cnn, a documentary about
the king-assassination. She types away, watching tv and typing at the same time. It is still light
outside, bright outside, it is kind of uncomfy to type here, the computer in the library was sooo
much better. This laptop is not very conducive to typing, she puts it on a table which is too short,
she might change her place, maybe her writing will get better merely by change of place, could
be, could be. She might still go to the coffeeshop, take her laptop with her, have a coffee, she
could write there, pen her masterpiece. Fight writer’s block. Her neck is cramping up, she typed
too much today, this is not that good, not that good.
---
In the coffeeshop on arbutus, a beverage on the other table, she feels kind of weird to put
it near to the laptop, actually she never takes a laptop to a coffeeshop 2 write, she always takes
pen and paper and then transcribes it later, which is not that comfy, she still has a lot of
handwritten stuff at home waiting to be eventually typed up, this cannot be that good. Her chair
here is uncomfortable, uncomfortable for writing, she should sit on the chair facing the wall, but
then she cannot look out at the street, she types, types, 6672 words already, the novel gets on its
way. Not a novel in the strict sense, but, hey, tomeyto, tomahto. Typing. Typing. She looks up at
the red EXIT light above the, well, exit, she listens to the elevator music, she had way too much
4 dinner, and the chocolatey beverage does not make it better. It is 7:32, slightly on the late side,
she writes, writes. words, words. Music, a generic coffeeshop interior, a chain, a bus going down
20
arbutus. She has to write fast, she does not have the charger with her, eventually this screen will
suddenly turn dark, she has to push the SAVE button constantly.
---
The internet does not work here which is kind of annoying, but anyways she can just
keep on typing and typing and typing. She ponders if she will lose some of her precious words,
she looks up at the sign that says ESPRESSO, she feels disoriented and knows that she needs a
walk, some fresh air, that kind of stuff, sitting around stale-aired libraries and stale-aired
coffeeshops cannot be that good, she feels her chest knotting up, she types types types. 7:43,
6867 words. The music does not stop, incessant rhythms, insanity is once more palpable. She
feels like hurling the laptop, there is a woman to her right doing some homework, there is a
woman in front of her doing homework. One has a laptop, one a notebook. One does the
longhandy thing, one the technological thing. Ah, so many ways to do this. The writer ponders,
what more to write about, is there even anything to write about. Evening in coffeeshop, writing
away, writing away. the coffee beverage tastes kind of yucky, so very artificial, yep, yucky it is.
She ponders what 2 write about, there is nothing more left 2 say. Except for the constant
repetition of the fact that there is nothing to say. 6990 words, if she hurries up, she will reach
7000. 7000 it is. How about the obligatory pat on her own back, she takes her left hand and
congratulates her right one, handshake it is. Nothing strange here, nope, stranger things have
happened. So she heard, so she heard.
Music pretty quietshy, family of three in blue and black, two wear blue, one wears black.
Constant clapping of all the plasticware, this place will close up a tad later, she still writes as fast
21
as she can, fast, fast, faster. Outside it is near to darkness, her back hurts, in front of her this
supersized croissant with jam on a poster hanging in the middle of this place, weirdish music, she
types, types. Maybe she will hit the 10 000 mark by Monday, how tough can it be, how tough
can it be. Actually the laptop has this light where she can check how much time she has left,
wow, there is more than an hour left, this place will close down way before that, she should
change her place, go to the other chair, where she can sit up, on an erect chair, she writes, writes.
her typing speed is so much slower than in the morning, a pair of elegant teenagers sits down at
the other table, she writes, writes. 7212 words, that went fast. The 212 words, where did they
come from. So fast so fast so fast. And she writes and she writes. serious writing, not necessarily
good writing, just the constant typing should eventually result in good, well, results, so should
her painting. Painting is a tad too expensive, besides, she thinks that she is more of a black and
white drawingishy person. Painting has to be cultivated, has to be courted. Besides, painting is a
tad too messy, she does not really want to ruin her kitchenfloor or her livingroom floor. She has
to eventually rent a studio, somewhere in gastown, somewhere on parker. she writes and writes
and writes. spellcheck would be good, could be good. Page 21, page 21. Yep, page 21 it is.
---
Some more words, pretty fast, pretty hurried. She looks down @ the basket to her right,
filled with red and white shiny thermoses, or whatever those are. She changes her place, she
writes, writes. this tabletop is smaller, is round, but the chair is better, it is colder here, though,
seems, there is no perfect place for writing. the woman in front of her is holding her resources in
her hand, maybe that kind of factbased writing is better, the writer is not quite sure though, many
people write their essays as if they are penning a police report. Research based, ok, but the essay
22
should have presence, one strong opinion stated and a lot of facts that all support the research.
Something like that, something like that. But then again, she remembers in high school she used
to do the same, lots of books, only now, that she got so much stronger in her writing, only now
that she has stronger ideas, more crystallized opinions is essay writing a cinch, maybe, creative
writing will get better too, you just have to keep on trying. You only have to come to this
coffeeshop and type away. something like that like that like that. the late partycrowd comes in,
the late partycrowd at starbucks on arbutus, very polite and elegant, happy youngsters trying 2
impress each other, she writes writes. ah, kids these days.
She ponders what else to write about write about write about. She ponders if painting is
even 4 her, if she can withstand the loneliness and isolation in a studio, the only distraction being
the stench of paint up her nose. She will go nuts go nuts go nuts. maybe writing is better, more
suited to her as a person. 7693 words, we are getting somewhere. The woman is cleaning up the
milkstand, all the half and half, coffee cream, milk and skim milk containers are taken away, ah,
closing time, closing time. She has to leave has 2 leave, has to leave. Before they throw her out.
Ah, she will be here first thing in the morning, same place, but not same time. 8 :39, 7705 words,
22 pages and a quarter, this is it is it is it. for now, definitely 4 now. Ah, C L O S I N G time.
---
She is back @ home, back on the green couch. Always the green couch. On tv a dove
chocolate commercial, she would like 2 have chocolate. These are the thoughts she jots down,
somewhere in between the banal and the non-banal. Well, definitely leaning more towards the
banal. Typing away, typing away. 2morrow should be painting day or maybe shopping for
23
paintingcanvas day. clint eastwood on the telly, something josie josieish. She types, types.
Pushes down little black squares , all with white uppercase letters in the right quadrant, ah, she
types, she types. 7831 words, she hates the film. Shooting, a stupid, stupid western. And she
types and she types. Lots of horses, stetsons, Indians, she writes, writes. they are going 2
mexico, the writer has no clue what is going on. Kind of tough to watch the film and type, to
write, to write.
---
She writes, writes. commercials, she tries to hold a conversation, type, watch tv,
everything is mushing together. Her neck is constantly tilted, not good not good. How do
you spell obsession.
- --
And once more typing away. this is fun mixed with non-fun. Pushing down squares with
the middle finger of the right hand, while the back gives out in the cushions of the green sofa, the
one that is way too soft. On tv, people analyzing music videos, hmm, there is a nice way 2 earn a
living. She writes, writes. how many words do we have do we have do we have. Sleep would be
good, it is near midnite, she types, types. Tolstoi she is not, war and peace this ain’t, but, hey, a
girl has 2 write. ah, one stupid axiom after the next. She picks up a too salty cracker, this will
help her 2 type some more. some more somemore. … .typing, ah, typing. She longs 4 chocolate,
2morrow is easter, and you know what that means, ah, chocolate eggz. she writes, writes.
insightful dribble @ midnight. She ponders if tv makes her write a certain way whereas listening
to vivaldi would make her write another way. Ah, we can do it all. Pearlnecklaceish or
24
skateboardish. Whatever suits the moment. And she writes, writes. amasses words, lets them rain
down onto the keyboard. How many words how many words, ah, how many words. Ah, many
many many words. 11:43 PM. In two thousand and ten. In vancouver, in bc. And she writes
writes.
---
yep, 2day was painting day, smushing of colours onto canvas, in the room on the 4th floor
of emily carr, two paintings she did, pretty fast, was kind of fun, makes her long 4 doing more of
this, but, hey, she is out of canvas, out of paint. She can do that all day though, and she will, once
art school is over, once she cluches her nice and neat certificate in her hands, once she waltzes
over the stage in chan hall, come may, come may. But 4 now typing should do, tomorrow no
painting, tomorrow only writing, today only writing. Till midnite, that will ,keep her busy. She
should do research, painting research, writing research, checking of email, checking of facebook,
read the news, go home, do this, do that. Clean up, do the laundry, ah, she types, types. Her
hands smell like fish, must be the sweet Indian candy salmon, she bought in the market and was
eating while walking by false creek, by the boats and by the boatbuilders at the back of the
island. She writes, writes, is now in the maclab, where there are so many many people, she feels
kind of overcrowded, too many persons, she writes, writes. Eventually she will get a studio
where she has peace and quiet, where she can hear herself think, where she will suffer from
isolation, where she will hurl paint at the canvas, why not why not. She is getting slightly better,
maybe, maybe. Just like writing, ever so slightly, better, better. At least that is how she sees it,
might be wrong, might be wrong. Words, words, too many , not even close enough. Whatever
that means whatever that means.
25
- --
wednesday on granville island, in front of the typing machine, trying 2 pen something
worth reading. Something without images. Who will read this. Not the ones who are more into
images. She ponders, are we really either visual or non-visual. More into words, more into pics.
Language ppl vs movie ppl. Are these not mere categorizations? Questions, questions. This
keyboard is pretty weird, one has to push down each key and it seems that the keys do not really
respond to touch, they are very resistant to the “pushing down”, which totally slows down da
writing. But, hey, she writes she writes. Painting would be fun too. Reading. She looks up at the
ocean factory, steam, greyness, overcast, ah, spring in vancouver. Someone comes into the
library. Ah, commotion near the check-out desk. Someone coughs, a car drives by. A black and
white pen near the key board. So much to see so much 2 see. Noise of the airconditioner, people
talking. Could be the murmur of the computers. A door closes in the back of her. The bridge,
cars, the flag. She does not look up, she knows they are all there. She listens to her typing away,
she still has to type up last years journal. She writes, she writes. How many words, HOW
MANY. 8655. not bad not bad not bad. And spellcheck and spellcheck. Fatigue wrestles her
down, she has to read this book, doesn’t have her glasses though. She writes writes.
- --
it is ten, zero one. Still here in the library, some websurfing. Some sneezing, a woman
sits next to her, something smells. A black bird against the white sky, she writes, writes. The art
school, the art school. She does not really have anything 2 say, for some weird reason this
software always acts up, but it always acts up in the same way. Thus, obviously there is a button
26
that has to be pushed to relieve that prob. It is a tad 2 cold here, outside it is a tad 2 overcast, she
writes, writes. 8783 words, how nice how nice. She looks around, pondering. there is a round
hole in the table, she ponders if she should have perogies 4 lunch. Perogies or donuts. She should
have deep thoughts, something smells, something smells alright. Why is life soooo boring, why
is her writing so utterly dull. No blood, no s e x, no violence, no intrigue. Nah, not that. We are
targeting the sit on the porch in your rocking chair crowd, but may be those are the ones that
want sex and violence in their books. She writes writes. Feels bad, feels like passing out. She
ponders, she had one honey cruller @ tim hortons and one chocolate glazed timbit. She ponders
if she should include this in her writing. She does does. Ah, life is so utterly boring, especially if
one has to sit and type. Something smells something smells. Like liquorice. Writing, ah, writing.
---
So now she is sitting in vcc, she just had a salad and a breadpudding, the food here is so
excellent, @ least this one was, sometimes it is too fatty, and sometimes there are real blunders,
because all the food is cooked by the pastry chef and chef apprentices. Well, and sometimes they
are just that, apprentices, but usually it is good, though sometimes too greasy. She ponders if it is
ok to document every detailed minutae in this place and then put it online, she ponders if
someone in the san francisco office has to skim thru this, she ponders ponders. Pondering is
good, so she heard so she heard. She writes way 2 much these days, paints 2 much, that kind of
stuff. She writes, writes. While listening to a you tube video, which is kind of tough. Basically,
because the video is in german, so this is not that good for the brain. You listen in to something
and you try to smush words into the monitor. Well. At least, 9114 words. She is listening in to an
interview with Daniel richter, ah, painting. Spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck.
27
- --
she is back in the maclab, typing away. Today is a so very busy day, she had a meeting
first thing in the morning, this was her last official studythingie in the art school, she is now
officially an artist, she will clutch the certificate in her right hand on may first. And now, who
the f. would hire me. No one, no one. She ponders she could do the starving ahtiste thingie, and
maybe that is what she will do. She did not get into grad school and maybe that is good. She
could work in the market, sell chocolates, donuts, or perogies. Maybe she’ll do that, though the
woman in the donut place did not want her. The author is pondering, maybe she should go to the
perogylady and ask her for a job. Ah, why not, why not. Or she could paint. Or she could write.
Or something, or something.
---
once more in the library, of the art school, of the art school. Off the art school. She
ponders, would be nice 2 have a place here to paint, but, hey, her time here is over and all the
studios are used for panels. Besides, she can use this place only until Saturday, until noon. Only
the writing places are open for everyone, all these typewriters all over town, in all these libraries.
Thus maybe she will once more become a writer, not a painter. As a painter you have to like
isolation, you have to be able to work in isolation, in a studio. Not her cup’o’tea, not yet, not yet.
Outside the ocean factory, grey day, she has to do laundry. Go home, do laundry. Ah,
laundry can wait, should wait. She writes, writes. 9427 words, something like that something like
that like that. Words splash onto the paper the monitor into cyberspace. Reality sets in, grips her
by the neck. She has to go out and send this her stuff out, find publishers agents some weird kind
28
of marketing. She has to make some money with this, because if there is no cash it is only a
hobby. It is dilettante, it is worthless. Only compensation is what counts, the rest is blah.
She ponders, these are her philosophies, this is what she has to say. She has to venture out
and find a real job, be aggressive, be a grown-up. Make a dime. Pay the rent. That kind of stuff,
that kind of stuff. She ponders, how will she transition to being a working artist, how do yu
slither from being an artstudent into being a working artist. How do you make 4000 a month with
art.
She feels ever so slightly sickened, the reluctant nausea that sets in when you hang out in
front of a computer, when movement and motioning is far away, when the machine dictates its
songs to you, her sirensongs deafening your ears, yup, that kind of state somewhere between
elation and abyss, somewhere where you are a tad human, a tad not, somewhere where you type
and you don’t really know why. Somewhere where you think that you have to infuse your
writing with some observation ‘bout something primal, love, lust, that kind of stuff, but where
you try to resist ‘cause, hey, you know what they say ‘bout women, just a bunch of wanna-be’s,
non-brainiacs, mushy globs of emotion, that kind of stuff. So, if you happen 2 be a gal, you sit up
straight, you stare over your glasses, as bluestockingish as yu possibly can. We mean business
here mean business here mean business here. Trivial stuff, ah, that’s 4 da birds and maybe 4 the
boys, not 4 us not 4 us not 4 us. Take that, dean of Harvard, who has 2 resign. Huh. Ha. She
cringes at her own inefficiency to make a point., she knows knows knows that we r all in this
together together together. Whatever that means. Free feel 2 glean from this whatever yu want
whatever yu want whatever yu want.
29
She feels like flowing her hand over the keyboard in a grand gesture, the like that a
pianist would do after a recital, in Carnegie hall or somehwhere, she nailed it, she knows, words
come, words go, yuh, and sometimes they come a tad betta, better, nah, betta it is. 9869 words,
not bad not bad not bad.
- --
life after art skool, there is none none. There is no life after art school. Is there life after
art school? Questions, ideas, visions, projections, prophecies. What exactly is art school. Who
needs art school?
She is sitting in the desolate maclab, where it is too dark, where the shutters are closed,
where only one person is sitting, one except her, a young woman with a black bob, seriously,
studious, rummaging thru her notes, trying to squeeze the last words out for her essay, the author
types away types away. Chocolate she had, her teeth might ror, she types types.
She will start her studiopractice so she said so she thinks. Art school is over, now it’s
time to churn out endless treatises a la “artschool confidential”. Do med students do that, do
freshly bar-passed lawppl do that? What is the code, what, what. Yesterday in the eve the author
got anotha rejectionletta, this time from something something geroux, farrah, geroux, or
something something. No one wants 2 publish her stuff, not mit, not farrah something something,
not the place in gastown, not the place on main street. An agent in nyc did not even answer. Huh,
I will show them. Not publishing. Yu guys publish every junk, palin, hiller, yu name it. Ah, I
can’t handle the truth cant handle the truth cant handle the truth. So it is true after all what they
say the world is ruled by white middleaged guys in sweaty shirts, arrrgggghh. Nope not anymore
30
not anymore not anymore. Here comes…well, the very non-white girl. Gals win, win too win
too.
The desolate maclab, ha, where all her dreams decimated over the years, demise, demise
of dreams, hopes. No oscar 4 her, ah, who wants oskahhs. We want no fame no fortune, fame
and fortunes are 4 sellouts. That’s it that’s it that’s it. Non-success equals non-sellout, ah, the
moral hi-road. She ponders, ponders. Still one and a half hour 2 kill until the librarian lectutre in
the south building, she could walk by false creek, talk 2 the birds talk to the birds. Hey, seagulls
listen, listen. Ah, seagulls.
Today is a stupid day, she had coffee and chocolate, she is melancholic, she types, she is
wearing a black turtleneck and white ear pearls, very juliettegreco, french chansons, films with
jeanpaulbelmondo, sixties, jazz, that whole kinda crap. Albert Camus, though he died b4 da
sixties, or something or something. Jack Kerouac, who cares who cares who cares. Very ahmad
shamloo, very shahreh ghesseh. Writing, typing, opening doors, closing doors. Insanity, ah,
where art though. Right here, right here. Nausea mixed with nostalgia, the state of being
nowhere. Words on paper, paints waiting 2 be smushed, films that will never be made. All the
animations, all those, all those. That seize to exists. And she writes. And she writes.
- --
in between trying to find the room 291 and figuring out how she can be there in time, she
finds seconds to jot down her new subject matter, shifting from ARTSCHOOL or
artskool with a fashionable K, anyhoo, to THE ARTWORLD and artworld with an a
before it it is, like THE DONALD, THE MONSTER, THE whatever, the D being slightly
31
sarcastic, THE indescript AUTHORITY that will make yer or brake yer off 2 the
librarian lecture it is, just save this save this save this.
- --
somehow the librarian lecture made her dizzy, she left way before it ended, finds herself
in front of a computer again, typing away, typing away. That is her life, typing, typing. She is
hungry, lunchtime it is, after noon, afternoon, visions of breadpudding with chantilly cream, she
types, types. There is no reader 4 this, only a writer typing away, pushing down slight squares,
somewhere on granville island, somewhere in vancouver, bc. These are her days, as if she has
not said that be4. should it even be online, shouldn’t she scribble this all down, amass pages in
her nitestand, have a paperbasket full of crumpled up papers, the basket being weavy in a colour
somewhere ‘tween black and grey, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. And the day marches
forward marches forward marches forward.
- --
she is once more in the maclab, this is way 2 obsessive, each and every moment is
documented, typed in, ah, how do you spell “deranged”? massproduction, massprodukshione.
Every thought that passes her mind has to be put on scribd, 4 da world to see. Maybe notta good
idea, maybe blogging is betta. She is hungry, she types.
---
she is now in the vcc, the woman sitting next to her is extremely smelly, which is not
really conducive 2 writing, how can someone looking so elegant be so extremely smelly? Jeez,
32
take a shower, use deodorant, change your fuckin’ pinstriped pantsuit. The author has 2 leave, it
is just impossible to breathe here.
She is now sitting at this other computer, in front of this weird monitor, in this weird
learning center, hardly any smells here, but the computer monitor shows two pages, which is
extremely irritating and somehow makes her write worse. Everything is soooo impossible today,
well, @ least the sun is shining. She had this weird food here, she is eating too much grease, she
feels like going home, she wrote enough, she should paint, painting is good good good. Even if
no one ever buys it who cares cares. The process is fun, everyone says so. Especially the hapless
artists who cannot peddle their wares successfully. The ones sans gallerist, sans agent. Those
ones those ones those ones. She types types. Feels slightly nauseated. Writes unimportant stuff
why not why not. She should go thru holt, that is always fun. Okeedok. Lets go there. How many
words how many words. Stop staring at the keyboard look up at the wordcount icon. Write, type,
faster and faster. Paint, produce. Make some stupid films, breathe, eat and sleep. Life is so utterly
boooooring. And she types, types.
- - -
4: 38, back in the maclab, she has some indian candy lying near to the white- silvery
keyboard, indian candy which is basically sweetish smoked salmon, not the thin kind but
fatty pieces, she types fast, the fish might deteriorate as we speak as we write here, and why are
WE using da royal we, must be the heat, this too hot turtleneck, she bought yellow paint, she
should leave 4 home, home, where she will not paint, how can one paint when one is far away
33
from the studio environment, any studio environment. She ponders, but pondering will not propel
her artwork forward. Ah, art. Twelvish years of art school, on and off, no artwork, no artwork.
Just some stuff in the basement, rotting away. She has 2 sell her stuff, start an artcareer. But, hey,
really, who wants to be an artist. Too difficult, way too tough. Everything should come easy, like
watching seinfeld on the green couch. We can muster that. Muster that, muster that.
- --
the smell of the fish is omnipresent, luckily the people here in the art school do not mind,
they are polite, which is not that good for artists. Artists should be daring, not soft-spoken. They
should not be devoid of grand gestures, they have to be forceful, splattering paint, throwing globs
of pigment, oil and eggs at canvasy fabrics, they should be loud and obnoxious, full of me, me,
me. That kind of stuff, stutteringly and well-behaved.
---
The sun is in her eyes, it is 8:14, she is sitting in the langara library, thus the name of this
text: “langara 101”, read into it whatever you want. Open 2 interpretation, open 2 interpretation.
Time has gone by, since she last was here, since she started this text, on a whim, ah, always on a
whim. Spring has walked forward, a tad, sun, some whiffs and murmurs of warmness, of
summer. A volcano erupted in Iceland, ashes in the air, airplanes grounded. And still life goes on
as usual. Something beeps next to her, slightly continuously. The sun in her eyes, a bike rolling
by, fast. She types, types. The only constant, making of stuff, films, paintings, wordamassments.
She types, types. And still way too much sun, the librarian must have hated her, he chose the
worst computer to log her in, he hates her and she hates him. How can she possibly write
34
something “war and peace”-ish, something even remotely “warandpeace”- ish with da sun in her
eyes. Trying to fashion a masterpiece while blinded by sunlite. She writes, writes nonetheless.
beginning of page 34, where is the save-button on this keyboard. Langara, ah, way too sunny.
She could interrupt this, go back to the langara station, go downtown, vcc, have some
breadpudding, write there, she has to be back in the art school though at 11. Well, not back, she
just has to be there. And her car is parked in oakridge. And she has to do laundry, all kinds of
chores are decending on her, trotteling her down with their weights, she writes, writes, writes
against the flood of errands whispering into her ear, two women and a man walk by with a big
sign in their hands, and she types, and she types, spellcheck, spellcheck.
Still the sun, always the sun. flooding her keyboard, sprinkeling into her eyes, how can
she write, ah, she can only whine. And whine some more. Whiny lit, ah, a new genre. She looks
to her left, can see the shadow of herself, a woman in a bun typing away, typing away. Or a man
in a bun, the black silhouette is non-genderspecific. She could fashion something philosophical
about shadows, silhouettes, gender, something philosophical, philosophical. People roar by, in
the distance, her clipper-clapper with the keys is slightly subdued. Ah, some more words, gimme
somemore words. One more page, that is all we need here, the day is done then, our work for the
day. She starts counting again, on her ten fingers, two pages a day, that makes ten pages in five
days, a book before the end of spring. Something like that something like that. Who will read this
who will publish it, will it only exist in cyberspace and is cyberspace worse or better than real,
concrete space. And what is real, what is fake. Questions, questions, reluctantly philosophical,
while the sun blinds us here, and what is philosophical. Ah, today, one more day of incessant,
insane ramblings. That happens when the sun is in your eyes. Want good prose, well, then you
35
have to sit in the shadow. It’s that simple that simple that simple. Repetitions of words repeating
repeating, the noise of the airconditioner slightly annoying, slightly in the background. An
omnipresent backgroundmusic. Woman in blue top and grey leggings slurfs by. She writes,
wtrites, making up words while we go. These our days these our days. Punctuation is 4 the birds,
just fill the page fill the page fill the page. And she writes and she writes. But she said that
already. Said it said it. Quietness sets in, ever so slightly.
And page 35 marches forward, our work here is done work here is done work here is
done. The author cannot mar herself from repeating, ever so obsessive repeating of short
mantras, short syllables, in a foreign country, a foreign language, or not so foreign, or very
foreign. Insanity grips her by the throat, the librarian looks at her in bespecled scepticism. why,
hey, we are producing stuff here 4 you to archive, someone has to write, and type and type. And
type somemore, good stuff, bad stuff, indifferent stuff. 11 837 words, thirty-seven words, thirty-
seven words. Words. And words and words.
- --
sitting in the art school library, waiting 4 the paint to dry, not quite sure if she has to
vacate the studio today, tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, kind of pissed off that no one is
working any more in the painting studio, at least not in the second and third year one. she feels
too weird and strange working in there as a recluse and it doesn’t help that ppl. walk by the glass
door giving her glances of disapproval. At least that is how she sees it. She ponders: how will she
paint without the chitter chatter of the other painters, is this the end of her painting career, a so
very short-lived career in the world of acrylic emulsions, where canvasses rule supreme, where
36
matte medium fights with glossy medium for supremacy and painting dominance. And oil paints,
ah, we haven’t even touched down to explore those. Upstairs, on the 4th floor, pink and white-ish
tones are silently, quietly degassing, at least that is the term the saleslady used. Degassing, huh.
Whatever. You have to use the ubiquitous “whatever” after a technical term of “degassing”-ish
qualities. And she types, types. typing seems more doable, at least there are results, you can
calibrate your progress in wordcount, page count. In painting, you can see how much money you
spent 4 paint and canvas, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff.
- --
back in the mac lab, Saturday morning, nobody here, she ponders why she does this, is it
really that important to write, really that important to paint, really that important to animate. Are
there not other, better outlets 4 her energy. She ponders, ponders. Of course there are better ways
to waist your time on this earth, better, better. Better in what sense? Ah, this is not the time to
think deep, to analyze, this is the time to watch one’s fingers type away. This is the time to listen
to the AV, to the climpering of the keys, to the clirry sound that is somewhere to her left, to her
right, that is there, but overpowered by the AV. Acoustics are not her strong side, tone deafness
is more her forte. Sense of smell, sense of hearing, kind of underdeveloped. Then again,
everything is somehow subjective. She ponders, ponders. Slightly subjective, somehow
subjective, which alliterative phrase will propel her prose forward? She writes reluctantly, while
looking up at the pink monitor which lurks between all the other so very grey monitors, the only
pink one in the maclab. The girly one, if you subscribe to the notion that pink is girly. She types,
types. She will still go up to the painting studio, will paint for three hours straight, 4 paintings in
37
red and white, each called moneyshot. But first writing, first writing. She is falling asleep here,
her own typing is like a lullaby. She types herself to sleep. It is too hot here, too, and it does not
help to wear T-shirt, turtle neck, shawl. It is spring, a typical rainy springday in Vancouver. The
shutters are closed here, but it was drizzly outside. She types, types. There is a green face on the
whiteboard, two eyes looking up to the right, eyebrows, a mouth. Yep, this is what we learn in
art school. We write shitty stuff, we draw shitty stuff, we paint shitty stuff. We analyze each and
every line and can talk forever ‘bout irrelevant stuff. Or so it seems, or so it seems. She ponders,
ponders. Where will she do her paintings come may, when there is no studio space available
anymore. Which is actually not correct, today or tomorrow is the last studioday. She can still use
the maclab, though, till may. She can pen this her fascinatingly deep novel wanna-be, she can
write, write. Then print it out, once it passes the 312 page mark, she can receive some more
rejection letters. Ah why not why not. Writing shitty prose, it keeps her busy. Not everyone can
become Tolstoy, but one can die trying.
She ponders what else is there to describe in this place. Not much, palpable isolation.
Fluorescent lights, grey stuff above her. Grey stuff below her. A monitor in front of her. A chair
to her left. A chair with a hole in it. A key to her right, on the desk. A monitor to her right that
suddenly changed, it went from grey to dark with a swirly, slowly moving psychadelicish
pattern. The pink monitor changed to crimsonred and has swirls on it too. Maybe this is supposed
to be artsy what with artschool environment and all. Who knows who knows. Some big brother
makes up the rules. We are all mere minions. We type in some desolate place and nobody knows
why. We create shitty art because, hey, someone has to. Other people do other stuff, cut into
people’s skin , stuff with blood. Surgeons, nurses. This is more fun, at least less yucky. She
38
ponders if she analyzed this in a coherent and intelligent manner, probably not, probably not. Ah,
she will go and have peppermint tea, and a piece of chocolate, because she started her diet which
calls for eating certain things at certain times, and lots of sugary stuff too, so that one does not
give in to temptation. That kind of stuff that kind of stuff. She dos not feel like writing does not
feel like painting. She’d rather go back home and crawl in2 her bed and sleep. She feels
borderline insomniacish, which is more because she did not have enough sleep today. It always
evens out which is fine, no real sleep probs here. More creative block probs, she wakes up in the
night and thinks about the thickness of paint. When she used to animate she would wake up and
think about narratives, about image sequences, that kind of stuff that kind of stuff. Writing is
much more automatic, she only needs a piece of paper and a pen, or a keyboard and a monitor.
That kind of stuff stuff stuff.
She might go downtown, catch the bus, go and have her tea in the food court in pacific
center. There is plenty of time to come back to this place to smush and paste red and white
pigments onto a canvas. Actually, in her case, onto the back of a canvas. It’s her new thing, two-
sided canvasses. Painting as object, as sculpture, she should patent that. Amazing, the ideas one
has if one vies for being reluctantly artistic. Shittily artistic. That kind of stuff, ah, that kind of
stuff.
- --
another morning, very Sunday-ish, she is back in the maclab to type her obligatory two
pages, the day has to be documented, the day that has not yet begun, not really, not in full
39
swing. Gone are the days when she could just go about her day without typing, without holding a
pen, without swirling a brush, without producing drawing after drawing. Now these kind of
rituals define her days, keep her awake at night, thinking about form, whatever the form de jour
is. It is a slight ritual, like brushing your teeth, certain amount of words, at a certain time of the
day. Structure, keeps you running, makes the bones move smoothly, greases the joints.
ah, she ponders, notices some sloggy song in the other room, the noise of rolling chairs,
she types types. Recognizing the song, trying to sing it before it ends, door opens, woman saying
forcefully ok, where are you. And she writes. Still same monitors with swirl thereon, she has to
be home, but, hey, the swansong of the maclab threw her hereto. She writes, writes. Today, no
more painting, the studios are off, closed, or maybe not, maybe not. Maybe she can still paint
something, the last artwork, the last art work. Pressure usually makes your hands move the right
way, adrenaline makes you chose the right colors, in a split second. That kind of stuff that kind
of stuff. Let’s see, how many words do we have here, ah, not enough, not enough as of yet. She
still writes. Does not need to put this online, what did dostojewski do, whatever he wrote would
have been consumed so much later. Not now, not now. You are an instant author, you pen it, it
will be out there in seconds. Somewhere floating in cyberspace, where anyone can grab it, but
usually doesn’t. words floating in cloudspace, insignificant words alongside significant ones,
private ones, public ones. Male ones female ones, stern words and mere mutterings. And she
writes, writes.pondering does not result in much these days, insanity always palpable, she types
types types away. Confusion sets in, incoherence marches forward. And she writes and she
writes. There is a show going on downstairs, 300 artworks, there will be an animationshow
sometime in the evening. Some art, some more art.
40
She checks, one page went in pretty smoothly, if she can only fashion one more page, her
work for the day is done, done. Two pages is all we need here, two pages is more than enough.
That will amount to six hundred pages per year, two pages a day, two pages a day. Two books a
year, two chronological accounts per year. In ten years we have twenty booklike entities. Now if
there were only readers, but who needs readers, who needs viewers. She writes, writes, a woman
comes in, moves furniture, opens the shutters, cranks up the AV, there must be a class in here
must be a class in here. The author tries to write as fast as she possibly can, against the malstrom
of motions, there still has to be another page, this place is getting much too chilly, we don’t need
more AV, we need less. She ponders, ponders some more. Gone are the days when she did not
use the word PONDER, yep, suddenly she discovered it and started sprinkling it all over her
prose.
It is way too chilly here, the technician had to cool up this place, the author has to leave,
go to the library or something, the technician cranked up the cold and then left, this is what
technicians do, make the place unbearable for the users, while they themselves move over to
warmer places. The author ponders: there is something deep, insightful to be garnered from this,
some philosophical study of the human condition, but, hey, it is just too cold and chilly here for
that. It is a way too banal sundaymorning, too much overcast, too much predictability, here on
Granville island. The market is still in its place, false creek hovers along, joggers bob up and
down along the seawall. Which is not even a seawall, no one calls it sea wall. Banks of false
creek, nope, too weird, way too strange. And she writes, writes. Spellcheck, wordcount and
we’re outta here. Let the day begin.
- --
41
yesterday she did not write, yesterday she just ran from lecture to lecture, today she
listened in to three presentations, it is too much, way too much. Overload of info numbing her
brain, she somehow made it to this library, in front of the monitor, there have to be fed two pages
still, 2 the machine, the computer orders her, two pages per day, two pages per day. Very
automatically she types in, stuff, words, she scratches her head, types, types, pecking at the keys,
it is totally irrelevant if the text flows smoothly or rustily, the only thing needed is an amassment
of words, some more words heaped onto the wordcount, the text will fall into place.
Automatically, just to cut it off at about 300 pages is enough, texts at 300 pages each, to be
bound, to be consumed. Neat little packages of a certain wordcount, that is what is needed,
coherence just flies into it, automatically. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. She pauses,
ponders, checks her wordcount, 13858, not a very melodious number, too edgy, too linear, not
smooth enough, threes and nines are more flowingey than fours and eights, you can hear a
virtuoso fiddle in the background, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff.
To her right she can see joe sacco’s footnotes in gaza, to her left two monitors silently
changing from blue to turquoise. She types, types. The ocean factory is still there, majestic,
silently overpowering, she types, types. Against the nausea that is inevitable, induced by too
much sitting still, too much of too much. And she types. And she types. The keyboard is so very
reluctant to react to her typing, two women talk, someone coughs. It is mid-afternoon, a rainyish
Tuesday, she got an A minus and a B minus. Life is good, so very very good. Grades are all that
counts all that counts all that counts. Who cares if rain is pouring down on vancouver, as long as
seagulls fly thru the sky, as long as the grades flow smoothly. Which they don’t tend to do,
usually.
42
Page 43, she has to fill this with random observations, punch stuff in, insightful stuff
alongside unsightful stuff. As long as they are words, words, neatly smushed into times new
roman, into 12-point, as long as there is doublespacing going on, somehow this stuff should
make sense. There will be times when she will go back to writing scholarly, treatiseish stuff, but
at this point she is more into wallowing in the constant play with the language, the moving
around, the motioning up and down, the throwing of words up into the air and the watching and
observing of letting them glide onto the keyboard, having them appear on the monitor, slightly
coherent, crashingly jarring, all of the above, all of the above.
AND THe page marches forward, to its bitter end, something like that, yep, something of that
kind. Outside, green trees, cars and buses over the bridge, typing, incessant typing. Words,
words. There is not much to say, she should go somewhere else, somewhere where stuff is
happening. Inspiration, action, silence. Where stuff observable is happening. The library here is
way 2 predictable, it is just that, a library. Sounds of the printer, the card in, the card out, this is
what staccatos the time. Doors opening, closing, cars driving by, a woman in a beige skirt
walking to the desk near the window. Sneezing, the sounds and sights of the library. Another
sneeze, oh well, life goes on, on.
She ponders, this is enough for today, how much longer can she describe black birds
against the white sky, pink umbrellas walking by, the ocean factory, white on white, ah, she
writes, writes. 3:24. time to leave this place, go somewhere more fun, more moving, more
exiting. Downtown, ah, that kind of stuff. Even if it’s raining, huh, this is vancouver. It always
rains and always rains. rains.
43
---
Once again in the langara library, still same day, still rain. Busy place here, so very busy.
5: 33, PM, she loves this place, it has all this, well, business. She ponders, there are certainly
more accurate words to describe this, busy, such a catchphrase, there must be other words, yep,
she knows there are other words, better words. There are always better ones, she can’t really
concentrate, one person sneezes, another talks loudly with another one, gesticulating, a rapidfire,
short conversation, a point made. The author, she writes, writes, what does she really care. As
long as one can rapidfire a text into the machine, life is good. Two pages, two more pages. A
reluctant word count, a rapid moving wordcount. Too much of the word “rapid” 4 such a short
passage. She feels nauseated, salmonsushi and yam sushi and canadian maple are fighting each
other inside of her. She eats too much, she writes too much. Against the rainy late aprilday, the
one with the aprilshowers and mayflowers. Or something of that kind. Two pokerfaced persons
at the other computers. Both facing her, well, they are facing their monitors, but the way that
these stations are, they are kind of facing her. 4 computers around a square table, and lots of
these stations. She types, she types. Feels nauseated again, too much typing does that to the
system. 14582 words, yep, 14582 of them.
Pondering, always pondering. That is what a writer does, supposedly. She should paint,
she has to paint. Hasn’t painted 4 three days straight, that cannot be that good. You have to paint,
paint, paint, each and every day. Paint out of the tube, onto canvas, paper, whatever, waiting to
be motioned around, in order to solidify as a new entity. Formgiving is formgiving, be it
painting, be it writing, be it animation. You just have to do it each and every day, so they say, so
they say.
44
14676 words, 14676. She is tired, exhausted, ready to whine. Ready to cry. No more
positivity, let’s vie for negativity. Or positivity. Or negativity. It’s all da same, all the same. And
she writes, and she writes. This she knows she knows she knows.
New paragraph new paragraph. Some more words some more words. And the end of the
page is near, so very very near. And a new page and a new page. This is how she fills her days,
there will be a time, somewhere in the future, when narrative will march into her prose, when
structure and insight will merge with coherence and wallow all over the text. Will swallow the
text. But till that very day, we will just smush word upon word, press them like flowers in a thick
book overnight, will splash them onto the keyboard, will hiccup them into the monitor. Onto the
monitor. Yup, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff.
She ponders a tad ponders a tad. Listens to the voices in her head, but moreso to the
voices of the two librarians, the red-blazered one, the black-sweatered one. The red-blazered one
is the authority-figure, this is what a red blazer does to you. The author types, types. Random
observations. A yellow pipe in the grey-green garden outside. The lightdots on the typewriter,
the white lamp on the grey column to her left. All the talking, yackidy- yack. And she types, and
she types. She has to go back to oakridge, she can park there for 4 hours. She tries to remember
when she started her “parking cycle’, but, hey, it is that time of the day, that time of the week,
when everything just smushes together, gravylike. And she writes, types. More typing on this
keyboard than pure writing. One has to push the keys down, one has to listen to the clicker-
clacker, against all the noise, in this library full of motion and commotion, where hecticness rules
supreme, more marketplace than library, more walkthru than reflection place, more
gatheringsquare than refuse.
45
And she writes and she types and she reached 15027 already. Time to go home, ah, time
2 go home.
- --
and another day, in the art school library, she doesn’t have much time, the words should
splash down on the keyboard pretty fast, determined and hastily, they should make a wave, she
does not have much time, not much time, she will rush to the studio on second, to another
presentation another presentation. She has seen way too many presentations, they all mush
together, kind of exhausting her, kind of making her fall asleep while trying to grasp what is
going on. Too much theory, too much theory. And there will be no grades, so basically it’s a
waste of time. Nah. Definitely not. She types, types. Feels like crawling into her bed, not like
writing, she hardly slept and she does not really know what possesses her to type this up.
The ocean factory watches her silently, a woman in black and white motions by. Catlike.
The author should make her way home, she can read the text of the presentation later on. In
hardcopy. She will not miss anything not miss anything not miss anything. Who needs
informationoverload, let’s vie happily 4 info underload. She feels a cold coming on, she writes,
she types. page 47, one five two three nine words. A number, merely a number. Spitting words
onto the page just to reach a certain minimum count of words, that cannot stand in 4 literary
pursuit, for real literary pursuit. And the ocean factory continues hovering over her. She writes
writes.
---
46
she is sitting in vcc, it is 3:59, on a thursday, she types, types. Trying to figure out what to
write about, but feeling a mix of blasé “ness”, of utter bla. Even her typing goes extremely slow,
she types, types. In between she bothers the lady next to her by dispensing useless info only to go
back to her very sloooowwwww typing. The main problem is that there is a too high amount of
reflection hovering over the keypad, she cannot really see the letters and it doesn’t help that she
motions to and fro on the chair, there is always a part of the keys which is indistinguishable,
either the upper part or the lower part. She had a very fatty pudding in the food place here, she
had a cookie and a tart for lunch and a banana bread for breakfast. She sustains on sweets,
desserts, desserts. She feels exhausted, exhausted. She listened to two lectures already and she
will listen to another one at seven. She is overloaded with lectures, she types, types. Kind of in
order to physically combat the information overload, she feels mentally sick, too tight. She
should spring up and go for a run. Seawall, stanleypark, something like that. Movement, motion.
Surfing thru holt renfrew, she ponders if surfing is the right term. Gliding maybe? Striding?
Rolling?
She types, types. Ponders a tad. She could go home, position herself all over the green sofa, she
feels sick, ever so slightly, the beginning of a horrendous cold that is not there yet, that might
just pass her by. Maybe she can combat it, stop it before it will riddle her whole body. It seems
so inevitable, so viscerally there, stopping and coming, like a tall wave that will roll you over.
She ponders, ponders. Why does she describe the most banal, most detailed minutia of her so
banal and utterly boringly insignificant life, how can this kind of writing hold up against the
orwells and dostojewskis of this world? Obviously, they are male, she is female and we can of
course happily glide on a wave of “ this world is biased, gender and otherwise”, but she doubts if
47
that will cut it. Maybe her work just sucks. How is that for a thought? She ponders, nah, all her
rejectionletters are because of biases, that must be it, that must be it. We have writing chops here,
dammit. And that’s the story we are sticking to here. She ponders, once more, the royal “we”.
How about always the royal “we”? she writes, types. Slightly dumb stuff, slightly non-dumb
stuff. At least she types she types she types.
---
she is sitting in the langara library, typing goes very stocky, stallingly, it is 8:38, very
morningish, seems, not many writer-hopefuls make it here first thing in the morning, though she
can hear someone type away, fast, fast, somewhere in the back, maybe another tolstoy in the
making. And aren’t we all tolstoys at heart. Some more tolstoyish than others. Ah, that tolstoy
that tolstoy. She makes sure to decapitalize the “T” of the “Tolstoy”, her writing has to be
temperamental, intuitively rushing after formgiving, prose is a piece of art, a text, any text, you
can do with it what you wanna do, we are all poets all poets all poets. Something like this,
something of this kind.
The day is slightly green, reluctantly green, outside people are moving their small kids to
the daycare, the librarian shuffles the books, so loudly, so loudly, it is as if she (or he), the author
looks to her right, it is a “she” in a black and white summerdress- and the author lost the stream
that the sentence was flowing in, the sentence just is dissipating into nothingness, words that go
nowhere, thoughts that go nowhere. Someone sneezes, someone female. Seems like a female
sneeze. She ponders, are there differences in female and male sneezes, you know, decibelwise.
48
She writes, types. Nothing but bullshit, nothing but bullshit. Woman in pistachio-coat, walks by,
determined, with coffeecup in hand, walking thru the green grass, outside, in the garden in front
of the big glass wall. The author should take pictures, her words are so very bad at describing her
surroundings, she is just a lowly schreiberling who does not know her craft. Who jumps from
animation to painting to writing, a lite-weight in the world of formgiving. Ah, who cares, who
really cares. Enjoy da process, process, process. You won’t monetize this anyways, except if you
peddle your literary wares on the market. She ponders, ponders. Eventually she will figure out
how to distribute this, somehow, somewhere. Who needs publishers, when there is kinkos. She
types types types, the morning away. She sighs, her cold slightly scratches at her throat. She
types and types and types.
- --
Well, at least she finished page 47. Hmm, pretty good, 50 pages in a month, the grass
outside is moving in the wind. Long, long bushels of grass. Longgrass, lots of bushels, in neat
rows, the landscaping is kinda superb. Superb in a community college-kinda way. Not superb in
a versailles-kinda way. The author ponders, is there a difference in the “superbness” of UBC-
landscaping and Langara-landscaping? Is there, is there? Of course there is, of course there is.
She ponders, ponders. Ponders some more, types some more. The person at the other computer
hacks into his chewing gum, the gum waddles around inside of his face. Librarian laughs,
shortly, pronouncedly. Slightly masculine, more masculine than most guys. The author laughs at
her own writing, chuckle here, chuckle there, ahhhh, arrggghh, what kind of life is this.
Someday, somewhere, she will have her own studio, where she will paint, paint. Fling buckets of
49
paint, heap them onto canvas after canvas. She will be so very Jackson Pollockish. But, hey, at
this time, this black typewriter in the langara library will do, should do, ah, has to do. That’s it
that’s it that’s it.
---
Some more words some more words some more words. Outside, still overcast, still,
women and men with babies, still green, still blowing winds, still still, she types, types. Words,
words, buildings, a darker one on the right, a lighter one on the left. She looks down at the
keyboard, up, at the buildings. The black and white of the key-board mirrors the black and white
of the building. She looks down , there is the keyboard, she looks up, there is the building. She
does not even need to move her neck, just her eyes. Each time it is black with white thin lines,
the building is dark, the windows are white, the keyboard is black, the letters white. Ah, so very
cinematic. That is how it is that is how it is that is how it is. She had enough of writing, two
pages two pages, she ponders if she should go back to writing so very whole sentences instead of
fragmenting the language in every possible way there is there is. And the day marches on
marches on marches on, green grass moves in the wind, daycarepeople bring their young ones
there, the library stolpers to its end. The sentences don’t make sense and decidedly so, that’s the
way it is the way it is the way it is. Language is there for molding, it is malleable like paint,
throw it into the computer and watch it solidify on the monitor, computer as canvas as canvas as
canvas, and your hands , your fingers don’t have paint drops, paintstains, do they, do they? She is
tired, she will leave, why not why not. This is getting insane, so very very insane. 16583 words
16583 words.
50
---
saturday morning, langara library, wet shoes. Or more precisely, wetness in the back of
the left shoe, hardly anyone here, at least not as many as there usually are. Maybe 12 ppl
max, this place is usually brimming with commotion. The author sits here, just to put in her daily
two pages, she ponders what to write about. There is this place, this space waiting to be
described, the woman who walks by her like spiderman, her steps on the carpet, the felty carpet,
a library that is carpeted. Hardly anyone is here, hardly, hardly. Echoes of the librarians talk, a
woman walks up the stairs, she types, types. Not the woman that walks up the stairs, the author.
She feels slightly nauseated, vomiting is not far away, it is weird, she slept enough, ate a nice
breakfast, somehow she feels not that good, must be the knowing about the weirdness, the
strangeness of coming here to type in a certain amount of words. What can this be good for what
can this be good for what. Words smushed onto paper, hurled into cyberspace, on a rainy
vancouvermorning. A woman walks by, outside thru the green park, in black and white and red,
a securityguard, a head bobs in. she can only see the head, the monitors obstruct the view.
Someone sneezes in the hallway. She listens to her typing, she is on page fifty. Green chairs in a
row, she types, types. Woman in blue, for a split-second. Woman wipes the table with her hand,
sits down, author writes on writes on. Woman checks her cell phone, with open mouth. Author
still types still types. Woman opens zipper, closes zipper of her purse, her backpack or
something, anyways, zippernoise, something claps in the back, somewhere between the stacks of
books. Hi what are you doing here, a loud conversation which gets louder and louder, now
focussing on coffee, someone knocks on the table. The author types and types. Her shoe is still
cold and wet, she splashes the words into the keyboard. She uses wrong prepositions, wrongish
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pronouns. Writing is not her forte, is her forte. She should paint, painting is so much betta. She
should do it all do it all do it all.
One more page, that cannot be that tough. Conversation to her right, conversation to her
left, all four are women, and then there is the lowly monologuer who hurls her text into the
typewriter. Tries to make sense of her world, but, hey, who ever can and could make sense of the
world. Making sense of world, ah, too tough a task. She typed, types, looks out at the shapes, that
are not really decipherable, a door maybe, a turbine, grey and beige, built constructs, slightly
functional, slightly not. Page 50, page 50. She ponders if she should pepper her prose with a tad
more coherence, weird looking man in red walks through the garden, weird, because he holds
himself very contorted, walks funny. The author ponders if she can really write stuff with a lot of
“weird and strange” put in there. Weird in what sense, strange in what sense. Hmm, politically
correct, how do you spell that? And she writes, writes. The red clad guy is now standing in the
library and talks to the librarians, he is amass with grand gestures, nah, he is definitely weird.
Pompous and arrogant. The author chuckles, she tends to hate everybody. So nice, so nice. Is this
what makes for good writing, for bad writing? Random judgments of the world, categorizations
out of the corner of our eyes. Is this what we are stomping to? Of course, and it is not
“stomping”. And she types, types. Two pages are about to be finished, the weird, too assured
person in red is sitting at her computerstation, another writer, maybe? She ponders, who are
writers? Do they have a union? Do they get paid by the word? She should really try to figure that
out, she is fed up with typing 4 free. Just so that she can watch her fingers push down all these
keys, so that she can feel that she did something useful for the day. A text that no one will read.
No one will quote. That exists somewhere in nothingness. That kind of stuff that kind of stuff.
52
Two pages are over, she can walk into the sunshine, the pouring rain, and enjoy the rest
of her day, her weekend, that kind of stuff that kind of stuff. Next time a tad more coherence, ah,
why not why not? Why not.
- --
and once more, in the library @ langara, it is 3 oh eight, it is a Sunday, maybe april
twenty-five and definitely two thousand and ten. She starts typing, not after logging on as
a guest. She is not a student here, so each and every time she has to ask the referencelady
to check her in. well, it is not always a lady, there are reference gentlemen, too, but the
girls here definitely outnumber the boys. She ponders, because that is what she always
does when she starts writing. Pondering, yup, that’s where it’s @. Ponder ponder ponder.
She is tired, she went downtown, on the canada line, she came back, walked thru
oakridge, had a tea with a funny name and two pieces of chocolate that were overpriced,
yup, and now she is here. Trying to fabricate literature that has “yup” and “@” in it.
Reluctantly contemporary prose. She just loves the word “reluctantly’, it seems to go
with everything. Her wordcount is 17527, how many words does your middle-of-the road
book have? She types, types, ponders, what is the ballpark wordcount for a first-time-
well- novel may be, novel-wanna-be. She ponders how she should call this, long essay,
longish essay, memoir, text, scratches on paper, what is the technical term? Who knows
who knows who knows? Categories are 4 da birds, are they, are they. She bought a red
and beige T-shirt, well, one red one and one beige one, it was buy one, buy the second
one for half price, they are kinda nice kinda nice kinda nice. Nothing spectacular, nothing
non-spectacular. Something cottonish from china. Something pretty, something
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reluctantly girly. More boyish than girly. More serious than flimsy. Then again, flimsy, is
that girly? Is serious boyish. Is serious girly and boyish flimsy? She ponders what are we
shooting for here? How about blue stockingish. She ponders, ponders. Pondering is fun,
especially ‘cause nobody knows what that means. Ponder, ponder. She types, types,
fastforward, fast, no forward, the words are slightly meaningless, slightly meaningful,
flimsy and serious, at the same time, at the same time. One flimsy word, one serious
word. She ponders, maybe she should enrol in a writing workshop, but those usually kill
the delicate genius, any delicate genius. The delicate genius in all of us. That one that
one. And she types and she types. Against slight nausea, against the noise in the library
echoing thru all 3 floors, against the greenness here, the utter greenness. She ponders if
she should elaborate, but, no, some things are impossible, too many words will kill
meaning, will make sense dissipate, like melting snow, like whiffs of a sensuous
perfume. And she types. And she types.
- --
For some weird and strange reason, the software does its own thing, the text is not exactingly
laid out, which somehow pushes the prose into weird jittery directions, the formatting gives the
text structure, makes them behave, behave well, punctuation, grammar, they all serve coherence,
incoherence, they make or break the text. She ponders ponders. Leaving out commas should be
mandated. Poetry and prose should merge, merge more, merge so much more. All these scribbles
on paper, music, visuals, it is all the same all the same all the same. Art is art is art. She looks up.
At the green chairs, at the green, leathery parka hanging from the green chair. At the book-stacks
and, finally, down at her keyboard. And she types and she types. Types her days away, types her
54
days away. Page, 53, page 53. And may is not even here yet, fifty pages in a month. Not
phenomenal, but still. You have 2 keep on moving have to keep on moving have to keep on
moving. That kind of stuff that kind of stuff. And spellcheck. And spellcheck. She has to stop
this, too many repetitions, today is not her day, not her day, not yet. Not yet. Not yet. And …
STOP.
---
monday morning in langara, she starts typing. The sun is somewhere behind thick white
clouds, part of her keyboard is bathed in light, so very diagonally. A man in a beige wind-breaker
and the grey-clad librarian talk to the author’s left, they are both ugly. She ponders, what kind of
observations are these. A woman clappers away in the corridor, high-heeled, high-heeled. The
author ponders, what kind of observations, what kind of metaphors will cut it, which ones are
just plain silly. Two swans outside of the window, roaming around. She types, types. Amasses
words on a monday morning, not really knowing why. Some futile attempt @ constructing a
raison d’etre, some words and some more words. Later on she will make her way home, hoist the
paints and papers out of the basement, start smushing gooey pigments onto the crackly gessoed
support, call it painting, painting. She will go for a walk, do some housecleanings, all kinds of
random stuff. Motion, motion, you have to keep moving. Never stop never stop.
The author ponders, she finished about half her daily allotment, requirement of words,
dilettantly hacked together, not pursuing a strong storyline. The only storyline is this description
of reluctantly nihilistic squandering of her minutes and moments on this planet, the very real
visceral being in this moment, these moments of banality, where nothing happens nothing
55
happens but the daily so very comforting routine of so very foreseeable “stuff”, repetition,
repetition, repetition. It is tough to put this into words, but, hey, she keeps trying, day-in day-out
day-in day-out. Something rumbles thru the corridor, so very loudly, so very very slowly. She
types types. 9:19 AM, 18301 words. She looks up at the students, the non-students, no one seems
to be bent on writing the next masterpiece, seems, masterpiecewriters struggle in solitude, behind
whiffs of heavy smoke and whiffs and heavy smoke are contradictory and SHE is a lousy writer.
She used to be good used to be good, but somehow the words wore her down, fatigue set in, she
lost her touch, her touch her touch. The poet who descended down into the abyss of mediocre
stumbling, in a place where eloquence is nothing but a glimmer of days long lost, when random
teachers and random colleagues would praise her texts, gone are those days, gone, gone, she
proved them all wrong, how can you possibly fabricate good stuff, day-in, day-out, the day-ins
and day-outs of our lives kill poetry, kill it, kill it.
She ponders, just half a page and she is outta here, she’ll take the canada line and make
her way home, langara has her words and that is all we can wish 4 here. One of these days she
will write a nice and solid outline, construct the perfect story, but till then, till then, this will do,
must do. She feels lightly nauseated, already, the day is still young, but there is something in the
air here , that makes her vomit, something about the constellation of this keyboard against the
green park outside, something about the strangeness and weirdness of coming here day-in and
day-out, to type, to type. The words flow into each other, commotion outside, figures against the
green parkey backdrop, a black and white striped pant walks by her, and she types and she types.
Two pages are finished, a book splashes into the shelf behind her, librarians whisper, students
talk loudly, her writing is over for today over for today over 4 2DAY.
56
- --
and now, and now. Sitting in the vcc-learning-center-thingie, typing away. Slightly
groggy, tired, the 30 minutes on the exercise-bike in the Y didn’t help, they just knocked
her out. She might as well type some more, type some more. Outside she can see the
hallway, the coffeestand is exactly opposite of her. She cannot read the white letters on the red
umbrella over the stand, people walk by, she can see their shoes, she can see the woman’s hand
next to her moving the mouse around. A woman sneezes, stops her sneeze mid-air. Hallway full
of noise, the woman next to her says “ola” into her cell-phone, only to talk away in English. It is
one and thirty-eight, there are no stories to tell, only fragments to be put on the net, short, very
short observations, the scenes of the city, fast and fast and faster. This is our life, we are all
reduced to facebook blurbs, to seconds of encounters. So it seems, so it seems. Might be good,
might be bad. It is hot in here, ever so slightly. She gets rid of her too warm sweater, she feels a
cold coming on, she types way unimportant observations in an unimportant life. So it seems, so it
seems. Ah, could be worse, she could isolate away in a basement studio, here @ least she is
surrounded by commotion, by strangers. She can concentrate on her writing, on her typing, she
can court the possibility of penning something great. Something that will propel humanity
forward. That kind of stuff that kind of stuff. All the answers to all our ills, neatly packaged into
some buzzwords, that kind of stuff, yep, that kind of stuff. World-peace, yeah, world peace.
Can’t we just all get along get along get along. There, there is your answer. Simple is good,
simplified logic, the best logic. She ponders, she could top this off with the ubiquitous “ that kind
of stuff’, that kind of stuff. She could mix the impossible ”reluctant” into the mix, could do this,
could do that. 18956 words, words, words.
57
- --
the person two computers to her right opens a granola bar wrapping, starts munching
away, while he studies his face book. The woman to her left studies her cellphone, while
simultaneously doing the facebook. Where was facebook some years ago, who needs it
who needs it. The author chooses to ignore request after request, she needs time 4
penning her masterpiece. She has to concentrate on describing the red hallway of vcc. The
yellow banner saying “welcome to the learning centre!” – facebook, ah, so passé, so yesterday.
No needs for interaction, whether face-to-face or otherwise. At this time she’d rather be face-to-
face with a piece of dessert from the pastry place upstairs, she will top that off with a donut, then
take the canada line back to oakridge. Her life is so utterly banal, so utterly prosaic, but, hey, that
is what is needed to pen great literature. Or, maybe, only maybe, not so great literature.
Hemingway said something about a blank paper and watching the pearls of sweat starting to
drench it, she paraphrases, pretty weirdly though, ah, words, words, words. And it does not help
if your English is pretty bad, but, hey, it is all we have here. No one has a native language
anymore, we use all kinds of different lingoes all thru the day. She ponders, it does not really
help to pepper her prose with absolutes that do not hold true, but who cares who cares who cares
who cares. Tomorrow she will write good stuff, today her body hurts and bullshitting is the way
to go. Properly footnoted, my ass. Profanity rules. 4 now, for now, for NOW. Elegant pastries
and music of harps combined with quasi slang and quasi- intellectual dribble. That is what her
world has come 2 has come to has come 2. Texts geared towards the modern reader whatever
that is, whoever that is. But in the end, these texts are all addressed to herself, reflections while
passing, maybe so, maybe not. A woman stomps by outside, pauses, moves into this place, the
58
carpet swallows the noise of her shoes, the author, she still types, she still types. Man with huge
earphones to her right, watching his monitor, having a beige mellied sweater, knitted. What ever
that means, what ever that means.
---
She is sitting @ her kitchen table, she ponders if kitchen tables are conducive for superior
writing. does the muse descend on kitchentables? Is the utter eventlessness in this place fostering
intelligent thoughts. Superior, intelligent, excellent. Polysyllabic words that surmount the sheer
“good”, yep, big words, big words. She watches her so very pale fingers type away, she sees the
pink RICOLA package on the kitchen counter. She listens 2 the humming of the laptop that
actually sits on the brown table in front of her, not on her lap. This is kind of uncomfortable, the
keyboard is way too high, she sits here, utterly contorted, she is too cold and she knows if she
puts on her paint splashed black felt jacket she will be too hot, this is not good not good not
good. She should save this, what if all her thoughts will vanish, not be archived, not be thrown
into the throve of posterity, we will all die will all die will all die. She ponders, ‘cause pondering
is good. The grand-e nonfat decaf latte on the kitchencounter is slowly wasting away, getting
colder, getting colder. Outside greenness, overcast, ah, vancouver in april. She ponders, ponders.
She should make up a story, about lovers, longing ones, sad ones, not happy ones. casablanca-ish
ones, the ones more infatuated with the impossibility of getting near to each other than the
possibility of living together, lost lovers, star-crossed, star-crossed. Not lovers that annoy the hell
outta each other, the ones that find each other certifiable repulsive. You know, old couples,
bickering ones, the ones that role their eyes at every muttering of the other, those are the
interesting ones, the ones that literature should celebrate. Not a dr. zhivago who sees lara from
59
the bus or in the bus, no Benjamin who yells ELAINE. Nope, gimme a benjamin who throws up
his arms and yelps “good riddance”, a lara who runs faster, we don’t need love stories, we need
hate stories. Let me rephrase that, stories that explore the grudgery, the drudgery of the every-
day, the lives without novelty, that kind of togethernees, that kind of together ness. The author
ponders, maybe she should stick to what she knows, the painstaking description of every object
in a radius of two meters, that seems to be doable, the trick is to go to different locales, she could
go down to the starbucks on arbutus, it is ten oh nine, the midmorning coffeecrowd is gathering,
everyone from elegant moms to school children playing hooky (the pee double-you crowd) to
construction workers, painters, some people from the old-people houses, she ponders if her
descriptions are accurate, probably not, probably not. The ppl behind the counter should be still
the same, she saw them an hour ago, she types, types.
Only half a page, only half a page. Writing went pretty fast today, it is a good morning, maybe
the kitchentable is kind of good. She looks at the dust bunnies on her laptop, well, not, bunnies,
more a dull film, with accumulations of grey, silvery, dusties near the edges of the squares, she
should get one of those computercleaning lotions, the library keyboards are much cleaner,
though some of them have crusty filth on the keys. She ponders if henry miller would write about
his type writer, he does not in the henry and june film, he is just shown prominentl y with his
cigarette dangling from his mouth, dangling, huh. Ah, we don’t go there we don’t go there.
She types, types, happily, she might even cook, today, seems that kinda day, fresh, interesting,
she might just reinvent herself as the perfect hausfrau. There must be an apron somewhere, the
red one, tucked away in the farawayest drawer, she types, types, she looks at the breadmaker,
nobody makes bread in this house, that cannot be good that cannot be good. Why is housework
60
always surrounded by this cloud of guilt, why does she chose love and kitchen as subject matter.
Ah, these are feminine subjectmatters, we vie 4 the androgenous subjectmatters. Stories of lines,
of color, up, down, black , white. Formal structures. She types, types. Pretty bullshitty stuff.
Nothing is thought thru, nothing. But, hey, the page is coming to an end and that’s all we want
all we want all we want here. Spellcheck and were outta here, there must be more to this day
than just typing away. typing your life away, away and away. A W A Y.
- --
She sits pretty upright in front of the black laptop on the brown table, she starts up her
two pages, the ones that she types in each and every day since march 31, she is well aware that
there are grammatical glitches in her syntax, at least debatable stylistic shortcomings, there
always are there always are. A language is so very malleable and so rigid at the same time, it is
like balsa wood that you can bend but only to a certain degree before it breaks, and supposedly
that is where the shit with creative license and artistic integrity comes in which is only another
word for saying, hmm, looks good, looks bad, sounds good, sounds bad. She types types, against
the rumbling of the fridge 2 her right, against the stillness that is everywhere, but not really, it is
interrupted, so very interrupted by her typing, she distils her whole day into theses two pages,
she types fast, chooses words that demark the today, the april twenty-eight, some demarcation on
a calendar, the here, the now, the so very fleeting now, the moment, the moments, that pass her
by, that pass everyone by. she ponders, years from now she will sit in a nursing home, there are
actually two competing ones within walking distance from her home, nestled between trees on a
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treelined street, she lost her thread, she might check into one of their rooms already, maybe, so
very maybe. and spellcheck. And spellcheck.
Today her words do their own thing, they mush together like vegetables in lasagne, the author
ponders, today is certainly not the day of greatish insights, today it is just merely another
bullshitting day. The poetress on hiatus. But poeting along nonetheless. Downstairs there are
paints in paint tubes, waiting to be smushed onto canvas, but here she writes, ‘cause it’s faster.
Less smelly, her fingernails stay clean. That kinda stuff that kind of stuff. But, hey, an image
speaks a thousand words, something like that something like that. The saying goes like this goes
like that.
She checks, she still has to produce one more page. So she types away, the phone rings, but she
does not really know where it is, she types, types, types away. sentences format on the monitor,
outside the sun shines, what a beautiful day a beautiful day a beautiful day. DAY. Fast words,
hastily typed in, on a whim, on a whim. Summer is approaching. In june or july she will pack her
stuff and take the bus down to ubc and go swimming. Hopefully she will start to sell her words
by then. At this time, all she got for all her words, were some reluctant accolades, but, really, at
one time, she has to start to sell her words. Words that are sold, that are auctioned, words that
publishers fight over, overbid and underbidding each other, those are the words, the real words.
Her words might be the most eloquent in the western hemisphere, the eastern hemisphere, any
hemisphere, she pauses, her sentence glucks, and starts dissipating, they all do, they all do. That
is what happens to sentences, they start and go nowhere, that is what happens to words, they hurl
thru space, cyber- and other, they cease 2 exist, that is what they do they do they do. Noon is
approaching, nope, it is actually eleven minutes after, she will save this, email it to herself, put it
62
on scribd, the usual, the usual. Keeps her happy to have her words somewhere floating thru the
clouds, somewhere sailing by all the other words and images, cyberspace, cloudspace, what
kinda words are those what kind what kind.
The day marches forward, the text marches forward, she has 2 do different stuff, so she thinks, so
she knows, but @ this very moment she prefers to be a semi-recluse hovering over a laptop,
humming and pecking @ the black square keys, with the white upper-case letters, her days her
days her days. On this planet, typed away. bliss. this is how it is how it is. The page is hunkering
down 4 a finish, going out with a bang, that kind of stuff that kind of stuff.
---
she is now in the langara library, typing away once more, it is a wednesday afternoon, it
is green outside, people walking by, fast, elegantly, businesslike dressed, she types, types.
The shadows are getting longer, she feels kinda weird, she had a conversation with the librarian
in the lavender-knit with flowers, the author is not quite sure if she said the right things. Ah, she
never does, it is easier to type your thoughts in, especially if it is not really a construct of neatly
arranged thoughts, more observations, more observations. She is an observational typist, that
kind of stuff that kind of stuff. She uses words like stuff, genres are 4 the birds. What genre what
genre. Her genre is text text text. Outside the building, blackish, whiteish, the air is crisp, the
light is crisp, everything contrasts nicely, everything is easily discernable. There is whiff of
discernibility in the air, there are green, grassgreen chairs here, there is the day slowly hunkering
forward, women in beige and red, reading the newspaper while moving their ponytailed heads
downwards. She types, types. The dark crisp shadow of the streetlight on the grass in the park,
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she ponders if the term would be streetlight, more parklight. She types, types. She should not
come here anymore, the long talk with the librarian caught her off-guard, her writing is not that
good, not that good anymore. Hey, we need concentration when we write, small talk kills the
poetic abilities, Tolstoy can’t write, can’t write. The poet feels beleaguered that is what poets do
what poets do what poets do.
She ponders, outside a woman in black ponytail and green and white checkered leggings, moving
by, very fast. Determined, determined, maybe. Walk with a purpose, don’t slouch don’t slouch.
Typing typing. Another page another page, 21 112 words, in one month, in one month. Do the
math, in ten months you could easily put down 200 000 words and any words will do could do
should do. Punctuation, ah, that’s 4 da birds, hiccup the language as much as you can. She types
types. Watches her fingers push down the black squares, minutes and seconds pass her by,
outside the sun the sun. gone are the days when sentences had beginnings, had ends, nowadays
they merge and melt, smushingly making a new entity, words and words and words. Conjuring
up images, movements, motions. Writing typing painting animating hurling sounds into space it
is all da same da same. She ponders why she prefers the “da” to the “the”, it is faster, faster.
Maybe youthful, maybe not. Maybe a fight against her geriatric existence, not quite that geriatric,
not quite that non-geriatric. How many more words till the end of the page, how many, how
many? Questions, questions. Not important ones, not deep ones, but, hey, what is deep, what is
non-deep? Deep is 4 da birds 2, and she uses way too many numbers instead of whole words,
literature, bastardized. Where does she fit in in the pantheon of knowledge, of non-knowledge.
Does she even make it to the steps of the pantheon, are pantheons for males only, females need
not apply, are pantheons for dead non-breathing creatures, six feet under, what are pantheons,
64
what are pantheons. And is there not just one pantheon, is there a plural 4 pantheons and how do
you spell insanity? Outside, the sun, the green, a white-clad person walking slowly, holding
himself very straight, there are donuts waiting in tim hortons, in the caf, the caf. Two pages are
murmuring to their end, someone laughs, throaty, sickly. She types, types and spellcheck is next
should be next. Some commas, some dots, the eternal question whether to write by the rules, or
forego the rules. Ah, art, A R T. and were outta here outta here outta here. 21 451 and 21
453.
---
and once more she is sitting in this slightly contorted manner, hovering in a reluctantly
upright position over the black laptop on the brown table, once more she feeds her words 2 the
computer who receives everything without judging, she types, she types. It is ten eleven, it is
thursday, she had a coffee and a banana loaf, she walked to the grocery store, she got green
beans, though the big chain store was out of beans, so she went to the tiny store in the mall, she
got two packs of beans, which are sitting on the table now waiting to be processed, she types and
types and types. She ponders if she feels like cutting up those beans, it is not an interesting
process, repetitive, maybe she should listen to music while cutting them up. and it is not just the
cutting, first they have to be snipped at both ends, so that that thin thread comes off, it is a whole
production, production, production. The man in the coffeeshop on arbutus was busy with his
painting, he always paints in between serving coffee, his studio is the coffeeshop. The author
ponders, she should take this laptop to the coffeeshop, she should write there, while watching
ppl, peoplewatching generates eloquent prose, so very automatically. The words fly to you, fly at
you, you don’t have to think, you just have to grab them outta thin air.
65
She ponders, she ponders. Technically this is not an accurate description, she types
relentlessly, the physical process of pushing down the keys far surmounts the pondering process,
the typing is first, the pondering runs after the typing, like a little dog running by the side of its
master, trying to keep up, that is how this typing slash writing works, first there is the typing, the
sentences, the words that are fed to the laptop, the writer just merely watches. She pauses, these
her observations are too weird, they make her feel sick to her stomach, she ponders, not that
much, she tries to remember what she has to do today, errands, maybe going down to the
artschool, she should move, motion, move forward, backward, her whole body, not just this
contorted sitting in one place and just movement of the fingers, and in her case it is mainly the
middle finger of the right hand and every now and then the middlefinger of her left hand, the
right hand plays the main theme, the left hand just situates the text in a frame, the author sighs,
the words are so indescriptive today, they do their own thing, do not slush fluently and elegantly,
they pause and non-pirouette, clumsily hacking at the text.
Today, not that sunny, not that overcasty, somewhere in between yesterday and the day before, a
non-descriptive day, as of yet, as of yet. Perfect for being pinned down into a text, the words are
still malleable, they can be combined in any possible way, poetic, non-poetic, scholarly and
everything but. Another middle-of-the road writer-day. And spellcheck and spellcheck.
- --
Still some more words to top this off, she ponders if the “off” is a one F of or a two F
“off”, she ponders if eventually her editors will cut out this too convoluted sentence, she
ponders if she wants someone to edit her texts, she wants to fight over each apostrophe,
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she does not want to change any of her words, and thus she will hardly be published that
kind of territorialness runs against the publishing industry, it makes for being online, but
then , online, means no money, equals no money. Her adam smithian insights are slightly
dilettante, are they, are they. Today is not a good day 4 writing, negativity rules.
Something clucks in the woodworks above her, something in the ceiling, she types types
types away. she hums to herself while writing should not be good, could not be good.
Let’s see how many words, she squints, does not have her glasses, the word count icon is
so very small, something so tiny, in blue, 22 140 it is, two two one four zero of tiny
unsuspecting words, stored in cyberspace, floating indescript thru the clouds. That kind
of stuff, that kind of stuff. And spellcheck. And spellcheck. S P E L L check.!
---
she is once more sitting in the emily carr library and is typing away, instead of
throwing paint at several canvasses, canvassi. she ponders how can she ever be a famous
painter when all she does is typing. this cannot be good cannot be good cannot be that
good. typing is not art, typing is not art. art. she types, she types. outside granville island
is happening, outside, outside. she is in here, in the library, typing away, typing away. for
some weird reason, the software is not able to capitalize the words at the beginning of
sentences which kinda makes 4 a weird and strange interruption in the text, maybe the
author should vie 4 using the same typewriter again and again instead of roaming thru
this city and planting herself in front of all these random computers that she encounters
on her flaneusing forays. ah, she types, ah, she types.
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outside, Granville island. inside, the lowly writer slash typist, the incompetent paintress,
the incompetent animatress. she ponders if the “ress” is correct English or incorrect
English. she ponders if correctness is what she is shooting for. if”shooting” is the right
term, with its violent undertone, she ponders and ponders. outside, the ocean factory, the
bridge, like always, like always. librarians talk librarian talk, in the back, in the back.
woman in black to her left, scratches the mouse again, again. author feels nauseated,
could be all these hours in front of computers, could be the cheesecake meets profiteroles
lunch full of sugar and fat, the grease that accumulates in her arteries, so very visceral, so
very visceral. so very visceral. that kinda stuff that kinda stuff.
she has to finish this, has to join the living in the sun, outside, on this sunny
vancouverday in late april. she has to jump and run over meadows, feel the seabreeze in
her hair, music in her heart, a song on her lips, that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. she is @
22,514 words, the software here has a comma after the first two digits, she ponders if this
is the wrong software, the wrong software. an incompatable software.that kind of stuff,
that kind of stuff. nausea is always there, these days, this cannot be good cannot be good.
she has to leave, should leave, who needs scribbles and words, there are enough texts on
this planet, all these books that no one reads, all these blogs that no one ever reads, all of
this effort, 4 nothing, for nothing.
- --
she ponders, should she write some more, is there anything left to describe, the bridge,
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its so very industrial construct that glistens dumpfly in the sun, all these meaningless words that
make sense to her but not to anyone else, should she write, write, should she continue to heap
linguistic fragments onto the page, shovel them into the black keyboard in front of her, while the
woman to her left scratches the mouse, while the librarians continue their sing-sang, while the
ocean factory bathes in its own majestic existence, while her life passes her by passes her by
passes her by. while she is going insane, ever so slowly, ever so happily. she ponders, ponders.
- --
Eleven fifty-two, eleven fifty-three. Nearnoon. On a sunny vancouver day, april 30, april
thirty. Once more typing, once more typing. Words onto the keyboard, appearing in the
monitor, this is magic magic. dianne krall, singing, singing. The author feels at ease, at peace, the
words come easily, she has a song on her lips, her fingers fluid word after word into the laptop,
outside summer, spring, something like that, something of that kind, green, happy, bliss. knock
on wood, knock on wood. She sits here, types away, shitty poetry rules, rules, cheesy floscles
that is where it’s @. It is slightly chilly, not too chilly, dishes amass in the sink, she is happy,
happy, happily typing away. typing is more fun then dishwashing, goes faster, so much faster.
You have a tangible result, so much faster. Even if it’s only words hovering and floating thru the
clouds, by each other, solemnly and silently nodding at each other, in solemn respect, monocled,
bespectacled. Her words only slightly make sense and decidedly so, it’s more artsy like that, so
they say, so they say. Jazz on the loudspeaker, notes running after each other, playing in the sun,
piano, bass, guitar- or otherwise, her words do not make sense and that is how it should be. This
is not an academic paper, no footnotes, no footnotes here. She types, happily, fastly, reluctantly
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hastily. Two two nine five two two two nine five two. Words, words. She could spellcheck, 4 a
change, for a change. She could walk thru the tree-lined streets, happily, on a day like this, on a
day like this. This being vancitay, it could change in an instance, in an instance.
One and a half pages left to fill, it is way too sunny, too nice outside. the sun lures yer away from
the typewriter, non-narrative has 2 do. Should do. Or no narrative 4 a change. Typing, typing, ah,
one of these days she should learn how to use the ten-fingerish process, the 101 words per
minute approach, that one, that one. But at this time, this should do should do. She is slightly
hungry, it being twelve-twelve, noontime set in already and the little thermostat in her head
orders her 2 the fridge. Words, words, she tries to type as fast as she can, the music propels her
forward, she tries to race against the piano, the keys of the laptop, the keys of the piano. She
types, types. Slow, longing music, notes stretched as far as possible, sensuous “I’ve got you
under my skin”, dianne must live somewhere in west van. The author types, types. One more
page, ah, one more page. Try to fill it, fill it, don’t write numbers, use words, jot down four
instead of 4, fill da page, fill it, fill it. outside still sun, more and more. the page ascends to its
highest height, only to eclipse, ever so silently, ebbing down, into the abyss, abyss. The author
ponders, how much bullshitting can this nice day take? She probably will not write a pip over the
weekend, not write a lick, nothing, nothing, zip, zilch. Nada. thus she should write now,
nauseated words into the computer. She ponders, music makes her too sentimental a writer, next
time: less noise pollution.
And now, just fillers. The sounds are more solemnly now, masculine. She types. She has a lot to
do, be in lots of places, but everything has 2 wait, has to wait, first, the words, the words. That is
why we’re here on this planet, to type, to type. Absolute statements that amuse her, she types
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types, competing against the rhythms on the loudspeaker, but she said that already, said that
already. Wordcount, word count, spellcheck, spellcheck, the sun is nice, the day is nice, and
we’re outta here outta here. This is it, this is it.
She ponders, there is no narrative, no eloquence, the utter lack of eloquence. No subject matter,
none, a door closes, seems, the music goes on everybody’s nerve. Silence is golden, golden. She
should do the dishes, cook, groceryshopping, domesticity. But, hey, first typing, typing, typing
one’s life away. slightly coherent, slightly on the other side of coherence. Where disjunction,
disjointedness rules, rules. And nausea sets in, sets in. Sets in.
---
it’s a sunday morning, it is a typewriter, a tv, an overcasty day full of slightly drizzly air,
there are rhododendrons outside, there is classical music crescendoing away. there are dishes to
be done, beds waiting patiently 2 be made, there are downtowns to be explored, there it is, the
laptop waiting patiently 4 input.
A woman in pink, dark pink, pink leaning more to blue than orange, a talking head,
talking head. bbc, bbc. The writing is stalling, stalling. Too grave a noisepollution, too much
info, music, too much, too much. she types anyways, pausing, looking at the laptop, pensively,
pensively. She ponders, what 2 write, what to write about. There is nothing to describe here, so
she might as well start whining, going on and on about the utter lack of subject matter, stagnation
as subject matter. Ah, the sight of drying paint, the permeations, the permutations of the gooey
matter becoming rock-solid, she types, types.
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23 598 words, words, not that colourful, painted letters, yellow T’s and red B’s. the author is
slightly sleepy, not enough sleep, never enough sleep. Her words just mere sketches, the canvas
that is the monitor, is just a panel that embraces words for splitseconds, that then goes on to
house more forceful strokes of opinion, statements, random absolutes. Katmandu protests on the
telly, she types, types. May two, may two, Vancouver, 2010.
It is kinda tough to type, while the television hurls words at her, she tries to concentrate on her
writing, tries to, tries to. She should go down to the market, buy some ingredients, cut them up,
try to fashion something nice, good-tasting, let water come to a boil, try to mix ingredients,
instead of writing away writing away typing away. she feels tired, sleeping at the typewriter,
sleeping at her job her job her job, if typing is indeed her job. She is listening in to bbc, she uses
anglophile lingo, words like “indeed” in a very british way, anyways, she types and types and
types. As long as she sits here typing away, she feels a certain tinge of pride, of accomplishment.
Ah, why not, why not.
Still one more page, one more page. What kind of life is this, just sitting still, the only movement
being the tapping away with your fingers, this is manual labor, reluctantly, she types, types. She
should go out, vie 4 more forceful movements, hurling around, forcefully swinging of her legs,
jumping up and down, that kinda stuff, stuff. She should change her position, move her body to
another spot. Stagnation sucks, sucks. And on she goes, typing. Typing. Staccatoed with some
spellchecking, some counting of the words. She feels tinges of hunger, she types, types.
Obama on the telly, something about 300 000 Euros, news, news. She looks up, every now and
then, somehow digesting the news, somehow, somehow.
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And her words take her away, she assembles them, slowly, silently, the constant talking on the
idiotbox somehow propels her writing forward. She tries to disseminate the words of the purple-
clad woman who gestures in the street of mumbai. and the author types and the author types.
And now we are @ 23 971 words, it is 9:35 AM, the words stutter slowly onto the monitor.
She types, types, watching her fingers fashion the words, and that is it is it. she should
decipher important issues, but today is not that kind of day, her writing is on cruise control, very
automatic, so very automatic. The blank page is kinda inviting, waiting for words, waiting for
words. She ponders, what will be the words that will fill the page, will they be forceful, slightly
on the intelligent side, slightly on the forcefully silly, dumb side. What will be the “gestalt” of
her text? Writing is so very visceral for her, today she cannot really ascend to the upper level,
where abstraction comes easily. Fiercely. Where complexities are distilled into soundbites, that
kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. She takes her head into her hand, not literarily, obviously. Her
right middlefinger types. Her left hand is holding her head and she watches the words emerge.
And the page comes to an end comes 2 an end. Typing terminated, writing interrupted. Outta
here. Outta HERe.
- --
monday morning, monday morning. it is official. she is statusless. no more an art student
and not gainfully employed. not a student any more, not a student anymore. they gave her
her piece of paper, she walked the stage, finished, finished. she still is sitting in the
library of the art school, this is her typing place from now on, seems, no one seems to
mind. she might have to get a community access card, who knows, who knows. the grad
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show is still on, 4 two or 3 more weeks, so basically she can still use this place. could
should might. who knows. administrative stuff. she ponders. how will she ever be able 2
make money with a fine arts degree. she might still keep on writing, milking the “art
school confidential” genre. yep, she could do this, could do that. how many words, how
many words. she ponders, the indenting of this text is all wrong, that cannot be good, not
that good, not that good. in the back, librarians talk, it is twenty after nine. she woke up,
went to the donut shop, had a shower before that, then the fitness center, now the library.
seems to be her job, a professional writer. she should paint, animate, make visual stuff,
but, but, somehow she finds herself skedaddeling to typewriters in order to watch her
fingers push down buttons, keys. this is a job, somehow, somehow.
she ponders, ponders. outside the bridge, steel, her computer is way in the back, she cannot really
see the oceanfactory from here. words, words. going down into the keyboard. white paper in
green basket, she feels hungry, nauseated. she should finish this up, go and eat something. before
she demises here. she ponders. her lingo is way off, something smells, too much perfume, the
woman to her left is way too perfumed, nauseatingly so. an intercity packers truck wobbles by,
outside, outside.
one more page, one more page. each and every day two pages, @ the very least, at da very least.
that is how it is is is. she uses words as fillers, muttering repetitions, she tries to not concentrate
on the strong perfume, she types, she types. these are her days, her days. she will go downtown,
she will walk thru the grad exhibit, she will do this that the other, she should send out resumes,
which is kinda weird, what resumes do painters have, animators have. we are all independent
entrepreneurs, that kinda stuff kinda stuff. at least she has a very precise jobdescription, amasser
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of words, slightly on the idiotic side, idiotic, idiotique. so it seems, so it seems. this is the weird
and strange computer, that refuses to capitalize the beginning of the sentence words, some one
claps the books into the shelves, the ladies in the back talk a lot, talk a lot. she types, types. sees
the silhouette in her back make dancerish movements, while showing the others something, it
looks like dancing, big, elegant gestures, very dancerishy, very hourglassy, the author writes,
types , is not really able to nail it, to make a point, the language stalls and stocks, it is monday,
monday, monday, after all.
she ponders if she should reapply to grad school, if she should take more courses in order to get
her gpa up, because, hey, this school wants a minimum gpa of three point zero, and hers is half a
grade too low, even more, even more. she ponders, ponders. maybe she should take classes, she
should should. how tuf can it be can it be, she repeats words, she ponders, is this just pure and
simple senility, is it pre-altzheimer’s or post-altzheimer’s, is it your garden variety kind of
insanity or nothing of the above, nothing of the above. is it post graduation blues, is it this, is it
that. ah, who knows, knows. sun is slightly shiny, vancouver rain remembers that it is may, she
types, types. some words, ah, some more words.
and end of page, end of page, outta here, outta here, time 2 join the living, not the dead, here in
the library, where nothing nothing ever happens. where time time stands still. that kind of stuff,
that kind of stuff.
---
she is once more sitting in the library, once more typing away. she had lunch, a croissant
with cheese and too much béchamel sauce thereon and she is not quite sure why she puts
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this so very trivial detail of her so very trivial life in this text, she ponders if there are not more
pressing issues, the big questions of the day, as opposed to the small questions of the day, and if
they are not questions, they are mere issues or are they details or what are they? yep, what,
indeedY? she ponders and that is what she does, she ponders, she ponders. it is not mere
thinking, nope, it is more leaning towards pondering. deciphering, engaging in discourse,
disseminating. thinking is for the birds. she ponders if “reflecting” is a good term. she ponders,
ponders, and then she ponders some more. the day slowly peddles forward, she tries to kill time,
because she will listen in to a discussion at two, so she has to kill time kill time kill time. how do
you kill time? shoot it, let it bleed 2 death, ah, time, ah, time. she notices, so very viscerally, that
her words are way too half-baked, her statements are non-statements, they are gooeyly mirroring
the gooey state of this day in may. one day she will return 2 scholarly dissemination, one day,
one day. but that day is not today. today is only for stumbling thru the language, today is only 4
muttering, 4 arranging and rearranging of words, today, today. outside sun, outside granville
island. words may come and words may go, but, hey, the building goes on, the street outside
goes on, this very place will go on and on and on.
it is now twenty after one, she wrote a lot, she walked a lot, she looked at art, a lot, maybe,
maybe not enough. she types, types, types her days away. who will read this, who will ever, ever
read this? questions, questions. slightly answerless, slightly answerful. one day she will stop
making up new words, she will use the inventory of words that Merriam Webster and oxford dic
so readily provide, yep, one day, one day. but that day is not today. today is the day of
daydreaming, of letting the language play with you, today is sunshine and lollipops, today, today.
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she ponders, she has to stop this, she feels slightly sick, nauseated, too much typing does
that to a body, maybe writing is not her thing, maybe writing has never been her thing. she is not
quite sure if she found writing or if writing found her, she looks up and turns to the door, where a
woman with a suitcase just came in, all in black, with only a dot of pink, the woman is talking to
the librarian, and the author writes and the author writes.
there is nothing more to say, she will save this and email it 2 herself and put it on scribd, that
kinda stuff that kinda stuff that kinda stuff. 25 377 words, yep, 25 377.
and we’re outta here, outta here.
- --
she is sitting in the langara library, she is on page 75, this marches forward pretty nicely,
she ponders how good her writing is writing is writing is. Writing on selfdoubt, on the realization
that no text can be perfect, not even good, not even good. Words can be arranged and rearranged
in so many many ways, they can be hurtful, can be dumb, the author ponders, her main concern
is actually the dumbness factor, she is mortified that someone can blow a hole into her line of
thought, can undermine her thread so very easily, not by virtue of her writing being inherently
dumb, but more by virtue of “outsiderness”. She ponders, this did not go well, she has 2 explain
what she meant meant meant. Somebody from the outside sees the glitches, the probs, the logical
fallacies in an instance, the mistakes are very obvious when you are not involved, not
emotionally invested. She ponders, ponders.
- --
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At the top of page seventy-six. At top of spaghetti, a children’s song, at top of is always
good always good. Bottoms are not that good, apparently. Physical height, that’s where
it’s @, supposedly. Slight hierarchies. She types, types, ponders, if she will make it to the
two o’clock meeting, she should take a shower first, but there will be no time, no time, no
time. So she types, so she writes. Here in langara, in the desolate-ish library, where she
can look outside @ the green, where two pages is all she needs. 2 pages, per day, two,
two.
- --
She starts slightly cheating, slight cheating, she indents, puts in way too many paragraphs,
commands the marching soldiers (the words) forward, adamantly, groups them together in ways
that will liven up the text, in ways that will just visually stimulate the interest of the reader, so
she thinks, so she hopes. Writing as a visual arrangement of black swirls on white, that is what it
is, after all, after all. Meaning is 4 da birds for the birds, punctuation, grammar, so yesterday, so
2006. She gasps, maybe her writing is not up to par, it never is never is. Two women @ the other
terminal, one computer, two users, gesticulating, conferencing, in a language the author does not
understand. What is fascinating, though, is their seriousness, now staccatoed by giggling.
Giggling is non-serious, so it seems, so it seems. Man in brown corduroys comes by, serious,
pissed-off-faceness, she feels nauseated, nauseated. The buttermilk- blueberry muffin convults
inside of her, blueberries fighting the buttermilk, seasickness while sitting staticly upright. The
author tries 2 throw colourful language at the banalities of the everyday, that kinda stuff, those
kind of words. Woman in black hushes by, ballerinalike, now she moves in angles. Strats the
78
whole stage, the library, where the carpet is grey and green. The author types, types. Reluctantly,
stallingly, using the wrong words, always the wrong words. And pause, and spellcheck.
- --
She ponders, if she should top this off with another dollop of words, randomly arranged
into the computer, only 2 hunt each other on the screen in front of her, there is nothing to see
here, nothing to describe, nothing, nothing. Nothing exceptional that is, only figures, voices, a
library, like so many others, so many others. With a whiff of sanitization, sterilized-ness, the
kind of impersonality that should force prose forward, that should foster exceptional insights,
right-on creativity by virtue of its lack of imagination, its utter loss of colorfulness, that kinda
stuff, that kind of stuff. The author ponders if she used the right words to describe her thoughts,
thoughts paired with insights, the gibberish inside her mind. Ah, anyways, the day marches
forward, the air conditioner humming, the sun outside, green, the whispering of the busy
students, the more forceful loudness of the librarians mixed with authority, she types, types
types. And spellcheck, and this is it –yeah, this is it.
- --
very fast, very fast. She sits here, in the art school once more, once more. Typing comes easy,
maybe maybe. She uses way 2 many repetitions, the keyboard is white, white-ish, a departure
from her usual keyboards, which are black. She types, fast, it is three-ish, the oceanfactory @ its
usual place, clouds, specks of blue-ish sky. Everything mushes together, her words spectaculate
onto the paper. You can’t make up new words, he said, you are not there yet. Neologisms are
for…, and he quoted some dead guy. Well, the now dead poet might have been so much younger
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than she is now, when he penned his new word, when he grabbed it outta thin air, thus, thus, she
pauses, she lost her thread lost her thread. Ah, she just puts swirls on paper, calls it letters, words,
she will never be peter handke, never, never. She will be just this talentless creature hovering
over a keyboard, she will be the epitome of successlessness. That’s how it is how it is. That is
how the cookie crumbles. In small units of crumbled cookie, chocolatechipish increments, some
oats, some quarter splinters of macademia.
She ponders, what else is there 2 write about, this library is even more desolate than the one in
langara, she wished she could sit in coffeeshops and type away, there is more going on, more
going on. Here, there is less going on, less going on. Thus, she amuses herself with repetition
after repetition, she fills the pages, that’s 4 sure. She looks up @ the clouds hovering over the
ocean factory, she types, she types. Words, words, words. 26 331 of them.
Nausea sets in, inevitably. There is no running away from that, not really, not really. The words,
the words. Haunt her, ever so slightly, haunt each other, forcefully. Forcefully.
eighty-two pages, eighty-two, eighty-two. No narrative, no narrative yet, as of yet, yet. Only
stumbling, compassless, thru the morast of the language. Frequent falls, frequent hoverings,
frequent spurts and sprints. Hardly any elegant sailings thru the air, desperate yelps, that kinda
stuff, stuff. The language is there to be molded, in so many ways, so many many ways.
- --
some more words some more words. Forego commas, ‘cause, hey, who needs commas
commas. She sits here still in front of the computer, the white one, it is getting cold here,
she should go upstairs and wander thru the exhibitionplace. The chilliness of this place
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does not help her writing, it stifles, stifles way too much. The indenting is wrong, she
hates, hates, how about everything. She should start typing @ home, she should put the
text 2gether, to gether, to gather. The words are falling to the ground, splattering all over
the place, into all directions, all directions. The librarylady walks by, seriously, pushing
the bookcart. The author types types types. Typing is slightly annoying, slightly non-
annoying. One of these days she will hunt down a narrative, one of these days, one of
these days. Not now, though, not yet, not now. Repetitions, repetitions, slight, reluctant
insanity, the library will close at five. The library lady and the bookcart, once more, once
more, once more.
- --
she is sitting once more in the library, outside grey sky, more like white, she ponders
what 2 type, words do not seem to come to her today, they are in their own little
warehouse of words, pretty locked up. The library is desolate and she does not feel well.
Never well, never well. The ocean factory like always, reluctantly majestic, forcefully
majestic. The author ponders, what is the genre of her writing, stream of conciousness,
maybe, memoir, maybe, journal, maybe. She ponders. There is no real distinction
between memoir and journal. Is there, is there? What are the nomenclaturial conventions
in literature, how do you start to categorize texts and is it even possible? Does it change
from city to city, village to village, continent 2 continent?
The day moves forward, gooeyly. Like pea soup, like gravy. Her metaphors stink, but,
hey, it’s that kind of day. The keyboard stalls, ever so slightly, it seems as if there is way
81
too much resistance in the machine, she knows, she cannot make real good texts in this
lousy typewriter. How can one possibly fashion something fluid, when the tool itself
fights you every step of the way. First things first, first things first. If shooting 4 “war and
peace”, then make damn sure that your pen has good ink.
She ponders, her text is sooo very shitty 2day, she has to enliven her prose with youngish
slangish stuff like “2day”, she has 2 shoot 4 KOOL, cool, yep, cool is where it’s @.
Would be nice if there were real guides 4 “coolness”, what is cool, what is cool. Is
bravado cool, is modesty cool? Should females have more bravado, less bravado. Should
tall white males from european descent muster more modesty, less modesty? Ah,
questions, questions. And really deep ones 2 boot. Deep deep deep insights. Or is it
insites? One thing is for sure, her text stalls stalls stalls.
She should do something, do something. Move her body around, move thru space,
move thru space. She should stop typing away, she should barf all over the keyboard. Yep, that
will do it do it do it. Performance art, performance art.
---
It is ten twenty-eight, she is awake since half past five or six, tiredness grips her, sleepiness
winks @ her seductively, but she knows she will crash badly if she gives in to the zees. Her
wording is awkward today, everything stalls, maybe she should just leave and take the bus
downtown instead of driving. Today the words refuse to flutter down on the keyboard, she might
as well leave, leave.
- --
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and…. we have friday. sun outside, the ocean factory against the blue sky. She types
away, the art school is once more her little wordlab, she types, types. Outside, a car in white,
near the window a woman in a pink beret. The beret is actually purple, but pink sounds better.
Pink is more monosyllabic than purple. Purple still has the “r’ tucked in there somewhere. The
purple-bereted lady sits near to the author now, she moved thru the library and finally came 2 sit
two computer stations from the author. The author, the one who makes a living by documenting
all these details of the life in this library. Well, technically, not a living, she passes her life with
documenting this stuff. And it is not only this library. The author ponders. Her words are very
spirry today, and, hey, technically, there is no word named “spirry”. The author looks at the
reflection in the window, she looks up at the “mozilla firefox” logo on the grey monitor. She
types., types, the keys are very uncooperative, time to hurl the keyboard out the window, time 2
barf all over the white square keys. Time to move, to motion, and any motion will do. A
blackbird thru the blue sky, shiny cars outside, she types, types. Slight clipper-clapper near the
checkout desk and she types and she types. What will her life be like 5 years from now, her
professional one, her professional one? Will she still type two pages each and every day,
relentless observations in a relentless world? What is the meaning of RELANT? Will she start 2
venture more to the border of mla style meets Chicago Manual world, will she spit on
orthographical and grammatical conventione. Does it matter, does it matter. She looks at her
fingers, the typing. Looks at the white shiny car outside, the one that is going in reverse. She has
to be in many places, so many things. She will be 55 tomorrow, ah, old age, ah, young age. 55 is
so much younger than 97, she has still so much to learn, she should hang out in geriatric wards,
in order to feel young and vibrant. She should move to white rock. She should do this, do that.
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She looks at the blue cable behind the computer, at the purple beret of the woman to her left, at
the golden line on the window, at the ocean factory and the blue sky. She types and types, and
she wonders if two pages are finished, made, done.
Apparently it is only one page, but it definitely felt like two pages, the lingo doesn’t flow easily,
the keys are physically resisting her push, she hates being a writer, she loves being a writer, it is
better than grave digging, supposedly, worse than bossing people around, she ponders, ponders,
ponders some more. Her words are inconsequential, they are not proust-like, they are not quoted
as epitomes of wisdom of humankind, they are dumb, and what makes them dumb is her gender.
Yep, that must be it, that must be it. What makes her prose non-orwellian is not the fact that it is
dilettante and poorly-constructed stuffi-muffi, nope, it is the fact that she is not a white male, not
yet, that is. She ponders, is it better to be a white male, is it hindrant to one’s career. How does
this work , how does this work? Does it matter, does it not matter. Michael Moore wrote Stupid
White Men. She ponders if she should write Stupid Non-white Women. She ponders, she
ponders. She abrupts her lines of thought, bundles them up bundles them up bundles them up.
And she types, and she types.
Today in the afternoon, she will venture downtown to give in her nice submission to 221 a, but
first this, first this. She should go downtown, that is better 4 the body then sitting here and
typing. Don’t wanna be glued to a computer, don’t, don’t.
Half a page that’s all we need here, half a page, half a page. Ah, words, ah words. The non-
narrative , the narrative. Ah, and all these typos, the keyboard sucks sucks sucks. The ocean
factory, the sky, no clouds, and nausea sets in, it always does, always does. Page 87, 22750
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words. Some spellcheck, some saving of the file, some emailing, some putting this utter dribble
somewhere on scribd, hurl it into cyberspace, ah, why not, why not. Why Not.
- --
in ubc, in this so very big room, in beauty, she sits here with awe, starts typing, starts
typing. Typing away. She should be in other places, check out the conference, check out the
gallery, but, hey, there is a computer here and it calls 4 her input. Have to produce two pages,
have 2, have to. Words have to be typed, have to be typed, have to be typed. She sees the
reflection of the big wallclock in the glass next to her computer, this whole place has such a
grandfatherly, awe-inducing climate, it is stoic and respectable, respectable in an old boys kinda
way, yep, that kind, that kind. Very british, very colonial. Yep, that’s how it seems, that’s how it
seems. Very white. She ponders if her words are so very accusative, accusative in a reverse racist
way, it seems so, seems like that, seems like that. In a slightly male-bashingish way. She
ponders, maybe it is this authorative aura about this place, an authority that is polite, but is from
another time, when glass-ceilings were waiting to be smashed. It is inherent in this very building,
the connotations are all over the place. It is an archaic place with very clear, very sharp tinges of
nostalgia, it is so very, very white male-ish. It is full of crests, of high windows, it is weird and
strange. You have to speak silently in a place like this, whispering is the thing here the thing
here, it is the place of times gone and privileges only bestowed on few. This is how it seems how
it seems how it seems. She loves it, she might even enrol here. The seriousness is just waiting to
be pierced, waiting 4 a shift in power. It is inviting people to revolt, albeit in a polite, very,
changing the system from within kinda way. It invites revolution, but more so evolution.
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Research based change, facts and datas, the overthrow of the forces to be by reason and logic. So
it seems, so it seems. She ponders, ‘cause pondering seems to be fun here, the sun is outside, kits
beach is waiting, but the cool hollow place here makes her type, type. Type her days away. She
ponders if her prose was too accusative, too “let’s storm the barricades, let’s tear down the chains
that bind”, ah, spartacus, ah, storm the bastille, egalite, something, something, she ponders how
much revolting middle-aged creatures can muster, the walker-brigade, rollator brigade. Today
she turned fifty-five, it taints her outlook, 4 da betta, 4 da worse. Make sure that you use “da”
instead of “the”, goes with your sensible shoes, and your hair in a granny-bun. She ponders,
ponders, hates her text, but, hey, there is no time left 2 edit this and smush and squash it into the
right structures, the accurate construct, this text is open 4 interpretation open for interpretation
open 4 interpretation. So it seems so it seems so it seems.
- --
it is twenty after two, still the page has to be finished, some more words, some more
words. Fast, hastily concocted quasi-lit, that kind of stuff, kind of stuff, mumblings,
utterings. Distillations of this day, of the midday, her nausea, her exhaustion. Her looking
at the red EXIT sign, neonish, in the distance, the pink 8 and a half by 11 calendar paper
on the desk, upright in a plastic container, pink rectangle on the side. Landscape, not
portrait. The clock in the glass, her typing, her typing. Convoluted sentences waiting to
be pierced, pierced. Repetitions that make no sense, but are rhythmic, jazz in a pre-jazz
era, when Mendelssohn wrote stuff to be instrumented at Lincoln Center, hinting
forcefully at times gone by, for whatever reason, for whatever political reasons. And she
types, and she types. Not quite sure, not that unsure. Word Count: TWENTY EIGHT four
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twenty-nine. Page half filled with words and half devoid of words. Two thirty, UBC, a
sunny sunny eighth of may, that kind, that kind. And she types and she types. Types her
days away.
---
on a day like this, on a day like this. She ponders, types, sits in the art school library,
looks @ the monitor, types and types and types. Granville island is happening, behind her, so
very sunny. She can see the stacks and stacks of all the artmagazines, when she looks up, looks
up, to her left, the left front. Somehow she feels like translating her position differently, she
intuitively, automatically felt like typing “to her right”, as if the magazines are to her right. The
“to her right” just sounded better, worked better with the text, but it was not the reality. Artistic
freedom, artistic freedom. She peppers her prose with buzz words, buzz words that may or may
not have meaning, she should take a writing course at ubc, in order to learn how to construct
sentences, but somehow, somehow, she is not quite sure if you can learn writing, if the only way
to get better is by doing it doing it doing it. You have to perfect your craft, somehow,
somewhere. The best way is to do it each and every day, practice, practice, to exhaustion, to the
edge of exhaustion. Or maybe not even that, practice after you had a nice breakfast, not too
much, not too little, train like an athlete, an athlete. Think of your typewriter as your cello, pull a
yo-yo-ma. He must have practiced a tad in his time. She ponders, ponders. She needs a room of
herself, room to herself. Wasn’t that what virginia woolf said? She types types. Is not quite sure
if her dribble is good enuf 2day, nope, it isn’t. it never is. But the page fills, fills, 28 749 words.
Not good words, not bad words, words that sometimes flow harmoniously, sometimes crackle
forward, that’s the nature of the beast the beast the beast. She tries to phantom, to visualize a
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fictitious reader, who is the targetaudience the target audience. That should be easily to define,
everybody in the rara-brigade, people who clap, clap, who stand up in a rockconcert with a
lighter, stompers, barickallah shouters, all of them, all of them. They are the good guys, the good
girls, she ponders if she should have said girls first or guys first. She knows that somehow she
interrupted the sentence, kept it hanging in midair, no beginning no end, this kind of writing will
not cut it will not cut it never cut it. She has to talk marketing departments into publishing her
dribble, George orwell did did did. Or maybe he did not write DID three times in a row, maybe
he knew how much to cling to conventions of writing and how much to do his thing, he knew the
right ratio of revolting and adhering to the tried and true, he knew, he knew.
The day marches forward, slowly, slowly, behind her someone types very fast, this rolling sound
of keys being pushed resembles the rolling waters of a mid-summer creek, in the shadows, in the
shadows, she ponders how much more does she have to feed the beast, how many more words
how many more words. Is it time 4 spellcheck, it is not time for spellcheck. She would like to
have something lunchy before the lecture at 12 fifteen, something, something, ah, she types and
she types and she types. This will be her summer, typing away, typing away, her days here, her
days here. Pushing down keys, pushing down keys, each and every day, each and every day. This
is her studio, the typewriter in the art school, this is where great art is fashioned and shitty aht is
barfed into the keyboard, yep, it all happens here, it all happens here. Come autumn, she will hurl
paint at canvas, but not yet, not yet. This is what she does, she pens stuff, paints stuff. Animates
stuff. Makes lists and plans , maps out various strategies, she never ever fulfils them, who wants
to stick to a plan, when you can wander off-course, daydreamingly, ah, happily, independantly,
ah, catch me if you can, and only if you can, and be sure, you never ever can. Who could who
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could, and, last not least, who would. She always has her imaginary red pen in her right hand
when she reads thru her prose, it is never, never good enough. But hey, the sun is shining, she
will have a tea and a cookie, she will run back for the lecture, this should do, should somehow
do. Has 2, HAS to.
- --
she is back in the library, some lunch, which was actually 4 pretty potent cookies and a
too fatty chocolatepiece that is revolting inside of her and staccatos her omnipresent nausea, she
types again, types again. the lecture was very solid and research-based, logical and was
apparently classified as too boring by the audience, a derogative term that is actually kind of a
praise, lectures are supposed to be boring, an improv show is supposed to be entertaining,
besides the audience members have 2 provide their own entertainment aka spitballs, flipping
buggers, the like, infantile gestures that lubricate the complex wheels of societal interaction, that
kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. she ponders how many dumboheads entertain themselves by typing
away, how many writers are there, how many? and are published writers BETTA than
unpublished ones, and is scribd not forum enuf? is the lower drawer of your bedstand drawer, the
one where your manuscript vegetates and slowly dissipates not audience enough? are the
termites that devour the pieces of rotting paper not audience enough? are they, are they? ah,
questions, questions, there is beach volleyball going on @ kits beach, there is swimming going
on in the aquatic center at ubc. and there is the question whether the pool at ubc is called aquatic
center, given that the aquatic center is at the foot of the burrard bridge. she writes and types and
has nothing to say. she has to find a literary agent, she has to start her own Bloomsbury, she has
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to make money outta this, art that doesn’t sell is non-art. free art is useless art. Invaluable art. art
4 the birds 4 the birds for da birds. as good as humming a song, a whistled tune while walking
against the mild sea-breeze towards the planetarium, while seagulls frolic in the air above,
reluctantly, ever so reluctantly. while would-be-deckhands, wanna-be yachters crawl over the
boats anchored at false creek, in false creek. she writes, writes, writes. will go and look at the
animations in the auditorium, all the films she constantly misses, those ones those ones. her
writing stalls, is repetitive, non-good, so very weird and strange, so very mechanic, automatic
typing, automatic results, prose that utterly sucks, utterly stinks. these are her days her days.
- --
It is twelve forty twelve forty. She is sitting in the vcc library or learning center thingie,
she types, types. Yep, definitely “learning center”, what with math/science tutor and
english tutor stations. 4 the author it is just another typewriter station, she sits sandwiched
between an aspiring author and an aspiring marketing genius. Maybe she could start networking
here, maybe, maybe. She is still slightly on the hungry side, and it is pretty tough 2 concentrate
here, ‘cause everyone around her is talking, how can she possibly craft coherent sentences, while
all these words sail thru the air, she picks up words from overheard conversations and lets them
flow into her text, though the text does not take very well to being interrupted and disjointed by
random phrases, fragmented words and sighs. Anyhoo, she types, types, one of these days she
will glide back into scholarly writing, one of these days, one of these days. Her writing sucks and
sucks and sucks. It is so very shitty, grammatically deficient, orthographically challenged, shear
and pure bullshit. She can’t write can’t write. Thus whining is all she does. Ad nauseum ad
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nauseum. She ponders, are there writers like her, are there, are there? Good ones, celebrated
ones, published ones. Ones that have penned stuff that survived thru the ages. Her literature
knowledge is not that good not that good. And her writing sucks. It is basically a lot of
repetitions sans comma, that is her style, her thing. So it seems so it seems so it seems.
And we are @ page 88, at the point where page 88 meets page 89, exactly there, exactly there.
The author types, types. These are her days her days. And she said that before. Endless
repetitions, her writing sucks sucks. She ponders what genre this dribble fits into, bored writer
selfdoubts, is it a novel, a novel? Protagonist: writer, Antagonist: words. Something like that,
something like that.
She had this weird breadpuddingthingie for lunch, it was topped with a dollop of whipped cream
and a strawberry slivery slice. She ponders whether sliver and slice are identical terms, not quite,
not quite. Slivers are thinner than slices, aren’t they aren’t they? Slivers are pointy and slices are
compact, aren’t they aren’t they. She feels like doing a CAD-drawing to show a sliver, another to
show a slice. She should take drafting, on the seventh floor in this place.
The author jumps from idea to idea, this can’t be good can’t be good. A tad more coherence
would be good would be good. Less repetitions would be good would be good. The person to her
right talks to himself, to his monitor, to his neighbour. It is as if he is hosting his own cooking
show, except that it is a “spreadsheet show”, everything he does on the computer is accompanied
by sighs and “hmm”s and some random sing sung. Seems accountanty ppl are pretty upbeat,
must be fun to add and subtract with a computer, pushing buttons to fill in numbers. Who would
have known who would have known.
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She still writes she still writes. Repeats as many phrases and sentences as she possibly can, this is
how she staccatos her world, this way this way. Big manga image on the monitor to her right
front, with japanese subtitles, or chinese ones, korean ones. That kinda stuff that kinda stuff. She
types and types and types. Mistypes and sighs. It is one oh nine one oh nine.
Manga in black white and yellow, not real black, not real yellow. Movement, motion, a serious
person looking up, hair waving.
And she types and she types.
Today’s allotment is fulfilled, two pages, two pages. She can roam home, thru the city, she, the
writer, she, the non-paid poet, she who might some day sell this sell this sell this. She will pack
up her wares and roam all over this planet, taking samples of her writing to Amsterdam and
shanghai. She will peddle her wares, peddle her words. Words, just another commodity another
commodity. But @ this point, cyberspace has to suffice , has to, has to. Let the words sail thru
cyberspace, let them rot in a manuscript in some forgotten spiderwebby drawer , let them cure,
like smokey fish, like rice wine, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. She ponders, wine does not
cure, but, hey, who cares, who cares. 30 350 words, and we’re outta here outta here. The sun
screams from the outside thus we’ll join the living, join the living . If that makes sense if that
makes sense. And if sensicalness is what we’re shooting 4 here. Probably not, or better,
definitely Not.
- --
sitting here, so very very inside, she ponders if this is the right place to pen something, anything,
anything worth reading. There is too much stillness here, there is a ceiling, walls, no fresh air, no
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fresh air. Seabreezes make the poet, the wind in your hair, bushels of your long flowing mane
over your eyes, that is what makes 4 excellent prose, superb wording. You cannot sit @ your
kitchentable and look down at the keyboard and wish for the muse 2 just fly in and awaken your
writer’s bloc with a kiss. Impossible, preposterous. Maybe tea would help, in a green-turquoise
mug. Put in the microwave, 4 three minutes straight, with a red rose teabag swimming therein.
That is not what poets do poets do poets do. But, hey, she’s not a poet not a poet, she is a refugee
from a place where ppl write pragmatically, logically, where they describe the here and now, in
detail in detail. Her first essay was about how to clean your shoes. How to first brush them, then
smear the polish on and then, yep, last not least, polish them, polish them. 3 pages of describing
how to take the left shoe, clean the upper part, then the right, then the left, then the bottom, then
pick up the right shoe, clean the upper part, then go to the right and so on and so forth.
Obviously, given that the shoe has a bottom, a top and two sides, given that there are two shoes,
a left one and a right one, and given that one does different things to the shoes, brush them,
polish them, one can stretch this or compress this as much or as little as one feels like. There are
not enough words in the english language, in any language 4 that matter, to precisely describe the
minutiae of shoe polishing and then there is, of course, the historical thingie, in 1960 ppl. did not
wear sneakers day-in and day-out, sneakermaking was not what it is 2day.
The author ponders, obviously, she does not need to roam the city for material to write about, to
write about. She can construct stuff out of thin air, wallow in nostalgia, bring up long lost
memories and distil them somehow into manageable little heaps of word fragments, of sentence
fragments- she stops herself, she rambles rambles rambles. Ah, dribble, D R I b b L e.
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How many words, how many pages? Upstairs the washer rumbles along, the dryer does not
really work, she might just use a clothesline, the weather is nice nice, ah, domesticity,
domesticity. She ponders whether if she will give this writing thingie, this painting thingie an
honest shot, does she have to live in isolation, like a monk like a monk, not to hear the
nightingales outside, chirps of birds, wind in your hair, a bus driving by- no downtown, no
umbrellas whooshing by, is it that what it takes, that what it takes. She starts humming to herself,
to staccato the silence, to interrupt the non-action, she watches her fingers type, type, type away,
it is mainly her right middle finger, but she said that already said that already. One day she will
put nailpolish on it, one day red one, next one green one, purple, blue, light blue, pink and
yellow, she will describe that that.
Ah, she should go out, take this laptop with her, go to starbucks, to the one on 41st, for a change,
for a change, peoplewatching is what makes for good prose, a narrative, a mata hari story,
intrigue, love, lust, ah, always lust, lust is good, forbidden, scratch taboos, though these are post-
shock value times. Nothing shocks nothing shocks, it is just the right proportion of motion and
pause, the right percentage of cadence and non-cadence, yep, that, that, the virtuoso within that
orders the words to march in line, to stand patiently in line, to move forward, backward, up,
down, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff.
She ponders how many more pages she can fill with her obnoxious, overdetailed description of
what makes for good writing, for bad writing, all those years of analyzing films does that to you
does that to you. And the text marches forward forward, the day marches behind it. enough, enuf.
Stop the insanity, 4 a change, for a change. She sucks as a writer, sucks, sucks,… and that is how
it is that is how it is. Nausea sets in, it always does. She has to pause before beige brown vomit
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with clumps spread all over the black keyboard, seaping into all its groves, somehow this is
disgusting, like one of those paul mc cartney films that make your stomach churn, too much art
school, 2 much, too much. way too much. ah, insanity, ah, sanity. And she writes, and she types.
A lowly shrivje, as the dutch say. It is somwhere between morning and noon, somewhere here in
vancouver, ah, british columbia, british columbia.
- --
and here she is, in vcc again. She just found out that this place used to be together,
together with the art school, in the old times, old times. Makes sense, an art school and a
vocational school. The author had this too fatty, greasy desert in the pastry place upstairs, it must
have been old, old, it feels disgusting inside of her, more in her chest, it seems as if the cream
mushes against her esaphogus, or is it escaphogus, obviously she is writing it all wrong, the
software pushes its squirly red cringles under it, she writes and writes and writes. A woman is
sitting next to her, she is drawing all these tulips with the monitory software, very nice, very
nice, the author wonders, ponders, the lady must be a graphical designery person and she is about
a hundred years old.
The author writes pretty fast, she should not gossip in2 the monitor, she shouldn’t, where do
these sudden pangs of cattiness come from? If you can’t say something nice, ah, thumper,
thumper. A woman sings behind her, she types, types. Some words, a lotta words, 31 427 of ‘em,
31 427. One day scholastic stuff, one day, one day. But 4 now, prose should do, will do, has 2
Do. CANADA: WE ALL BELONG!, a sign on the column to her right, lots of persons around
the sign on the poster, woman in tattoos sings once more, sings, math/science tutor tells her
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politely to shut-up, woman stops singing, singing. Ah, no more music, no more music, only short
laughters, not-quite giggles. And she types, and she types. Once more nausea, she has no clue
why these computers make her vomit, a chair screeches in the back, again, again, and again. Stop
da noise, 4 god’s sake. It is actually the singer again, now she moves the chair to and fro, it will
not take much until ms. Math/science tutor will come, ah, fight, fight. Or @ least a pending
confrontation, entertainment in the learning lab @ vcc.
The author ponders, she would like to listen 2 the headphones, but today is piercing earring day,
which means no earphones, she has to listen to her own typing, the av, some voices in the back,
laughs, short, hiccupped. And she types and types and types. 31 623 words words words. Not
severe ones, not enuf insight, not yet, not yet. Insights are 4 da birds, that is what you say when
nothing you say makes sense. And if it makes sense it is not consequential stuff, it is purely
inconsequential stuff. Words typed by a mere minion that is needed to make the system run, a
workerdrone, workerdrone. A non-working workerdrone. Your middle-of-the road consumer,
your mid-o-da road emptynesta. That kinda stuff that kinda stuff. The author ponders why she
tries to recapture her lost youth by using “a” at the end of words instead of “er”. Is that what we
have sunk 2, is it is it? Ah, and why all these repetitions? She should get a life, instead of coming
here each and every day, 2 type, type, type.
- --
she starts a new paragraph, she is having the earphones on, too much talking in the back,
around the round table, the one that is not really round, she has to find some music to sing into
her ears. She listens to Young Folks, which is not loud enough, she seems to learn how to use a
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mac, she is more a pc person, but luckily she had a class with a totally pure mac-person
instructor, so now she learned some of the little tricks, how to use a mac, she knows how to
minimize the screen in a mac, just put the cursor on the corner in the right bottom and push,
push, ah, technology, technology. It all works smoothly if you know which button 2 press, she is
fascinated by her propensity to fill the pages with totally inconsequential observations, one day,
one day, she will be a consequential writer, one, whose opinions matter matter. Until then, until
then, she will just keep herself busy, typing, typing.
page 94, 94. She has written for one and a half month, give or take, some, some, she is not quite
sure if her prose has evolved, well, it has definitely evolved, but, no one can really say if it has
gone up on the foodchain or sunken to a new low, she is always freightened 2 death, that the
would-be-readers would be, well, bored 2 DEATH, but, hey, how bad can it be, isn’t reading to
put you to sleep anyways? It is not entertainment, it is reading. If you wanna be entertained,
watch tv. She ponders if what she just posited, is true, is true. Who know, who knows. It is
getting hot in here, and boring and boring.
She does not put question marks where they belong, it is a kind of stylistic hiccup that tries to
undermine the question and make it rhetorical, she ponders if she should try to get into a program
that teaches creative writing, but she somehow does not really believe that you can teach writing,
you just have to write, write, and hope 4 da best, the best, the best, the bestest bestest words. The
ones that bring tears to your eyes the ones that make you cry, while snot comes outta your nose.
The ones that move slightly in the wind, the evocative ones, the forceful ones. She feels slightly
sick to her stomach, slightly longingishly, she could pepper her prose with phrases like “longing
for the embrace of a lover”, but, hey, let’s not go there, not go there. The cook person clears his
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throat constantly, sniffling, and making all those funny noises with his throat, constantly,
constantly. The author remembers him, he did the same the day before, he sounds worse today,
luckily he does not sit next to her. He and all his germs are way removed from the author. And
she types, and she types. So many random, random observations. Very goodlooking chap sits
next to her, this cannot be good cannot be good. Ugly ppl are better, so much better. Homely
ugliness, that’s where it’s @. She checks, actually he is pretty ugly too. The author types and
types and types. Has nothing to say, she should read the news, listen to cbc, scoff the globe and
mail, and she is pretty sure that the word “scoff” makes no sense here whatsoever. She fragments
her words, her sentences, more her sentences, than her words, she is the worst worst worst writer
on scribd. Writing sucks, but we try 2 combat that with prolificness. The pronouns are off, the
prepositions do collide with the nouns, the syntactic glitches are dreadful. And she types, types,
types. Types her days away. Insanity sets in, very forcefully. So very very forcefully.
- --
she is once more back in this place, where there are so many ppl, she walked thru
downtown vancouver, where there were so many ppl. So many ppl, 2 many ppl. She
reprimands herself, she should stop using abbreviations of the ppl kind, she should do
this,
that. She should do different things, type faster, order her files, type up the stuff that is rotting in
her basement, instead of coming here and producing new stuff. First in , first out, she should
become more efficient, orderly. She really has to order her files, she should, should. It is all
about ordering the files, right sequences, that is what films and books are all about, right ending,
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right beginning, coherence, logic. Instead of wordsalads. And she types and she types. She
should apply 4 writingprograms, that will help, might help. She needs deadlines D E A D l ines,
you cannot produce art, literature, music sans deadlines. And she ponders, ponders. She tries 2
kill time, she will listen to the lecture in the library, and until then she will kill time, kill time kill
time. Write some more, type some more. Her back is starting to hurt, being hunched over cannot
be that good. Is that what the dissertation crowd does, hunch over, hurt their eyes. She types, she
types. Types some more. Ah, life is so booooring. She’d rather walk thru downtown again, so
many ppl, so much 2 see, so much to see. Here in this learning center, life is boring, it is too
stale, way too stale.
- --
she listens to mary chapin carpenter, he thinks he keeps her, she is not quite sure if this is
an anthem 4 feminism, or an anti-anthem, she just loves the line “now she is in the typing-pool”,
that is how the author feels, she has a real fetish about the showing of typing in popular culture,
she loves the part in “henry and june”, where he types, and types and types some more, typing is
so what she does, she, the author, the words are not really important, it is this constant typing that
fascinates her, she feels as if she is achieving something, all these words should be good 4
something, so it seems so it seems. It is kinda difficult to write while the music is in her ears, she
does it anyways, anyways.
And page 97 97 97. We’re getting somewhere here, one of these days she will hit the 100-page-
mark, could be today, could be tomorrow, she will still go to the pastry place upstairs, shovel this
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bread pudding thingie into her body, she might die today. All this sugar, all this fat, cannot be
good, cannot be good, overgreasing da system, nope, that cannot be dat good.
She ponders, all these women who scoff @ housewifery are actually all singers, not astronauts,
so why do they complain, they are not exactly in masculine jobs, the author is slightly pissed off,
and definitely nauseated. Donuts, two of them, cookies, dessert, she will die, demise, fall to the
ground, disappear from the face of the earth, too much sugar, ah, 2 much fat.
One of these days, one of these days. A woman looks at her, why, why. The author is going
insane, ever so politely. This cannot be that good, cannot, cannot. She ponders who will ever
publish this, it will only exist on scribd, never as a book, never, never. Ah, never say never.
Stranger things have happened. She sent this off to a very beautiful agent, wink, wink, who will
send this off to a publisher, hint, hint. The author is going insane here, yep, that is how she
entertains herself. With music, typing, insanity, scarfing down cookies, not necessarily in that
order, moving and motioning thru downtown, not exactly in that order. And she writes, and she
types.
- --
it is still five seventeen, she has still a lot of time left to kill. She looks around for inspiration,
something to document, something out of the ordinary would be good, but that will not happen,
this place is snug and complacent and maybe that is how it should be, writing needs security, it
needs a surface that does not move, it needs nimble fingers to type, it needs a strong back, an
upright chair, that kind of stuff that kind of stuff. It needs a slight command of the language, but
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not much, not much. Something smells here, someone smells. This is not really enjoyable, the
author does not know how to turn up the volume of this music, she will find another song.
Some more words, eloquent ones, the words are so damp and futile today, they are not able to
fall into place, they are stalling, stalling oh so much. She is wondering where her art career will
go, even if she types day-in and day-out, there are all these glitches, all these fuckin’ words, that
will never never fall in place, the ones that will stall, however hard you try how ever hard you
try. And writer, what kind of job title is that? And she writes, writes, writes on, writes on.
Outside the siren of an ambulance, inside here, just stale air, a slight aura of desolation,
devastation, that is how it seems, she types, types, tries to squeeze a good text out of thin air, she
wrings the language, which refuses to sing, refuses to dance, the words come to her, ever so
slowly, so very very stallingly, she hates this, hates this. And she writes, types, types these her
days on this planet away. Day-in, day-out. 98 pages, 98 pages. 2 more and we have a hundred. A
round and nice hundred. In times new roman, doublespaced, with some commas and some dots.
Nicely floating thru cyberspace, nicely, ah, so nicely. Yep, it is official, she is going insane here.
Either that or barf and vomit. All over this place, all over this place. How nice, how so very nice.
33 409 words, 33 411 words. And she types, types, types.
- --
the top of page 99, not bad, not bad, she writes as fast as she can, seems, there is rain
outside, but who cares, who cares. Words have to be hammered into this machine, fast
and fast and faster. She should stop indenting this, this is cheating, cheating. She ponders,
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what else is there left to describe, what, what? It is five and forty-seven minutes, the leaves of the
tree outside are moving and motioning, ah, so very romantic, trees are nice and beautiful, she
deduces that there is no rain, because the leaves do not really move in a wet way, more in a dry
way, she types away, and it is all rubbish, all rubbish.
She will go up 2 the pastry place, eat some bread pudding with whipped cream and chocolate
sauce, that should be more fun than typing and typing and typing. All this typing is so very
insane, so very, very insane.
She ponders, she should write something better, she should describe something worth describing.
The cables of the computer, the earphones, her red earrings next 2 the keyboard. Her black purse
from H and M. and she types, types, hammers away at the keyboard, she could describe the
keyboard, but she has done that so many times before. She should start describing the ceiling, the
lights, the lamps, the lights and lamps, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff.
And the end of the page is slowly coming near, so very near to her words, the 99 @ the bottom,
in greyish script, the dark black letters on the white page, slowly but steadily coming together,
approaching each other. And she types, types, one hundred is near, so near, ah, the solitude of the
long-distance runner, the loneliness of the goalie “beim elfmeter”, that kind of stuff, that kind of
stuff. Approaching the goal in slow motion, being there, being there already, and the reaching of
the goal is a thing of the past, the moment, the moment, the now, the now, the very floating, ever
passing N O w.
She writes, writes, is pretty happy with her text, sometimes the words are falling into place, are
dancing in place, after all, after all. The more you write, the better you get. So it seems, so it
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definitely seems. And we’re done here, outta here, holt renfrew, here I come, just another happy
customer, window shopping blissfully. We nailed it, targeted the words, targeted meaning, threw
the words at meaning, meanings, and hardly missed, hardly missed. She is happy and that is all
that counts. 33 851 words, 33 851 words. Not a round number, but who cares, who cares, who
cares. The bottom of page 100 is near, so near.
---
today is may thirteen, but, hey, it is thursday the thirteen, not friday the thirteen and she ponders
if it goes thirteen or thirteenth in the saying, she types, it is sunny, she is once more in langara,
finds herself in langara, playing away with the language, with the typewriter. Langara is so very
busy, seems, that the summer semester started on may tenth, she had to lean over and ask the so
very nice lady in greyblue, in order to make sure. She loves that, all these conversations with
total strangers, all over town, she tries to impress them with her age, no one has problems with
talking to the old crazy lady, the one that might have cats or dead bodies in the fridge, that one,
that one. She ponders, is that her new persona, her old persona, is that what we are shooting 4
here, craziness, colourfulness. Insanity. She ponders, these are all very equal terms, where lies
the borderline between insane and colourful, they are interchangeable, ah, so very
interchangeable. The author tries to make out whether her state of mind is questionable or
beyond reproach, she is dressed pretty nicely 2day, thus she could pass as sane and responsible,
though we do not want to make an impression of too much responsibility. Responsible, reliable,
eleonor Roosevelt in sensible shoes, hmm, not that good, not that good. She ponders, ponders.
She listened in to a talk by a writer the night before, down in the central library, it was a book
launch and he basically did a reading, reading from different parts of his book. It was kind of
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sleepinducing, and a lot of ppl looked at him with glazed eyes, dozing off, in and out of
dreamland, it got that much better though during the q and a period, he was a teacher, thus he
was really good at giving longwinded, utterly intelligent and insightful answers that went on and
on forever.
His writing was not that bad either, very poetic, he looked not like a poet, though, he did not
have a name like Kerouac with the “ooah” sound in it, not enough exoticness, he tried to combat
that with facial hair, but all in all he was too much of an everyman to be a poet. Too reliable, too
responsible.
Outside a sports team is walking by, that’s how they look, how they look. They are female and
male, mostly in different sweats, maybe an ultimate team.
The author has to describe the here and now, that seems 2 be easy, doable, easily doable.
She feels slightly nauseated, a person clears his throat. Sounds like a masculine “clearing-of-the
throat”. Flip-flops in the back, kind of unisex, more male than female. The author feels like
colombo in crinkled wrinkled rain coat, she tries to interpret all these sounds, without holding up
her hand like peter falk, excuse me, excuse me, one more question. She types, she types. This is
what she does does. Slowly, but steadily building up the persona of the W R I T E r. hard
drinking, hmm, that does not really fit in2 her persona, writing chicklit, not really either, hers is
more the juggling of the words, the constant fight with the language, the struggle next to
exhaustion, the ringing with the words, the mastery , the non-mastery, and everything in
between. Hers is a very androgenous, unisexish writing, very sterile, stale, very guarded, I do not
wanna give anything away. She could be a plumber for that matter, a housepainter, that is how
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she approaches her craft, like a musician, like yoyoma. It is all the same all da same. In her
world, in her world.
She ponders, she seems to have galloped thru her daily allotment, her work 4 the day is done
done, Outta here, outta here, yayh.
- --
boycott, boycott, the very catchy tune of the may eight video that went viral is in her ears,
she has the earphones on and tries to write while the brass music is all over her ears,
which is kind of tuf, but, hey, let’s try it, while the soundscape is slightly deafening, san
francisco’s union town, it is just a funny movie, anyhoo, she types and types. Once more in vcc,
hardly anybody is in here, must be too soon, it is ten oh four, she has to laugh, the woman yells
oh , no, and starts her boycott song to the tune of a lady gaga song, you should really check it out
just google “don’t get caught in a bad hotel”, it is just funny. The author ponders if this her text is
a forum for pitching stuff, her favorites, ah, why not, dostojewski could not do that, obviously,
he lived in a non-facebook-era, maybe that is why he penned better stuff, then again, then again,
she just types stuff, a is like this, then again it is not because… , thesis, antithesis, and maybe
synthesis, or just pro and con ad nauseum, back and forth, back and forth.
It is ten oh nine, she has 34 737 words, more than one hundred pages in times new roman,
doublespaced, this is what she does does, this is it. The boycott boycott song is just so
omnipresent, who would have known that protest can be so colourful, so much fun. Hey, we live
in a weird and strange time, so it seems, so it seems. The author knows that she should discuss
serious stuff, this is a harsh world full of injustice, is it even feasible, even ethical to just keep on
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typing away at a typewriter, in her mind typing a text is just a so very physical act, to take the
canada line down to vcc, walk thru downtown vancouver, while the sun glistens, to end up in this
room here in vcc, to start to type, to start to type. To look up at the blue sheet on the wall that
says How to print from the computer, to listen to the music, to type, and to type some more. The
brassmusic goes on, the percussion, boycott, boycott. Very entertaining entertaining entertaining.
It has this carnavalesque air which is just obviously what happens when a bigbandish orchestra
plays. And once more, once more, the san francis hotel or maybe this is happening in another
hotel, the author feels so very nostalgic, twenty years ago she used to live in the bay area, she
was twenty years younger, life was different, funner, her days were not filled with producing all
these lines, all these text, drawings, animation, paintings. The author notices that the text does
not go anywhere today, which is kinda impossible anyways with all this loud music, the volume
is pretty loud, these earphones, earphones.
It is slightly chilly here, outside, the hall of vcc is happening, people walking by, papers on the
blue board, she types, types. She turns around in her chair, math/science tutor sign, English tutor
sign.
Page 103, page 103.
VCC students, Come learn with us!- the green pink and white sheets pinned onto the yellow and
green board in front of her, very colourful, but the author cannot really describe the colourful
visuals with all the colourful music in her ears, she feel like HOLIDay, like summer, just all this
music about hotel, you wanna jump on a plane and go out in2 the world, anywhere, anywhere,
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let’s be a tourist, let’s be a tourist, no words waiting to be smithed which is a nonprofession
anyways, she types, the music goes on, rhythmic, rhythmic.
The music becomes sugary, esoteric, the big bandishness kinda dissolves, the constant pushing of
the replay button, the insane repetition of the three minute film, it is kind of too ritualistic, too
obsessive, obsessive in a happy way though, you know what will happen next, you have some
kind of so very visceral feel of security when you hear the same tune over and over, again and
again, that is how music is, you know that you go down the same road of sounds again and again,
it is just fun to do that, but one knows that this song is tried and true, it plays over and over, she
types, types, it is kinda difficult though to fabricate new sentences, new wordings, while listening
to the same tune again and again, the film is very well-mixed though, it has the right mix of fast
and slow, pauses with loudness, applause at the end, lots of stimuli packed into the film, very
lively, so very very lively.
She is pondering, it is ten thirty nine, she has to take the canada line back to oakridge by one,
because she is only allowed to park in oakridge for 4 hours, so she has to finish this her typing
and put it on scribd, while dancing in her stool here to the song, rhythms, music, spellcheck, at
this point, music, the visuals of this keyboard in front of her all mush into one, spell check, ah,
spell c h e c k.
- --
and once more back in the vcc, she is writing, while the boycott movie is playing and it is
much louder on this computer, for some reason the brassinstruments are so very much louder,
everything is so much louder here, and the music of the instruments kind of outdoes the singing,
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the vocals are just sounding like another instrumental music, even the talking is kind of not that
clear, but, in the end it is no biggy, because what matters is the dancing, the rhythms, the show,
the broadway atmosphere, the real-life musical, the stage and screen atmosphere inserted into
real life, it is like my fair lady meets newscoverage, she ponders, she could write an in-depth
analysis of this “phenomenon”, ah, flashmobs, fascinating, theatrical, fun, interesting, she
ponders, there are other things to write about, maybe she should slither back 2 her usual
subjectmatter, writing with a capital W, the selfportrait in words, herself analyzing her process,
watching her fingers move over the keyboard, she wonders, how those brass-instrumentalists
conceive their playing of the instrument, how does it feel to play an instrument, being in the
midst of the performance, it must be kind of like writing, when you just type word after word,
without pausing, when you are swept away by the process, by the run towards the goal,
something like that, something like that. She searches feverishly for the replay button, ah, there it
is, she can watch the brass orchestra ppl walk thru the streets of san francisco, she remembers
very vividly where the san francis hotel is, she would go a lot to union square, would take the
bart down to the union square station, stroller in tow, ah, memories, memories, on the bart, all
the way from walnut creek, and before that from el cerrito plaza. They had a new fao schwartz at
that time, ah, good times good times. And now, and now, now, all she does is come to all these
typing places all over town to type, to write all this stuff, words and words and words. 32 743 of
them.
There are more words waiting to be pushed into the monitor, it is kind of funny having the music
on and at this time having the movie on too, how can one possibly concentrate, how, how.
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It is kind of like sitting in a very action filled place and write, write, it is like writing in times
square which she has done ad nauseum, she just has to type up her long-hand musings, which are
hibernating in her basement, she should really get on this and type it up, she has to manage her
time so much better, she should tend to her painting too, who would have thought that art is this
tough on the body, you have to do this day-in and day-out, extremely seriously, extremely
seriously while making a face as if it comes utterly easy, you have to write each and every day,
have to type, it is like playing an instrument, each and every day. She looks at one of the bass
instrumentalists, serious face, you cannot smile, you just have to concentrate while blowing into
the mouth peace and holding the very big tuba too. The sax, the trumpet. And she types, and she
types. Tries to find more similarities between the film and writing, there are so many so many so
many.
It is now 2: 33, the words flow very easily, the rhythms of the catchy song make the writing, ah,
so easy. You don’t even have to think , and the typingmachine is very easy too, super responsive
keyboard, words, flowing in, so very fast, so very easily. And, slight pause, spellcheck, why not,
why not?
She is at the end of her writing, her daily requirement is fulfilled, she could save this, will save
this, go back on the canada line, this is her second stint here in vcc, in between she did langara
too, but she was not able to use the computer there, anyhoo, these are enough words for today,
and once more the boycott, boycott song. She starts dancing in her chair while contemplating if
this is what respectable old women do, ah, the writing goes faster, so, who really cares, and who
knows her here, and, besides, writers can do what they feel like. End of text, end of text.
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---
she ponders, if she should not write another page, this time a more positive page,
because,
hey, the sun is shining outside, she listened to the music, somehow, she should be able to
produce something equally lively, equally interesting, interesting might not necessarily be the
right word, something fastflowing, with the same kind of pauses, the same kind of adherence to
musical virtuosity, maybe it would help to once more open the you tube site and let the music
and the visuals flow into the text, let vcc do its own part and staccato and rhythmisize the text,
make the words jump up and down, pulsating, stop and quiver for split secs only to move
forward.
- --
she sits once more in the library of the art school, it is a Saturday, it is may @ halfmark,
the oceanfactory glistens in the sun, not technically, though, the only thing glistening are the cars
that drive by, there always is a moment when the light meets the chrome, and this glistening
thing happens, even now she can see a parked car, the fender reflects the sun, this is all so
fascinating, so dull. She is not very happy, she has her piece of paper now 4 two weeks, no job
offers are flying in, nothing nothing nada zip. Thus she keeps on typing, even though she hates it,
who would like typing away, this only works for mordechai richler or peter handke, you cannot
be female and expect to be a writer. It just doesn’t happen doesn’t happen. Even 4 writers much
gifteder than her. Those who do not use terms like “gifteder”. You can be blessed by the gods, be
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the most eloquent of all the eloquent ones, if you lack certain pedigree(s), well, tuf. You just lack
them lack them lack them. Prolificness is 4 da birds. It will not bring you anywhere.
She types here in utter stupor, and sulks silently. Life sucks. She will do a b-turn or a u-turn and
head for a career change. Find another vocation. One that pays the rent. One that is not
characterized by moronic typing, while staring at the angles of the black table. While looking up
at those weird and strange knobs to the left of the oceanfactry, left from here, but right from the
ceanfactory. Her words are inaccurate and that is just fine by her, its artsy. Ecclectic. She
watches too much Frasier and Seinfeld and king of queens these days. She likes laughing, hates
crying. She is utterly pissed off @ everything. The sun is too harsh, this place is too desolate, she
types types. Painstackingly pissed off. Pissed off. Pissed off.
She ponders if she should go 4 a walk, seabreeze and seagulls, staring around with fixed smile,
haggling and ringing her hands, muttering words under her breath, desperately searching for
inspiration, inspiration. What a piece of crock, you don’t need inspiration, you need a good-
working typewriter and this typewriter here just utterly and completely sucks. It is only good for
being vomited on, spitted on, being smashed with a hammer, all over, all over. And on that note,
on that note, on that note. On that note we could stop the insanity, but why? What 4?
She ponders, why is she the only gifted writer honing her gift in this place. There are eight
typewriters just in this row, let alone the other ones in the back rows. Why are there not more ppl
writing and typing away. Do they not have stories to tell? Don’t they not want to be authors?
Apparently not. Ppl have lives, apparently. Not everyone likes moronic typing moronic typing.
Waiting for fluent eloquence. For gifted insights, for genius, for that one, yep, for that one.
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Nowadays nobody wants to be a genius. Hmm, she ponders there is a paper in there somewhere.
No one has aspirations any more. What has the world come to? No one wants to outdo others
anymore. No one wants to yell “I am the king of the castle and you’re the dirty rascal” anymore.
Tsk tsk, what has the world come to? Very mature, very mature, so very mture.
The day forces itself forward, the keys of the typewriter resist the touch of her fingers, each little
square hiccups slightly, only to be subdued by her push, in the end the end, she ponders what
made her become a writer and is she a writer. Existential questions, she should wear dark and
smoke gauloises, sans filters, she should learn how to start a sentence, how to end a sentence.
She should sell out. Nah, she’ll never sell out. She notices that selling out has a different
meaning for each and every individual. And we are all individuals. 7 billion of them, give or take
some. There is a paper in there somewhere somewhere. There are bigger issues to be discussed,
not just the utterings and inklings of a washed-up housewife. Housewife. What a weird and
strange term. Househusband. All these terms with house, they are kinda strange. And once more,
there is a paper in there somewhere. Today seems to be the “there is a paper in there somewhere”
day. The acknowledgement of the lowly writer that she should take stands, that she should bare
her breast in front of a firing squad and yell: shoot. We have to die for our convictions. If only
we knew what our convictions are. Egalite, something something something and why does the
accentegue button of this fuckin’ typewriter not work. Why does she write in English, why does
she feel so dislocated, so utterly located. Where is her diaspora, and don’t we all live in the
DIASPORa. All seven billion of us?
She ponders, these seem to be utterly grave questions, she manages to poke at deep issues after
all. Deep and lo-deep, its all the same, all da same.
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Green leaves move slowly in the air, she feels nauseated, her words for this day are done, done.
Done.
Shitty writing, but, hey, this is all we can muster here. Tomorrow will be a better day and there is
always a tomorrow. Drink to that, drink to that. Coffee or tea or wine, sake, maybe, doogh, why
not, why not.
- --
she is back from hanging out in different places on the island. she hung out, had some
food, soaked up the sun, had some meaningless conversations with total strangers, some
more sun, some more boredom that is so very palpable. She spent sixty bucks or a tad
more, on stuff, stuff.
And she is once more back here, to type, to type. In this place with all these books, none of them
fiction, so, obviously her stuff will never be in here. Which is fine, just fine. She produces stuff,
but- she pauses, she is tired to pepper this her text with trivial observations that no one cares
about. She hates to state the obvious. She ponders whether all the literature on this planet is just
an exercise in “stating the obvious”. Do we really need more persons to state the obvious? Hers
are not scientific findings, so why does she put them on scribd, relentlessly, isn’t scribd more a
service geared towards publishing scientific papers, academic research, everything and anything
scholastic. She ponders, hers are only observations of her immediate surroundings hardly enough
to deserve to be called academic, scholarly. It is just dribble dribble. It is a physical
manifestation, or in her case, a cyber manifestation of her day-ins and day-outs, a meticulous
account of her personal life. Which is wasted by hanging out in front of a typewriter, and any
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typewriter will do. Vancouver is such a typewritercity, there are so many places you can type
away, 4 free. NYC and Toronto are not like that, Zurich was like that, but, maybe, because she
knew exactly where to go to find a computer without paying a cent. She ponders. Looks at the
HSBC sign next to her word file on the computer, her WORD page, she has to save this her text
or it will get lost.
The oceanfactory is still there, doing its ocean factory thingie. Buildings are so mysterious, they
have such a presence. All these lines on the windows, all the fascination that is spread out from
the skylights, this library tells you to keep quiet and obedient, it has this grey presence, it puts all
the little minions on this planet in place, it tells them, somehow, not to revolt, the ceiling, the
noise of the av, the industrialness, the authority of the built environment.
Her mind wanders, wonders and she types and she types. Types some more. Nausea sets in, it
always does, in an unsettling, rattling your innerts kinda way. She types types types. Thinks
about the unspeakable, thinks about the speakable. Feels like jumping up to run from this so very
weird and strange place. Where she has existed for the last ten years. Ten years 4 a four year
program, what a waste, ah, whatta waste. This is what one thinks @ the end of artschool, this is
what one should think. There is no place in society for artists, no one will hire the artist, the artist
has 2 be entrepreneurial, whatever that is whatever that encompasses. Entrepreneurial, rial, rial.
Ah, get real, and a tad less insane, a tad less on the insane side. Even if it is a too sunny, too
sugary saturday somewhere in may, sometime in north america. Ah, and she types, ah, and she
types. Her silly ideas, her ah so silly thoughts. Inklings of the day, mutterings, utterings, so very
endless. So without an end, so very very insane.
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She ponders if she should write all this in one sitting, if she really applies herself she can finish
this her account of her days by the end of may, she could then travel, travel. Hop on a train via
east. Just do some laundry first and keep going, find a suitcase somewhere in the basement,
check if your passport is still valid, keep going, adventure, ah, adventure. She ponders, she is
way too old 4 adventures. Adventure means a rockingchair on the porch that rocks a tad too fast.
Now that is adventure. Maybe she should get a face-lift, adventures in botox-land. Or at least an
appointment with the dentist. Or a haircut. Something of that kind, something, something. Maybe
typing is just more fun, counting the words, counting the pages. Writing dribble, writing dribble.
She should infuse this with love and violence, with interest, interest. She should discuss stuff,
stuff. She should do this, do that, but, hey, at this point she should just skedaddle down to the
market. While she is still alive, still alive. A l I v e. alive. alive.
- --
she is once more here, another spurt of spitted out words, outside granville island is
definitely happening, tourists descending on the island, cars, cars. The ocean factory could care
less, the trees in the wind, the bridge, a bus moves by, slowly. She went for a walk, she saw a
movie in the gradshow, she went 4 a stroll, met ppl, she is back here to feed her words to the
computer. Her so very reluctant words, the not expressive enough ones, the too expressive ones.
Her lingo stutters away, away, she tries to stop time for secs, writing is so very different from
painting, is it, is it? Hers are the words that are never sure, never sure enough, hers are the
stumblings, the mutterings, the under your breath utterings of absolutes that are non-absolutes,
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her language is never polite enough and never forceful enough, her writing is an absolute
disaster, absolute only in its disasterness.
One day, one day, she will hold this text in her hands, politely bound, mobile, one day she will
be a writer, a writer. She ponders if that is what she wants, shouldn’t she make films, shouldn’t
she paint, what kind of total failure as a visual artist spits and spews words @ a computer, and
types the ominous “she types, she types” to fill the blanks between her thoughts, ah, why not: she
types, types. Outside granville island, above her, the ocean factory. Wordcount: 38181, she
should go and see some more animations, there is nothing more to say, nothing more 2 say. For
now, 4 now.
---
It is way 2 quiet here, it is Sunday, sixteenish, she is @ home, which is not that conducive to
writing, nothing really is happening here to feed the imagination, the fridge rumbles like, well,
rumbles like, she tries to figure out which metaphor would go with this, but knows that basically,
nothing will really go, she sits here hunched over which is not good for writing either, it is a too
unnatural way of sitting, cramped, contorted, she ponders, this should make for contorted,
cramped up prose, text that refuses to flow eloquently. She should take her laptop and skedaddle
down to the arbutus-coffeeshop, the only problem is that she has no clue how to use the internet
in that place. she looks up at the Garfield figurine on the shelf, she ponders if that is that good for
writing, Garfield will automatically make for goofy observations, and that is not what we are
shooting 4 here, not, not. She looks down at the brown paperbasket, the thirty year old one, thirty
or maybe twenty-five, she ponders if this is enough subjectmatter, writing about inanimate
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objects, describing them in detail, to what avail, to what avail. The fridge rumbles again, the only
noise here is the typing, the typing, she should go to the kitchen, listen to music, let it flow into
the text, she should do this, do that. maybe she should take a dictaphone onto the bus, into the
street, tell her observations to the tape recorder, in order to accurately document the here and
now. Her words are kinda off kinda off.
The author prefers all these computerstations all over town, they seem to work out better for her,
they have more interesting stuff going on, more action than the non-action that permeates this
place, she should take her laptop down to kits beach, watch beach volleyball while typing away.
go to ubc, watch a basketballplay while typing. She ponders if she should rummage around to
locate the remotecontrol, tv, talking heads, music, the constant change of scenery on the
idiotbox, that should forge this text forward. 38572 words, ah, 38 577. She feels hungry and
nauseated, the sun outside is a tad 2 much, ah, whining, whining.
She read somewhere that all a writer needs is coffee, coffee and some more coffee. Ah, we beg
to differ here, all a writer needs is tea in chinacups and saucers and dainty doilies. The author
notices, insanity is at the onset, today is not her day not her day. The words are weirdly and
strangely deformed, without real succession of logical thought, she is not yet able to formulate
good stuff, it is not writer’s block, more writer’s pain, pain. Contortedness transformed into
words. She went down to ubc, to downtown and to granville island. To the fitness center, on the
bus, the bus. She motioned and moved all over town, she tries to distil that and press the extract
of her day into the computer. Thus the words kind of holper and rumple screechingly, fluency
and eloquence have to come another day, another day.
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She ponders if she should go down to seattle, 4 a daytrip, to garner some inspiration for her
writing. ah, maybe, new west would be enough, any change of scenery will do, has to, has to.
Only half a page, only half a page. Her daily allotment will be fulfilled, fulfilled. She looks down
at the 114 in the footer, it is so much lighter than the real text. She ponders, what else is there 2
describe? The day solemnly moves into the evening, still daylight is everywhere, but in a very
grey, darkness courting way. Slight rumbling of the fridge, Garfield is still smiling cheekily, the
brown paperbasket is still in its place. she ponders, maybe these are her protagonists: the ocean
factory, the green outside the langara library, all these keyboards, basket, garfieldstatue, all those
random noises and sounds in all these libraries and all these rooms, there is no real action in this
text, but there is a constant change of scenery flowing into this, pauses, cadences, the urban, the
reluctantly pastoral and pausing non-motion, the stagnation within the forceful moving urban
environment. She has to pause, wrap this up, save it, put it on scribd, her text is done, for now, 4
now.
- --
she is back here in the art school, she ponders, she should finish this by the end of the
month, she sent it out to an agent in nyc, the agent will read thru the first ten pages, she
should better finish the manuscript, finish it, finish it. the author is not very good @
syntactic accuracies , she uses too weird and strange concoctions of the likes of “synctactic
accuracies”, she is not on the top of her game, maybe writers need a warmup like baseball
players do, writing is just another sport, another sport.
- --
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it is a quarter to ten, she is back from her spurt to the community center, the monday
morning fitness crowd was at their last upperbody movements, the clumsily elegant motions of
plump ballerinas past their prime, the militaristic following the leader acrobatics, the author is
back at her typewriter here, she is obsessed, obsessed. wordcount, wordcount. thirty nine oh one
oh seven, this is such a struggley enterprise, the worddcount in November went so much
smoother, so much faster. she is way over a month, and she hasn’t even passed the 50 000 word
mark. must be the sun, kind of stifles her writing ability, the summer at its onset, must be
something something. incompetence lies in the air, flies thru the air. but, hey, the ocean factory is
at its place, though it is not really distinguishable from this computer, one sees just a big grey
column, anyhoo, she types, types. the library as desolate as can be, her writing stifled, stalling,
this cannot be good, not that good.
in the end, she will go down to the market, have candied indian salmon, walk by false creek, look
at the tents in vanier park. must be children’s festival time or bard on the beach, there is always
something going on, and the color of the tents shows which festival is going on. some of the tents
are white, others are candystriped, red and white, very pointy, very, very. the author ponders if
describing random stuff is enuf, enuf, if repeating the same word is enough enuf. if writing enuf
instead of enough is enough. if omitting questionmarks is enuf? she knows, in the end, just
showing up at this typing place is more than enough. so she hopes hopes. you just have to be
here, listen to the keys hacking away, then there will be a good piece of writing there,
automatically. it is kind of like fishing, you show up, eventually a fish will bite the rod, that kind
of stuff, that kinda stuff.
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one more page one more page. she could spellcheck, but she’d rather type this in one sitting.
she’d rather abuse her right middle finger in one sitting, she ponders if her writing would be
different if she learned how to type with ten fingers, is tenfinger prose better or worse than two
finger text, who cares who cares who cares. she has a conversation with the nice lady sitting at
the computer next to her, the author prefers chatting to typing, the nice lady escapes from under
her chatter, the author ponders about the difficulty to fit the pronouns correctly, how tuf can it be,
how tough, how tough? outside cars, motorbikes, she is at the end of her two pages, she can
leave, leave. she might go down to vcc, use their place 2 type, to type. langara and ubc are so
very nice, the only prob is that she first has to check in with the circulationdesk. same in the
central vpl branch. the author ponders, this cannot be good, cannot be good. to be this
freeflowing, wander around and type in different places the world over, the city over, some
know-it-all told her that her writing will never amount to anything, you’re much to mobile. ah,
whatever, whatever. the author types, types, 39 600 words, words, words and words. 39610.
- --
She ponders, she should start taking track of her words by counting the increments in words, like
2000 words as daily requirement, not 2 pages. That is how you churn out volume, just ante the
requirement. She ponders, the term “ante” might not go with the rest of the sentence, but that is
fine, fine. Or not. She is now sitting in vcc, she took the bus, had a tea, had a breadpudding, she
ponders if she should describe the tea and the breadpudding in detail, if this is the prose she
wants wants. Is she not sidestepping the really big issues of the day, is she, is she. And decidedly
so. Hey, not everything is politics, if I liked politics I would be a politician, would throw my hat
into the ring. There is no reason to denigrate a profession like writing, there will always be
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wordsmiths, wordsmiths. Poets. Some are selfsufficient, some are not. She ponders, there is a
paper in here somewhere, ah, there always is, always is. But hers is not a world of logical
constructs of a follows b, hers is not, is not. Hers is tippings at reality, fragmentation of words,
conclusions that hobble around in mid-air. Hers is scenes outta context, the fast thumping on the
remote control, that’s how we write here, write here. Moving thru the world, motioning,
motioning, everything changes fastly, so very, very fast. I look around this room, there is a
different image 2 my right, 2 my left. This is how it is how it is.
Page 117, grey, writing is so booooring. There is nothing going on but the moving of the right
side of the body, the brain telling the right middle finger to press certain buttons. The left
middlefinger is there just for beauty, for distraction, for sidekicking, sidekicking. For providing
the illusion of a reluctant balance, but the right hand makes all the main thumping away, the
forceful typing typing.
A woman in yellow sits next to the author, yellow and black leggings. The author types, types,
types, away. She should listen in to music, to fasten the process of automatic plunking away @
the keyboard. It is eleven fifty-nine, noon is a heartbreak away. A breath, two or three.
The author puts on the earphone, tries to adjust it, she still has this sore spot on her head, from an
injury 3 years ago. 3 years ago, around the same time in may. A clash on the head, six stitches. In
another country another time. She ponders, she was not a writer at that time, writing came later,
in beginning of 2008. animation did not work, thus writing had to do. Writing seems always to
be the second choice, the visual crowd flocks to writing , after not making it in the world of
sculptures and film. That’s how it is that’s how it seems. The author pounds silly absolutes into
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the keyboard, onto the keyboard, something smells too sweet and perfumy, anyhoo, she types
and types. Ah, wordcount, ah, wordcount.
She ponders she has to write more significant stuff, not mere observations of the day to day. She
takes off the earphone, it was too uncomfortable. And she types and she types. Save-spellcheck.
For now, 4 now.
- --
She ponders, the woman beside her opens different facebook pics. The author ponders,
Does your profile pic say something about you. The constant change of the profile pic. The over-
sexed, way too viril pic. What can one read into that, is a too sexy facebook pic the equivalent of
a mid-fiftyguy in red convertible and grey ponytail. How come, how come. We construct an
image onto the facebook page, a weird, strange one, we want to say this, that or the other.
The author does not make sense today, it is that kind of day, too much bananabread and
peppermint tea and breadpudding does that to you. It is the equivalent of too much rum and one
too many beers. Beer.
The author, the author. Is outta words. Intelligent words. Intellectual ones, scholarly ones,
research-based ones. Fact-based ones. She just stutters her bullshit @ the kompjoohta, it’s
that kind of day, that kinda day. And spellcheck. And spellcheck.
Another day wasted typing, typing. She could do dishes 4 a change, instead of hammering away
@ keyboards. Ah, dishes, they have to wait, they like piling up in the sink, words are waiting,
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waiting to be formed, they are sailing thru the air, they have to be captured in a net and thumped
down into the typewriter. Spellcheck and spellcheck and spellcheck. Spellcheck, spellcheck.
- --
she walks thru the exhibition place, today is deinstallation day, tomorrow too. Her fingers
are too sugary, the donut has residues you know, she sits once more in the art school library, the
ocean factory, the sound of the av, you know, you know. Tomorrow, this will be officially over.
Ten years or so down the drain. But, hey, this must be the communal way of judging life @ the
end of an era, the end of an era. Of a fucking era. She ponders, should she feel a void, should she
yelp “good riddance”, and dance in the streets towards sunnier tomorrows, what, what. @ the
end of art school, @ the end of art school, indeed. At the end, she is sitting here in her way-too-
tight brown t-shirt, the one that does not take well to all these donuts and icecream buckets of
cookie-dough ben and jerry, although, technically, she usually opts for that other corporation, she
ponders if she should even mention any brand, ah, she ponders, she ponders. One day she will
find a studio in downtown, but not now not now. For now, for tomorrow she is a mix between
peter handke and max frisch, though without talent and without success. And female, too, to top
it off. She ponders if gender has any kind of bearing in the failure, the success of any given artist,
does it, does it? Does it have any bearing in the success or failure of any given mathematician, of
any given housewife, househusband. Ah, questions, sometimes dumb ones, sometimes, weird
ones, sometimes quasi-intelligent ones. She types, types.
In the back ppl talking, giving out info like offering cookies, the author writes way too much
about food, it is that time of the day, that time of the day. She will type and type, until the end of
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the month, marathontype, marathon type. If she has 200 pages, she can call this a book, she
might bookend it, write some intelligent connotation, something slightly reminiscent of the first
three words, though the author had teachers who hated bookending, never bookend, it is way too
cheesy, ah, teachers, teachers. They say all kinds of things. The author ponders, now it’s time 4
reckoning, now let’s burn all bridges, now that we have our paper lying on the dining table, now
that it is official official, she ponders, hmm, there are different schools of thought, diplomatic
ones, vendetta-ish ones, and each skool has its pros and cons. She ponders, ponders. Looks up at
the oceanfactory with the shiny sky behind it, she listens to her own typing, to the typing that
goes on behind her, by a lady in a shiny purple dress, she types and types and types. Types her
days away, types her days away. But she said that already, repetition ad nauseum, repetition until
nausea permeates every fiber of your being, ah, but she types, she types.
Forty thousand and something words, george orwell had two million published words.
Is there a difference between published ones and non-published ones, do published ones outdo
non-published ones. What makes words better, worse. Is it subjectmatter, clarity, logic. Timing.
She ponders, ponders. Using “pondering” instead of “thinking”, she scratches her head and does
not know how to end the sentence. One day she will paint again, animate again, you have more
tools in your trickbox, with writing you are way too transparent, the words are too pierceable.
You can’t really hide, can’t really hide. Bravado will not bring you anywhere, you are bare to
judgement, this cannot be good cannot be good, not that good after all. And she types and she
types. Wordcount: 41000, she watches the number change from 40 999 to 41 000, the weird
strange computation of the fragments of the language, and she types and she types and she types.
- --
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she changes to a different computer, this one is very chilly, not the computer, but the seat,
somehow it feels as if the av is so much strongfuller here, she had a coconut and
sunflowerseed cake and green tea in the agro, she is back now, to type some more, type some
more. She went thru the designplace, actually she just peeked in, hammering was going on, and
disassembling, anyhoo, nothing that interesting to write about, there was white paint on the
stairs, which is worth mentioning, especially because someone put a yellow tape around it, like
the yellow tape around a crime scene, the author could elaborate, but, hey, this is not the time not
the time, she’d rather write and type and watch her fingers fly over the keyboard, she likes to
describe the scanner next to her, beige, dark beige, she could describe the mouse, or the yellow
and green and pink holes in the thingie in front of her, the thingie which is nameless, only thingie
will do, has to do. The typing is going on, while ppl are talking, she ponders how much longer
she will be able to come to this place, are alumni allowed, are they not, is alumni plural and is
she only an alumn, how does this work how does this work. She was on the elevator with a so
very young woman who was negotiating with a gallery, so it seemed, so it seemed, this
graduation has catapulted everyone into some kind of artistic marketing frenzy, she ponders
when this communal adrenaline infusion will subside, will subside. At this point we are all up
and coming artists, ready to take the world, ready to take manhattan or st.petersburg, @ this time,
at this point, at this point @ the end of the art school. And she types and she types. A world that
is not nice to its artists, that spits on its artists, but, hey, no negativity, no negativity, only
positivity will do, has to, has 2. thumper forever. 4eva.
- --
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after playing around on facebook, it is back to the grindstone, which in her case is the
typer, she hammers away hammers away. She checks if she is not hogging the computer,
apparently not, there are all these empty computers waiting for the next all-insert-your
nationality-novel. Seems all novelists prefer to hang out at kits beach, who wants to be a writer
and why? She ponders and she has no answers. Answerless, she is answerless. The woman next
to her types away while looking at the monitor, she has a blue and purple checkered notebook,
which the author would really like to describe in detail, but, hey, it is rude to stare rude to stare.
The coconut and sunflower seed cake is acting up inside of her, she has been sitting too much in
front of all these computers, she tries desperately to gallop forward to make the 50 000 word
mark, it is not a race, yes, it is, yessirree. She sighs, she types, it is chilly here, there is nothing to
say, there never is never is. Dishes are piling up at home, but, hey, she has to write, has to, has 2.
a walk by false creek would do her good, the seabreeze environment would do her good, but,
hey, have to write have 2 have to. Insanity is so nice, goes with my red shoes, why opt 4 sanity
when we can do insanity here.
and she types, types. In a world where there is nothing to describe except for the black shiny
apple on the silver-grey of the monitor, the noise of the mouse next to her, the screeching of the
tiny wheel under it, the grey-white cable, the chilliness, the chilliness. The mouseclicking that is
kinda annoying, the clapping of the person next to the wall. And she types and she types. She
remembers that this computer has a camera, she could make a you tube movie, but hey, let’s just
do this do this do this.
---
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She is once more in langara, rain outside, rain everywhere. Not in here, of course, but the
rainyness is so omnipresent, the windows, that are ceiling-high and floor-high, the green outside,
the rain, rain, umbrella ppl walking by, but mostly the green, the drizzle one can see against the
green, the white grey sky, that is one coherent plane, she types, types. Ppl behind her talking, one
person in basepallcap, brown, studious sitting near the window, against the window, taking
notes, holding one paper, shifting thru papers, holding his pen, he looks for datas, facts, has the
very patient, searching face of research, this could be anywhere, a studious person out to sift
through the facts and deduce some glimpse at reality. A child’s voice behind her somewhere, the
buildings outside, beige, beige-brown, drenched in rain like trenchcoats splattered with
raindrops, she types, types, the women behind her, the study group, constant talking, constant
serious strategizing of something, the woman in yellow-ish rainboots with orange-ochre circles
seems to stage the course, the typer writes, the author, the author, the artist @ the end of art
school.
She ponders, she has a pass for using this computer, a guest pass, how will she eat in between
spurts of typing, does she have to leave and come back, again and again, all thru this rainy day,
someone sneezes, sneezes, once more, short, she should end this longwinding thing here, two
more sneezes, now from the front of her, all these noises, all of them in langara, she types, types,
types.
41 971, hmm, moving forward, albeit slowly. This is no nano month, she is not even near the 50
000 mark, in two months, two months. Seems you can’t really produce a lot, if no one is
breathing down your neck, deadlines, deadlines, that is what gets things done. Authority,
hierarchy, selfpolicing, that kinda stuff, kinda, kinda. Discipline, now there is another word, too
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much on the militaristic side, though, sit–up-straight, reward or punishment side. And she types,
and she types. Looks down at the glistening dots and lines on the keys, lines that seem to consist
of dots, that sparkle and are uneven, and are all vertical. There are more of them on the keys in
the middle of the keyboard, ah, she types, types. Tries to hiccup words, fails miserably though,
no jury of writers will condone her wishy-washy prose, will they, will they? What are the
elements of good style, what are the ones of bad. Does syntax matter, does drama matter,
theatrical, grande gestures, silent, slow, hardly distinguishable mutterings, sighs, rhythms,
orthography, using local lingo, or exotic lingo, stuff that conjurs up history or future, words that
sound like numbers or like soldiers marching in line, in line? Ah, 42 175, four two one seventy
FIvE. She entertains herself by capitalizing letters @ random, after all this is not a painting, not a
painting, she cannot play with colours, reds or greens, this is not an animation, she cannot play
with time, time, not that much, not that obvious, but she can staccato the language with resting
points, dots, hyphens, she can type away, type away. Until her fingers bleed, on this restless
dreary rainy Vancouver day, and she types and she types.
---
she didn’t move, she thinks about giving this one more shot, how about two more pages,
she knows that if she leaves this place and logs off she has to come back, once more go thru the
guest-pass-acquiring-stage, she is not very comfortable with that, she might just as well stay on
sitting here. In the black chair, the one that she thought was green, it is actually black, blackish,
the green ones are in front of her, near the window, the red ones, are near the window and behind
her, there is suddenly such a strong influx of ppl, a woman in green, a tall very thin person in a
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black trench coat, ppl, ppl. With all their serious faces, staring at computers, moving a mouse
around, typing, ppl behind her, still the same study group, the author feels her feet tingle, this
much chained-to-a computerness cannot be good, cannot be good, unhealthy state, healthy state,
rain, rain, rain. How many words, how many words. Ah, langara, langara. She hurls words at the
monitor, words that sink into the text, wallowing, drowning, words, unsuspecting ones, that
might or might not go with the rest of the text, words that might pepper the lingo forwards,
smush it backwards, words, ah, words and words and words. Playing with the typewriter, it is
called writing, it is called literature, literature sounds a tad more grandiose, typing, nah, not that
much, not that much. It is all the same all the same all the same. She sits up straight, feels like a
music student @ juilliard, die gedanken sind frei, sind frei, aspirations, contortions, she types,
types, types. Her neck hurts, too cramped up, she tries to turn it to the opposite side, until she
senses a slight stretch, she types and types and types. The study group, still talking, the talking
somehow forges the author’s text forward, upstairs near the glass, an orange stick, there is so
much to see here, so much, so much, but, hey, boredom is everywhere, the rain, the everyday of
a college, the being on the road, the streaming forward towards a goal, the potential, the potential
. the journey, the journey, the journey. Moving forward, moving forward, sans pause, sans
PAUsE. 42640, 42641. Words and words and words.
- --
another writing spurt spurt spurt. She is now sitting once more in the learning center
@ vcc. Her chair is too weird and strange, she’d rather have one with an upright back, a really
really upright back. The author feels kind of weird and strange, all these typing machines, only
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waiting for her to feed them feed them. This place is so very full of ppl, which can be kind of
annoying, or non-annoying, however you want it to make you feel. The author ponders, how
come the machine swallowed her sentences, she typed in this longwinded analysis of alienation
of the modern individual, only to notice that it did not get into the machine, the wording was so
utterly perfect, the most eloquentest she ever did, lost, lost 4ever, forever. This is what happens
to writers, their superb stuff gets lost and only mediocre stuff survives, ah, and arrggghh. She
types types. Had salads and some cake with whipped cream, this cooking place slash pastry place
makes sure that arteries will be clogged, what kind of cooking school place is this? Ah, vcc, ah,
vcc. she types, types. She should take courses here, travel and tourism, wear a nice uniform,
make money moollahh. Only zero point zero three percent of writers make it, according to
unesco. The rest, well, they certainly do not live by their pens. That’s how it is that’s how it is.
Writing as glorified hobby, like embroidery, like knitting. Writing to keep the silent minions,
well, silent, that‘s how it is, is. Hmm, today negativity rules, the rain made me do it, write this,
the rain made me complain, explode, halt screechingly b4 running amok, the rain, the rain. 42929
words words.
- --
She has to put in some, some more words. She knows that no one holds a gun to her head,
only feels like it feels like it. She should travel, get away from this writing weirdness, she should
live somewhere where pens and note books do not exist, where typewriters are outruled. She
ponders what exactly does “outruled” mean, if anything, and why is she constantly typing. The
author listens to the “don’t get caught in a bad hotel” song over and over and over again. This is
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a pretty overt pitch for watching it on you tube, it is utterly amusing, but she said that already,
already. Her genre is “repetition ad nauseum”, she founded this genre, sleepinducing dribble,
why not, why not. Her magnum opus, she has so many of treatises of this kind in the basement,
longhanded notebooks, she chuckles, there is no phrase like “longhanded notebooks”. She
remembers the text piece in the art school, on the fourth floor, pages out of finnegan’s wake, all
overtyped, unreadable, the language distorted, the words fragmented, text as moulding material,
like clay, clay. Who needs coherence when you can opt 4 incoherence, for incoherence. 43 131
words and … 43 137.
- --
Once more, some more words, some more words. The computer next to her has a
mangamovie on it, she is still listening in to the boycott/boycott song, typing gets kind of
cumbersome while your ears are under this kind of noise pollutional attack, she ponders, she
works much harder now that school is out and over, all this typing, all these words, the typing
pool, typing pool. Once more the woman with the megaphone, acclaiming once more that the
westin san francis is a bad bad hotel, it is smelly here, which does not really help when you try to
pinpoint coherence, when the words are running away anyways, when they refuse 2 dance in
line, march in line.
It is 3:14, she has not much time left, she has to be back in oakridge by five, thus she has to type
as fast as she can, as she possibly can. 43 293 words, 43 297.
- --
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once more in vcc, sunny outside, ten twenty-nine on the red lighty thingie that is up on the wall,
she types, she types. Is here, just to feed the two pages to the monitor, the beast, the beast, the
dragon. She will give it two pages, and then she is free 4 the day. She ponders, ponders. That is
what she always says, when she has nothing 2 say. Why is that? Don’t we all ponder, ponder?
All da thyme? Do authors ponder more than ordinary civilians. How preposterous. She ponders,
ponders some more. Who made her a writer, who, who? What makes her think, she can write?
Then again, can’t we all write? She ponders, she should be more coherent, so much more logical.
She watches her fingers move over the keyboard, tap those squares down, do it, do it. Outside, in
the big lobby, the jewellery design ppl are constructing their displays, each student has her own
plinth, they are so interesting. So interesting 2 watch. Like construction workers @ a
construction site, well, the scale is smaller, much smaller, smaller, but still, still. Constructing in
three dimensions, something that will hold up, be solid and static. So much better than what the
author does, pushing words, pushing words. Only words, only blab la bla. Bla Bla Bla. She
ponders, if she should repeat the blab la again, would it be the right rhythm, the write rhythm.
Get it get it. She knows she is becoming infantile, that is what typing away at all these computers
does to you, the void, the lack of not being able to construct something tactile. Hers is only this
fleeting construct that sails thru cyberspace, without impact, only words, words. She ponders,
ponders. Tries to pinpoint what she does, does. Second guesses, always secondguesses.
How many words how many words.
43 six oh four.
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She should listen to the “don’t get caught in a bad hotel” song, once more, once more. She is
using the windows app in this computer, which is weird, she can choose whether she uses mac or
pc, in the same station, amazing, huh? She should go up to the pastry place, have some desert,
she has to be back in oakridge @ one. She types gibberish, gibberish, dribble. She ponders, is
gibberish different from dribble. Ah, english, english. english and its slangs, all these weird and
strange discrepancies in usage, all these so very slight accents, and who is she to throw all these
words around? Only native speakers need apply, only, only. Not ppl like her who bastardize the
language, left and right and center. Only only.
The day moves forward, the page motions 4ward. Her days, her days. Here in unemployment
land, in retirement land, in outta skool land. Here in vancouver where she is all on her own,
trying to run after some shrivje career that will or will not manifest itself, that is not needed, non-
needed. Ah, she’d rather paint, rather animate, rather do this, do that. Rather work at tim hortons,
the interaction with ppl would do her good, the constant very strict hours, the not-having-to-
think- about-what-2-do-next, the structure, the structure. The militaristic, that is what makes us
move and motion 4ward. That is what makes us sit up straight, that is what makes us type.
Gibberish, dribble. She makes no sense no sense no sense. Ah, writing, writing, another word for
whining.
In the old times, in the old times. Women wouldn’t write, would they? Of course they would.
She ponders should she discuss gender equality, gender inequality? Does she really care? Nope,
she’d rather finish this up, spellcheck, save this, put it on scribd, and be outta here, outta here.
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The end of the page is nearing, slowly, steadily. Woman in black ponytail talks to the others,
opening her eyes, leaning forward, opening mouth, expressive, expressive. Man to her left talks
to his computer, seems normal, though, normal. What is normal? Definitely not this constant
constant typing. Of dribble, dribble. Dribble. repetitions, repetitions. That put her to sleep, that
put everyone to sleep. The end of the page, finally, finally. F I n a l l y. and save and save.
44 005, fOUR FOuR oh oH fiVe.
- --
she is once more in the art school. not a student anymore, but she can still use the library
here. The typewriter, typewriter. It is only two pages, two, t w o. she does not like this particular
keyboard, because, hey, who would like it, it is a tad too conducive to typos, it somehow works
like an old rusty machine, each and every letter is a struggle, each and every one of all these
overworked, overaged squares fight her, fight the pushing down, she has to constantly alleviate
the mistakes that are so unavoidable, outside the ocean factory, thick, white clouds, very much
like thick, monstrous cotton balls, light shining thru, for short specks, short flecks, she types,
types. She ponders, maybe she should vie 4 a different typewriterplace, somewhere where there
is less distraction, somewhere where there is more anonymity, where she can type and write
more easily, easily. This place here is too comfortable, too crowded. Not with ppl, but more with
the idea of having to be certain places, do certain things, it is a school, school, after all, after all.
She types away, not very happy with where this is going, the words clumsy around, hover next to
the keyboard without eloquently flowing in, fluency is for the birds, for the birds. Anyhoo, she
types, types. If she keeps on doing this, there will be nice word formations, in the end, the end.
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She is outta words, she cannot even count the so many times she said that before, it is kinda tuf 2
fabricate something new, something solid, something with enough action to counteract the trivial
banality of her observations. Outside a car, or a truck, she does not know, just notices the short
meeting of the light, the reflection in the glass, the motion for a split second, out of the corner of
her eye, out of the corner of her eye.
One more page, how tough can it be, this should not hurt, not hurt. Books are pushed into the
shelf, she can hear it behind her, books against the black metal of the shelf, again, and again,
reluctantly, pensively. This library is way too desolate. It always is, always, always.
Tomorrow she will go to langara or to vcc, those places are so much more peopled, here she has
to search longingly for something worth mentioning, here there is only stagnation, stagnation, so
it seems, so it seems.
There must be so many words, she could count them, look at the bottom of the page, where the
number is, changing automatically with each and every word, but she prefers to lean and hunch
over this keyboard, to type, to type. Words have to be fed to the monster, again, again, so many,
so many, so many many words.
Outside, above her, the green of the leaves, moving, motioning. A woman flaps the pages in
front of her, books or dvd’s fall to the ground beside the author, the words are stalling, non-
fluidity rules. Weirdness, strangeness. The constant hum of the av, no hiccups, no staccato, no
break, just one solid hum, no melody, none, none. These are her days, whooshing into each
other, every now and then a car whooshing by, for a split second, movement, for a split second
motion. A tour bus. Moving by to spit out some tourists, some more tourists onto the island, and
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she types, and she types. Her neck cramped up, but, hey, the second page comes to an end, an
end. And this is it, for now, 4 now. Save, spellcheck, before nausea sets in, it always does,
always, always. And once more, always. Always. 44623/44627.
- --
page 131 finished, top of page 132. she is not quite sure if she has what it takes 2 go @ it
4 another round. It is 11.51, vcc, the ubiquitous “don’t get caught in a bad hotel” in her ears, so
very loud, at the mostest, mostest, volume @ its highest, the sax, tuba et al. so very very loud,
which is fun, but, hey, not good 4 your hearing, lots of ppl here, she types, types, while the
rhythm beats into her ears, there is not much to say, she doesn’t even need to, the mid-noon at
vcc is automatically forcing, forging her writing forward, it is 11:55, she will make her way back
home, but first thru holt renfrew, then the canada line 2 oakridge, ah, first writing, typing, all
these so very reluctant words that are never ever constructed enough, not well-thought thru, not
serious enuf, not meaningful enough. Dribble dribble dribble. Behind her a woman’s voice,
lecturing her listeners, she has glasses, black hair, she talks about math and shows her listener
what it is all about, the area, one point one, it is math, math, the author listens in to her own
typing which is very metallic, she notices that the lecturing woman is very good, very patient,
very polite, asks questions, but, hey, nausea is setting in again, the author prefers to push the
replay icon on the you tube thingie, let’s have the song one more go, one more listening-in. now
it is do-re-mi in the central train station in Antwerp, ah, you tube, you tube, how did we exist b4
you tube? And still another one somewhere in new zealand, the author discovers there is quite an
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array of flashmob films on you-tube, she ponders if she still is able to feed all these words to the
computer, but, hey, she types, types anyways, 44 937 words.
It is now 12:12, she watches a silent dance in vancouver train station on you tube, not quite sure
if it is down in the states or here in canada, looks very much like the train station here, though,
she types, types, the woman next to her looks at images of food on her computer, the author
writes, types, types, the words are slightly reluctant, there is lots and lots of commotion around
her, which is actually very conducive 2 writing, words come just out of thin air, manifest
themselves on the monitor, she types, types, would be better if she would discuss important
issues, discourses, dilemmas, she is not quite sure if these are the right plurals, discoursi,
dilemmae, she types anyways, types, anyways, types and types and types.
The woman in the jacquardish, checkered, classic jacket, the one under the english tutor sign,
dispenses advice, it is getting slightly chilly in here, she types, types.
She can see the reflection of the person picking up something in the monitor, beside her, she can
look at all these ppl around her while staring stoically down at the keyboard, she is outta words
outta words, always, always outta words. 45 142 words outta words. Hmm, ironic, but not much.
Words are like beads, you just fiddle them somehow onto the string, words are like bricks, you
just assemble them one after the other, they are like drawings in an animation, numbered, each
waiting in line to make its debut 4 a split-split second only to vanish in the splash of the
succeeding words, that is how it is, that is how it is. She ponders when will she ever forge her A-
game in writing, how can there even be an A-game 4 a writer. A writer just has to sit at a
typewriter, day-in, day-out, that is all it takes, that should be all it takes. All it takes.
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Her words are slightly fragmented, not good enough, not bad enough, the wordsalad around her
is confusing, confusing in a good way, it is this indistinguishable mix of so many, many voices,
the earphone and her touque muffle all these sounds, but not too much, she can still write, write,
she can still listen in to these conversations without really noticing what is going on, going on,
nausea sets in, she should stop, will stop. Forty-five, three three seven, words and words and
words. Page 133, page 133.
---
And once more, here we are, langara, langara. Maybe two pages more, 2 pages more. It is mid-
afternoon (whatever that means, slightly obscure term, but who cares), she is typing away, away.
Her back is to the green, typing, being nauseated, that is what she does, she can see the neon
light so very diagonal in the back, she can overhear conversations, very lively, she types and
types and types. Upstairs, neon lights, woman in black with black and white bag walks by, it is
funny how the ppl @ the other computer make the chair roll back every time they laugh, now
there are three ppl talking, everybody laughs, it is kinda funny, the author cannot help but giggle
slightly, overhearing this stuff. She ponders, ponders. She should pen something severe,
something about bigger issues, not smaller issues, not everything on this planet is just mere B.S.,
not everything is trivial and banal, this is a serious world, but her writing is just more
nonsensical, more poetic, the fascination with the form, she is a formgiver, always, always, first
and foremost. We are trained here as a visual artist, thus words are just material to chop up and
rearrange, this is how it is how it is, words describe scenes, they are full of colour and she types,
types, laughter shreakingly upstairs, save this, spellcheck this, fast, fast, faster. Speedwriting
speedwriting, ah, every month is nano month here. She should go to starbucks, hot chocolate
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with whipped cream, no chocolatesyrup, she should skedaddle over to the Y, bike , bike, she
should do this, do that. And type, type, always type. Marathon typing, sprint typing, ah words,
words, all these words.
A woman in babyblue, trying to find something in her white bag on the green chair.
Colours, colours. No strong ones here, everything is subdued, primary colors: basically none,
non-existent, non-existent. She ponders, what else should she smush onto the page, coherence
would be good, 4 a change, for a change. Meticulously constructed texts would be good, so
good. But in the end, what counts, what really, really counts, is diligence, the constant writing
and typing, and writing some more. The moving thru the city, the planting oneself in front of all
these typewriters, all over town, all over town. The motion and movement, the change of place
should eventually force itself into the text, make it stronger, speed up its pace and make it linger
@ times,that kinda stuff, that kinda, kind. and she types. and she types. Poetry is still far away,
but, hey, we can always try here.
She turns around in her grey chair, she looks up at the computers sign, of which only the
omputers can be seen from here, she types her observations, this goes so slow, so very, very
slow. She has not even reached the 50 000 words mark, in fifty days, she should have penned
2000 words per day, but, all she made due, was around 1000. Not that good, too slow a pace,
way too slow, way way too slow.
People are coming and going, commotion, the author pushes the empty starbucksbag to the side,
the one that someone left here, did not throw in the garbage, she turns it around, so that it does
not face her, with all its crumbs inside, she types, types. She looks at the woman who plays with
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her hair, rolling that one long dark strand while staring at the monitor, reading, the author types,
types, she should go up to the fourth floor, read up on some of the literary criticism, criticisms,
the ones that sour in the books that no one reads, she types, types, types. She could go to the caf,
have a donut, ah, sugar and grease, she lives on it, and it shows, it definitely shows. Not good not
good not good. She parked her car in oakridge, changes the parking spot every four hours, she is
not quite sure, when she has to be back there. Everything, smushes together, she types, so utterly
incessantly, she will go home and pass out on the green sofa, writing, so utterly tiresome, so
without interest, without, ups and downs, so mechanically, so utterly mechanically. What
possesses her to do this, who knows, who knows, what would possess anyone to do this, it is
such a weird and strange action, all this typing, trying to hinge onto slight formulations, the sighs
of truth that aren’t really, that do not have any bearing on reality, her own little universe, house
of card, houses of cards.
A woman comes in, black clad, walking so very determinedly, the author can see the fire
extinguisher in its casing, somewhere on the wall, in the distance. Green flowerpot on the
reference desk, two women waving their hands, pointing, pointing. Ah, words, ah, words. Her
shoulders are cramping up, her neck, which she moves from side to side, her fingers typing, ah,
typing. And typing some more, typing some more. Forty six one hundred ninety one. Ah, words,
ah, words. She ponders, if she overuses the term ”ah”, but @ this point, who cares, who cares.
She counts this, she put in six and a half pages today, the weird thing is that she feels so very
exhausted, six and a half, that is nothing, nothing. A real writer should produce twenty pages,
easily, easily. She types, types, time to go home, time to go home. A walk would be nice, a
shower, a protagonist, an antagonist, that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. She tries to squeeze the
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hurt out of her neck, the soreness, writing is so very physical, not easy on the system, not @ all,
not, not. Her sentences are way 2 fragmented, they lack congruence, coherence, all these funny
terms that start with see-oh, with ”co”. and she types, types, hacks away at this computer, this is
enough, enough. Enough 4 now.
- --
She ponders if she should still type some more, a short appendix for the day. A so very
short one, a sketch, she doesn’t even disable the indent, just tries to jot down some stuff,
some stuff, the “must be recycled”writing on the back of the computer, she ponders what
is that about, but, hey, who cares, who cares, she finally makes it to the bottom of the
page, seven pages today, ah, pretty good, not that bad, somewhere between pretty good
and not that bad, she writes , writes, before she dissipates into this black keyboard, before
keeling over, just at the cusp of keeling over, langara library, let’s leave, leave, enough,
and enough and enough.
- --
she is sitting once more, here, here, she types, langara is pretty desolate today. Maybe the
long weekend that is coming up, maybe classes are on, maybe, so maybe. It is nine forty
nine, it is getting a tad more crowded, the author had problems with logging in, with
getting her banana loaf, ah, really grave probs to complain about, whine about, not
exactly dilemmas of life and death, not even dilemmas, just hiccups, hiccups, glitsches.
The author sits here and types, she ponders, she looks up, at the rows of shelves, green
chairs, grey chairs, black chairs, red chairs, she notices ppl walking by, she has nothing to
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say, nothing really. She tried to sit at a computer station that faces the window, but
somehow that computer did act up, she had to shut it down, now this computer works, but
there is not much to see from here, not much, not much. A person walking by on the floor
above, file in hand, the author ponders how she can spin a narrative outta that. The author
ponders, maybe she should go and pick up a journal, start reading random stuff, let it
flow into her writing. She could even save this her writing, minimize the window, open
another window, read up on the news, comment on that, let that inform her writing. The
author ponders, she could write about the small power button on the computer, the lowly
blue one, that has a light behind it, and thus is so very prominent, because it is backlit, a
tiny backlit powerbutton, and the yellow light under it that flickers up ever so often. A
man in a funny beige and black jacket stands near the computerstation, a tim horton cup
near him, a woman stands at the other computer station, but leaves before the author can
write about her, she was blackclad or something, slim built, late twenties, that is how it
seems, how it seems. A phone rings, four times, no one answers. The table edge, digs into
the authors wrist, the phone rings again, this time twice. Desolate library in a desolate
community college in a desolate…, she ponders, what is more interesting, desolate or
crowded. What makes for better literature, better writing? When does literature become
writing and vice versa, vice versa? What makes for good writing, what makes for bad
writing, is it debatable, debatable. Is Marcel Marceau an artist, are mimes artists, what is
art, what is art? What is design, what, what? What is applied art. What is functional art,
music, nah, non-functional, poetry equals non-functional. She ponders if she is an artist,
if everybody is an artist. Something smells here, perfumy, but the scent went away,
before she pins down her observation into the keyboard.
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She types, types, tries to not put her wrist too near to the edge of the table, she types and
types and types. Ponders, ponders. A very elegant woman stands at the computer station,
lots of ppl here are very elegant, tres chic, too chic for being bluestockings. Today’s
university ppl are so very elegant, dressed professionally except for some old hippies,
like her, not like her. She types, types, fleeting sentences, she should paint, animate, that
is what she is trained as, she lost her way, lost her way. She ponders if a writer is an
independant entrepreneur, how much taxes, how much, how much. In her case none, her
art is pure expenditure. Well, at least it is held at a minimum, she just uses up eight and a
half by elevens and at that, not even that, not even that. Her stuff exists in cyberspace,
electricity is used up, but that is used up anyways. Somehow she should read up on this,
be informed, be informed. She should derive at conclusive conclusions, and how do you
derive, what exactly is “derive”?
Ah, anyways, after this so very quasi-intellectual dribble, actually not even quasi-
intellectual, after all these words, she can leave, leave. Her job here is done, done, for
today, 4 today. Save, spellcheck, not necessarily in that order. Nausea sets in, it always
does, does. Could be from holding her neck downwards, maybe typers, who type while
looking up at the monitor, don’t feel pangs of nausea. She could describe herself
vomiting on the keyboard, hurling the keyboard, getting insane, here, in this polite
library, only to staccato the boredom, a polite performance, a person, clutching her chest
and falling to the ground, drama, action, something to staccato the boredom of the
everyday. And she types, types.
- --
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She ponders, if she could position her writing somewhere in the bigger pic of chicklit,
postfeminist discourse, if it matters, matters. Diasporic art, Islamic art. Would those kind of
labellings make her art more marketable, less marketable. Is it important who she is, is it, is it.
She ponders, it should not be. Obviously michael moore or noam chomsky or norman finkelstein
would have been careerless, if they would have just rararad for the status quo. The ayatollahs
would still do weddings and funerals if there were no despots and imperialists to defrock. That
kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. Marx would have been just another rich kid, if he would not have
chosen to leave augsburg for good. The author ponders, was marx from augsburg, or was that
bertold brecht. And why does it matter, and what kinda bearing has all of this on her writing,
writings, she ponders , ponders. She looks up at the woman in the blue sweater, that looks
velvety and has a pink embroidered crown with pearls on it. The author types, types. Should
stop, her inconclusive dribble, her short stabs @ writing that isn’t, is not. She should stop,
enough of sitting here, listening in on laughter and librarians chat. Enough, ah, enough,. Enough
already.
- --
the author is now sitting in the vcc learning center, it is half past three, and this place
closes down @ four, so she has about fifteen minutes to pen stuff, stuff. Writing under
the gun, not that easy, not that easy. How can she write original stuff under the gun? She
uses the term “original”, because the English tutor woman shouts original loudly again
and again, the author cannot really hear anything else, it is just the word “original” that is
peppered loudly through the tutor lady’s talking. And once more, three “originals”. She
points to the student’s text, original, original. The tutor looks like julie andrews, the
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author awaits her to break into “do re mi” any minute. The author ponders, she has
nothing to say, only idle gossip, it is 3:34, she should stop, there is nothing to say
anything. 47590 words, so maybe this will do. For now. 4 now.
---
Another day, Saturday. Saturday. The words have to be fed to the monster, the one that is
waiting, waiting, open the laptop, your daily ritual of two pages, fast, fast, so very fast. Outside
the sun, glistening life, inside, a woman in a black sweater with long strangely weird wingtip
thingies, hunched over, typing, typing, fast, fast. On the telly, talking heads, one woman two
men, gesticulating, very fresh, very up, they seem to be so very happy, up, up, she types, types,
talk about facebook privacy problems, twitter, she tries to write, while trying to decipher what is
going on, a running conversation on the telly, her fingers typing, typing, typing. Outside, green,
nothing but unhappy stuff on the idiotbox, aircrash, she’d rather listen to music, happy thoughts
happy thoughts. Fire on the television, the crash, the planecrash. Air India crash.8 out of 166
survived. Eight.
She ponders, this is not the right place to type. She cannot really concentrate on her typing, it is
too uncomfy here, she can feel a tear in her neck, can feel her shoulders, this cannot be that good
for writing, not good for typing eloquence, not good, definitely not good. Now oilspill- “BP,
what do you have to say 4 yourself now?”- president obama this, president obama that.
She types, types, one more page left, she could take this laptop, take it to the outside.
A woman in beige, talking about college grads and their pursuit of money, the author ponders, if
typing away will bring her anywhere, or if finding a nice cushy office job would be so much
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better, exactly because she could use the human interaction, at this time her interaction is
basically with the starbucks lady, with the purdy’s lady, with the two different cashiers, with the
person behind her, when she backs out of her parking spot and she waves, that is not enough, not
enough. Erectile dysfunction ad on the telly. She’d rather listen to music, she’d rather go to the
kitchen table to type, rather do this, do that.
The page slowly rolls to an end, now two persons in red chairs talking about financial planning
on the telly, ppl are talking in this room and the author tries to concentrate on the tv-quasi- info,
on her writing and on all the miscellaneous stuff that is going on, the woman with the happy face
talks about five year plans, there is a “most important thing”, the “second important thing”, the
author knows, that she should stop typing and listening in to the telly, she types, she types, not
really concentrating on her writing, not really concentrating on the info on the telly. Her writing
is fragmented, the listening in is too fragmented, ah, she should spellcheck and wrap this up, she
wrote her stuff, who cares about what is said on tv, it is info that is disguised as info, it is
basically entertainment. Financial planners on tv, total entertainers, that is how it is that is how it
is. Well, it is a good job for them.
The author knows, that today, her words are not good, not good enough, obviously they never,
ever are, her text is not planned out, not detailed enough, it is just a wave of words splashing
down onto the computer, a wave of words taking the laptop by storm. And save and spellcheck.
Some words, some more words.
The financial planner ladies are really good at horrifying the viewers, panic inducing telly, that is
what it is for, what it is for.
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She types, she types. The woman on the telly opens her eyes, stares with big eyes at the other, a
pic of wall street, how appropriate, first make sure that you make the viewers be scared about
their lively hoods, then show an image of wall street. the author hates watching cnn, she wants to
turn it off, but has no clue where the remote control is, so she types, types, tries to stop her
typing, tries to wrap up her writing, tries to run out, run away to where the sun shines, where
words don’t rule, where there is motion, movement, light. Forty eight two nine niner. Aha. Forty
eight three oh five. words and words and words.
- --
she uses the open office software in the central library, hoping 4 da best, it is two sixteen, it is
very very downtownish, next to her a woman in pink, so very busy with solitaire, to her right a
person clicking constantly, blue t-shirt, the grey haired person leaves, the woman with decollete
stays, the author types, types. Took the canada line downtown, walked thru downtown, saturday,
good wheather, not too hot, not too cold, the city, the city, brimming with ppl, to the, well, brim,
brim. She types, she types. Wondering where this will go, some plastic bag shuffles in the
background, she types, types. Someone says, oh, yes, her sweater is too hot, she has too much to
say, the words clash onto the page, too fast, too fast. So this is what a well-thought-hru storyline
is for, a wonderful outline, an exacting blueprint, you can paint by numbers, paint by numbers.
Order, order, every art work should adhere to order only to gallop a tad, only to have slight
hiccups, that is how it is, that is how it is. There are no formulas, formulae, just general
guidelines, the VPL-sign on the monitor, very lively, baby blue, red, carmine yellow. Carmine or
something. The author is conquering gibberish here, the text is not logical enough, and maybe
that is good good good. Ah, to be an author to be an author. In vancouver, in two thousand and
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ten. To put words down, words that might march in line like little toy soldiers, words that might
fight the grip of the pen, the typewriter, words that are so very very insufficient, words that act
up up up. The music that is the language, the little signs, the strong letters. Words, words, words.
An ode 2 words that is what this is. A non-film. She types, types. Not quite sure why this word
software is lightly off, there are spaces where there should not be ones, why does each and every
typewriter in this city have its own little interface, why are all these typewriters like rugged
individuals, why, why? And one more page is done, one more, one more. Hey, we can fill the
page without discussing the pressing issues of the day, without, without. The author looks up,
actually the woman in decollete is actually a dude in purple red t-shirt with tiny black pinstripes,
he is just holding his head in his hands and that is why it looked as if there was skin, but it is the
skin of the arm and the hand. So this is how visual fallacies occur, the author writes, writes. She
will wrap this up, increments of two pages, two pages in one sitting, she will save this,
spellcheck, she will go down to blenz and have a chamomile tea or a green tea or a peppermint
tea, something that is good 4 old ladies in sensitive shoes, she was asked today if she wants a
senior bus pass, nice, ten years older, that's how we look here, ah, who cares, who cares, as long
as there is a typewriter and as long as there is enough power in the fingers to push down the
buttons, you can call me ten years older, you can call me ten years younger, and she types, types.
It is cool here, but not too much, this is a very comfy library, she loves it loves it. Moshe Safdie
did a tremendous job, vancouver central library rocks, rocks. And she types and she types.
The page still begs 4 some more input, there is a big banner to the author's left, today's edition
newspaper from around the world, a canadian flag, it is actually a triptych-kinda thingie, two big
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banners and they are not to her left, but to her right, anyways, she types, types. Page fills up,
reluctantly, forcefully. And she types, types,
this software is so very weird and strange, it guesses the words one wants to feed to it, every
word beginning one types is automatically followed by a blue line with white writing in it, the
open office software just guesses what word one wants to write. You type in “word” and the
software guesses “wordsmith”, one has to keep on typing to force one's own version onto the
machine. Ah, man against machine, woman against machine. Which is actually a weird term, so
very paradoxical, because all these machines are man made, woman made. The author has to
stop writing, she has only 27 more minutes on this computer, she has to spellcheck and save this,
thus, stop, stop, stop this now. N O w. Now. 49 237, 43 238, words and dot. That is how it is,
that is how it is.
---
so she can use another one hour on this computer, she is not quite sure, if she wants to, she feels
pangs of overwhelmedness, which is such a weird and strange wording, she had to save this file
here in pdf and doc and otf form or some other form which kind of complicates writing and
confuses her, especially if she wants to retrieve this later, she ponders if she made the 50 000
words mark, this software does not show the wordcount automatically, one has to pause typing
and go to the tools icon and click around, well, definitely easier than counting each and every
word or ballparking it, anyhoo, she types, types, types some more. 49 371 words it is, so, not
quite there, not quite there. She types, types, maybe she will get there, if she just holds her nose
against the grind stone, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. What exactly is a grindstone, who
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makes up all these weird terms in a language? Must be something from mary poppins, not
exactly the most scholastic place to learn a language, weird little slang bites, not academic enuf,
and the term enuf is not that good either. Ah, negativity, negativity rules. Always, always. She
ponders, seems, tea @ blenz downstairs just has to wait, we have to type here, type and type and
type. Forty nine four eighty three words, words, words. Just 500 more, 500, five hundred. Give
or take some. The pink lady to her right still computering, the clicker still clicking, music in his
earphones. The purple shirt guy, still there, still there, a man in glasses and black hair, looking
seriously at the monitor. Behind her, the library, very impressive, very big, very very. How many
words, how many, how many? How about spellcheck, 4 a change, for a change. The music in the
earphones to her left very loud, very forceful, even militaristic. She types, types. Typing away,
that is what she does, day-in, day-out, that is how her day-ins and day-outs are filled, pause for
spellchech, spellchack and saving, wipe all these errors out that accumulate so very fastly by
typing so fastly, is fastly even a word, no,no, this is arguably so very very insane. Insane in a
harmless way, in a harmful way. But arguably insane, weird and strange, so very much, so very
much. One can't speed up the wordcount, can't, can't. The words just do their own thing, they
stall and move forwards, however they feel. Weird, so very weird. Words as material, like clay,
like paint. Four nine six eight four, 49 684.
saturday afternoon, slowly motioning towards evening, she types and types and types.
---
and one more go, one more go. She can correct this all later, she will, will, eventually,
eventually. First shovel the words onto the page, you can always go back and fine tune all these
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expressions, the details can wait, can wait. First the rough sketches, then the small short corners,
the ellipses, the dots, the nuts, the bolts. That is how it is, that is how it is. She feels like a pianist,
the keys, the keys. So very virtuosic reacting to her input,. So very, so very. 49 799, 49799.
words and words and words.
---
She is sitting in front of her laptop, on tv the news of a cell that is completely created in a lab, it
seems like a very very breakthrough thing, the author is not quite sure if she understood it right,
if she grasped it correctly. Anyhoo, she types, types. It is by now seven twenty-nine, she feels
slightly nauseated, like always, like always. Outside, longer shadows, still light though, a lot of
light. The comfort of late afternoon, the expectation of darkness, of night, of an evening to paint
the town red, of an evening of rest, sleep. Either way, either way.
- --
She ponders what else to write. the words splash onto the keyboard, but she used,
overused these phrases so many, many times. She slowly moves towards the 50 000
words mark, the cut-off line for nano creations, a random number that does not say
anything about the quality of the text, it is only a measuring tab, a numerical
classification of a text, she types, types, types herself forward to pass the 50 000 word
mark. Ah, like a marathon runner nearing the end, she types, types, feeling slightly sick,
getting sicker, but anyhow, she forges forward, typing typing and typing some more. Her
left side feels so very cramped up, a feel of numbness, this cannot be good, cannot be that
good. Some more words, some more words.
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Only one hundred words, actually less than one hundred words. Some sentences, some
observations, it took her more than one and a half month to accumulate all these words, writing
day-in, day-out. Only sixty more words, only sixty. The space, the distance between her text and
the “landmark” gets shorter and shorter, she types types and types. She should spellcheck, save
this, save this. Only twenty-six words, only twenty-six.
The tv is on, the brown basket with the white-beige lace border, she types, type, types. Five more
words, finally, FiNallY. Yep, fifty thousand it is, fifty thousanD. 50 007.
Nothing really changed, nothing really changed in this world. But it makes the author happy,
knowing that she achieved to pen these many words, in about fifty-two, fifty-three days. Life is
good, she can now go for a walk, happily, the late afternoon so very fresh air, all these words, ah,
all these words. Poetry, prose, simple, simple text. 50 073 words, 50 077. Or something like that,
something like that.
- --
A cool and slightly chilly-ish sunday morning, in the end of may, end of may. She took
the laptop to the kitchen, is sitting @ the kitchen table here, somehow this is not the place where
literature is penned, can be penned. No fountain pen, no ink spots, no paperbasket with crumpled
paper, not enough drama, not, not. A kitchen, ah, a place way too prosaic, art cannot come to
fruition here, cannot, cannot. Ideas dissipate into the chilliness of the morning, mist takes them
away, away, she cannot force poetry out of a vacuum, this will not go anywhere, cannot go
anywhere. She watches the letters appear, she knows the wordcount gets larger, but, hey, what
about the quality, the gist of this writing, will it hold up, hold up? can it, can it?
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today will be a long day, she has to shovel all this stuff down to the basement, lotsa stuff, stuff,
stuff. She ponders, she’d rather sit here and type, seems more doable, more rewarding, seems to,
seems to. She made her way thru the early morning dunbar and arbutus, she frequented the donut
shop, a honey cruller and a timbit, chocolate glazed, chocolate glazed. She tries to jot down some
verbal sketches, as fast as she can, as fast as she can.
Bananas on the kitchen counter, some mangoes, the cardboard boxes next to her, she types,
types. In the morning, there was a racoon outside, rushing away, rushing away. and she types,
types. Knives in the knifeholder, she types, types. Nah, a kitchen is no place to type, nothing
going on, nothing, nothing. The noise of a faucet, for two seconds, the voice, the song of the
coffeemaker. This is definitely not enough too make for good literature, no drama, no drama, not
enough, not enough.
Spellchecking keeps her busy, only one more page is needed, she is not quite sure if she should
shoot 4 so much more words, if 50 000 words is not enough, more than enough, more than
enough. But, hey, she types anyways, words, words, the machine kind of expects it, it is so used
to its two pages, each and every day, each and every day. Kinda insane, but, hey, not insane
enough. The early morning, still the early morning. the author listens to her typing, she should
take this laptop out to the coffeeshop, only to watch ppl, to have something to observe, to dissect,
to write about, to write about. How can you fill the page when all you see is this dying plant in
the big grey flowerpot, the walls, the walls, some trees outside. too much stillness, too much, too
much.
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The second page is still half full, still waiting for the author’s input, input. The author ponders,
she looks at the empty red lasagne box next to her, lying on the other recyclables, the cardboard
box, which held the big computer and is empty now, there is another empty muesli box, which
has the words “how big is your bowl” written on it, in big red letters, on yellow, on yellow. The
author types, the music from the telly rumbles slowly around, like a rolling creek, this Sunday
morning is so very slow, she remembers a song by jewel, about eggs, sunny side-up, she
ponders, this is not the writing we are shooting for here, how can you possibly describe non-
motion, stagnation, life too silent, too quiet, there has to be drama, drama, drama. Storyarc or
something like that, there has to be the honking of cars, the noise of a saxophone, drums, drums,
drums. The faces that you meet on the canada line, the faces you meet in downtown vancouver,
for seconds, for seconds. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. And save, and spellcheck, gimme
some words, some more words. On a desolate sunday morning, which rumples silently, carefully
forward. While the tv talks a tad, while the keys sing their songs, typing and typing and typing
some more. some more, some more.
---
@ the top of page 163. A day, somewhere between sunny and overcasty, she finds herself
in front of her laptop trying to hold a conversation, trying to type, she is watching the tiny letters,
dots, signs, swirlies, appear, appear, makes them disappear by pushing the backspace button, the
words appear, appear. She has to do her homework, she enrolled in a continuing ed course @
langara, Word 97, wednesday eves, there is homework, homework, homework to explore all the
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hidden features of the software, all those tiny button thingies, all those, all those. The author is so
very reluctant @ writing, she just had a too big breakfast in kits, social, talking, chatting, now
she has to wind down, to tend to the biz of writing, serious writing, serious typing, she has to
find herself within the realm, the realms of the task of penning something, some words worth
reading, something, anything, and anything will do, should do. Something on the other side of a
meticulously crafted narrative, some words that can paint, that have colour, words that are
compatible with the world of moving images, if that is possible, possible, how can you possibly
make something out of a text that has the same propensity to hold a viewer’s attention as an
oversized animation of pink panther, of music, how can you do that, how, how? How can words
evoke the feel of motion, of ee-motion, how, how. She tries to wind down, tries not to retrace the
same words again and again, tries to vie for interesting text, but, hey, it is not really that kinda
day, there is stagnation in the air, there is the repetitiveness of sitting in front of a computer, the
looking down at a keyboard, the difficulty to find words, words, for two pages, two pages.
Top of page one sixty four, the blank page stares her in the eye, she stares back. Showdown, high
noon. the writer against the pen, against the language. the author against the machine, the laptop.
Call it what you want, it is always the blank page, the potential, the not yet formulated idea, the
world waiting for your input. Even if it is not waiting, even if you do not have a contract, even if
you freelance. There is a difference between being hired to write and between writing and trying
to find a market for the finished product. In the first case you are propelled forward by deadlines,
in the latter case, the second case, you are freeflowing, way too freeflowing. She ponders, she
should let go of assumptions, she should just type, type, build it and they will come, and if not,
then, tough noogie.
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She ponders, her observations, her reflections are so redundant, so very retarded. Insanity sets in,
nausea, the green outside is fresh, fresh. She ponders, she could title this “dispatches from…”,
she ponders, “dispatches from. . . where, where?” And why would she call this, these her words,
this her text “dispatch”, dispatch eludes to places of drama, of life and death, places where
humans slaughter each other, murder each other, mow each other down, where confrontation
runs high, elimination of the enemy, killing, death, she pauses, the only thing she is killing here,
is time, time, with all her random observations, her storylines that do not go anywhere, her run-
on sentences, her demolished syntax, her utterings, her debased mutterings, her negativity with
sprinkles of positivity, therein, therein, somewhere within the harsh negations of negativity, she
types, types, types. Her day moves forward, noon is so very near, the words, the words, a crow
outside, a bird flapping its wings, sailing towards the bushes, she types, types, while leaves spin
silently in the wind, the page moves forward, she types, types, another day, another day, full of
glimpses at writing, devoid of good text, of accuracy, mediocre writing, that is all she can do,
and all these stabs @ creative writing, should do, will do, have to do. Have to, have to, have To.
51 437, 51 439. Ah, words, ah, words. It is chilly outside, she should take her coat, wonder
outside, to oakridge, to downtown, on the canada line, anyhoo, her text 4 today is done, not that
good, not that bad, mediocre writing aspiring 2 be more: words that are one of a kind,
rememberable, in line with the great insights of our world, she sighs, hers are only mutterings,
non-insights, too meagre and meak 2 make it, but still, not that bad, not that bad. Self-doubt,
nausea, always there, she types, types, types. Types some more, types some more. and more and
more and more.
- --
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Pretty fast, not that soon. She is sitting here in vcc, a tuesday morning, after a long, so
very long weekend, still groggy, still trying to order her thoughts, she sits here. Has 2 jot down
her thoughts, @ least two pages of them, times new roman, 12 point, doublespaced, fast, fast,
fast. She then will take herself to the pastry place upstairs, something lunchlike, full of sugar and
fat, after writing, after text.
The shadows of the lights on the walls are very geometrical, she ponders how many more pages
she should produce, will this be a 150 page, a 200 page or a 250 page text. 300 something, what,
what. She could stop now, she has the arbitrary minimum count of 50 000 words, she ponders if
her writing is staccatoed by what is the norm in 2010, for texts, 4 texts. Does the publishing
industry dictate what is on the literature market, the frankfurt book fair, what, what? There is a
paper in there, somewhere, there always is always is. And she types, types. Fast words, words
against sleepiness, against the realization that she lost time, wasted her yesterday in meaningless
socialization, when she should have done her writings, her editings. She is somehow chained to
the computer, she thinks about finishing this, her project, projects. All this typing. Typing, and
typing some more. Words and words and words. She feels exhausted, too much wine, not good
not good. She’d love to keel over this keyboard, just start sleeping, sleeping away, instead of
writing, typing, typing.
The words, words.
She ponders, seems, one page is done, only one page left to type. That is how many letters, how
many square buttons are needed to be pressed down. Maybe she should calculate the exact
number of pushes on squares, then calculate how many square pushes it takes to fabricate a text,
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a book, something like that, something like that. How many rewrites, how many editings, how
many walks thru how many malls, thru holt renfrew, by colourful clothes hanging, by shoes with
high heels, with low heels, how many walks thru the city, over bridge after bridge, how many
walks, walks, by steel constructions, how many steps, how many steps. While trying to produce
something that is not there yet, sketch the ideas, let go of old ones and construct new ones, think
up newer ones. Invent new ones. Ah, she types, types, slightly fast, slightly hastily, slightly
hurriedly, hurried. Words, ah, words. Outside still the jewellery exhibit, noise, happy screams,
inside here, muffled, polite commotion, ppl @ the monitors, monitors. One more page, one more
page.
She looks up, stares at the three vertical white rectangles, on the wall, on the wall. Of all the
things she can describe, those are the most fascinating objects. Very unobtrusive, silent,
observing. Nonjudgmental objects, on the wall, on the wall. Facing the author, while she is
facing them. The author ponders, she could make something outta this, fabricate thoughts, let
ideas flow, a narrative, a non-narrative, she will fill the page alright, but will it be worth it, worth
it? Who knows, knows. The author types away, hunched over the keyboard, not sure of her
writing ability, a reluctant wordsmith wrestling with the keyboard, gathering up the words, ah,
she writes, types. The math/science tutor sign, the english tutor signs, arrows, chilliness. Upstairs
desserts waiting in the fridge, insanity palpable, so palpable. She types, types. A vocation that is
so strange, did she find words or did words find her. She should paint, draw, she doesn’t,
doesn’t. She watches films on you tube, short image essays, treatises, on art, painting. Research
that took her away from painting, she types away, types away. This cannot be good, not that
good. But, hey, two pages seem to come to an end, and this seems to be what we are shooting 4
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here. And stop, and spellcheck and save. 52 194 words, and words and words and words. May
twenty-five, 2010, two thousand ten.
- --
not exactly the place she wants 2 be. She automatically types in these words, even though
they do not really make sense, no real sense in this context, maybe in any context. The
doubtfulness, the negativity, the strong acceptance, the strong realization of dislocation, that is
what makes us write sentences like that, makes us utter stuff like that, under our breath, she
types, types. It is two thirty two now, it is langara, a person behind her talks constantly, loudly, it
is a studygroup or something, but basically he leads the pack, listening to his own monologue.
The author types, the green is in the back, this is her second stab @ writing today, she is slightly
falling asleep, ready to keel over, keel over. Today, not yet nausea, but sleepiness, the wish to
throw in the towel, to quit writing all together, for good, 4 good. Who wants to write when
nobody will read this, too much redundancy, she cannot really concentrate, this person behind
her talks way too much, too much, too much. She looks up @ the monitor, color innovation, she
types so very automatically, maybe next time she will sit @ home, there is too much noise here,
too much, too much. This is a library, does this guy really have to talk so loudly, there has to be
quietness, not loud, extra loud talking. This is so weird and strange, this person talks forever
about the timeline of something, something, when does gen X start, when does gen Y start, what
kind of weird and strange discussion is this anyways, she cannot concentrate, she tries to type,
but, hey, how is this possible, how, how. This is her tuesday, typing, typing, against the noise,
against the noise.
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She tries to block out the constant talking in this super annoying voice, she tries to concentrate
on something else, something else. Which is kinda difficult, this person in the red chair is way
too loud. She should change her seat, her writing is suffering suffering, her words are too weird
and strange, she just cannot concentrate, can’t, can’t, cannot. Now it is the discussion of a “box
of popcorn”, before it was a discussion of “different bubblegum flavours”. She types, types, this
must be a businesscourse, her words stall stall stall stall. She could put her hands over her ears,
but she needs them for writing. She tries to spell out the words she is typing, in order to
concentrate on constructing her text. Basically impossible, this guy is so loud, it is as if he has a
microphone in his hand, every word is loudly thrown into the space of the library, no librarian
here to shoosh him, he just talks extra loud extra loud.
Nobody else seems to mind, nobody, nobody. Maybe no one else is penning her masterpiece,
only the author, only the author. She is losing valuable time here, her masterpiece is so very
interrupted, no masterpiece today, no soup 4 you, no soup for you.
Upstairs white lines, neon in concrete, a woman in yellow, types, types, a man in blue and
glasses types, types. One page already, one page of complaints, of whining, whining. Whining ad
nauseum, that is what this author does, whine till nausea sets in. nausea, nauseum, correlations,
correlations. Maybe, so very maybe. The red exit sign, typing, ah, typing. The little blue light on
the computer, her fingers typing, typing away. The yellow earrings of the yellow-shirted woman,
her purple metallic nailpolish, the author typing, ah, typing. 52 805, 52 807. Words, words.
One more page, so very maybe. Her syntax is off, the weather is rainy, it is three oh one,
her words suck, suck. They just drizzle onto the keyboard, each and every one of them drowned
160
in the constant noise pollution from behind, she can’t write, can’t, can’t. she sighs, writes, looks
at the monitor, she can’t concentrate, can’t, can’t. the words are stalling obviously, she is
overbored, the text stalls, stalls. One more page, ah, one more page. Outside drizzle, grey
columns here, a key board, a mouse, the usual, the usual. Upstairs, black chairs, lamps, ceiling,
nothing to describe nothing nothing. Next time just take photos, the words are so impossible
today, the language, the language. Fragmented sentences, half words, some dots, this is so bad,
this is not poetry, non-poetry, not even coherence. Just words mixed up, notes of a song that
screeches along, a symphony that becomes a pop song, in the middle of the creative process, a
cello that is smashed on stage, words that gallop away, a writing that can’t be, can’t be. That is
smashed into pieces, hacked into its increments, into a myriad of units, this is her art, her art. She
should paint, paint, forceful strokes, paint dripping, drizzles of yellow white – her words stop,
stop, the small flowerpot on the counter of the librarian, still there, still there. A red line on the
green, of the pot, of the pot, five three oh five six, her words, her words. The poetry that can’t,
the prose that can’t. she is hunched over, slumping in her chair, swivelling a tad, she types, types,
types. Spellcheck, save, outta here. The usual, the usual.
- --
Once more in the library @ langara, should be still may, fresh and overcasty outside,
fresh in a grey-white morning kind of way, outside the green, ppl @ the other workstations, she
types, types. Ponders, where these writings will take her, all this hammering away @ keyboards,
but she thought about that before, she did she did. Existential angst, she has probs typing the
word, writes “extent” first, knowing that there is something wrong, tries to remember the word,
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existentialism, so paris, so camus, so Juliette Greco, smoke of cigarettes, before her time, before
her time. So very paris, simone de Beauvoir, Sartre, the author ponders, ponders. Langara in
2010, this is her world now, her world. The woman at the other computer says “poetic devices to
uncover the hidden messages”, the author types this, random stuff, she types, types, types. Is not
quite sure why she sits here, she walked by landscapers, who raked stuff, she feels so much that
this is what she does, she turns in to a certain place, and starts typing, and when two pages are
over, she goes on with the rest of her life, this is how masterpieces are penned, you put in the
same amount of words, give or take some, then you have a master piece, or, for that matter, any
kind of piece, a coherent or semicoherent piece, the term master does not say anything, it can be
shitty writing, eloquent writing, but in the end it is writing, writing writing, 300 pages, in one
place, all these words, all these words, bound, tactile, mobile, and spellcheck, spell check.
She should really try to reapply to grad school, there should be a space in something come
September, she likes the routine, the having to turn in in a certain place, each and every day, she
is way too freeflowing here, way too freelancerish, there should be more structure, structure. The
same aerobic class, each and every morning, that might serve her well, something to staccato her
days, and anything will do. Something militaristic, something where you have to sit up straight,
that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. She still has to do her homework for her wordprocessing class at
six thirty in the afternoon, she types, types. The two women at the other computer station talk
about finals, about “when does your class start”, that kinda stuff that kinda stuff. The author
longs for tha , the being part of academia, on any side, on any side. College life is fun fun fun.
Something like that, something like that.
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She has to find a program to enrol in, should not be that tough not that tough. An artist residency
or something, something with an outline, something with a five-year plan, a three-month plan,
just something with a map, a plan, something, something, structure, deadline, something to
anchor her days on this planet. A word count to be met, something, anything. And she types, and
she types. Notices the noises, behind her, to her right, to her front, the blue light, on the
computer, the little one, little one. She listens in to the noise that a plasticwrapper makes, she
turns around, it is a granola bar wrapper, but it makes the noise of a big bag of potatochips, she
types and types and types. After this she will go to the Y, after that she will take the canada line
back to oakridge, oakridge seems to be her anchor these days, the glue, that holds everything
together. Ah, malls, malls. She types, types, notices ppl walking thru the green outside, small
ones, tall ones, the daycare is there, somewhere, she types, types, types her way forward to the
end of page two. Her words, her words. Not that good, not that bad, just words and words and
words. Instead of lines, instead of paint drops, words, words, instead of filmscenes, ah, one of
these days she will return to the world of visuals, where sound does not count, where words are
somewhere in the background, one of these days, one of these days.
- --
Pretty fast, typing, typing. She is in vcc, it is 12:40, some ppl sitting next to her, talking,
talking very caricaturelike, putting their stuff too next to her, how can she concentrate,
concentrate. She should put on those headphones, instead of complaining to the computer. She
types, types, feels too overcrowded, the woman next to her has her beige white jacket too near to
the white glisteny mouse, the author cannot write, cannot write, under these circumstances, under
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these circumstances. The author needs space to fledge her arms, like a painter, who wants to
fling paint on the canvas, on the canvas, even a Jackson Pollock needs a garage, a place to spread
his canvas, a place to move around, he needs a space to put down the paintbuckets in between
dripping, dripping. The author ponders, she should really do her writings @ home, at the
kitchentable, in isolation, solitude, she should start smoking gauloises, she should do this, do
that. Get a haircut, what is the most befitting haircut 4 a writer? She should go to the optometrist,
get a new pair of glasses. Hornbrimmed, she should do this, do that. Work on her image, work on
her image, work on her image. The image of an artist, that kind of image, that kinda image. The
woman next to the author puts her purse on the jacket, not only does she not minimize her
territory, nope, she expands her territory. Horrible, horrible, people these days, people these
days. The author feels like taking her keyboard into her hands and smashing it onto the annoying
person next to her, she should take things into her own hands into her own hands. The author is
so very easily annoyed these days, that happens to you when you are outta school, you become
antsy, antsy, antsy ad nauseum, ad nauseum. Until you vomit, until nausea is what you feel, feel,
all day long, all day long. A steady diet of sugar and grease does not help either, does not, does
not. The author is pondering if she should go to the fashionshow today, elegance, elegance, she
can write about it, fashionshows are fun fun. She has this WORD class at langara, but watching
the show at oakridge seems so tempting, tempting. She has to dress up, she has to buy a ticket,
so, should the starving artist really do that, that? The starving one, the non-starving one. At this
point the starving artist should really lose weight, starve a tad, it is better for the joints, better,
better. The artist, the author, it’s all the same, all da same. Save this, spellcheck, put it online,
write, type, go insane, but not too noticeably, smush the insanity in, contain it, contain it. That’s
how we roll, that is how we roll here. And 54 253, words and words and words.
164
- --
She is sitting in vcc, trying to pen two pages, because, you know, 2 pages have to be fed
to the beast, the beast. The text, the text. It is eleven twelve, thursday, a busy, so very busy day
inside this place, outside the street, streetppl, the agony, inside, business, happiness, ppl hunched
over their homework, trying to achieve, goals, goals, make some money, learn a vocation, a
language, but it is not that, it is the process, the stab, the trying, the taking classes, the trying to
do some homework, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. The author was in langara the night
before, night class, she types, types away, she has to, has to, she will still take the canada line, go
back to oakridge, go to langara again, type and type and type. She ponders, she should take her
glasses with her, next time, next time, she ponders, how many ppl make this their vocation,
writing, writing, what a stupid, so very mechanistical job, sitting here, hunched over, pushing
down at squares, her nail kind of pushes against the square, on the keyboard, each and every
time. It kind of makes the top of her finger slide a tad, each and every time, she feels kind of
weird, she’d rather type, with the skin of the finger pushing down on the squares, she changes
her way of holding her middlefinger, she hates the weird and strange feel of the fingernail
against the metal of the key, which might not even be metal, should be plastic, plastic squares
embedded in silver casing, she types, types, types. These are the things we should all think about,
what we do, the physicality of what we do, this it where it’s at, this is where it’s @.
Must be the industrial designer in her, she took two classes of industrial design, after all, after all.
Endless dissipation of objects, the dissemination of each corner of an object, the tactility, that
kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. She types, types. Still one more page, waiting to be typed, still,
165
still. End of page one seventy four, she types, types. She will go up to the pastry place, and then,
and then. She starts sentences, kills them mid-sentence, wrangles them down, the words ceasing
to exist, ceasing to flow. These are her days, sketches on paper, letters, letters, she rolls outta
bed, hardly a drizzle of a shower, hair back in a bun, shoes, that kinda stuff, and the trek to the
nearest typewriter begins. Words, words, words. One day, a narrative, one day, one day.
Not yet, though, not yet though. English tutor seems slightly bored, with glasses, grey shortish
hair, reddish long sweater, a knit maybe, looking down, smiling, walking around, the author
types, types fast, fast, she has to sit here, feed her words, to the monster, fast, fast, fast. She has
earphones too, earphones without music, without sound, they only serve to muffle the noise from
this place, which is not really possible, you can still feel the commotion, you can see the constant
moving, you can feel the wind from the av. Well, wind is not the really good term, ah, a bad and
inaccurate term, she types, types, faster and faster and faster.
She pauses, she should save this, save her words for posterity, for children’s children, what
possesses her, what makes her think that she is in the same line as proust et al, she never is, never
will be, never will be. On the radio, in the morning, cbc, a talk about a book that refutes the idea
that Rosalind franklin was the nobel prize winner who didn’t, who couldn’t. The author made the
case that franklin’s research was just not as good as watson’s and crick’s. the author deduces,
that the girls are just not as good as the boys, are they, are they? Or is it really a case-by-case
case, is it, is it. Words splash onto the keyboard, the page moves to an end, she types, types,
listens to her typing, to money rolling in the printer, she can see the red light of the mouse next to
her, shimmering up every now and then, she types, types, types. How many words, how many
word, spellcheck, spellcheck, save, for posterity, 4 posterity. She types and types and types.
166
- --
another day in vcc, it is lightly too chilly, she starts typing, she hung out a tad too much
on the worlds of facebook, twitter, the like, photos from forty years ago, funny, funny. Back to
the future, back to now. To where everything is so much more anchored in reality, the here, the
now. Ppl talking behind her, typing of different ppl, her typing, her typing. Woman next to her,
looking at a yellow sheet for two secs, looking at all kind of carcinomas on the monitor, ppl
behind her trying to strategize to meet a deadline, they try to timeline their stuff, the author
ponders if there are better, better words to describe this, she knows, she knows, she doesn’t try
hard enough to find the exacting the accurate the correct wording, she misplaces her commas,
omits them, she types, types, more fascinated by the movement, the motion, the tapping of her
fingers that results in words on the monitor, she is not that interested in accuracy, somehow
writing is too visceral, too physical, too much about highlighting one idea and letting go of
another, it is about hierarchy, which event is more important, which one is less, what is worth
mentioning, what is less worth mentioning, writing is splitsecondish work, exhausting, slightly,
slightly. She types, types, all thru april and may, she might call this may and june, sounds nicer,
more melodic more melodic. She types types types. Does not really know why, it is a ritual a
ritual. It superimposes structure , on her life, her day-ins., her day-outs. Structure, so very
militaristic, so very, very. And she types, and she types. One day she will publish this, find an
agent, land an agent, publisher, one day, one day. Throw her words into the market, onto the
market, to be deciphered, to be hacked into pieces, laughed at, lauded, that kinda stuff that kinda
stuff. She types, types, types, listens to the words, her words, but more so to what is going on in
this place, which is so very nice, today is a so good day, so very good day. Vcc so very scholarly,
167
today vcc is Princeton, polite scholars, left and right and center, researchers so very soft spoken,
well-showered, inobtrusive and very serious, but not dead-serious, serious, in an absorbed by the
task kinda way, life is good, good. A door closes, rumplingly, she types, she types. Still one more
page, still one more page, a bell suddenly going up, you have been disconnected from chat,
which is weird, the author had no clue she was connected to any chat, anyhoo, she types, types,
types. Red and black shawl to her left, apple, and cable in front, hands of woman typing to her
right, a usb-drive in the monitor, or something, or something, tingling feel in her left foot, she
types, types, types. Nothing to say, nothing, nothing, so much to say, so much, so much. Not
enough time, not enough, never, never. The author splashes contradictions onto the page, that
should suffice, should suffice. That is what makes for good art, strong sentiments, forceful
gestures, pausing whimpering in between. She types, types, types. How many more words, how
many, how many?
Math/science tutor sign, English tutor sign, green, arrows. Ppl coming in, talkingly. She types
types. The author the author. Words hacked into pieces, sentences that aren’t. not yet, not yet.
Reluctedness, retardedness. Horrible, so very horrible prose. But, hey, slight glimpses of genius,
not, not? She laughs out, insanity, ah, insanity. Nausea, the city calls her, go have pastry, leave
this place., leave it, leave it. Move to the end of the page, move, motion, fast, fast. Dots and
hyphens, stop this, end this, how many words, ah how many words. Spellcheck and spellcheck
and spellcheck.
- --
a so very happy day. That is what she is trying to tell herself, even though she knows
168
otherwise. Outside rain, dreariness written all over the vancouversky, which is nothing but a
grey, grey mass, not even white, let alone babyblue. Ah, rain, ah, may. End of may, there should
be blossoms. Bloom, sunshine, lollipops, well, there is grey, grey, all shades of grey, there is
laundry @ the end of its wash-cycle, there is all this, all this, there are words to be put down,
against the dreariness of this so very reluctant saturday. She ponders, she should definitely take
to dangling unfiltered gauloises from her deeply painted lips, she should always wear black, she
should listen to French chansons, she should watch films in black and white, more than black and
white, cinema noir, she should, she should. Rain in may, that is what happens, when the weather
is dreary, dreary, on the upside, seems the laundry is happily at its climax, she listens in, will
jump up when there is complete silence, silenzio, she will smush the wet stuff into the dryer, that
kind of stuff, that kinda stuff. In the other room, some cnn, talking ppl, she types, types, hums to
herself, writes, types, her war and peace, her war and peace. Her piece of war and peace. She
types, ah, types and types. Outside grey, beads and pearls of raindrops along the black railing,
she types, types. Her life, her life. She read a tad too much literary criticism the day before, her
typing stalls, stalls, inevitable if you overanalyse what you are doing. Cnn-talk, bbc-talk, from
the other room, in the other room,. And she types, types.
- --
she is once more sitting @ the laptop, somewhere near the green sofa, but not on it, the telly is
on, outside still rain, she types, she types. And now, one more page, one more page. She’d rather
go downtown, types pretty fast. So that that is done, she will take the canada line down to
yaletown, city center, waterfront, the walls are starting to wear her down, fresh air, outside, a
place without ceiling, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Motion, motion, fast and fast. She
169
ponders, somehow she managed to destroy the logical succession of all these pages, that tends to
happen when you don’t really write the words with a pen, when it is not in physical form, when
your writing is stored in digital form, somehow something goes astray, goes astray. The printing
out does not really function that well either, there are differences in the formatting or something,
everything becomes slightly weird and strange, she ponders, if she lost text, words, if they are
wandering thru cyberspace, it must be the change in formatting, she stares down at the thirty year
old brown paperbasket with the white-beige rim, she ponders about pagecount, wordcount, the
hiccupping formatting of open office, the lines that seem to get lost, the margins around the
words on the page, compatability issues between digital files, this is not what writers should
think about, writing should be about content, content, she types and types and types.
12:32, 12:32. She types, types. But she said that already, wrote that already. She stared down @
her typing way too much, way too much. then she edits , tries to catch all those wayward
wordings, tries to sort out whether to hang on to inconsistencies or even them out, whether to
write outta kilter or within kilter. That kind of stuff, that kinda stuff. Rain outside, but still, being
inside is getting a tad too much. spellcheck and save should do, will do. Will hiccup the prose, a
tad, a tad. And save, and spellcheck, and end of page, and end of page.
- --
a Sunday morning, ten twenty-five, twenty-five. Coffee brewing, that kinda stuff, kind of, kinda.
The author, the author. Sitting @ her laptop, without words without words. Trying to pen
something, anything. Words stalling, like always, always. she should go for a walk, searching the
skies for inspiration. What kind of job is writing. especially unpublished writing. must be her
170
own fault, the not putting a comma where a comma belongs, the omitting of a hyphen, a dash
where it belongs, the smushing of british and American spelling into one sentence, of the same
word to boot, the letting go of questionsmarks where questionmarks belong, the disabling of
capitalizations at the beginning of sentences, this is writing, not painting, you have to adhere to
same kind of style manual, Chicago or otherwise, you have to write the right kinda query, have
to, have to. Or not or not. You have to paint within the lines, have 2 color outside the lines.
Confusion, so paramount, palpable the stench of non-accomplishment. Words that are
unmarketable, that rot in some nightstand, some drawer, some basement. Words unpublished,
muttered, uttered, words that can’t cut it, that are disqualified, on the sidelines, on the sidelines.
Back 2 the drawingboard, ah, back, back. She ponders, looks outsde @ the green, what exactly is
a drawing board, a drawing board. Why back, why. The real go-getter, takes the drawn thingie,
puts down her foot, proclaims :”I will not change one apostrophe, never, never, never”. I will die
trying to sell this, it has style, eloquence, pizzazz, goes with red shoes, is flamboyant, colourful,
is dead on, dead on. She ponders, should she enrol in an mfa program for writers, naahh, outta
steam, no can do. Writers, ah, they just have to drag themselves to the keyboard, type, some
words, feed the beast, go on with their lives, go on, tenacity, that’s where it’s at, at.
Her own personal pep-talk, while outside still overcast, while the sunday pluckers away,
while she should do this, do that, a short interrupt of her day, to sit and type, type, type. While
humming to herself, while listening to the clipper-clapper, the clicker-clucker of the pushing
down of the keys. The keys of her laptop are too near to each other, she never noticed that
before. The keys in other keyboards are designed differently, there is a space between keys, here
though the bevel is pretty strong and pronounced, thus one knows how to type. She ponders,
171
there is a paper in there somewhere, there always is, always, always. she should write for
consumer magazine, quantifying the discrepancies of different consumer products, describing the
physicalities of different products. She should do this, do that. she should go job hunting, find a
job as a gallery assistant, that is what artstudents outta art school do, that, that. no one sits down
and writes a book, no one no one. She ponders, ponders. Books are published every day, are read
every day, she can see ppl read, on the bus, on the canada line. They might as well read her
dribble, and it is all dribble, all dribble. Writings on pieces of paper, why write, why not speak.
Why do we sit down and read something that someone who is physically absent has penned.
Does it become more severe, more solid thru the physical absence of the author. Does it become
more streamlined, more coherent. Why do we prefer dead poets? Do words become more
meaningful, less meaningful by virtue of the idea of mortality. She ponders. She should write
down her ideas, order them physically, put ideas on flashcards, order them physically on a table,
that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind.
another sunday, another sunday.
The sugarcube carton on the counter, random observations, pushed into the computer. That kinda
stuff. That kinda stuff.
- --
may thirty-first. Time to wrap this up. the sketch she started on march thirty-first. She
ponders, is “sketch” the appropriate term? Probably not. The author ponders, she started this in
the library in langara, exactly two months ago. she could, maybe should end this in langara, a
nice bookend, bookend. This was her original plan, somehow came to her the day before, when
172
she was walking to langara, which was actually closed, you know, Sunday library hours, she
types, types, her words are clumsily, she walked thru the rain in the morning, in her mind
different versions of the “Conclusion” took form, but now, she just types, types, her writing does
not have real ends, real beginnings, it is just a slice of life, she feels like shoving her finger in
her throat, barfing, where does she come up with quintessential clichés of the likes of “slice of
life”, why does her lingo not flow today, why do the words just humper and whimper, why is
there no great eloquent ending descending from the stars. Well, the fridge is rumpling, the dryer
holpers upstairs, she can listen in to her typing, she has a certain word count, a certain page
count, which seems to differ based on which printer she uses, which is really really weird and
strange, she types, she types, humms, humms. This story here is coming to an end, bad or good,
the main characters were month of april, month of may after all, after all, the main character was
a writer, her hands that type, different typing machines in vancouver, bee cee, rooms, public
ones, more private ones. the green outside, rain, reluctantly, the sky, sometimes grey, sometimes
baby blue, the main characters all these words, all these words. And that is it, it was fun,
somehow, somehow, a story reluctant, two months, two months in a life.
The author ponders, the ending is so unspectacular, so utterly banal, so, so. these are non-great
words, mere words, so very mere, so very mere. Somewhere @ the border of what poetry should
be, what prose can be, somewhere somehow. She watches herself type, her middlefinger, her
other hand waiting to chip in, this is what she does, did, did, for two months straight, she should
reflect on this, discern meaning, decipher her days, her days, make up a story that clumps these
two months into a formula. In “mein name sei gantenberg”, max frisch posits that everybody
invents his, her lifestory, ah, so be it, so be it. Time flies us by, we are mere observers, observers.
173
And she types- and she types. The ending of this, so many faults, so many, so many. But still,
good enough, somehow, somewhere. Two pages, each and every day, each and every day. day.
The end of the page is so very near, near, she loads up this text with too many words, ah, so be it,
so be it. there is no right, no wrong, writing is not some mathematical right percentage thingie,
not, not, text and writing and animation and paint, material, concrete stuff, utterings, mutterings,
to pinpoint time, to hault time. Well, good luck with that good luck with that good luck with that.
The author ponders, her ending was way too obscure, too trite, too this, too that. but, hey, an
ending nonetheless, an ending, ending, end. wordcount 57 465, five seven four six seven. So it is,
so it is.
- --
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langara 101- nasrin khosrowshahi- stab @ writing (creatively, that is)

Another day, another day

She ponders, what else, what else.

a loser, like a loser, ah, why not, why not.

Writes some more. End of page, end of page.

very stoically. Words, words, words.

novel. Her man-booker prize winning novel, pulitzer prize, writer-of-the-century-award-

of life. Meaning, what does that even mean?

once more, has to.

have 1000 pages in ten days. If she …

novel, a masterpiece. One of many masterpieces. Genre is irrelevant, masterpieceness is what

fast enuf. Writing is not an olympic sport, is it? Well, is it?

the trick, should sprinkle her quasi-lit.

computerroom, and any computerroom will do.

technology. 4281 words.

sneezes, she writes, writes. 4694 words, yippieh.

Ah, how many words, how many words. 5277.

maybe not maybe not maybe not.

insanity, some more, a tad, more. And 6043 words it is.

worthwhile to describe, something important to discuss, something about bigger issues,

something devoid of smaller issues, something with a message. An important message,

happened. So she heard, so she heard.

you spell obsession.

that means whatever that means.

interview with Daniel richter, ah, painting. Spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck.

whatever yu want whatever yu want.

not bad not bad not bad.

needs art school?

listen, listen. Ah, seagulls.

artskool with a fashionable K, anyhoo, to THE ARTWORLD and artworld with an a

forward marches forward marches forward.

idea, maybe blogging is betta. She is hungry, she types.

is just impossible to breathe here.

boooooring. And she types, types.

me. That kind of stuff, stutteringly and well-behaved.

already. Said it said it. Quietness sets in, ever so slightly.

seven words. Words. And words and words.

everything is somehow subjective. She ponders, ponders. Slightly subjective, somehow

become Tolstoy, but one can die trying.

That kind of stuff stuff stuff.

sometime in the evening. Some art, some more art.

we’re outta here. Let the day begin.

coherent, crashingly jarring, all of the above, all of the above.

sneeze, oh well, life goes on, on.

rains and always rains. rains.

system. 14582 words, yep, 14582 of them.

be motioned around, in order to solidify as a new entity. Formgiving is formgiving, be it

monitor. Yup, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff.

gatheringsquare than refuse.

stuff. At least she types she types she types.

something of this kind.

types and types and types.

that’s it that’s it.

should do it all do it all do it all.

why not why not? Why not.

non-spectacular. Something cottonish from china. Something pretty, something

perfume. And she types. And she types.

reduced to facebook blurbs, to seconds of encounters. So it seems, so it seems. Might be good,