the mandolin player of brooklyn by nasrin khosrowshahi

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

spring

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-yourblog- 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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-awardwinningish 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

once more, has to. --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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

--She ponders, if she should type more. This is tiring, nauseating, annoying, not good 4 the 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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, 8

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

computerroom, and any computerroom will do. --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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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-

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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. --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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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. --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. 14

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

--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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. --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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

of them, not bad, not bad @ all. Patonthebackworthy. Selfcongratulation rules. Ah, why not why 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

Her new thing is to leave out the commas, writers do that, if they feel like it, it is cold here cold 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

--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 arbutus. She has to write fast, she does not have the charger with her, eventually this screen will

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 as she can, fast, fast, faster. Outside it is near to darkness, her back hurts, in front of her this

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 should have presence, one strong opinion stated and a lot of facts that all support the research.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 paintingcanvas day. clint eastwood on the telly, something josie josieish. She types, types.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 skateboardish. Whatever suits the moment. And she writes, writes. amasses words, lets them rain 24

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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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

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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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

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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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

really conducive 2 writing, how can someone looking so elegant be so extremely smelly? Jeez, 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 33

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should leave 4 home, home, where she will not paint, how can one paint when one is far away 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 34

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

worst computer to log her in, he hates her and she hates him. How can she possibly write 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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

insane ramblings. That happens when the sun is in your eyes. Want good prose, well, then you 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, thirtyseven 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

very short-lived career in the world of acrylic emulsions, where canvasses rule supreme, where 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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

types. She will still go up to the painting studio, will paint for three hours straight, 4 paintings in 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

people’s skin , stuff with blood. Surgeons, nurses. This is more fun, at least less yucky. She 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, twosided 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. -

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

--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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 clickerclacker, 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. ---

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. She writes, types. Nothing but bullshit, nothing but bullshit. Woman in pistachio-coat, walks by, 48

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 UBClandscaping 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 paint, heap them onto canvas after canvas. She will be so very Jackson Pollockish. But, hey, at

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. ---

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 pronouns. Writing is not her forte, is her forte. She should paint, painting is so much betta. She

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. Two pages are over, she can walk into the sunshine, the pouring rain, and enjoy the rest

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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-timewell- 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 reluctantly girly. More boyish than girly. More serious than flimsy. Then again, flimsy, is

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 days away. Page, 53, page 53. And may is not even here yet, fifty pages in a month. Not

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 happens but the daily so very comforting routine of so very foreseeable “stuff”, repetition,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. -

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. -

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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-toface 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 quasiintellectual 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 carpet swallows the noise of her shoes, the author, she still types, she still types. Man with huge

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 the bus or in the bus, no Benjamin who yells ELAINE. Nope, gimme a benjamin who throws up

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 everyday, 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 always surrounded by this cloud of guilt, why does she chose love and kitchen as subject matter.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 treelined street, she lost her thread, she might check into one of their rooms already, maybe, so very maybe. and spellcheck. And spellcheck.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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, 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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, 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. She ponders, she ponders. Technically this is not an accurate description, she types

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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, she does not want to change any of her words, and thus she will hardly be published that

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. outside, Granville island. inside, the lowly writer slash typist, the incompetent paintress,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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, 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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-

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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 75

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. -

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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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. -

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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 80

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 nonannoying. 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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. -

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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 nonnarrative , 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 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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.

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

--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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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,

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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 92

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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. 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 postshock 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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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, 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

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

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-pagemark, could be today, could be tomorrow, she will still go to the pastry place upstairs, shovel this 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 99

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nasrin khosrowshahi

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 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

100

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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, 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.

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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 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

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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 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

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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 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,

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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 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

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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, 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

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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, 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

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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. 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

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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. --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 109

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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 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.

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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 goodworking 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. 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,

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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. 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. 112

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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 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

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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. 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. -

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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, 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,

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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 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

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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. 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. -

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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. -

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 118

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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. 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. -

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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 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 @

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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 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 oversexed, 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

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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, 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-tootight 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 122

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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 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

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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. -

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

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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. -

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

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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. --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,

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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 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. ---

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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 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

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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 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. -

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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 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

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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. -

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,

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ponders. Tries to pinpoint what she does, does. Second guesses, always secondguesses. How many words how many words. 43 six oh four. 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, nonneeded. 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-tothink- 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. 132

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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. 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 133

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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. 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, nonfluidity 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 134

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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 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

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you tube? And still another one somewhere in new zealand, the author discovers there is quite an 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 Agame in writing, how can there even be an A-game 4 a writer. A writer just has to sit at a

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typewriter, day-in, day-out, that is all it takes, that should be all it takes. All it takes. 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 midafternoon (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,

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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 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,

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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 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,

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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 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.

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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 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,

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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. 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 quasiintellectual, 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

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and falling to the ground, drama, action, something to staccato the boredom of the everyday. And she types, types. -

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

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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 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,

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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 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

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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. 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.

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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 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.

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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 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

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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 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.

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--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 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, 150

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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. 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

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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? 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,

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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. 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 nonmotion, 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, 153

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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 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,

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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. 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 runon 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,

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nausea, always there, she types, types, types. Types some more, types some more. and more and more and more. -

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. 156

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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, 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,

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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 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

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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. 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,

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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 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

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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, 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

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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. 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

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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 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,

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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. -

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 @.

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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, 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,

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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. -

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

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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, 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

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and spellcheck. -

a so very happy day. That is what she is trying to tell herself, even though she knows 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 168

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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 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. -

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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 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

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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, 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. -

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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 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

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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. 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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summer

another day starts up, a morning, a monday. She walked through downtown Vancouver, somehow found herself in front of a computer. Starting up another account of life, her life. She made up her mind, she will situate this her treatise solidfootedly in the realm of chicklit, she will cater to the lowest common denominator, she will write a book about weightloss. She scratches her head, is not quite sure if this is chicklit, it is more self-help, she ponders, ponders. Does not have real solutions, she is an author with very debatable gifts, she will call this “weightlossbook”, not because it matters, not because

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anything matters, it is a catchy title though, catchy in a very boring déjà-vu-ish way, she ponders how to hiccup the text and make it more fascinating, how to erase the nihilistic parts, how to smush vigor and tremor into something as static, as banal as weightloss. She is a so very confused author, but maybe that is how all authors are. She ponders if she is a writer or an author, if there is a difference, a nondifference, she types, she types. Her wordcount is @ 186, she will end this @ about 57 000, then the usual, sending it off to publicists, agents, publishers, waiting for rejection letters, the usual, the usual. Forays into futility, struggling artistdom, the usual, the usual. Her words of doom and resignation, all over the page, all over the page. She watches her fingers, typing, typing, the black keyboard, she listens to the roar of the AC. She turns around, swiveling in her swivelchair, a big sign, Photo- ID, a red arrow, she types, she types. She can see the black foot of the other person, shaking, shaking, it annoys her, she does not want a shaking foot in the periphery of her vision. She loses concentration, the constant motion of the foot knifes into her concentration, she types, types, types nonetheless. There should be more to describe, let’s see, yesterday spain won the wordcup, well, good 4 them, good for them. The author rooted for Amsterdam, but, hey that is life life, we cannot all be winners, apparently, apparently. Why be a winner when you can be a loser? She types, she types. 374 words, 374, 374. She catches herself mimicking the shaking foot, inadvertedly her left foot starts shaking. A classic example of “monkey see, monkey do”, the premise of, well, something. The author wanted to smush the word “premise” into her text, somehow, somewhere. She could check the word count once more, she could make up her mind whether to orthographee “word count” instead of “wordcount”, she could do this, that. Or the other, there is always the other. Her texts are riddled with temperamental spellings, she used to be a painter, used to be an animator, black letters on white, just another visual art, another,

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another. You can capitalize Vancouver, capitalize Amsterdam, but, hey, something is amiss amiss. Anyhoo, this will be her weightloss journal, today is some day in Vancouver, some day in july, apparently, apparently. She weighs about 205 pounds, she should lose about sixty pounds. 90 kilos to 60 kilos. She looks up at the skylight, squints. She is sitting in the library of the Vancouver Community College, vcc for short. The downtown campus. It is mid-morning, she types, she types. Some more words, some more words. She ponders, if her writing is literature en par with “war and peace”, could be, could be. She ponders, where lies the difference between a grocery list and “war and peace”? is it the translation, the wordiness? Is it the subject matter, what, what. But she digresses, enuf writing 4 2day, for today, for TODAY. She is not quite sure why she capitalized “today”, who knows, who knows. --It is one forty. Pee em, same day. She is sitting at her kitchentable facing lots of green. Outside. She is sleepy, she ponders, if she should go to the coffeeshop on arbutus and type away. Have a passion fruit lemonade. Or she could just sleep, she had hardly any sleep the night before. Can literature wait? Should it wait? There should be plenty time for penning a masterpiece, so much time, so much time. And once more, so much time. -

Now, in a dark room, a TV, a laptop, friends reruns, this is where texts are made, one letter at a time, some commas, some exclamation marks, hyphens, some correct spellings, some incorrect ones, lots of debatable ones. She changes the program, she types, while trying to balance the laptop, laptops are so much more comfortable when they are put on tables, the balancing on the lap slows down the flow of the text, she types, types. Ah, golden girls on 44, no, 48, the button of the 8 does not really work, she

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types, she types. She feels like having an ice cream, there is ice cream on TV, she types, she types. Her text is stalling, boring, boring. -

- -

Laughtracks on TV, her text is so banal, nothing dramatic, just a room, a room, she ponders what to write about. Her writer’s block is so palpable, there are no perfect story arcs to construct, she cannot really concentrate on the show and her writing, and she is slightly perplexed by the software that is acting up. She will save this, email it to herself, put it on scribd, tomorrow will be another day, full of better better words. -

And now, fresh prince of belair. She is smack in the midst of suburbia, some ten, twenty the other side of urbane, so smack somewhere in Hicksville, she ponders how to wring something insightful, while living amongst platitudes and laughtracks. In a world so escapist, so corporate, so far away from intellectualism. Where malls rule. Where words are there to cement the status quo. Where beautyful mobiles of words are non-existent. Where even the most rudimentary forms of elegance are nonexistent. Writing, ah, writing. --In the vcc learning center, ten twenty-eight, still morning, fast typing, she writes, writes, tries to figure out how to tie this in to “weightloss”, that is the title of this, title of this. Where does it say that title and contents should be in sync, where, ah, where? She has a million things to do, but first, typing, typing.

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First words on the monitor, coherent ones, not so coherent ones. It is an obsession, slightly, slightly. Fun to watch words appear. More so, fun to watch your middlefinger push down squares, one day, she will learn how to type with ten fingers. One day, one day. Not now, not now. She kind of fears that she will lose her creativity, peter handke uses a graphite pen, to slow down the process, slow down the process of writing. It is better if it has a certain slowness, you still remember that each word is constructed by all these letters, which is artificial, too, all these letters, all these transcriptions of our mutterings. She types, types. Ppl behind her talk, she types, types. She could check the wordcount, but she wants to get this over with. She will go back , by the new Dunsmuir bike lane, she will, she will. Typing, fast, so very fast. Today is the thirteenth, not good, not that good, a mulmy feel in the stomach, once a month, once a month. At least not Friday the 13 th, only a Tuesday, only, only. And she types and she types. Top of the page, huh, we are getting somewhere here. One page left to fabricate, to feed to the beast, one more page, one more page. The monitor to her left, black with all these colored, very sharp lines, gliding, piercing, arrows thru the night sky, fireworks consistent. Dissolving at the end of their voyage, disappearing, reappearing. To the author’s left, at the very far end, woman or maybe man, but looks more like woman, very solid, very proper, brown hair, brown T-shirt, brown sandals, brown shorts, very safari like, very knowing where to go, mouse-clicks, very fast typer, that kind, that kind. The author looks at her, somehow she looks different than her silhouette, not that much geared towards success, her features are too soft, not geometric enough, not the edginess of a general, a Kaiser. the author chuckles, how can she ever write good prose, superior prose when all her insights are informed by passages from Seinfeld, this is not good not good. Well, at least the wordcount marches forward, that is all we can ask for here ask 4 here. She pauses, looks at the Microsoft profeessional sign on the monitor to her right, the sign jumps around

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on the monitor, to amuse itself, this is what these machines do, ppl talk outside, masculine, sound like tradesmen, very “this is where we should go”-masculine, she types, types. Nothing but bullshit today, but that is fine, fine, woman to her left pushes her sandalclad foot forwards, for a sec, for a sec, than returns to the start position, a red Canada flag to her right, ah, she types. Ah, she types. Pondering, how many words, not important as long as the text goes forward. It cannot really go backward, now, can it? She ponders, she should say something philosophical, something about her state of employment, but, hey, who wants to be depressed. So she writes, writes, for a not- there-yet-audience, it makes her happy, and that is all that counts that counts. At this time, at this times. And we’re outta here, outta here. Throw your hands over the keyboard, go out with a bang, go out with a bang. For today, for today. Too many repetitions, but, hey, that is fine too fine too. 1640, 1641. -

Once more in the langara library. She ponders whether she should change the name of this text to “fast sentences”, sounds catchy and catchy, well, catches. She just opened an email from someone named “staff 7”, email RE:QUERY, another rejection letter, one of many, one of so many. But, hey, who cares, who really cares, she writes, writes. As long as she has the strength, the stamina, to sit in front of a computer, as long as she can press down squares with letters thereon, she will be fine, just fine. Obscurity, non-fame, non-fortune, that is where it’s @ it’s @ it’s @. Woman at other computer dances to the music in her earphone, a so very elaine-like dance, please don’t dance, please don’t dance. Someone stomps by, resolute, with purpose. Today is july 14, we made it thru the thirteenth, in one piece, in one piece. She types, she types. Is still falling asleep, she did’t sleep enough, was woken up apruptly, by a phonecall from toronto, this cannot be good cannot be good. She will be sleepy all day all day all day. That is how it is how it is how it how it is. She fills her text with redundant repetitions,

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because it is easy, maybe, because the text is calling therefore, the rhythm, the style, the music, melody. That kinda stuff that kinda stuff. Page 6, page 6. Well, @ least we are moving forward here. And spellcheck and wordcount. Save this email this put it on scribd. You know the drill, do it, do it. -

she is sitting in vcc, she bought a pair of earrings and hairwax, she is now fifty bucks poorer, but, hey, she helped the north american economy. Stimulus. She ponders, maybe there is a paper in there somewhere, there always is, always, always. We are all part of the problem or something. Or something. She watches her fingers type, the middlefinger of the right hand, that one that one. The left hand playing second fiddle, like always, like always. This keyboard, white squares on grey background, the letter s are black. That is the drama in her life, different keyboards. Even her seat here is a different one than her usual. She is facing the lobby, she should describe that, use words to document, words and words and words. Her writing becomes even more desperate than usual, the hapless artist that is treading water. Threading, treading, ah, something like that, something of that kind. Two oh six something words, she checked, let us say six thousand. Sixthousand newly arranged words this weak, this is how she fills her days fills her days. She gets so much better at querying all these agents in nyc, better and better. She will find one, in the end, in the end. Someone who loves her style of writing, loves it, loves it. Someone who will market this, her non-dribble, dribble, she ponders, calling it dribble does not get her anywhere, all the compliments have been fished for already, alright? Alright. She ponders, maybe she should enroll in an mfa program, maybe, maybe she should just write, write. Make a bigger wordcount, quantity rules, quantity rules. Lots and lots of words. Some spellcheck, not much, not that much.

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She types fast, she has to take the canada line back home, she has to be here, there, the other. But first words, first so very fast sentences. Get it out of your system, for now, for now. She is a so much more happy person, when she knows that she typed two pages. Two pages, two pages. And she types, and she types. Hand on mouse to her left, red nailpolish, hand on mouse to her right, no nailpolish. On this wordprocessing assembly-line. And she types and she types. Someone mutters shit, the person next to her leaves, he walks by outside in the lobby. The author types and types and types. Stop and spellcheck and outta here and outta here. --The kitchentable, that is where she finds herself, to write, to write. Kind of like a certain routine of calisthenics, two pages of words, fast, fast, to the computer, written, slightly poetic, witty banter, maybe, insights, so very maybe. She tends to construct her sentences so very automatically, she should find a more compelling subject matter than just her writing. She glances at the two coins on the blue placemat, very silver against the blue, a certain kind of blue, kline’s blue meeting aquamarine, the author types, types. She ponders, what can she distill from two round silvery circles on a blue background, is there anything fascinating interesting to say. Can one smush drama on the so very static image of two coins on blue. A writer should be able to spin a yarn, no matter what. A writer, a writer. Outside the green, leaves in the wind, Vancouver in july. Red roses in the garden, a spotless sky. Azureblue. On the kitchen counter an array of coffee, honey, a breadmaker. The kitchen waiting for her input, the workshop begging to be used. Yellow and green bushes outside. She ponders, there is no movement around here, no motion. There should be ppl, persons waiting to be described, their idiosyncrasies. She should take the canada line, look ppl up and down, be inspired, inspired. She should construct a perfect storyarc, ppl interacting, suspense, that kinda stuff that kinds stuff. Stories, stories.

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There are seven billion ppl on this round ball hurling thru space, seven billion stories, each slightly different from the next. There are so many cities, so many countries, waiting to be described, to be cloud into words, that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. She scratches her chin, the word “cloud” was not used correctly. The quarters are still lying on the placemat, silver against blue, silver against blue. It is midmorning or something, maybe even noon, something like that, something like that. Her letters appear on the white wordfile, the laptop knisters, static scrumming, she types, types. Page nine, slowly motioning forward, she has to correct her typo ridden treatise here, the keyboard is not helpful, the keys are too crowded, writing sucks, sucks. She should find the word count button, then reflect on the number of words, find something intellectual to say, that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind. Outside treecrowns swaying in the wind, the silvercoins still on the blue, breadmaker and honey, still in place, still in place. Her back starts hurting, writing is not good for your spine, not good not good. Cereal boxes in the shelf, different colours, mostly pastel. Slight grassgreens, who buys these, who? The keybord so black, she is outta words, outta words. One day she will construct the perfect narrative, there are perfect narratives and perfecter narratives. Cristal clear ones, muddled ones. She should take this laptop to the starbucks down on arbutus, there are ppl there, inspirations, movements, motions. Still some more words, the page is moving forward, fast sentences, fast sentences. The yellow light flickers on the radio meets clock meets cd player, outside leaves sway, a tad, a tad. The day stalls, is eternalized in words, she types, types. The coins on the blue, she said that already, redundant, redundancy. Page 9, near its end, near its end. A certain wordcount, towels on the horizontal thingie, words named

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thingie will not cut it, not yet, not ever. Bushes sway, there is nothing left to say, page finished, wait for tomorrow’s input. Her text will hibernate, cure, tomorrow, some more words, some more words. Like always, like always. --once again she is sitting in her kitchen, the laptop on the kitchentable, she ponders what kind of prose, what kind of poetry will come out of a kitchen. Something too dull, something too exasperating, what kind of narrative? A gleaming non-narrative, something full of cliffhangers, a story that holds you on the edge of your chair, action, ah, action. The author ponders, maybe the most action-filled thrillers are produced in a so very sterile, so very dull environment, the calmness has to induce the opposite, motion, movement, erraticness. She ponders, she always does, a critic pointed out that all of the author’s prose is sprinkled with the phrase “author ponders”. Well, maybe, “author” should not listen to critics, they are all out to get you, to pull you down, to scratch you down from your pedestal of selfrighteousness. How can “author” develop a personal style, when “author” has to constantly defend herself. This ruined her career as a visual artist, the constant critiques, she could write volumes on the state of art education in north america and what the real objectives are, but why, but why? The day moves forward, slowly, silently, outside green, the one red rose, too red, too much leaning towards purple, the slight blue tint that takes the rose away from innocent redness, that makes it conniving and malicious, ah, she types, she types. It is too hot here, would be nice to open a window, but she is somehow chained to this typing machine, has to finish her two pages, while her right shoulder starts to hurt, maybe, because all her typing is done with the right middle finger, too much stress on one side, she types, she types. Asymmetric stress, that is the term, maybe, maybe.

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page 11, this is moving on pretty fast, the text that marches forward, relentlessly, relentlessly. Not that there is any narrative, any discernable storyline, one long long selfportrait, 200 pages of selfportrait. These days, the author goes to different apple-stores the city over, records ten seconds of herself on imovie, puts it on vimeo, ten-seconds of selfportrat, differing poses, differing malls. Either oakridge or pacific center. Differing background noises. She is interrupted by some person coming in, it is difficult to concentrate on producing her text while holding a conversation. Weightlossbook, weightlossbook, that is what she named this text, kind of a so-so title, basically trying to milk the redundancy of the subject matter by repeating it, trying to overkill the banality of the subject, shallowness alliterated, yep, that kind of stuff, that kinda stuff. The day marches forward, like gravy, she used that metaphor before, she is now at the stage where she shamelessly steals from herself. Apparently Alfred Hitchcock coined some observation like that, on artists that steal from themselves, she is not quite sure how it went, and she heard it on some music interview with michael stypes, if that is his name, leadsinger of REM. She ponders, why do we like to quote other ppl, other authorities, reluctant authorities. She tries to write profound stuff, while trying to give info about where the kettle is. Type and type and type. On the kitchen table the garlicsprouts are waiting to be cut up some more, for the eating pleasure of humans, who are more powerful than the sprouts, that kind of stuff, that kinda stuff. She types while holding a conversation, that cannot be good, not that good, not that good. The noise of the spoon against the metal of the pot, too clirry noises, the knistering of the package of coffee, the noises, sounds, sounds, sounds. -

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The morning kissing the afternoon, on a sunny Saturday in july, cooped up in front of the laptop that balances ever so uneasily on the blackbrown table that eludes its state of frailty, fragility so very forcefully, she types, she types. Two pages, two pages. On tv some so very british talking heads perusing issues as grave as the flavours of popcorn in different European countries going on to more graver issues, BP ad nauseum. She types, she types. Her words slightly stalling, not forceful enough, not yet that is. She utterly selfdoubts, her writing chops must be non-existent, rejection letters are so everywhere, no one wants to publish and distribute her stuff, and she does not really know how to better her grip on her craft. She is disoriented, she uses the wrong words, the wrong terms, she will not be able to fabricate the most articulate remarks, her words trot clumsily after her ideas. She should go downtown, downtown. The channel changes, as usually, the author does not have the control of the remote. The discussion was intriguing, only to be changed to some soccer game, one week after the world cup finals, where Holland lost, where spain won, the author ponders if she cares one way or the other. So Holland lost, so Holland lost. Still one and a half page more to go, fast sentences, fast sentences. The laundry shaking around, drying, she has to wait until that is done, she might as well write some, write some and write some more. Some reluctant words, in awkward formations, without real relations with each other, aliens in wordland. Dysfunctional word formations, depicting our postmodern malaise, disconnect, dislocation. That kinda stuff, ah, that kind of stuff. Red guys against blue guys, cheering, but, alas, no voovoozelahs. Not yet, not yet. They have to be shipped from china to north America, takes time, takes time. And we are on page 13 here. That thirteen, that thirteen. She feels like fresh air, definitely not like sitting hunched over to feed some words to the computer. She should start painting again, make expressive

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gestures in front of a canvas, so much more physical, physical. She should animate, there is more change in body posture, flipping from page 1 to ten, more interest, more change in motion. Writing on a computer, not that good, not that good. The soccer game is in full swing on the telly, fast, fast. A slight whiff of nausea, once more, once more. The author ponders, she must be getting old, her state of nausea sets in, so very fast, after only one page of typing. Typing nausea, a new syndrome. Not yet in the New England Journal of Medicine, not yet not yet. And she types and she types. Trying to be Hemingway here, but alas, alas. Wrong gender, wrong time, wrong everything. Wrong language. She will never pull it off, never, never. Paint, forms, lines, stick to those, stick to those. Visuals, ah, visuals. Page still marches, stallingly though, stallingly though. Some more words, ah, some more words. All those stalling words. The yellow clad goalie, gesticulating, a yellow card, too much yellow, too much yellow. Some more words and some more words. Her right side is getting numb, she might as well keel over and spread her body over the keyboard, her words stink and suck, no eloquence, no eloquence @ all. Her neck cramping up, what a pitiful existence, writing, ah, typing. Words and words and words. She could look up the word count, she could, she could. And some more words, and some

more words.

The page is filled, ah, and that is all that’s needed. Outta here, outta here. As fast as she possibly can. Can and can and can. And once more: CAN. Ah, word overkill, stylistic glitches, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. And another yellow card, on the green, on the telly.

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mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi -

Another day, another day. Sunday at the kitchen table, still before lunchtime, if lunch is noon. The author tries to feed her words to the computer, which is kind of difficult, she is holding a conversation while watching her fingers press down the little black squares, she has to jump up to do laundry, has to look after the meat that is boiling on the stove or simmering or whatever the technical term is. Words, words. Two pages, two pages. The author ponders, is it even feasible to type each and every weekday, even weekends, would the text not get better so very automatically, if there is a two-day-hiatus, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Fast sentences, fast sentences. The fan of the stove is deafening, she is not even sure what the technical term for it is, fan or something. Today seems to be a day where the term “technical term” seems to be her favorite. The text stalls, words are just illustrations of random observations, no real logic, just vignettes, scenes, fragments of thought, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. She feels overcrowded, cannot really concentrate, she needs a cubicle or something, to type, to type. And the words slash into the laptop, reluctantly, reluctantly. Words: four three nine four, not that good, not that good. Still 45 000 words to go, at the least, at the very least. Outside the green, wind, slightly, the grey-green garbage container, squared top, the one that Vancouver City Hall expects you to use. The red, slightly purple rose, still @ its usual place, slightly hanging down, slightly getting old, full bloom before distress, the last jump before the abyss. And she types, and she types. The noise of the fan is still there, she types, she types. Still one page to go, still, still. Still no story arc, only random observations, it is 12:22. She ponders, if she can make something out of all these two’s, write something insightful, make stuff up, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. The day marches forward, ever so slightly, the bike stands in the hallway, she can see it from here, the fan over

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mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

the stove roars, she types, types. All the noise of the keys, staccatoing the roar of the fan, grounding her, somehow, the fridge starts to spew, for a brief second, ice maker or something, she types, types, sentences chasing each other, catapulting upon each other. Her metaphors are off, but, hey, its fine, fine. She ponders, she will take a small hike to kerrisdale, maybe walk by the little creek in the bushes, where nature rules, supreme, where it is always slightly distressing and freightening, this is a nice neighbourhood, nice neighborhood, ah, nowhere is nice in North America. You always, always have to watch your back, in the nicest places, in the worst places. And what is nice, what is not? She types, she types. The sun is still shining, a tad too much, a tad too much. She tries to fill the page as fast as she can, the software slightly acts up, suddenly a bell goes off, the author must have pushed the wrong button. Ah, these machines, dostojewsky sure did not have this problem. And she types, and she types. 4733 words, not bad, not bad. Outside, still green, red rose, white bushes, telephone line, she types, she types. A butterfly, the green towel, the white towel, she types, she types. The glimmering of the clock on the kitchen counter, the tv in the other room, the typing of another typing machine. The noise of the coffeemaker, with tea in it. And she types, types, listening in to the clicker-clatter of the keys. Top of page, top of page. This is it 4 today, two pages are in the machine and that should suffice. Somehow, somewhere. -

While waiting for the word file to open up, she gives imaginary interviews to charley rose, she answers questions, pauses thoughtfully, describes what she does, eludes to her choice to waist her days

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wallowing on negativity, describing her walter mitty dreams, treatising longwinded pieces on lovers not taken, buildings non-built, magazines not-published, words non-uttered, describing the road not taken, not taken. She ponders if the “lovers not taken” quip is g-rated enough, if it belongs here, belongs here. She ponders, ponders. Her words have to splash onto the page, there are reasons for that, there always are. It is not fame nor fortune, not raison d’etre, not self expression. It is something completely different. It is the ritual, the putting your slip in the clock, it is your checking in at the typing place, the obsession with filling two pages with times new roman, double spaced and twelve point, that must be it, that must be it. It is the fragmentation of her days, the routine, something like that something like that. She looks out at the green, the rose, purple, red, grande, going out with a bang, tomorrow it will not be there anymore. She types, she types. It is still july, not quite august yet, the silence of this place is interrupted by the hum of the toshiba laptop, the typing. Why does she mention a brand, she looks out at the green, the white, the red, nature is not branded, not that much, not that much. Her words today balance along the line of coherence, leaning towards the abyss of incoherence, that kind of stuff, that kinda stuff. Sun outside, she had a donut, was in the fitness place, good and bad, evening each other out, evening each other out. Dishes wait to be washed, garbage begs to be taken out, beds wonder if they will be ever made. Domesticity, not her subject matter. She cannot afford to describe domestic life, inside the house, inside the house. All her sentences are left hanging in the air, that is how it should be, should be. No straight shooting, no straight shots here. Kerrisdale sleeps away, while the trees wonder what is going on.

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A bread maker glistens in the sun. Recyclables wait in silence, she types, she types. Something murks inside the walls, a click, a cluck. This is how you go insane, silently, stoically. And the words amass, amass. Two potholders , in the shape of gloves, hanging symmetrically near the blue towel, the white towel. And outside the white bushes, both of them, piercing the green, pointing upwards, pointing upwards. She could count the words, she could check the spelling, but why, why? Fridge rumples, decisively. Her words are meager today, non-top-notch, just words, just words. Mutterings in the storm, melodrama does not live here anymore, not even energy 4 that. And she types, she types. There are no antagonists, no protagonists, just the here, the now. A silent, quivering landscape, sans action, sans action. Reluctantness, stoicness, the words, the songs. So many of them, so many of them. Somewhere beside poetry, yearning for becoming prose, some day, some day. White papers, notes, pinned down on the cork board, all of this, and she writes, and she writes. A reluctant kitchen table, the locale of this typing is irrelevant, should be irrelevant, it never is, it never is. -

Eleven sixteen, she has to feed her words to the laptop, fast, fast. It is too hot here, in the kitchen, too end of julyish, too much, too much. Upstairs the dryer, clickering, cluckering, aggressively, fast, forceable. She feeds her words, but she said that already, said, said. Too many many repetitions, too many, way too many. This book will never hunt down its publisher, too many repetitions, too many, too many. She might just be her own literary agent, live the fancy life, in nyc, lunching while dealing.

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Wearing jimmy choos. The something something bradshaw life. Carrie. The author types, types. Fast words fast sentences. Red nail polish, shallow sentences, fast, fast. Typing as occupation, words, words. Who will read this who will ever read this. Selfdoubt selfdoubt. One thousand pages of hairfallingoutish selfdoubt. That is not how maxim gorki worked. But, hey, they are all men men men. They. The superior ones, the ones that call the shots. Not any more, still, still, Feminism et. al., not her subject matter. Hierarchies, shmeh. She types, she types. Words stalling, reluctant, clumsy, words that cannot, cannot, potency nonexistent. And she types, types. Against the forward marching days, against memories of dinner at milestones. She types, she types. Has to take the arbutus bus down to capers, which will be kinda tough, she will get off at broadway, make her way down to fourth, turn left or right, another lunch at capers. Ah, tough life, tough life. And the words fall stallingly onto the black keyboard, white letters, ruby red nail polish, she types, she types. Today is not her best day, not her worst day. Somehow, if she keeps on plugging at this, even her worst days will be still better than other ppls best days. That is when you start getting somewhere, that is when genius nears you. Ah, genius. The struggle of the artist, that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. The author ponders, suddenly she became an artist, they gave her a certificate, she sailed over the stage @ chan hall, waved to the masses, like the queen mother sans hat, now she is an artist and she has the certificate to prove it. With official stamp, seal and all. Everything from now on will be artistic, everything. How is the earning power of a registered artist as compared to an unregistered artist? She ponders, ah, she ponders. A lot of black, white, and red around her, she types, types. Half finished thoughts. Fragmented ideas, those are the better ones better ones. She reads out aloud what she writes, imagines herself, be4 a crowd, crowd. Some open mike night, where hopefuls throw declamations into the air, whishing for the trip to Stockholm, thanking, gushing, a la halle berry, a la

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halle berry. Or a la Pasternak, he did not even go. That will be her mo, what with fear of flying. I thank you all, or not, acceptance speech, the usual, the usual. She types, types, the day marches on, some more words, thoughts of glory, extinguished, malled to the ground, but typing nonetheless, grandiose gestures churning out whimpers, whatever that means, what ever that means. Melodrama hanging on to banality, she types, she types. And types some more. Some day, one day, a perfect narrative, peace, war, that kind, that kind. The brothers karamazoff. Don’t live here any more, don’t, don’t. Her writing, stumbling down, time to stop the dryer, time to take the bus, tine to leave, to spellcheck, wordcount, not in that order, not in that order. Another reluctantly hot day in Vancouver, BC, two thousand ten, two thousand and ten. Words finished, words haulted. For now, for now. --Top of page 20, vcc, ten fifty, her typing way too slow, fatigue sets in before anything is achieved, slouching before the storm, the sprinter who refuses to start, shell shocked before the bombs, nothing ventured, nothing gained, without the venturing, staticness ad nauseum. She stares down, stoically, at her red finger tops on the white keyboard, nail polish meets white-silver keyboard, someone giggles in the back, constantly, she types, types, hunched over, trying to find the letters, she types, types. Her schoolwork is over, no employment as of yet, only this self-employed writer existence, she has twenty pages, needs 180 more, a book, some book. Then peddling it, marketing it, that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind. -

Ten fifty-eight now, red numbers on the wall, she types, types. To her right a red Canadian flag, red on

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white, she types, she types. Outta ideas, outta ideas. This is how writer’s block feels like, when words bottleneck, when fluency is interrupted, and words stall, stall. Livelihoods are at stake here, she is no hemingway, not yet, not yet. Her words are too banal, too repetitive, too much of this, too less of that. Too non-masculine, maybe, too non-white, maybe. Too much, too much. -

Quietness, the ceiling with neon, erratic facebooking next to her, she types, types. Is falling asleep while the words are fed to the machine. Silence is golden or something, platitudes will help her, to forge her words against the stream of critics, her words are so very incoherent, so very, so very. No clear logic, reason, that is not how words work. They have to sing, they have to have rhythm, jazz does not have logic, logic, songs and sight, or something like that, something like that. Animations on the other monitors, infantile reluctant, longings for, innocence lost, lost. One English Tutor sign, One Math/Science Tutor sign, so very infantile, infantile. SAT-scores in the lower one-hundreds, GRE-scores that will never cut it. She types, types, types. No princeton 4 her, none, none. And nothing makes sense, nothing, nothing, nothing. -

She ponders, ponders. Subjectmatters, ha, there are none, are none. None worth discussing, none worth discussing. Her words stall, everything sucks, everything, everything. But, hey, the page moves forward, gooeyly, slowly, steadily, the whether is fresh today, nice, nicer, not too hot 4 july, better, fresher. Her words might suck, but, hey, the weather is fresh. -

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Eleven fifteen, ah, this is going somewhere. The page fills up and that is all we want here. Reluctant texts, the swiveling of the person in white to her right, the woman in grey and white near the flowerdesk, the author types, types. Words reluctant, so very reluctant. -

The noise of the pencil sharpener thingee. Steps over the grey carpet, grey with beige knobs therein. So much to see, so much to hear, too much, too much. Descriptions, fed to the machine, fed 2 da machine. And she types, types. End of page, finally, oh, so very finally. Outta here, outta here. -

twelve twenty-five, vcc, Friday, desolate, kind of, kinda. Typing, typing, against the av, against boredom, against outtawordness, against, against. Typing should be good 4 something, anything, the sitting in front of a table, the staring down at a keyboard, the ritualistic picking apart of words, letter by letter, an idea, a thought, an inkling, a silent muttering, onto the monitor, into the page, seconds of our lives, eternalized, put down 4ever. You’d better watch what yu write. Watch what you say. Make it as nice as possible, don’t ruffle feathers, write, ditties, ditties. Songs that are unobtrusive and inoffensive, use your pen to cement the status quo, ah, should you, should you? Entertain, entertain. Don’t ask hard questions, no “gretchenfragen” s here, and no using of foreignish words accept for the occasional fahrvergnuegen. She types, types, today is bullshitday, that is what the sun does to you, the impending weekend, the boredom with typing, the nonchalance of authordom, the words that do not click, that are torpedoed at the message and that miss, fall flat, ah, she types, ah, she types. Her red nailpolish, fingers hammering reluctantly, white squares, black thin letters, silvery background, she types, types. There are still so many pages left to fill, this will be 180, 200 pages long, before it starts travelling, wanting, longing

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for a publisher, before this is polished enough, elegant meets eloquent, before the text is this or that, then and only then- she feels like barfing all over the keyboard, writing is not her forte, not her forte. Too boring, too repetitive, no expressiveness, no paint, no color, no motion, words, ah, words, not her thing, not her thing. And still one more page, on this sunny julyday in Vancouver, the canada line, Dunsmuir, she will go up to the pastry place, she will finish this, ah, same words, some more words. One day she will find a narrative, s-e-x maybe, violence maybe, political intrigue maybe, peace and war maybe. Constructed protagonists staring down antagonists, waiting 4 godot, ah, so yesterday, so yesterday. Talking in smoky coffeehouses, with dangling gauloises from your lip, so yesterday, so yesterday. She puts the oversized earphone on her head, not to listen to a tune, but just to have something to write about. The silent clickclack behind her, ppl in the computer room, noises in the lobby. The computerdesk behind her is at an angle, a right angle, facing the lobby, she types, types. Silently, stoically the text marches forward, she must have used the exact same wording before, her synapses fire the same way, the same way. Not good for your brain, novelty is better, better. New pathways, along which your neurotransmitters sail, better, better. Oh, those dendrites and axioms. She types, types, never understood why there is one dendrite and many axioms or one axiom and many dendrites, or something, or something, slight shouting in the lobby, she types, types. The day marches forward, but time stands still in the computer room, nothing moves, nothing motions, libraries are like this, computer rooms are like this, too silent, too quiet, the illusion of pensiveness, waiting for something, waiting for life, to happen, to non-happen. And she types, and she types. Counts her words, spellchecks, reads it over, again, again, some day, this will go out into the world, someday, some time. And the words spill onto the keyboard. Again, again, again. Insanity is palpable, always,

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always. Still a space to be filled until the little grey 23 at the bottom, still some words, still some words. Beautiful woman to her right, overdressed, the author types, types. Words reluctant, stopping, stalling, only to suddenly eloquence along, she types and types, types. The grey 23 comes nearer to the black letters, the page ends, not yet, not yet. The author writes nothing but bullshit, that’s how it is how it is how it is. The math/science tutor sign, the english tutor sign, still at its place still in their place. She types, types, the grammar is off, who cares, who cares, who cares?. End of page and end of page. -

back in the livingroom, afternoonish, shadows longer, that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind. Darkened tellyroom, curtains halfdrawn, the light of the monitor illuminates this place. She watches her red nailpolished fingers against the black and white of the keyboard, silence is slightly palpable, the only noise, the typing, the hum of the laptop. Outside, green, she types, types. Now in the starbucks on arbutus, at the very big table facing arbutus, she types, types. Four fifty-seven, two pages, two pages. Outside cars, sun, shadows, brightness, reflections, two women, one talking ‘bout macchiatoes, the author, she types, types, longing jazzy female singer, on the overhead, pictures of ice on the glass door. Ppl giggling, someone coming in, with kid, talking, ice creams, what ice cream, languid conversations, long reflections on the keyboard, each black square with its own diagonal line @ the bottom, she types, types. One day these days she will construct a perfect story arc, one day these days. About Francesca and mrs zabrinsky, she overheard 4 ppl constructing a story at sweet obsessions, factchecking, trying to mush it together, very concerned if the times, dates are right, if the chronological

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timeline makes sense, if the dialog is realistic, for them, art was so very representative, they did nor really care about the words used, the beauty or non-beauty of the sentences, the rhythms of the text, irrelevant, irrelevant. The author, she types, trying to feed a certain amount of words to the machine, that is what counts, counts, her red passion tea near to the laptop, she types, types. Her neck cramping up, ok, ok. Spellcheck, spellcheck. She ponders, languishes, should she write “passion tea” or “passion tea lemonade”, correcter yet, “passion ice tea lemonade”, the word “correcter” does not exist, judging by the red squirly line under “correcter”, a woman singing, Diana Krall, maybe, some other singer, maybe, klimpering of piano and sensual female voice, with a certain tang in her voice, nasal in an annoying way, that undermines the sensuality, negates it. Still afternoon, chilliness in here, a Friday leaning into the weekend, a woman in pink still talking to her phone, cars, that kind, that kind. The “kind” is so very unkindly reacting against the rest of the text, she cannot really write here, more anonymity is needed for the muse to waltz in and take her prose to better places, she types, types, slightly on the bullshitty side, today is not her day, definitely not her day. Pink glossy handbag, oversized, way too big for a young teenager, trumpet, the singer postulates that her man has left her, without, well, without something, singing the blues or something, the song is just like the author’s writing, a mischmasch of styles, genres, a lot of “my man has left me”, her heart is something something, hey, just take some platitudes and smush them together, why not, why not, now she elaborates on “misery”, it all has to do with the “my man”, the one who left, for god’s sake, shouldn’t you be happy, good riddance, that kinda song, that kinda stuff. Lady in pink still taLKS, AUTHOR STILL WRITES, GLOSSY HANDBAG, STILL GLOSSY. FIVE TWENTY-ONE, SPELLCHECK, save- we’re outta here, outta here.

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Nothing more to say, nothing, ah, nothing. -

monday seven-twenty-six, sitting in langara, typing, typing. Two pages on a reluctant summer morning, 2010 in vancouver, the words are non-flowing, stalling, reluctant. The term “reluctant”, so overused, overused, she types, types. Grey bookshelves, metal, green outside, too much sun, too much sun. there can never be enough sun, woman with pink ear muffs types. Author feels like dessiminating, not knowing what dessiminate means, not knowing if a word like that exists. We just make it up make it up make it up, author does not feel like writing, insights are living far away, her writing is so bad, bad. That is how it feels on a Monday morning, she did not write over the weekend, that cannot be good, it is so much tougher to start again after a hiatus, self confidence has left, the words just stall, stall. This is like playing an instrument, like playing the harp, you have to do it day-in, day-out. That is how it is how it is how it is. She fabricates crap today, her whining annoys her, she cannot stand her own writing. Her voice annoys her, she ponders if singers feel like that, maybe, maybe not, who cares, who cares. The reluctant newspaper on the table, author ponders why she overuses reluctant, why, why. She stares at the blue icons on the monitor, she hears coughing in the back, lots of clacks and even clicks, some giggling, a day in langara langara. She reminds herself that this is titled “weightloss”, well, that is easy, she does not lose weight, still 203 pounds, too much too much, too much, way 2 much. No weightloss, no gain either, weight stagnation, that is how it is how it is. Irrelevance, irrelevance. Nine thirty-five, nine-thirty-five. End of page is coming near, how nice, how nice. This is her subject matter, the constant wrestling with the words, the loneliness of the typist, she writes, types, pushes down black squares, this cannot be

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good, not that good, not that good. High literature, low literature, high being better than low, her words, her words. Slightly more meaningful than grocerylists, slightly, oh, so slightly. Her words, words. Another page of this, another, another. She could describe the form of this computer, she could, she could. She could stop repeating words, could, could. Sun in her eyes, not that good, not that good. Fast words, fed to the machine, to the machine. She wishes she could be somewhere else, the rather play golf syndrome, ah, escapism, escapism. Her shoulders are hunched over, her neck crooked down, she types, types. Still red nail polish, against the black and white of the type writer. She ponders, in the old times typing keys were round, now they are squared. She ponders, what she can deduce from that, probably nothing. Why should she deduce, why. Deducing, ah, that is 4 guys, women don’t deduce, they smear paint on their lips. Is it like that like that like that. Typing bullshit, that’s where its @. It’s at. Too much sun, all over this place. One should barf all over this keyboard, one should one should. Outside too much green, too much sun. let’s look at the wordcount, before spellcheck, before, before. Eight three oh one, she needs about five times this, fifty thousand, the absolute minimum, a nano month number, number. There should be action, interaction, a against b, a with b, a eliminating b. something like that, some action, movement, motion, she types, she types, shadow, some clouds in front of the sun, or maybe the sun just moved, it is so much better here, at this computer, the shade makes her sit up straight, shelter from the heat, from the heat. And she types, types. Words splash onto the monitor, they start to flow, to feed upon each other, everything is better, the gods sing, or angels or something, that one zen moment, stretched over hours, bliss, hallelujah, or something, or something. Alas, page is over, have to

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stop, right here, on a high note on a low note . anynote. Slight incongruence, or something or something. Her songs end, 4 now, for now. -

In vcc, 9:15. tuesdayish, summerish. So very summerish. t-shirt-glued-to-skin- summerish, AC-too weaksummerish, ah, she types, types. Words are not there yet, her inability to garner employment annoys her, she takes the canada line downtown or uptown, makes an “I am going to work” face, then plants herself in front of a computer and any computer will do, types and types and types. Job description: some kind of writer, author, player with words, arranger of sentence fragments. Poet maybe, so very very maybe. And no one buys this, no one no one, no one, no one. Not yet, not yet. There is always the “not yet”, the “maybe some day”, if she worked in construction she would be reimbursed at the end of the day, but like this, she has to INpuT a lot, not get anything in return, not yet, not yet, and maybe that is good, good. Her fingers over the computer, still ruby red, pushing down, pushing down, black and white keyboard, more black than white. Woman in grass green with pearls and reddish appliqués, types, types, opposite of the author. The author, the author. Is annoyed, annoyed. Utterly, so very utterly. Words stall, squeak against the wheel, or something, or something. This is still called weightloss book, but it should be called “summer 2010”, she penned spring 2010, this is summer 2010. that could be her thing, 57 000 words each season. All her thoughts, some of them, some of them. Stabs at writing , at penning the next, well, the next. That one, that one. Vancouver heat, something smells too perfumy here. Like some cheap soap, she types, types. Fast sentences splashing against the keyboard, roaring down onto the monitor, that kinda stuff, stuff. Green plants over the column, near the door, ceiling high, ppl walking, talking, singing, nothing to see,

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nothing to describe. She has to go to different, differing spaces, places, all over town, to hunt down stuff to describe, stuff to describe. Vancouver in 2010, reluctant scenes, songs of the city, the city. This city, anycity. Darkblue umbrellas hovering over the checkout desk, some kind of bizarre strange decoration, doesn’t make sense, sense. She types, she types. Sentences splashing down, but she said that already, already. Someone hums annoyingly, she is utterly pissed off, the perfume is too harsh, but she has to finish this, type and type and type. No insights for you, none 4 today, just mechanical typing, there is such a full day in front of her, she types, types, types. All these words, ah, all these words. Wordcount 8885, the text hampering forward, wimpering forward, rolling towards, well, towards, something. She types, types, feels claustrophobic, too much humming, but no more perfumy smell, woman in green took her whiff with her, she always smells, always. You can smell her from miles away. That kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. Info desk, info desk, author types, words and words and words. No storyline, no storyline. Someone coughs, disgustingly, she types, she types, obsessively, slightly, ever so slightly. For some fuckin’ reason ppl next to her move their mouse too much next to her, invading her territory, ah, she types, types. Feels overcrowded, hasted, hurried, she types, types. Looking down, staring down, stoically, stoically, some spellcheck, some form of spellcheck, spellcheck. End of 29, near, near. Sentences fragmented, fast and fast and fast. And spellcheck, or something, outta here, and outta here. End o’page, beginning of page. And stop- and stop. She reads thru this, today, not that good, not that good. --Tired, kind of. Back in vcc, typing. Too much sleep, sleep-inducing state of too much rest, the body

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reacting against the lying still for too many hours. Better to sleep too little than too much, so it seems, so it seems. Not quite noon yet, two pages have to be fed to the machine. What a waste of time, to sit here at a keyboard, to fill pages with words that are so banal banal banal. Stories that are non-new, repetitions of la condition humaine. Or something or something. Random dots, signs, random random words. End of july nearing, today is the twenty-eighth. She ponders what to read into this specific date, how to superimpose a subtext, how and how and how. Words splash against the monitor, silently, roaringly. She looks around her, could start describing what she sees, could describe the click the clack, muffled conversations, roaring av, typing to her right, behind her, 2 her left, fast typing, her own pecking at the keyboard. Anyhoo, she types, types, reluctantly using the term anyhoo, anyhoo being so antithetic to intellectual stuff, words like stuff trivialize the spoken word the written word. Omitting commas, ah, that should do it. Should elevate her prose. Constant pull and push, the words torn into different directions, language torn, interrupted, that kinda stuff, that kind, that kind. Page thirty or something, 170 pages more to go, she’d rather take a vacation, too much words, too many many words, stagnating silently and stoically, trying to be but not able, non-able. And she types and she types. Saves this, not really knowing why. This is not a dissertation, not anything, not anything. A journal, maybe, an account of her days in vancouver. One of seven billion stories, in words, in writing, fleeting over the monitor. And she types, types. The text is too big, the letters are humongous, very visible on the monitor, the too big monitor. All her observations for the world to see. She’d better shape up, write fluent stuff, syntactically correct, ah, grammar, ah, grammar. And the words splash on. Time for spellcheck, for wordcount, 4 saving this, time, time. Too many repetitions, she has to find a thesaurus, open it randomly, pick random words, sprinkle them into her text. She has to do this, do that, the other. Silently, stoically, the text marches forward. An afternoon not yet, vcc, learning center, English tutor sign, math/science center sign. She types and types and types.

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mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

Not that much left to the end of the page, she types types types. Her writing silently, inevitably deteriorates, so it seems, so it seems. Time to pick up a brush , swirl it around in a bucket of paint, let it drop all over some support, that kinda stuff, stuff. Time to draw meticulous shapes, that incur movement, time to shoot animations, let stick figures hush over the monitor. And she types, types, for now, for now. Not enough, but still, still. Should do, for now, now. Wordcount, maybe ten thousand, and if not now, then one of these days. Woman next to her laughs at the monitor, author types, types, why not, why not. End of page, come, wanna be outta here outta here. Still some more words, some more words. Computer to her left makes funny cartoony noises, woody woodpecker does not live here anymore. And she types and she types. Poetry , prose, words, reason, non-reason, rhythms of scholarship and tedium. That kinda stuff that kinda stuff. And end o’page end of page. Finally. Wordcount: 9 645. For now, for now. -

sitting in the langara library, the chair is too low, typing away, black keyboard with keys that have to be pushed down, somewhere at two in the afternoon, overcrowded, fast sentences, fast motion, movement around her, hecticness and the green outside. Others type so very fast, the author feeds her words to the machine, fast, faster, faster. Pauses, tries to figure out whether she should make her way to the third floor, where books on literature mold silently away. She types, she types. Out of the periphery of her eyes, eye, to the right, near the window, red chair rocking, rocking. Yup exclamation to her right, frantic typing at the computer station in front of her. Typing and typing and typing away.

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Green, still outside, buildings, window, grey silvery panels. Author, she types, types. Pushes the sentences towards a tad too much fragmentation, haults them when she can, types and types, types. Someone sneezes, murmurs, the hecticness of the library, and typing and typing. Red fire alarm, round, on the wall, above the monitor, small rectangle, yellow, orange light, on the computer, computer. A camera would be good, words are never enough, never and never and never. Ever, the language does its own thing, sweats bullets, stalls and stalls and stalls. Too many words, too many words, randomly, so very randomly put together. Like well-dressed ppl at a cocktail party, awkwardly trying to mingle while wishing to be home vegging out on the sofa, popcorn eating, game watching. And she types, types. Woman with black hair and yellow shorts, walking by, talking behind the column. End of page, so very very near. Another top of another page, green still outside, coherence so very slight, sentences too fragmented, too much, too much. Utterings , mutterings, flowing into the typewriter, pausing only slightly, slightly, she has enough of using grandiose language, barfing would be nicer, so much nicer, vancouver is warm and hot, but still ok still ok. Maybe hotter would be better, it is uncomfortable in the hotness, but not so uncomfortable that it feels good. She types, types, random observations, man in blue, outside, walking by, by. Woman in grey and green walks up the grey majestic stairs, author types and types and types. And spellcheck and spellcheck. Words, ten thousand and thirty, we have arrived, arrived. Obsessive typing, seems to pay off, pay off. Only forty thousand more, words and words and words. And she types and she types. Would be nice if she had something to tell , some interesting story, outside of the banal,

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something other than endless descriptions of typewriters, typewriter a, type writer b, black and white and grey, keyboards, keyboards, and she types, types. Page moves forward, motions, motions, not much left, not much left. Space slowly diminishing, when can we leave, leave this place. Her fingers hurt, well, only slightly, and she types, types. Listens to the click clack of the keys, pushed down, pushed down. Laughter in the back, ppl moving outside, she types, types. Types some more. 4 pages today, pretty good, pretty good. Grass swaying in the breeze, outside, outside, the author ponders, these grasses are about a meter high, not real grass, oversized grass. Supersized. Anyhoo, the page is filling up, filling up, and that is all that counts, counts, that counts. She plays the keyboard as if it is a harp, she types and types and types. Woman in red dress outside, dress to the floor, page is finished, save and spellcheck. This is it, this is it. -

Eight fifteen, not evening yet, not dark yet. Outside green, inside CNN. The author types, types. Tries to figure out what to write on, feels it being kind of difficult, to string together sentence after sentence, she stares at the ceiling, for a split second, tries to find poetic language to illustrate her struggles with writing. Obviously, it’s not going well, she overwords and underwords, both at the same time, eloquence, eloquence, marches out the window, does not live here, not anymore, not anymore. Her writing is one long, grandiose, self-portrait, she tries to hold a conversation, fragmented, tries to pen a novel or something, fragmented, fragmented, fragmented. Catchy song on the telly, only to be interrupted, Arizona immigration law, something, something. She types, types, writing, not her thing, not yet, not yet. Stalling language, always, always. Well, @ least the wordcount marches forward, one of

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these days, she will finish this, only to start typing up all her old texts, edit them, rearrange them, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. One day she will hunt down a publisher and hunt is not exactly the correct term, not the diplomatic one. And she types and she types. -

In the vcc library, a tad too hot here, typing, she stares down at her fingers over the keyboard, no ruby red nail polish anymore, her prose might suffer, suffer. No visuals that make her use good language, the muse does not hover out of its cave, her text will be as bla as this environment, as bla as the keyboard, as bla as her beige fingers without MAC-RUBY RED. She types, types, looking for a sec at the little foldup, that reminds you to turn off your cell phone, is this really necessary, why are there all these reminders sprinkled all over the library, for vcc students only -no cell phone - pssssht, the librarian herself talks louder than anyone else in here, bla and bla and bla. Author types, types, these days she does not put a “the” in front of “author”, kind of as if “author” is a single word, single name, like “Madonna”, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Words splash onto the keyboard, they always do, all thru summer of 2010, again, again, again. These are her days her days her days. And wordcount and spellcheck. And save. One day these days she will start making her rounds all thru nyc, she will peddle her wares, her wares. She will literary agent her own stuff, she will not be able 2 land an agent anyways. She might as well do it herself, sell by owner, sell by owner and, finally, sold by owner. And you cannot change even one apostrophe, she ponders, if this shouts out “troublemaker”, she ponders, she ponders. What, are you a mouse or a man, woman, what, what. The author, she ponders, are her words good today, are they, are they?

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The page moves forward, silently, it is too sunny in here, an ugly woman sits opposite of her, too much sun in here, she types, types, screws up her grammar, typing, typing. She ponders, this is page 35, she still has to type up 312 pages, then another 300 pages, another 200 pages, then another 300, thousand pages give or take some, this cannot be that good, typing and typing and typing. It seems to be more like 1100, but it seems more feasible to round it down, one thousand pages, lotsa typing, lots and lots and lots. And then save it on usb-drive and then sell it, somehow, somewhere. Writing, huh. Instead of painting, instead of film making. Instead of getting another degree, instead of writing your comingoutish dissertation. Instead of cementing your scholarly credentials, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. I’m just a girl in this world, ah, yah, whatev. Page 36, this goes pretty fast. The summer of 2010. Sounds kind of weird, and no weight loss, none, none of yet. Weight stagnation. Not that good, not that good. Author types, author types. Fast, not that fast. Blue umbrellas near the info-desk, pretty weird and strange. This is not exactly kits-beach, although the author is not even sure if kits beach has beach umbrellas. It’s more a beach volleyball place, seems so, seems so. Where beach bums roam. And fireworks, fireworks. Symphonies of fire, she types, she types. She ponders what else to say, to fill the page, to make it move downwards, upwards, anyhoo, she types, types. Ten twenty-one, a book with inscription “BUILDING SECURITY” on the shelf, in white bold letters on black, with red spine under it, with more white letters that are too small to be deciphered from here, the author is not quite sure if this book is that good at deciphering the rules of BUILDING SAFETY, for some reason the author writes her or his name in a way that cannot be read from afar, do you have something to hide, what, what? The author ponders, a helicopter in the sky, she types, types, the boringness of this library, anylibrary.

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Where books rule, where books shush you up. Alexandria. And she types, types. Types some more. One day all her writings will stand here, ah, why not, why not. They are online,, and she ponders what the conclusion of this sentence is. Obviously, nothing, her sentences don’t go anywhere these days, senility, insanity, so palpable, so palpable. And she types, types. Logic interrupted, but, hey, neatly typed, neatly typed. The printer rules, somewhere in the corner. Some talking, near the desk. Some fast typing, opposite of the author. Too much sun thru the skylights, posters on the wall, folders on the shelves, and books, books. Everything seems drab in here, the desk is so ugly, coins make music in the copy machine, the jukebox of the library and she types, types. End of page, outta her, that kinda stuff, kinda stuff. And wordcount :11 243. Oh well. -

In the langara library, someone sneezes, twice, one oh two, still july, she ponders if she will attend the art gallery hearing at kerrisdale. Probably not. These kind of hearings are always for show, aren’t they? City council does whatever they feel like, don’t they? Or maybe not, maybe not. Maybe her voice can stop the relocation of the art gallery. Cities would kill to have an art gallery at a central place like the vancouver art gallery. If you want, build another gallery at the old bus depot, build as many art galleries as you want. Better than invading countries just 4 kicks. She types, types. Somehow writing op-ed pieces does not seem her forte, hers is the meticulous, minutae-involved description of each and every colour, line, sound, the reflection of the computers in the black sunglasses of the woman to her left, the descript of the tone, the hue of the blue of the purse of the woman to her right. Those are the things that matter, matter. The banal, the mundane, not politics , statesmenship,

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nasrin khosrowshahi

not the fascination with leaders, vie for the glorification of losers, that kinda stuff, that kinda stuff. And she types, types, types her days away. Reluctantly, forcefully. Outside green, summer moving forward, page moving forward. We will all die, will all die. How is that 4 deep insight. Don’t take a stand, don’t take a stand. Nihilism rules, or something, and something. She swivels around in her grey chair, watches ppl talk to her right, to her left. Langara @ 1:14, movement, motion. Something smells, perfumy. End of page thirty-seven, so very very near. She fills the page, heaps words onto it, strong statements, hoppely whimpers. And a lot of neologisms, or something, and something. Nothing but bullshit today, nothing, nothing, nothing. Songs of the city, reluctant, monotonous, like the book cart, rolling by behind her, over the grey-green carpet with the too short fibers. Words that splash reluctantly, another Thursday, one of many, in front of a type writer, somewhere in vancitay. Woman with brown teddy bear appliqué on t–shirt moves by, the design is so 1970, author types, types, everything new is old again, no, wait, everything old is new again, and she types and she types. Blue light on computer, orange light just blinks up and down, every five seconds, this computer was so very different yesterday, anyhoo, she types, types, her back is hunched over, cramping up, she moves her lips while she types. Ppl are leaving around her, hey, if nothing else works, we can always play the insane, just to introduce some action, just to infuse this long boring summer day with a hoopla, long-needed, long needed. And she types, types. A swim would do good, some water, a shower at least, the very very least. And she types, types, types, her days away. All her writing, so repetitious, nothing happens, nothing, nothing. Only her fingers over the keyboard, pushing and pushing and pushing, languid stories, languishing on and on, boring her, boring the reader. She fishes for compliments, fiercely reluctantly. And she types, types, types forward to the bitter end. Woman coughs, woman talks, day moves by,

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nasrin khosrowshahi

moves her by. Moves her by. Moves her by. Wordcount @ 11 792. -

in the library of the art school, one oh eight, Friday, before the long weekend, Monday is B.C. day, she types, types. Feels kinda weird to be back in her old digs, kind of like welcome home mr. Kotter, she types, types, this keyboard is still as rustily stalling and decidedly filthy as the last time she used it. Two pages, two pages, against the sun outside, the day in july that murmurs along, not yet august, but long summernightish still, the indecided, undecidedness that heat produces, the waiting for something that will not happen, will not come, the personification of waiting 4 godot. Something like that, something of that kind. Her reluctant words that miss, fall to the ground, are gunned towards the paper, the eternal target, nonetheless. On the bus down arbutus she made up her mind, her job descript will be PoeT from now on, from now on. Why be a tough target when yu can be an easy target? And she types, types, types, types some more. How ‘bout that word count, how ‘bout it, how about it. Vancouver squeaks along, boring slightly, haulting slightly, with pauses and meditations, vancouver, Vancouver, Vancouver. Granville island happening, ocean factory happening, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. Art magazines to her back, shelves of musings on art, words, words, and some more words. She watches her fingers over the keys, pushing, forcefully, slightly, something like that, something like that. She is not a student here anymore, some kinda alumni, whatever that is whatever that is. She will come here and type, another year another year. Ah, why not, why not. The click clack of the keys, makes her happy, happy. -

she ponders if she should take a painting class here, she does not feel like dealing with admin, they are never helpful, never, never. Ah, burocracy, kafka was better @ describing that, and burocracy must be

210

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

spelled differently, judging from the red squirly line under the word. Would be nicer just 2 come to this library and feed two pages to the machine, so much easier than dealing with ppl. Seinfeld said it already, ppl, they are the worst, the worst. Well, he said it only once, but nonetheless, nonetheless. Every day of her splashes along silently, reluctantly, the highlight of her days, the reruns of Frasier and seinfeld, golden girls is not that bad either. Her brain might senile away and she ponders in her dampening state of senility if senile is a verb. Ah, whatev, it is now. She tries to regain her lost youth by abbreviating words like whatever, ah, whatever. These are her days, are her days. This is what happens to your lovely nice intelligent brain, it turns to mush, turns to mush. Must be the non-existent fumes from the typewriter, the toxicness that springs from the sterility of a keyboard, the blank page made me do it, do it. Yep, writing bullshit, bullshit, that’s where it’s at. She ponders, tries to weigh the pros and cons of using the term bullshit versus using the term dribble to describe her writings, does she want to fish for compliments, does she want to negate stuff, can she make up her mind how to fashion this in a stylistically correct manner without being too sterile, a slight outta kilterness is still en vogue, still, still. What is the trend now in writing, it always has to do with the bigger picture, political, economical, geographical, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. And she types, types, types. Oceanfactory still glistening in the sun, she types, types, types. And save and outta here outta here. For now, 4 Now. -

she is back in the Emily carr library, today is Friday, and she tries to pen as much as she can, before they kick her outta this place. She types as fast as she can, having still some more minutes left. Well, actually it is 4:19 and this place is closing at 5, so technically she still has a lotta time. But for some reason all the chairs are turned upside down on the tables, so maybe they will close down earlier for the long weekend. The author looks around, there are still two women talking loudly at the computer station

211

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

behind her, and it seems this place is still open and she can type, type, type, frantically under the gun, while granville island is so very colorful, or something and something. Better leave this place before being thrown out. Words, 12555, 12556. --august two, 2010, BC day, in the starbucks on arbutus, eleven twelve, AM. Lotsa ppl, talking, her laptop on the beige round table, a peppermint tea next to the keyboard, she tries to balance this somehow, makes sure she types very non-physical, very timid, in order not to make the tea spill. She ponders. If she should put this teacup down on the ground, near to her shoe, she is worried that she might make some crass movement and spill the hot tea over her foot, she ponders, maybe better to leave the papercup standing where it is. The script on the laptop is too big, cannot be that good, not, not. She ponders, she could describe the ppl here, after all that is why she prefers coffee shops and libraries to sitting in a still room, she thinks that people watching makes her text better, better. Or not, or not. The muse is very fragile, does its own thing its own thing. Comes and goes, at random, @ random. Some days the words flow, sometimes they don’t. as if she hasn’t said that before, said that before. All our cumulative insights, all our generic insights. Her days of penning superb, well, stuff, are over, over. Outta words outta words. Now all that is left is reiteration, reiteration. Nothing new nothing new. The boredom of the master, in her case the master without masterpiece. Only tons of masterpieces rotting in her nightstand, in the basement. Non-lauded masterpieces, not the ones that make you drive in a black and white film, deep, in nostalgia, down 5th. Avenue, while confetti and balloons rain down, on you, on you. That is how success looks, Hollywood coined that pic of success. Manuscripts, whimpering in nite stands, not that much o’success. She ponders, are writers even lauded, aren’t it conquerors, statesmen, driving thru a foggy, diffused, fifth avenue. And why nyc, why not downtown tinkertown.

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mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

Anytown, anyvillage. She types away, against the piano that is not really audible, klimpering away on the overhead, ppl, here are too loud against the music, someone coughs in the back, her fingers are once more rubyrednailpolished, very nice against the black and white of the keyboard, ah, she types, types, trying to staccato the text with random ah’s and oh’s, she types, types, dreaming of praise but settling 4, well, none. What is the opposite of lauding, of laurels, and where do laurels grow. And why does one need dried up leaves on one’s head, who needs trophies, trinkets? I can buy my own trophy, paint my own certificate. We don’t need the praise of a stuffy place in Stockholm, do we, do we? What counts is the sitting here in this god4saken coffeehouse, at the end of the world. On this planet here, we just type, type, utterly confused, utterly confused. Vyieng 4 the royal we, for no reason, no reason. Random words, random texts. Sentences interrupted, on a Monday, a Monday, and she is so outta words, out of words. And save and spellcheck, why not, why not. 13 074 words, and words and words and words. Her tea, slowly and silent, cooling off, cooling off. End of page, not quite, not yet. -

She ponders, she has to fill one more page, actually, half a page will do, should do. Her right shoulder, her neck, ever so slightly, cramping up, cramping up. She tries to stretch, against the typing, typing and stretching at the same time. Woman with beautiful children, knock on wood, wood, author types and types and types. Someone talks about a marguerita, ah, it is too soon in the morning, slightly near noon, author types, types. “Refresh” tea, next to keyboard, words generic, city generic. A day in 2010, one of many, still alive, still alive, mutterings and utterings, but she used that phrase already, used it up, spat it out, singing on the overhead, ah, end of page, end of page. Finally, fnally, finally. -

213

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

It is near eight, late in the afternoon, a too sharp whiff of garlic from the kitchen, the author has problems to hold her eyes open, the whiff is way too sharp, tearinducingly sharp, it is hot in here, the tv is on, her typing is stalling, stalling, too shrouded in complaints, she types, types, types. The news is not nice, it never is never is. She ponders if this is a good place to write, she feels she should take her laptop to the coffeeshop on arbutus, use the commotion around her to flow into the text, make the words more interesting, less interesting, cadence the rhythm in just the right way the right way. The author ponders, her words are never enuf, never, never, they are way too bland and her subject matter is whining, whining. Green leaves outside, how nice, but this does not feed her prose, the sheer stagnation of life around her, it works against her career as a writer, she should go back to paint, to brushes, to canvas, to film, there have to be strong statements and silent pauses for moments, for minutes. An old woman on tv, with a shawl around her face, she is strongwilled, strongspoken, the author types, types. There are pages waiting to be filled, her text flows, silently, stoically. She wishes she could take this typewriter/laptop with her, type, while she walks, while the world around her changes, while she moves thru space, thru space. The sitting still, cramped, it is not that conducive to writing writing. Anyhoo, she types, types. Legend goes, Kerouac typed “on the road” in three weeks, on a scroll, relentlessly, relentlessly. The author ponders what she can garner from this fact, nothing really, she just likes to read thru all this trivia. She feels like typing, typing, especially when she reads up on writing habits of others. She feels that she kinda types in a vacuum, she does not really talk to other writers, she kinda types in a vacuum. She tries to concentrate on her writing while trying to concentrate on the story on tv, a documentary on havel after politics, while making films.

214

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

She types types types, she feels that her words are way too timid, not forceful enough. The page marches forward, forward. BBC, ruptured oilwell, this is not enough. Just sitting on a chair, watching tv, too much stagnation, too much stillness. The author tries to throw words at the quietness, the non-movement around her. And the words march forward, march forward. Still no narrative, she will finish this, save it, spellcheck, walk around the neighbourhood, get the antsy feel outta her system, have an ice cream, fresh air in her face, the breeze that comes when you move move move. And 13 689 words, words , words. Not necessarily good ones, slightly reluctant ones, nausea sets in, too much noise, too much noise. And spellcheck and spellcheck. -

Another day in the vcc center, typing, typing. August third, the letters are too big, they can be seen from everywhere, writing should not be like that, should be more private, a discourse between writer and text, the words might not be the right ones, space for corrections, that kinda stuff, stuff. Too much talking in this place, the author cannot concentrate, not really, not really. The words stall, against the monitor with all the colourful icons on it, she can look outside, the lobby, ppl come, go, nothing to describe, this has all been documented before, there is nothing new, nothing new. The room still looks exactly the way it looked in weeks before, there is nothing to describe, nothing, nothing. She tries desperately to take a heap of words and let it flow onto the keyboard, she hopes for the best, but, hey, writing, so overrated, so overrated, not like painting, where you can use different paints, colors, consistencies, different supports, fabric, paper, this is just writing, words, to be arranged and

215

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi

rearranged, malleable, so very non-malleable. She either says something positive and negates it, or the other way around, that is how words work, work. She types, types, types, outside the inscript ORDER NOW over the café place, ordering us to order now. We order you around and you order us around. Or something, or something. Too much talking around her, she cannot concentrate, concentrate. Ppl working on their, well, work, a research project, something, something. Typing keeps her happy, how many words, how many words? 13 977, next to 14 000, the words march forward, they better, better. A dying plant next to her, as tired as the author. Barely holding up, barely, barely. Outside orange ceilings, next time she should take photos, photos. A camera, or something, or something. She puts the earphones on, only to buffer all the noise around her, she should find some music to listen to, against all the noise here, the noise here. And save, and save. -

She listens in to the “don’t get caught in a bad hotel” video, it is a tad too loud, too non-conducive to good writing, something is wrong with the sound, it makes her physically sick, or something, or something. She uses phrases like “or something”, “kinda”, whenever her words are too inaccurate, this cannot be good, not that good. Writing, ah, writing, maybe, music will be her next venture into finding a creative outlet, maybe, so very maybe, the words splinter along, inaccurately, stallingly, haltingly. She comes here, so very mechanically, takes the number sixteen bus to this computer room, starts typing, typing, and any words, anywords will do. As long as she fills two pages, she will be fine. She will superimpose some kind of meaning onto this, later, later., later. She tries to make it interesting, but what is interesting, what constitutes INteRest. The change of font, the rhythm of the letters, maybe, maybe, maybe, so very maybe. The music is over, she has to type, then start it again, replay, replay. Her writing is so insignificant, so inconsequential, so very much about nothingness, so much discussing the

216

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nasrin khosrowshahi

everyday, or something, or something. A glorification of the WHATEVER, that is how she writes, writes, day-in, day-out. Outside a man in glasses , blue shirt, a significant aura of ugliness, no centerfold material, definitely not, definitely. And the words march forward, forward. She moves with the music, not too obtrusive, more in-obtrusive, how can you sway to music, without looking foolish, silly. Anyhoo, she types, using words like anyhoo, this is not academic writing, is like visual art, is too wordy, 2 WordY. Well, word count 14 333, and that is what counts counts. -

Back in the vcc-place, she just had a crème brulee in the pastry place, she is back at the computer, for inexplicable reasons the table here is wet, she tries to type without touching the table, her fingers, her hands hover above the keyboard, she kind of pats and ticks the keys with the top of her nails, which feels kind of annoying, as if someone scratches her skin or something, anyhoo, she types, types. Usually she takes the Canada line and goes to langara, she hardly ever does all the typing in one place, there have to be pauses, walking, in order to make her write, tough to produce the right kind of language, while sitting, sitting. The woman in pink is sitting under the English tutor sign, looking at the computer, the author types, types. The table has still its drops, she still tries to type while avoiding to touch the table, ppl talk behind her, she types and types and types. The earphone is kind of stifling, especially ‘cause no music is flowing outta it. She puts the you tube video on, she listens in to the music, to the talking of the study group, they are producing some kind of magazine, so does the other study group, two magazines, one full of text, one full of images of food, they put all their papers on the octagonal tables, they can all stand around it, and the author does not know why she is describing this, is there nothing else left to write about, about. Random words, verbal doodles, no insights, none whatsoever. The toughness of writing, the difficulty, the difficulties. The words that stall, stall.

217

mandolin player of brooklyn

nasrin khosrowshahi -

She will walk thru the city, back to city centre station, by the Dunsmuir bike lane, she might straddle thru holt, because you don’t walk thru holt, you straddle, you sail, the whole store is a glorified catwalk, or something, or something. Author types, types, hunched over, looking down at her rubyred fingertips, over the white square keys, in the silvery casting, typing, ah, typing. Words that are basically non-words, too timid, too eager, the writer who can’t, can’t, but writes anyways, types anyways. Where is the dif between typing and writing. Outside ppl walking by, interesting, interesting. Words stalling, author watching them stall. She feels horrible, the words, the text make her physically sick. She should write something intelligent, something that makes sense, that explains everything, everything. Universal truths, universal thruth. Not just words, words. Paint, drawings, motion. Ah, she types and types and types. Filled the pages, end of page 47, 47. Fast sentences, too fast sentences, rotten words, that can’t, can’t. not yet, not yet. She ponders, is that her subjectmatter, endless whining ‘bout her inability to write. Get a grip of yourself, sit up straight, find a theme, a theme. War, peace, controversial issues, the fight 4 justice, that is what pens are for, they are more potent than swords, who said that, who said that? A writer. And she types, types, amasses words, lots of them, lots of them. Heaps them on the page, like a heap of bricks, she builds fleeting constructs, constructs. She would like to leave this place, run away from this computer, run thru the city, against the heat, against the august thirdness, against her writer’s block, she hates typing, writing, so stupid, pushing down squares, squares. Too prosaic, too prosaic. Her words slide towards the 15 000 wordmark, not yet, not yet there. She pushes the replay button, the you-tube film, once more, once more. The wetness on the table is almost dry, almost, almost. 12:59, 12:59. Almost one, almost one. All these almosts, the “not quite yets”

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of our lives, of our cumulative lives on this planet. She types, types, types some more. 14 984 words, some more, some more. Run to the goal, the loneliness of the long distance runner, the pausing of the goalie by the ELFMeter. Metaphors, eloquent wordings, who knows, who knows. 15 017, well, finally, finallY. -

so, if she finishes this page and 49, and 50, she will have reached another milestone, 50 pages. Obviously her pride in her writing is at an all time low, she just counts her output, has no affection for her own writing, the only thing that matters seems to be the sheer number, the number of words. There is no strong storyline, let’s face it, there is no storyline whatsoever, there is only the figure of the struggling artist, the attempt at writing something remotely decent, the stab at a C minus, a C minus. To pass that’s where it’s at. Remotely good, a tad good, text that will make it, can make it. That is not 2 boring, not to sleep inducing. That kind of text, that kind, that kind. A text that barely cuts it, more than enough, ah, more than enough. Linguistic hiccups, ah, why not, why not. She is falling asleep at the key board, here in the art school, while the oceanfactory whimpers away. Top of page 49, one of many books, she feels like having an ice cream, in the little store under the bridge. Too much sugar, 2 much, too much. She feels like keeling over, spreading herself over the keyboard, snoring, snoring. Something makes funny noises behind her, something, something. And save and save. Page fifty has 2 wait. --In front of the telly, watching dharma and greg, she ponders if she can watch this and write, both at the same time. It does not really help that the curtains are closed, she cannot really see what she is doing, it

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helps though that the letters are white, they are illuminated by the monitor and she has enough of describing the process and trying to figure out how her text is pushed one way or skedaddles to another side, ah, writing, some kinda ride. She needs a clear storyline, there is none, none. Just a lowly schreiberling, trying to put down as many words as is possible. The goal is fifty-seven thousand, she has about 15000. This will keep her busy all thru august, she types, types, she left her original subject matter, da weightloss, because, hey, it is definitely weight stagnation, that cannot be that good that good. Words, words. -

Her arms feel kinda sore, too much typing typing. She ponders that Jack Kerouac would not need his scroll if he lived today, using a laptop makes you go on and on without putting paper in the typewriter, no scroll, no big scroll, and she types, and she types. -

She feels she should take this to the coffeeshop on arbutus, writing will be so much easier there, ppl, a walk, fresh air, that is how words come, come. You don’t need to wait for words, they make their way so very automatically onto the keyboard, onto the monitor. And she types, types. -

She uses the computer in the tv room, it seems kind of weird, but the problem is that the sky seems too grey, greywhite, she does not really feel like walking down to the coffeeshop, what if rain suddenly starts, not that good for a laptop. There is nothing to write about, no people watching, she tries to figure

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out, what to write on, write on. This laptop is silvery, with blue lights in it, she types, types. --Top of page 50, words, words, she heaps them on as fast as she can. The story of 57 000 words, so much more 2 go, to go. No protagonist, no antagonist, just typing and typing and typing. Green outside, tv, music, the typer and the laptop, that is how it is, that is how it is. You are not a writer, only a typer, a typer being less than a writer, a writer. The author reiterates words, at random, tries to make a point, though she is not quite sure which point, it is late in the afternoon, she is slightly confused, the sun, the heat, the usual. And fifteen oh seven words it is. -

And page fifty-one, top of it, she watches two and a half man while typing, typing. Outside green, bushes trees the like, typing and typing and typing. She looks at the brown paper bucket with the lace around it, she wonders what 2 write about it, there is no story no story. The author tries to hiccup the text by playing around with the punctuation, she types, types. Afternoon slowly bows to evening, a slightly fresh breeze, there is only so much one can squeeze out of this. Only so much one can write ‘bout afternoons, evenings, only so much. No action, no sex, no violence. Stagnation, stagnation, the absence of motion, of movement. No important issues, no universal truths, nothing, nothing. Only the fingers typing, ah, typing. Several ahs and ohs, strategically splashed over the text. An ice-cream ad on the telly, fast changing scenes, fast sentences, fast sentences. And we are @ 15 687. Funny scenes on tv, underscored by laugh tracks. The author ponders if she should change her subject matter from weightloss to the meticulous description of the couch potato existence. And she types, types, types some more. Shoulders hunched over, remnances of rubyred nail polish, she types, types,

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types. 15 921 words, not that bad not that bad. Moving forward to 16 000. She ponders if she could compare this to the moving forward of the day and if there is any literary merit in it, anyhoo, she types, types, types. Words like ANYHOO, don’t seem to take her prose to a higher level, and she types, and she types. And 15 982 words. Words, words. Still tv, still green outside, the text whimpers along, silently, stoically, or something like that, something like that. And we have 16 011, not bad, not bad. --End of page 51, next to top of page 52. She types, types. Watching news while typing, typing. It is still slightly sticky, she writes, types. She looks at her books, she ponders, if she could write about them, but if push comes to shove she has very little material around her to feed her text, her texts. She tries to make up stuff, construct quivering storylines that do not really go, she types and types, types. Words stalling, stalling. -

Feeling slightly nauseated, eyes tearing up, she types away, types away. Still cnn, she has seen this very program before, repetition, reiteration. The clicker-clacker of the keyboard, the day marches forward, forward, she repeats words, is getting slightly obsessed, her shoulders are cramping up, words and words and words. The brown paper basket with the lace border, still in place, still, still. She feels like going for a walk, fresh air, slight evening breeze, she types, types, her wrists are cramping up, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. She scratches her head, ponders if she will find readers, how this works, works, maybe a switch in subject matter should do the trick, a rightly constructed story, antagonist, protagonist, the usual usual. No omitting of commas to call it art, correct spellings, words marching like soldiers, in line, in line. And she types, and she types. Still tv, still tv. The paper basket still there, she

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types, types, day marches forward, she types, types. And 16 264 word, sixteen two six four. Words and words and words. -

Seinfeld on the telly, laughtracks, she types, types. Cooped up inside, her only inspiration is what goes on on the idiot tube. This cannot be good, not that good. One day of these days she will draw a nice outline, construct a story, an ever mounting narrative, some cliffhangers, some social commentary, the like, the like. How much longer can she string along words as if they are beads, try to substitute word constructs for real narrative? Words are not like paint, they are not like music, are they are they? There has to be a strong storyline, so they say, so they say. Drama, action, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. A real book is not just a glorified selfportrait, is it, is it? Ah, she types, hating her text, knowing that her words are so substandard, never good enough, never, never. Always outta kilter, lacking something lacking something. Omitting commas, that should do the trick, catapult her prose to a higher level, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. And some more Seinfeld, ah, reruns, she knows basically each and every line. Funny, huh, but not exactly helping the writer to achieve deep insights, they are all diluted by laughtracks, washed over, washed over. And she types, types, types away. One of these days she will write scholarly texts, insightful stuff, academic papers, she will, she will. Engage in discourse A, discourse B, footnote it all, properly, properly. And wordcount @ 16522. Ah, for now, 4 now. -

In the library of the art school, somewhere in the corner, facing the wall, her eyes slightly teary from too much staring at the monitor, she types, types. Pleasantly cool and chilly in here, she ponders what to write about, what, what. There must be more than just gasps of hope for words, a writer has to say

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importanter things, stories of great tragedy or great joy, whichever, stories of lust and love, or something, or something. Unbridled anything will do, should do. Not just threading her seconds like beads onto a string, she used that metaphor before, before, and it is not even that accurate, not that shiny, more blah, anyhoo, she types, types. Words like anyhoo will do her in, rain down on her prose, smash eloquence, forcefully, forcefully. And she types, types, against slight boredom. Against her teary eyes, against the summer that crawls forward, silently, without drama and/or action. And she types, types. --Watching two and a half men while penning the next great novel, seems kind of difficult, kinda, kinda. Insights do not really fly out of thin air, they are not necessarily contorted by watching a laugh track laden sitcom, anyhow, she types, types, against the impending darkness, tries to find eloquent sentences, looks at the green outside, types away, types away. She wonders how many persons are typing away, just like her, wordsmiths trying to mold words, to shoot them at not-yet realized concepts, try to form ideas that are slightly elusive, make words formulate ideas that are not there yet, and she types and she types. She should make her way down to the coffee shop on arbutus, the fresh breeze on the way there might feed her writings, she is totally outta words, out of words. Her text is basically out of steam, how much longer can she whine and complain about the absence of a strong narrative, that is not a marketable premise, is it, is it? She looks out the window, for a second, she wishes she was sitting in the coffeeshop, watching the last customers, watching closing time come near, she knows she cannot really take her laptop with her, it might glide out of her hands on the way, it might rain, the author is not very comfortable with taking her laptop with her, not yet, not yet. She usually prefers pen and paper. 16 933 words, the text marches forward, marches forward, even though there is no real story, none, none,

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none. Only writers block, omnipresent, omnipresent. And save and spellcheck. She haults, tries to push some more words into the computer, while the sprinklers go off, while the summer idyll is happening, while the absence of a coherent text penned by her is arguably driving her insane, the impossibility of nailing it, nailing it. And we are @ seventeen oh twelve, ah, it might not be a good text, not yet, not yet, but, hey, the words march forcefully forward, quantity over quality, might be, could be. She randomly types words, hopes for the best, fears the worst, even though in the scheme of things the inability to pen something worth reading is so irrelevant, irrelevant. She is getting sick from all this typing, she has to run outside, fresh air, some fresh air. And save and save. -

Thu 10:38 AM, Vancouver Community College, Learning Center, computer station tlc 09, the author types, types. She ponders if it is correct to refer to herself as “the author”, to refer to herself in the third person, should there be a “the” in front of “author”, what are the conventions, the “non-conventions? These days she does a lot of research into literary classifications, which is kind of weird, after all, the “written” is merely a sorry mimicking of the “spoken”. So she thinks, so she thinks. She looks to her right, ponders, obviously there is so much more to discuss vis-a-vis aural/written language, but, hey, she just does not feel like discussing anything. Discussions are 4 da birds, she just wants to sit here and feed her daily allotment to the machine, save it, spellcheck, the usual, the usual. A certain amount of words, in order to feel alive, scribbles on paper, floating thru cyberspace. Somehow the last sentence is not correct, non-correct, like a door that does not really shut close, that is outta kilter, out of kilter. So very artsy, so very non-mass produced. She ponders if coherence flows into her text, ever so slightly, ever so slightlyish. Words, words. Catapulting thru the air, whimpering down onto the keyboard, into the keyboard. She types, types. Slow morning here in vcc, slow words, ah, slow words. Math/science tutor

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sign, English tutor sign. Her days, her days. One day she will sell these her words, she ponders how much could she, can she charge per word. 57 700words, that is usually a book about 200 pages long, which means 100 sheets of paper, well, minimum price would be a buck, maximum would be one thousand dollars. Somehow she has an inkling that economics is not her strong side, neither macro nor micro, anyhoo, she types, types. She stares at the psychedelic squirls that glide over the monitor to her right, she types, types, types. She puts the earphones on, just to muffle the sounds here in this place. She feels sleepy, reluctantly so, forcefully so, she plays with the language, arranges and rearranges words, makes her happy, happy. And she types, types. Behind her a very agitated discussion about where robson street is, she types, and types, and types. Must be a nice word count by now, not that she really filled the page with intelligent stuff, she just amasses words, words, types and types and types. Wordcount: 17 473. Or something, or something. She listens to the you tube video, “don’t get caught in a bad hotel”, somehow the sound is too temperamental, the video is not that good either, she turns the sound down, but still the rhythm is coming thru, the brass music splashes her text forward, makes her type more animated, she types, types, one more page, one more page, she will go up to the pastry place after this, she ponders if writing day-in, day-out will in the end garner, make for a good book, her grammar is off, but at this point she doesn’t really care, doesn’t really care. These days she reads up on what should be done when querying, what is right, what is wrong, stickling 4 right grammar and spelling is important for some ppl., others could care less, something like that, something like that. She types, types, while the trombone, the sax is going on, those thingies that clap together with a strong metally sound, those round thingies that she has no clue about their names, who cares, who cares, what counts is the listening to the music, the here and now, she feels as if she is in san Francisco, you can be transported to wherever you wanna be, just by surfing the net, she ponders, the term”netsurfing”, 2 yesterday, too much, too much.

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Wordcount 17 723, or something, something. Eleven oh nine, she types, types, types her days away. No insights for today, just typing, typing, mechanical, automatic pushing of all these little squares, one by one, one by one. She types, types. Some more words, some more words. She could write about the interface, very colourful, this monitor is so very nice, big, colourful, the author notices how shabby her lingo is these days, must be the fatigue of the summer, the fatigue of penning all these treatises that are never good enough, will never be good enough, never ever. Well, at least we still have a smidgeon of self doubt to take us thru the day, she types, she types, wordcount 17 841, that should do it should do it. Spellcheck save outta here outta here. This place in all its colours, the music, the typing next to her, the heritagey building outside, the author notices all the glitches she splashed onto the text, but there is no real remedy, maybe tomorrow will be a better day in writerland. And if nothing else works, there is always paint to be globbed onto canvas, little stickfigures to be put gliding onto the monitor, some painting, some animation. And she types, types, types, 17 938 words, 17 939. Outta here, outta here. --She is sitting in the little tv-room, it is exactly three o’clock, fresh prince of belair is starting up, the author ponders how she can possibly write something worth reading while watching reruns, is there anything insightful that will magically flow into her text. An ad for magic eraser, that is where she got the word “magic” from. Maybe it would be better to turn the telly off, and she is not quite sure if she used the “telly” term in the right way, she types, types, that she knows. Words, words, laughtracks, laughtracks. She looks at all the books stashed in the bookshelves, she is outta words, out of words. 18 062, that is the wordcount. At least she manages to somehow fill all these pages with words, the

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question is, are they good enough? Writing, it does not come easy, it is a constant struggle. And it is so hot in the city, not exactly good for writing, inventing some narrative, tough, tough. She tries to write, to type, while following the, ah, so deep storyline. Hillary Banks, pretty funny. And some more words, some more words. She tries to finish this as fast as she can, last November she wrote 50 000 words, in one month, the nano-way. She should come back to the so cheesy name of this story, but somehow the whole writing just went down, she can try all she wants, her words are all repetitive, they don’t do what they should do. That is why writers become storytellers, why they make up nice, well-written stories, writing is not like doodles on paper, you cannot just type and type, and hope for the best. And watching tv while writing, kinda futile. And another episode of fresh prince, she feels kind of nauseated, someone burnt the food on the stove, hammering outside from the construction site around the corner, she types, types. 18 267 words, words. Repetitions will fill the pages. She looks at the idiot box, waits for insights, insights. She could change the channel, news, but it is all too biased, entertainment with an allure of realism, a non-allure. And 18 306 words. -

Four thirty-seven, Seinfeld is on and she is at 18 000 and something words. She ponders, if she will make the 20 000 mark this evening and if, what kind of accomplishment would that be. It does not say anything about the quality of her writing, she feels cramped up and slightly obsessed. What kind of life is that, sitting at a computer and typing, typing. Typing instead of writing, apparently that is what Thomas wolfe said about jack Kerouac, or something, and something. She ponders, where her writing stands, typing, writing, who cares, who cares. Writing becomes better when you do it a lot, like in “practice makes perfect”, so – she stops, maybe she used up her allotment of platitudes for today, anyhoo, she writes, writes. Her English is peppered with anyhoos and thingies, she positions herself solidfootedly in

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suburbia, that’s how it seems, how it seems. And she types and types and types. Not even time enough to skeadaddle to the coffee shop on arbutus, she is somehow chained to this computer, typing, typing. You can’t force the language to flow, you should take pauses, long ones, that is how this goes, this goes. And she types, types. 18 511, she should put in 1 500 more. She sees herself sitting here all thru Thursday, typing typing. While the world moves by. There is a macaroon in the fridge, she should lose weight, she types, types. She could change the channel, golden girls, ah, so many choices. She feels really sick, that happens when you are couped up in a room, in a slightly dimmed room, watching tv, typing, typing, what kind of life is this, rambling to the computer, fresh air would be good, good. She has to construct an antagonist, could be male, female, something, something, a storyline, action, ah, why not, why not , she should start writing whole sentences, soupnazi on tv, ah, fun, fun, it is a fast drivethru thru all the funny scenes, and they are all pretty funny. She looks at the remote next to her, she could change the channel, channel. 15 6549 words, words. Insanity is so palpable, on a hot sunny day in Vancouver, the words amass, amass. She starts staring into thin air, these are better times for writers, you can take your laptop with you, that should translate into better texts, so much better texts. Come to think of it, she watches tv and translates that into typing, that makes for a certain kind of art form, so she thinks, thinks. She ponders if she should still write or if it is time for heavy editing, rewrite, that kind of stuff. All these laugh tracks make her dizzy, her writing is becoming stale, she needs fresh air fresh air . 18 777 words, 18 781. -

Seven twenty-four, she ponders if she should write in time-increments, twenty minutes worth of writing, forty minutes worth of writing, maybe that will speed up the process. On TV CNN, she watches the news, ever changing, she tries to listen in and write at the same time, which is kind of tough,

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something has to give, something has to give. Self absorbed, that seems to be her style these days, she tries to work through the problems of writing by analyzing them from different angles, at this time she is annoyed by the darkness of this place, she turns on the light, she ponders if writing all these meticulous and at the same time irrelevant observations is good or bad, she types while holding a conversation, this is not how it should be how it should be. She can see the little blue number getting near to 19 000, not yet though, not yet. She types, types, getting kind of sick of the endless repetition of the phrase “she types”. She remembers one of the FAQs on the NANO-month being “Can I repeat the same word 50 000 times?”, she totally feels that her writing has stooped to its very low. 18 987, 18 988. The day bows silently towards the evening, only the tv, her typing, she types types. The brown paperbasket with the lace border, still in its place, in its place. Words, words. News on tv, this time BBC. She types, types. She looks at the plant near the window,

ponders what she can write about that. She wishes that someone would turn off the tv, the

news is not good, it never is. She should turn the telly off, it annoys her, interferes with

her writing. Her pushing down of key after key. 19 083 words. One of these days she will write a nicely polished outline, construct a nice text, nice, nice. Will take a writing class, as if you could really teach writing. You can’t, whoever wants to write has to sit at the typewriter, day-in, day-out. That’s how it is that is how it is. She said that before, before, that is how her writing goes these days and she is not quite sure what she means by that. Dinner time, rice, salad, the author sprinkles her prose with random, banal observations. On the telly, Hiroshima, 65th. Anniversary, author types, types. News and dinner, somehow don’t go together, idyll and anti-idyll, hand in hand. And she types, types. 19 200. 230

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She has to fabricate 800 words more, she wants to end this at 20 000, 20 000 on august six. She is tired though, lots of writing, teary eyes, too much stagnation, she should jump up, run, walk, something physical, a tad more physical than sitting in a chair and tapping at black squares with letters thereon, ah, she types types. The evening languishes, her back is hunched over, the brown paper basket still has its lace on it, she is going insane, slowly and steadily. But she has to hang in there, she has to reach 20 000, has to, has to. She heaps words on, nose to the grindstone, she is not quite sure, if the term with the grindstone does even apply to typing, it feels more like nose to the laptop. Eyes teary, but words have to flow, have to flow, have to. She still needs about 700 words, sentences that are slightly beautiful, slightly grammatically correct, some syntax, some apostrophes, commas, the like, the like. And we are at the top of page sixty-one. Outside green leaves, she ponders, if she should write on them, describing each and every leaf, to fill the page, fill the page. She looks around for the remote control, she hates the constant noise-pollution on the telly, the writing stalls, the words clash against the constant loud talking on the BBC. And it is nothing but repetitions, one story over and over again. Kind of like her typing, the constant reiteration creates the illusion of security and predictability. And she types, types, against the heat, the noise, words splashing onto the keyboard, appearing on the monitor, reluctant words, fast words, the paper basket silently on the ground, some more words, ah, some more words. Still 500 of them are missing, stalling, hiccupping, she has to find different, newer terms for describing writing, she cannot repeat her phrases, endlessly, endlessly. 19 521, 19 521. She cannot leave this now, she has to feed 500 of them to the machine, how tough can it be, can it be. A marathon writer cannot stop ten minutes from the end line, has to go on and go on and go on. Until the bitter end. It is too hot in here, too much noise, the

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letters are kind of mushing together, not that decipherable, not that decipherable, her syntax is off, grammar is off, the usual, the usual. 400 words, ah, 400 words. Outside still green, but so much darker, night, not yet here, not yet here. She’ll make it make it. Slightly obsessed, forcefully obsessed. Word after word after word. On the telly, Sydney, harbor bridge, festivities, she types, types. She would like to eat some melon, but first writing, first writing, the words have to rain down onto the keyboard, have to have to, she tries to fill the page, random repetitions should do the trick, the trick. And 19 690, 310 words more, 310. There must be nicer things to do on a heated summer night, beach, walks, you must be certifiably mad to just sit and type, type. It is not a race, not a race. 50 000 words of utter mediocracy with only short glimmers of eloquence, with so very, very short glances of brilliance, flashes, split secondish, split secondish. Her neck feels funny, her fingers hurt, her eyes are tired, her mind is going numb, washes over, washes over. Ah, how many more words how many more words. Her teeth hurt slightly, a feel of discomfort, she types, types, types, her nailpolished fingers rush from square to square, ah, she, types, types. Types her sort of poetry meets prose, her self portraitish sketches, on a summer day in vancouver, sentences that try to be, but never can. Stabs at writing, and only stabs, without any breakthroughs, short moments of nailing it, so very very short. And she types, types. 19 847, 19 648. And she types, types. Outside, very near to darkness, melon would be nice, she sits here hunched over, words and words and words. Only one hundred and twenty words more, how difficult can it be, how tough, how tough. She splashes her words down, fast, fast, meaning is irrelevant, coherence, ah, so yesterday yesterday. As long as the amount of words is enough, she is happy, happy. 19 924, 19 925. And night befalls Vancouver, the author hopes for a slight breeze, which does not come, anyhoo, her

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words march forward, slightly forcefully, slightly forcefully. Only fifty more, only fifty more. She cannot stop here, she has to pile some more words on, to reach the goal, the goal. Goal oriented writing, so much better than good writing, quantity over quality, quantity over quality. Nine more words, nine more words, under the gun, under the gun. And, 20 005, finally, finally. -

in front of the computer in the art school, looking at the monitor, staring at the keys, watching her still ruby red nail polished fingers press down the different keys, wander over the black keyboard, with white letters, she types, types, not yet noon yet, her lingo is off, she types, types, words stalling, haulting, the usual, av in the back, her typing, the noise, the noise. this very keyboard makes really funny noises, each push sounds like a person who has a cold, no glib sounds here, very much like an old man, in a deli, she smiles, this is out of Seinfeld, she kind of cut the quote short though, inserts it into her text, she wishes there were laugh tracks, there are none, none, her writing is not good, never, never. anyhoo, words have to be fed to the machine, 3000 for today, will do, will do, if she comes here each and every day, types 3000 words, she will hit the 50 000 mark in ten days. That will be just fine, 50 000 by the end of august, the end of summer. She will top it off with 7000, bonusish, her text will be finished, should be finished. To publish it, how much ink, how many sheets of paper? for roughly 200 pages, one needs 100 sheets of paper, one could use smaller formats, that would cut down the cost. she ponders, if push comes to shove, the price does not lie in the paper or the ink, it lies in the distribution, or something, or something. the brand name of a big publisher. probably owned by bertelsmann. she types, types. how about readership, where do you get that? she types, types. her thoughts about publishing, writing as business, so very half-baked, not-researched, non-researched. the only thing she knows is that she has to type, type, 3000 words today. her allotments vary, her subject matter never varies. she types, types.

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20 337, she has to put in ten times what she did put in until now. it is a run, not a race, no, it is a race. she feels slightly hungry, she has to write, she will go to the food place near Granville island, or to the market, or to agro, there are so many choices near to Granville island, the waffle place, the place on burrard, that is how she lost her hourglass figure, that is how she amassed all this fat. she should just eat saltines and drink tea, water and bread and not much to boot. and she types, types, types. 20 440. she ponders if she should save this, spellcheck, she looks at ppl taking magazines out of the art magazine place, she types, types, types. she has a magazine lie near the keyboard, it is really interesting, volume one of a mag called independent scholars, she wrote a blurb on independent scholars on scribd, the term seems to gain momentum, what with an overflow of academics. she ponders what her reasoning has to do with the issue, it usually does not, her misconceptions are always paramount, but not really visible, they are shrouded by terms like common misconceptions and the like, ah, big words rule, anyhoo, anyhoo. she ponders how she can successfully marry words like anyhoo and paramount, how can she at once concur an aura of intellectualism and folksiness, and is the term concur used correctly, who cares who cares who cares. she types, types, that is all that is needed, fast sentences, fast sentences. lots of them, lots of them. to make a point or to fill the page, and either one will do, should do. she is really hungry now, she ponders if she should still keep on typing, or feed herself, or something, or something. she forgot her glasses, which is not that good. someone else is busily typing, typing. 20 661, 20 662. her back hurts, too much sitting hunched over, hunched over, and way too much whining, whining. stop and spellcheck and save and save. 20 685 words, she ponders if her subject matter for this text is valuable, valuable enough. she started out with a discussion of weightloss, at least that was the initial idea, she kind of came off-course, she is

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now deep in the discourse of writing, the discussion of what it takes to be a writer, what are the genres of literature, the like, the like. she scratches her head, maybe that is not her subject matter, maybe it is more the state of fragmentation, the state of confusion. fragmentation sounds better than confusion, there is a difference but not much. fragmentation, confusion, fragmentation, confusion. these are different entities, terms denoting different things. the author notices, she is not good with accurate definitions, maybe authors should not be, should not be. if you are that good at compartmentalizing, you might not be that good at comparing different things and find possible connections. you might stink at deducing, who cares, she types, types. mutterings, utterings, short inklings, 4 split-seconds, while the day marches forward, while Granville island seems to happen outside, she is sitting here in the library, she cannot even see the ocean factory from here, only parts of the tree, the bridge, the lower body of the ocean factory, anyhoo, she types, types, is hungry, feels annoyed, words have to be fed to the machine, to the machine. her neck hurts, the software is temperamental, this one in this computer never capitalizes the word at the beginning of a sentence, who cares, she types, types. 20 940, 20 942. typing, ah, typing. fast sentences, fast apostrophes. her writing so sick, sickening. it is twenty five to twelve. words and words and words. she feels like a pianist , a composer, trying to nail the right melody, virtuously, cadences, the like, the like. and 20988, 20 989. --two thousand more words, maybe she should start up painting again, drawing, she is no writer, not a writer, not and not and not. visual artists cannot be authors, can they can they? and she types, types. it is now a quarter to twelve, it is august six, it is two thousand ten. two thousand more words, two thousand, 2000. she just likes the wordcount, there is not much to describe here except for the monotony of life in a library, at a computer. she ponders, she could mention the beigeness of the

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partition behind her computer, she could mention that there is a white sticker on the monitor, that reads Library04, anyhoo, she types, types. behind her typing, in the small librarian place, there is an arrow on the grey column that says “reference”. yellow letters on black. she types, types. something rumples in the back, typing from the front, av everywhere. this is how you go insane, insane, it is ten to twelve, she is really hungry, could eat a horse kind of hungry. and she types, types. is arguably irritated by the fact that this computer does not capitalize the beginnings of sentences, her sentences lose rhythm, there are no cadences, none, none, no pauses, no melody, just one big mush - yep, mush. mush seems to be the right technical term, mush, mush. the author starts repeating, repeating always works, always fills the page. she needs approximately 1800 words, grave and insightful words, words of consequence, words that make ppl storm out of the theatre and start a revolution, let them burn books, her reasoning is off and it seems as if everything is off. the author is pissed off, artistlife sucks, there are no jobs for freshly minted artists, some random retail jobs maybe, but no one will buy her shitty art. she might as well continue with writing, how much worse can it be, will it be. words are words are words, they seem to have a higher marketvalue than paint on canvas, than felt on paper. and she types, types, feels like a pianist, but she said that already, she feels as if she is giving a performance, especially given that three librarians and one archivist are talking behind her, these are the ppl that will ultimately put her writings in shelves, when it is printed nicely, nicely. and she types, types, would be good to garner some coherence, but, hey, who cares, who cares. ah, whatever, whatever. she has now near to 1500 words, sentences of debatable value. off-syntax writing, grammatical glitches, holes in logic, the fascinating array of shitty, shittyish, shittyesque writing. the author is happy, she managed to elevate the genre of shitty writing to an artform, years from now her works will be discussed in classrooms the world over, teachers and students will read stuff into her glitches, that is how it should be, will be. and 21 483, 21 486. she ponders, this wordcounting icon seems to do its own thing, it listens to its own

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drummer. and she types, types. it is twelve after twelve, still some more words, still some more words are needed. she is getting tired, too many words in one sitting, her right shoulder is cramping up, she is hungry, she is sitting here, superannoyed, her neck is hurting, ah, some, more words, some more words, the melodramatic life of a writer, the words that stall, stall, that are never good enough, the self doubt that is so palpable. as palpable as the insanity, her typing, ah, her typing. and save and spellcheck. wordcount can wait, should wait. she is feeling a cold coming on, that is life, life. the art library will close at 4 today, so she’d better stay put here, to feed the sentences to this machine. and she types, types. 1400 more words, fast and fast and fast. she looks at the blue banner on the burrard bridge, in the distance, with the green, flimmering leaves in front of it. outside a red bent pipe. the author wishes she had a camera, it is difficult to describe what she sees. a horde of women is flocking in, now, standing in front of the magazines. the author types, types. she looks at the green basket, near the computer next to her, it has white scraps of pages in it, but no pencil. and she types, types. ah, the day in the library, typing, typing. the sound of the card reader, the sound of the printer. she types, ah, she types. constantly, obsessively. 21 758, words and words and words. she looks at the magazine that is lying next to the keyboard. it is only black and white, which means that it must have been inexpensive to produce. author types, types. ponders why she left visual art to vie for writing. one of her teachers told her at the beginning of art school that she is so much better with words than with forms and shapes. the author ponders, obviously her writing career is exactly in the same shape that her art career is: Nonexistent. and she types, types. amasses words, so very mechanically, makes her happy, fills her with a hoaxy illusionist feel of accomplishment, ah, everything sucks, every thing sucks. and even the software sucks, the sentences all begin with lowercase lettered words, she types and types and types. half past twelve, she types, types, types. 21 902 words, 21 906. constant typing, constant typing.

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author ponders, maybe she should leave this computer station and find another one that works better, one that has a word program which automatically capitalizes the first word of each sentence. she should do that, should do that. instead of remaining put in this chair and fill all the pages with bitching. bitching does not constitute high art, does not fill in 4 literature. does it, does it? she ponders if asking stupidish questions within the text make for a more interesting text, for a worse text, what, what? outside a big bus, she types, types. chilly in here, she types, types. and 22 012 words, 800 or so more, she types and types and types. these are her days, here in Vancouver, a summer in front of computers, typing and typing, words amassing, constantly, constantly. with stiff neck, hunched over shoulders, ah she types, types, types some more. this better be good, better be good. going to the market would be fun, a donut or something, perogies, some sustenance, something, something. watching the seagulls, ppl in summer clothes, everything is better than this staring down at a keyboard, waiting for words that never come, never come. the loneliness of a writer, the right arm that cramps up, the words that suck, suck. well, life could be worse, she could be sitting in claustrophobic stupor in one of these tourist buses that drive by the library, ah, she types and types and types. she notices that she somehow made a mistake she thought she needs less words, she interpreted the 012 as 210, which made her think that she needs less words, at this time of the writing everything mushes together, she types so very mechanically, mechanically. it is a tad too chilly in here, her words are stalling, complaining is the subject matter of this text, this text. and another tourist bus roars by. summer in vancitay, boredom palpable, she types, types. it is near to one in the afternoon, slowly her words march into the computer, her right hand is hurting, she does all her typing with her right middle finger, this cannot be good cannot be good. 730 words, she now uses her left hand, so her speed is going down, it does not really matter in the scheme of things, does not,

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does not. she wishes she was somewhere else, somewhere nice, nice. writing in the art school, sounds nice, but, hey, when the words are so utterly ineloquent, so utterly rusty, clumsily whimpering along, the whiff of unaccomplishment is so very near to the foul stink of rottenness. and she used too many words in her sorry attempt @ trying to be cute. buses roar by, she types, types. five after one, friday afternoon, another art school day. on Granville island, on Granville island. she ponders if she should capitalize the I of the island or if she should write Granville in lower case or if she should leave the whole Granville island outta kilter and if it even matters, matters. what matters is the wordcount, so it seems, so it seems. ten after one, chilly in here. words are collapsing, she tries to type with her right pointy finger, actually she uses the top of her nail, she wants to get this over with, 540 words are all she needs, needs. she desperately fills the page with random repetitions. another bus, squamish coast lines. typing, ah, typing. she ponders, by now, she should have become a prolific art writer, why not, why not. instead of all these shitty journals, instead of all these ramblings. her sorry little art career, stifles, non-existent. and she types, types, types some more. she ponders, does she really need 500 more words, who really cares if she pens 3000 words in one sitting, her text will not necessarily be better if it is longer, she types, types, types. she lost count of time, she does not remember when she started this marathon writing, anyhoo, she needs 300 more words. she needs to lose the reiteration of the anyhoo, she needs to stop boring her readers to death, for a change, for a change. outside, constant beeping, the author feels utterly annoyed, utterly chilly, her right hand hurts, she types, types, against the boredom of the day, words amass, but not fast enough, not fast enough. she

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types, types, as if she hadn’ t said that already, said that already. all her words smush together, but, alas, not fast enough, not fast enough. never ever fast enough. too many tourist buses, one after the next, come, see, the lowly writer, now there is a sight, sight. and she types types. 310 words, that is all she needs, needs. the repetitions fill the page, fill the page, all these words, all these words. grim writing, meaningless dribble, dribble. and she types, types, against the chilliness in this place, the desolation, against and always against. her words off-kilter, her sentences, who needs reason and coherence when you can wing it somehow, somewhere. and she types, types away her days here on this planet. at the end of page seventy-one, she makes sure she does not use numbers, write as long-winded as you possibly can, ah, fill the page, fill the page. outside, the bridge, blue sky, ocean factory, bridge, the like, the like. and she types, types. two hundred words, two hundred, two hundred. not yet two, a day on Granville island, she said that already, wrote that already. the clock on the wall, AV creeking, books in the display, she types, types. shingles on the roof, leaves quivering, she types, types. waxing poetically, that’s where it’s @, where it’s @. and we have two two eight six six here. the author constantly makes mistakes with the wordcount, the problem is that she cannot really read the number without her glasses. and she types, types. she looks to her right, to her left, she should describe what she sees, but, hey, who cares, who really cares. she is utterly pissed off, all these words annoy the hell out of her. fuck, FUCK, expletives should enliven the text, sixty-five more words, that is all she needs, all, all, 65, 65. sixty-five. the page comes to its end, forcefully, she made it, made it. see, if you wait, the page will fill. she watches herself type, type. she could care less about coherence and the like , this is a task like all tasks, stamina is all that counts, all

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that counts. and we are @ 23 003. ah, finally, finally. -

evening in front of the tv, the weather is slightly fresh, she types and types. CNN once more, Anderson Cooper, an interview, a rerun. The brown paper basket, the lace border, the outside green, the outside green. Typing, typing, typing. So she passed the 23 000 words mark, she ponders what the exact significance of that fact is. Well, some more words, some more words, a steady stream of linguistic calisthenics, the idea of forming some sentences makes her happy, at least she is trying, trying to formulate her ideas, but mainly she is documenting the process of writing itself, the physical pushing of the keys, the appearance of the letters that take form on the monitor. She ponders, ponders. That is what she does. She types, types. That is what she does. Feeding words to the machine, that is what she does. Her sentences are not very innovative, not any more, not any more. One of these days she will learn how to construct a plot, a fascinating, sizzling, amazing plot, she will write her breakout story, whatever that is, whatever that is. Or she might go back to retyping her old stories, edit them, rework them, polish them. Outside the night comes, slowly, steadily. And the words march on, march on. -

Wet Saturday morning, rain pouring down, the author wishes she could take her laptop and march down to the coffee shop on arbutus, and type there, type there. But hey, the machine will not like it, who wants to soak a computer, thus, thus, she has to sit in here, type and type and type. She is sitting so very contorted, her nails against the squares of the keyboard, fast, fast, faster. Starbucks would be so

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much nicer, doors opening, closing, the only thing here that staccatos the monotony, is the forceful rumpling of the dryer upstairs, her nails clashing with metally sounds over the keyboard, the constant sing sang of the rain in the background. A too dull symphony, too constant sounds, no rhythm, not enough rhythms. The rinse cycle, loud and forceful, this is not enough to make her prose eloquent along. She types, types, let’s get this over with, over with. At least two pages, yep, two pages it is. Even though today is Saturday, she still forces herself to type. Contorted over the keyboard, slightly weirded out, slightly, ever so slightly. The brown paper basket with the lace border, looking at her from down there, she types and types and types. Contorted sitting, contorted typing. Like a pianist, practicing, always practicing. Before the grande finale in Carnegie hall, ira Gershwin in an uptown apartment, something out of breakfast at tiffany’s. Well, maybe henry mancini, anyhoo, she types, types. Using anyhoos, anyhoos. She sighs, this is enough for today, seems there is nothing more left to write, her sorry little treatises, so very far away from thoughtful insights, these are not the words, that will change the world, end world hunger, master world peace, not yet, not yet, not yet. Ah. Hers are only jazzy notes on a rainy summer day, a saturday wet and overcasted, somewhere in vancouver, ditties, ditties. And she types, types, types some more. Black words on white, while the dryer creaks and roars, while the brown basket looks at her, while insanity sweeps her away. Like always, like always. The author sits straight, she is no Hans Christian Anderson, no Thomas Mann, nothing, nothing. Her words don’t count, don’t count, not yet, not yet, they prussel down onto the keyboard, anyways, anyways. And 23 six oh six, ah, well, ah well. She goes about her word laying biz, so very mechanically, amassing words after word, heaping them onto the monitor, typing and typing and typing. Outside, reluctant green. A lot of wetness, vancouver as it is, as it is. Sounds of rain, a sound of a chainsaw, somewhere outside, the rainy idyll that is not. She has enough of writing, writing, typing, save and spellcheck, outta here, ah, always outta here. Where prose meets poetry, so very very reluctantly, she

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hates 2 write and hates to write. And the rain rains down, yep, rains down. 23 707- twenty three seven oh seven. -

On the green couch, tv is on, rain outside, how is a person able to find something worth discussing while being bombarded by image after image, sound after sound. The mind goes blank, dullens up, dullens up. The author replaces a real narrative by cheesy, predictable anti-television rhetoric, the box we love to hate, which laughtracks ahead and splashes entertainment into the air. She types, types, tries to follow the intriguing storyline of Frasier, typing gets tiresome, how many more words, how many more words? She pauses, she’d rather watch the funny stuff on the telly. It is funny after all. Funny, funny. And save and save. -

And back at the laptop. It is like doing work around the house, like painting a ceiling, stroke by stroke. That is how typing begins to feel, the physicality of pushing squares down, while scenes change on the idiot box, ah, she types, types. 23 873 words, she needs one thousand and some to make the 25 000 mark. Seems, arithmetic is not her strong side, that is how she ended up writing. A good writer should be able to sit couped up in a small room, should be able to spin a yarn, out of thin air, outta thin air. She types, types, neck slightly cramping up, shoulders definitely cramping up. King of Queens on, laughtracks, the author ponders if sitcoms are the right backsplash for superior writing, probably not, probably. She types, types. Feels kind of nauseated, she should go out to the grocery store and buy some veggies and chop them up and make some food and this is definitely not a

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discussion that should be part of a quasi-novel, banal is not in anymore, writing has to delve into slightly more pressing issues, it should have drama, explore bigger issues, it should not be just a description of the here and now, the author ponders why the software is acting up, acting up. She is still sitting highly contorted, hunched over the black laptop, she types, types. Outside, wetness, the omnipresent vancouver rain, and she types, and she types. 1:48 PM, one thousand words waiting to be typed, so she types on, types on. Page 75, she ponders what to write on next. Describing the so very banal is, well, getting a tad, banal. Outside, greenness, wetness, tv, some laughtracks, nothing happening here but utter stillness, waiting for some narrative, stories that stagnate, words that are a tad too blah. And she types, and she types. Looking down at the tiny blue number on the lower left side of the monitor, the wordcount that marches forward, jiggly, she types and types and types, queen of kings still going on, going on. And we are at twenty-four and one hundred and eighty-two. Her shoulder is starting to act up, 25 000 words have to wait, should wait. What is in a number, in a number. Is the story better if it is longer, is it better if it is shorter? She heaps on the words, without looking to her left or her right, bulldogging forward, bulldogging forward. Queen of Kings made way 4 Seinfeld, obviously it is King of Queens, she is losing it here, that happens when typing and writing is all you do, for hours on end, for days on end. Like

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practicing the cello, like practicing your breaststroke. And she types, types. Another rerun of Seinfeld, she has seen it so many times, so many times. It is still funny still funny. She knows what is going on, can predict each and every line, she ponders if this is good for her writing or for her brain, not necessarily in that order. She puts down mindless phrases, makes up her mind to change the title of this to Typing with Seinfeld or something, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Her eyes start to tear up, too much staring down on the loosely illuminated keyboard, this cannot be that good, isn’t that good. 24 388 words, 24 391. Six hundred more words, six hundred, ah, six hundred. The TV made me do it, write like this type like that. Noise pollution transformed into small black letters on a reluctantly bright monitor, in Times New Roman, in point size 12, double spaced, double spaced. The software is not acting up anymore, all these machines are so unpredictable, they do whatever they feel like, feel like, her right shoulder is definitely getting out of kilter, her neck turned down will induce some new lines on her turkey neck, ah, that’s life, life. And she types, types, types. Nausea grips her by the neck, but still soldiering on is where it’s at, where it’s at. And typing is paramount, seems that is why she is here on this planet, she types, types. Twenty-four five two five. She rests her shoulder for a sec, there is enough time to type this, what is the rush, rush. And she types, types. Feels like having some m&m’s, that is what constant watching of TV does 2 you, does to you. Could it be that the anti-tv-league was right? And she types, and she types. So 400 words is what she needs. She could describe the sugar pot on the round coffee table, the saltshaker, the way they have the shade around them, she could take a photograph, ah, still life, still life. Seems there is enough in this room to be described, she will easily fill the 400 words allotment, she gets better at describing random stuff, amass words, amass words. Rambling, we can do that standing up. And she types, types, types.

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Some more words, some more words, fast sketches, fast, faster. She needs three hundred more, give or take some. Rain seems to have stopped, for a short while, a short while. Another episode of seinfeld, this is how she lives her life, watching tv, typing, typing. One of these days she will learn how to type fast, fast, but not now, not now. She feels like travelling to Richmond, or she could take the Canada Line to YVR and watch the planes land, ah, old age and senility, coming faster, approaching faster. This is not how great writers are made, but, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Her back hurts, right side hurts, but the words march forward, forward. 120 words, or something, or something. She ponders if these machines really know what they are doing, seems that the numbers are not the same each time she looks, there is something wrong with the damn wordcount icon, must be, must be,. And some more words, some more words, the clickerclucker of the laptopy keyboard, Elaine and Jerry, Kramer, she types and types and types. Somehow the rain makes everything have the same contrasty sharp aesthetic of Seinfeld, ah, she types, types, types. 24 867, some more words, some more words. She feels slightly hungry, feels like opening the fridge and staring at the innerts of it, anything to avoid sitting here and typing this so very stupid text, her non-dramatic discourse, her discussions of nothing-ness, her stale, stale observations. Her rhythms that do not jump up, anyhoo, she types, types, types. Her too many anyhoos. And save and spellcheck. Not necessarily in that order, not necessarily in that order. 25000 is coming near, she types, types. Not much more needed, not much more, not much more. She is living in her own little zen-like state, putting down words, scrunching together as the door opens suddenly, she types, types, obsession, ah, obsession. Seventeen more words, 17, 17. And she types, types, nine more words, running the last few yards. And one more word, one more word. Fifty thousand it is, 50 000. -

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and now, frasier, watched from the green sofa, she ponders if she can somehow refashion this her text into a reluctant analysis of watching tv and letting it flow into the text, a translation of film into literature, film into book, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. She scratches her head, does a book really have to have one clear storyline, are little small notes not much nicer, nicer? She types, types. Top of page 79. It is 4:55 PM. 25 099 words. The text moves along, pretty nicely, more or less long windedly, the rain has stopped, the green plant near the window looks kind of sad and tired, she types, types. The writer, the author. Too many, many words. She feels like pizza, because, hey, a pizza ad. She is dizzying up, this typing frenzy is doing her in, slightly, slightly. And some more words, some more words. Time for a walk around the neighbourhood, but, wait, another laughtrack laden frasier episode, this is too much, dizzyingly sitting still, this is a tad too much a tad too much. 25 200. Pretty round number. The author sprinkles her text with numbers, commas, random apostrophes, her text is basically about writing, not about weightloss anymore, because, hey, she definitely is not losing weight here, she’ll be lucky if she doesn’t gain wait during the process of penning this. And typing goes on, goes on. Still 25 thousand more to go. 25 000. 25 000. -

Another wet morning in Vancouver, at the keyboard, typing, typing. The brown paper basket, its filigree lace, she types types. The words are reluctant reluctant. She once more takes up her concorted position, hunches over, pecks at the keyboard. The day moves forward, so very slowly, her typing is a tad too loud, given that the news is on, Sunday morning op-edish talk, she types types, types against the noise pollution, types, types. Words splashing onto the keyboard, every time she leans forward to push the

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keys, her back hurts, so maybe typing is not her thing, not her thing. Or maybe she should move to a more comfy typing place. These are her so very prosaic thoughts, she feels not like writing, this is definitely not going anywhere, not yet not yet. 25 400 words, such a nice, round number. Two zeros at the end. How did ppl write in the old times, without looking at the word count? Pre-Word times. And she types, types, muses on and on about irrelevant questions, balancing on the other side of important issues, sidesteps grave stuff, slithers safely along pecking at polemics of inconsequentialness, decidedly, decidedly so. Without apologizing, without, without. And she types, types, the fan over the stove fans away, tv talks away, she types and types. Against her cramping-upish right side, she types, types. -

in VCC, 2:48. August 9, 2010. typing as usual, typing as usual. Outside rain, not very augustish, she just bought a new umbrella, black, so very London Drugs, it is even named ”Vancouver Umbrella”, she types, types. Feeds her words to the machine, two pages, two pages it is. English tutor sign in its place, math/science tutor sign in its place. Words splash onto the keyboard, her words are repetitive, comfy like an old shoe. Her synapses fire in certain directions, she will eventually open new pathways, in her brain, in her brain. Too much calcification is not that good, not that good. Words and words. 25602, not bad, not bad. The tutor lady whispers, the student lady whispers. Tutor fat as a house, student thin as a beanstalk. The author types and types. Ponders if her remarks were insensitive, non-pc. She types, types, they put up a new sign that says that this place is for VCC students only, she types, types, does not feel that good, her foray into English lit is not legit, she types, types, fast sentences, fragmented, incoherent, repetitive, that’s where it’s at, where it’s @. The shitty writer, feeding her words to the machine, each and every day.

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Outside rain, buildings, a roof, on the monitor, an orange ING-ad, white letters on orange, Become a Save-aholic. 3 little airplanes, and she types, types. Nothing to describe here, some cables, an earphone, headphone, desolation, nihilistic existences, or something, and something. Her writing sucks, sucks. Splashes of coherence, not very good, not, not. She wishes she could formulate better sentences, but, hey, just manages to formulate worse sentences. Not her day, ah, not her day. Nothing but whining, whining, that is what you do when you write. That is what the author does, being confronted with her own non-ability to write, write. And she types, types. Type on, type on. Save, spellcheck, 4 a change, for a change. One more page, one more page. It is getting chilly in here, chilly, the air conditioner blows, so it seems, seems. She looks at the monitor, could describe that, the different colours, why should writing be interesting, why should it not be as sleep-inducing as possible. Ppl are sleep deprived, the author can easily change that. Let them read my texts, they will slumber away, sleep like a baby, that kind of stuff, kind of stuff. Her syntax is off, it usually is, writing is not her forte, not her forte. Bemoaning her shitty writing, that is her forte. And she types, types. Day marches forward, text marches forward. 3:12, 3: 12. Spellcheck and save, spellcheck and save. To her right, a table with 3 staplers, a hole puncher, a paper cutter and tape. Two paper baskets beside it, one black one, one blue one. See, and you thought there is nothing to describe here, there is so much, so much. The clock on the wall, 3:16, and she types, types. The woman in black, with the beigebrown handbag, trying to arrange and rearrange the contents of the bag. Author types, types, wordcount: 26 011. There should be more to write about, writer’s block is so yesterday, so annoying. The text should flow, flow. This is what she does, she stares into space, with vacant eyes, is out of ideas, outta ideas. No stories to tell, none, none. Her writing becomes stale, inevitably, inevitably. Her whole

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book is about her inability to come up with a forceful narrative, that is the subject matter, her subject matter. Wallowing in negativity, someone sneezes, somewhere in the lobby, twice. And she types, types. Some more words, some more words. How do you cry poetically, about something as irrelevant as the inability to be a good writer. Who cares, who really cares. We are not all built 4 greatness, we can all muster mediocracy. Who wants to be a genius, when you can be safe and sound in jane-averagedom. We don’t need heroes, don’t need greatness, elegance, the like, the like. Let’s hear it 4 mediocracy and it would be so very nice, if the software stops putting its red squirls under the word “mediocracy”. She types, types, two pages it is, two pages for now. Save, spellcheck, the usual , the usual. -

in the art school library, 10:19 AM, august 10, 2010, she types, types. In the corner, in the back, because the computer stations in the front are being renovated, or something, something. She listens in to the conversation between the librarian and a sales rep, it is a lot about where specific books are stored, warehouse a, warehouse b, the biggest warehouse is in new Hampshire, now they are onto discounts, before it was about education similarities, places they lived, ice-breakingish stuff. The author ponders, if she should stop typing and just listen in to these ppl, it is like watching negotiating in action, she especially likes the discussion about the storage, she ponders if her texts will be stored somewhere in new Hampshire, which seems to be so much better than just storing her texts in cyberspace, a real, physical tactile space is so much better, something that flows through the clouds stays in the clouds, stays there to wallow in obscurity, especially thoughts by female authors, by new authors, there must be some kind of conspiracy to leave texts like that online, which basically means, that the online texts are non-existent, they will not be part of the pantheon of texts of humanity, they will be merely stutterings

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by washed-up housewifes, ah, conspiracy theory, conspiracy theory. Yep, that must be it, that must be it. She ponders, ponders, what about religion, how does that factor in? anyone who looks at her name, can very clearly deduce that it is not a name of, well, the majority, she ponders, if that can and will further her career as a writer or stall it. And she types, types. She ponders if in writing in English it is essential to have an english surname? We think that we’ve come a long way, baby, but let’s face it, we’ve not, not. Just walk around town, and you‘ll see, nothing has changed, nothing has changed. Old hierarchies are in place, in place. Invisible barriers, glass ceilings, the likes, the likes. Men seem to still have the upper hand, they are taller, can punch their way to the top, the author ponders, ponders. Women are supposed to ignore that inequalities exist, because if you dare to acknowledge that there are inequalities you become some kind of troublemaker, you will not have the means to further your career, she types, types. We shall overcome, ha- and once more, ha. She ponders, this was not an in-depth analysis of, well, anything, not a social commentary, because, hey, she’d rather type in this sterile environment, where she is the queen of her words, where she smushes together words at random, where she let’s go of proper footnoting, where she mixes up prose and poetry, where she borrows stylistic elements from scholastic writing as well as from experimental poetry, where she mixes british and American spelling, because, hey, English is spoken in so many places on this planet, it is the language of aviation, universal language, the author ponders, why should she really format her text according to the Chicago manual or the MAA-manual, writing is twittered and face-booked, anyhoo, she types, types and types. Two pages march forward, and two pages is all we need here. She will go out of this place, back into the sun, to the market, a sunny day on Granville island. And she types, types, word count is 26 777. ---

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another august morning, sitting here, looking at the green outside, ready to feed two pages to the machine. It is 10:39, she is out of words before she even began. Green trees outside, slightly leaning to the majestic side, the fridge makes its funny noise, a consistent rumple which is kind of complex, like as if there is more rumpling beneath, and the sound you hear is like a blanket thrown over a lot of miscellaneous objects, now that she listens in to the fridge noise she seems to hear lows and highs, anyhoo, she types and types, types. Some crack in the wood, she feels this is how ppl hear noises. The author listens in to her typing, the fridge’s noise becomes louder and louder, some bird outside, some short crack upstairs, ah, ghosts, ghosts. And she types types, nothing but bullshit it is for today. Outside reluctant overcast, she ponders, this is her year of overusing the omnipresent “reluctant”. Words sprinkle onto the monitor, she is staring down at the keyboard, but can see the letters appear on the monitor, out of the periphery of her stare. She ponders, she covered sounds, covered sights, maybe now it’s time to once more bemoan the state of a writer, a writer without clear and concise subject matter, the writer who stands on the sidelines, does not fight for world peace, not do anything to eleveate world hunger, just types and types and types, amasses words like a plumber would repair a faulty toilet. That is how it is how it is, ah, her metaphors are way too appetizing. A phone call, a cruise ship operator solicitating, her flow of words interrupted, interrupted, one and a half more pages to go, she manages to smush typo after typo in, she soils the eloquence with hiccups, outside sprinkler noise, which is so very weird, it is not sprinkler time, it is mid-morning, near noon., somewhere in a neighbor garden, sprinkler system defunct. Ah the sounds of midmorning, green silence, lost phone calls, overcast, overcast,. And she types, types, throws her words at the banalities of the day, an augustday in vancouver. And she types, types, against the screeching hurt in her back, she types and types and types. The green light on the clock, flickering the hours and minutes of the day, she types, types, types. Save, spell check, for now, for now. One page is finished, another one to go.

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She ponders, she could change her seat, drag the laptop with her, another seat here would change the inanimate objects waiting to be described, in detail, immortalized for posterity. And she types, types, types. She should venture out, take her laptop on a cruise down to Richmond, type there, type there. She cannot really see the wordcount, her glasses are in the other room, her typing stalls, stalls. She could go to the tv place, watch a sitcom, they are always so very confusing, she might as well stay put, type, type, two pages are enough, for now, for now. Her summer account for 2010, she prefers the term ACCOUNT to DIARY, it is the antithesis to a travelogue, a stay-put-logue, she feels that her summer is boring the hell out of her, the same city, the same, same sights. Sameness ad nauseum. But, hey, there is always a different angle, a different way to move thru space, anyhoo, she types, types, trying to arrange and rearrange the same words, in innovative forms that ultimately lack innovation, there are only so many sentences each writer has, only so many, only so many. She feels she should tackle injustices, with a pen, with a pen, but, hey, she is still in the phase where she learns how to write, she is still in training mode. Maybe forever, forever, it is more comfy like that, more secure, a sorry, sorry sycophant. Who types, who types, heaps words on, they glide into the monitor, in the hallway the blue vase with lines in it, the light shining and reflecting in it, the keyboard, black and white, her rubyred nailpolish, the black fleeting letters appearing on the monitor, her hurting neck, this is not good writing, non-superior, shitty shitty writing. Might as well, ah, might as well. She will still find a publisher, worse stuff is on the market, it is, it is. Her words repeated, to make a point, sun glancing out behind the clouds, she will walk down to west broadway, have camomile tea and a marble cake piece, ah, lunch, lunch is served. And spellcheck, save, outta here, outta here. How many words, how many many words? -

At the computer, waiting for semi-intelligent words to arrive, kind of like a waiting room, waiting room.

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Two pages, two pages. Upstairs both the dryer and the washing machine rumple away, near to her, the fridge sings its sing-song, outside some kind of green, perfect sky or something, she types, types. Her words be better good today, they better behave. Explore eloquence, nail it, nail it, ah, words, ah, words. She ponders, for some reason the machine stalls, maybe she should use one of the computers in all these libraries, they have technicians that tend to them, her own laptop is playing games, it might just break down, and all of her work of the last three years will be wiped out, she has to save all this on a usb-drive, and then lose the usb-drive, this is how her art career is wiped out, wiped out, blossomed out at the very beginning. Her words, her words. Staccatoed with slight melodramatic oohs and aahs, she types, types. Upstairs, still, dryer and washer, roaring, clicking away, fridge singing, muffledly, outside green, she described this already, ah, ah, a so boring day in Vancouver, nothing to say, nothing to write. She looks to her right, could describe each leaf, the shape of it, the colour of it, how it is the same as its neighbour, how it differs, that will keep her busy, keep her busy. When walking down 33rd, in the morning, she was pondering if walking by green silent trees makes an author write different things than walking by the roaring sea, where water breaks on cliffs, where wind makes everything fresh, where water drops are everywhere, where the sea growls and fumes, that should make for a different kind of prose than the silent singsongs of a creak, the silent greens of trees, the sunny sugary state of a Vancouver morning in spring. She ponders, her words are slightly off, it is summer, not spring, the fridge is to her right, not to her left, or maybe she mixed up the location of the garden, she ponders if she should be more fictional, more non-fictional. Maybe her next text will be a diary of a male, in another country, in other times. She can make it all up, while she goes, invent stories, pepper them with dragons, write bizarre stuff so very far from the everyday. And she types, types. Dryer makes noise, washer hammers away. Or maybe it was washer that stopped and dryer that noises along. She listens in to her typing, her words come very fast, she wants to get this over with, over it. She is not quite sure if

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she is the protagonist and the typewriter is the antagonist, she is not quite sure if there even should be a protagonist, an antagonist, where does it say that there always has to be a struggle of wills, why can there not be a perfect harmony, is there nothing to say about protagonist and antagonist singing along, in sync, in perfect harmony. Who makes up all these rules about narrative structure, who, who. A bespectacled person, obviously, the glasses you balance on your nose give your words automatic validity. And she types. Types. Pages march forward, the end is near, she will be outta here, soon, soon, walk downtown, take the bus downtown, take the canada line, so much better than sitting here cooped up, feeding mindless sentences to a machine, typing in stupor, in stupor. She has to move around, motion around, she has to throw this keyboard out the window, throw it on the ground, stomp on it, she has to do something drastic, something that cries out, yells, shreaks, that says I am an artist, like the guitarist smashing her guitar to pieces, she has to barf all over this keyboard, that is artistic, artistic. Ah, nah, calm down, you are a glorified pencil pusher, you work with words, your life is utterly banal, banal. Save this, spellcheck this, finish it up and finish it up, how many words, ah, how many words? --She is now in the vcc library, she changed the name of her text once more, it is now “unit 1”, she ponders, ponders, writes the “ponders” blib to fill the page. She was going up the elevator in vcc, to the seventh floor, where the drafting department lies, she was thinking that a book is just another unit of smaller elements, like a film, a building, a piece of music, but the one overarching characteristic is its homogeneity, its clear borders, it is one unit, and so it makes sense if an author names her seven books “unit 1 to 7”, the numbering makes it easy to not mess it up, but maybe that will just work for archival purposes, to give each book a name, in words, should be better, makes each book memorable. Which reminds her of the scene in Seinfeld, where the crew is lost in a parking garage in new jersey, she could

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elaborate, but somehow, she doesn’t feel like it. She is tired, fatigued, writing does that to you, roaming the city to slump down in front of every available typing place does that to you. There will be a lunch concert in front of the cbc-building, the author feeds her words to the machine, as fast as she can, she has to save this, spellcheck, go upstairs to the pastry place, eat too much sugar and then rush to the concert, ah, her life is very ordered, she types and types and types. Nope, she does not work in an office, but sure feels like it, what with all this rushing around, all this typing away, it is kind of weird to freelance and use all these institutions, be propelled forward by sky scrapers, something like that, something like that. And she types, types, as if she hasn’t mentioned that before. Working girl, without being paid, how does this work, how? Bizarre, weird, strange, she is going insane, but not in a too obvious way. To not be committed, that is her raison d’etre. Ha. -

in the art school, Granville island outside, she is sitting in front of the computer that is slightly weird, ah, let’s face it, they are all so very weird. feeding her words to the computer and any computer will do, should do. that is what you do after art school, day-in, day-out. until you have established yourself as a writer, whatever that is, whatever that is. actually, she is trained as visual artist- she could end the sentence with still another “whatever that is”. everything sucks, everything, everything. and she types, types. fills the pages, at random, @ random. instead of insights, she substitutes at with @. to pull her writing into the realm of contemporary lit – and now is the best time to once more express the sentiment of “whatever that is”. she ponders if editors and readers will email her worst sentences to each other, well, if they do, they might as well email her best sentences to each other. all text have horrible sentences and brilliant sentences, intertwined, intertwined. that is how it is how it is. strong points and weak points, every piece has that. she types, types, this is how she walks her summer

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forward, by typing and typing and typing some more. by wordcounting, by spellchecking, by saving, by emailing it to herself, by putting her stuff on scribd. that is what she does does. slithering somewhere between satire and non-satire, between manual for new college grads and something else, between deepness and shallowness, somewhere where words live, silent ones, loud ones, peculiar ones, always peculiar ones. and she types, types the text forward. she should go shoe shopping, not that that has anything to do with her writing, but she would really like to remind herself. she needs a dentist appointment, too. somehow, she garners , that this is not what one should include in one’s texts. and she types, types. types some more. tries to avoid ppl, staring stoically at the monitor might help, she cannot be bothered with mindless quasi-conversations, she has to type her treatise here, her magnificent, superb text, the text that slithers on the ground, falls, fragments away-somehow she has overused her daily allotment of neologisms, her prose sucks, sucks, but, hey, the word count soldiers along, marches forward. and she types and types and types. coherence is so overrated, eloquence, noncheesiness. words have to make you cringe, ever so slightly ever so slightly. she types, types, against the quiver of a headache, yep, she types, types. how many words, how many many words. -

she ponders, if she should stop writing, does she really need to make as many words as possible, what is the rush, rush? it is twenty to four, afternoon, it is slightly chilly, she feels disoriented, this cannot be good, cannot be that good. and she types, types, types. words splash down onto the keyboard, not the right ones, more the wrong ones. stallingly reluctant ones. she stops herself from voicing the bizarre “whatever that means”, this is not the time to negate what you say. even if it is the fashion of the day, the so very grave flavour de jour. and she types and types, while ideas chase after each other, while the ocean factory watches silently, while a flag winks in the wind, somewhere on the bridge, while the day

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marches forward and the page fills, fills, fills up, while her words are too silent and too loud, snailing forward somewhere between ludicrous and excellent, that is how it is, that is how it always, always is. -

it is five in the afternoon, she is still sitting in the art library, for some reason she calls it the art library instead of art school library. she feels kind of nauseated, she knows that this is not necessarily the best computer here, it never capitalizes the beginning of a sentence, strange, weird, so very bizarre. she types, types, surfs the net a tad, a tad. she feels nauseated, the headache is annoying, she repeats her words, her words. she ponders, she might as well stay here, there will be an opening, she might just stay here, stay here. go down to the market, have some smoked fish, come back here, go to the opening. her clothes are definitely non-openingish, jeans and t-shirt, ah, who cares, its’ west coasty, her words suck, suck, she reminds herself that the original premise of this text was weightloss. she was supposed to write a book about weightloss, she wrote about everything but, how can she write about weightloss when there is no weightloss, none whatsoever. you cannot really write a weightloss diary, when your weight stays exactly the same. a non-weightloss diary, a weightstagnation diary. not many weight stagnation diaries on the market, only weightloss seems to count, in the scheme of things, only, only. what about faithfully clinging to your own weight, it shows consistency, loyalty, yep, I might be morbidly obese, but, hey, at least, I stay there. the author, looks up at the person walking over the bridge, her text is slightly weird and strange, but, hey, she is filling the page, filling the page. a woman with a feather in her head reading a magazine about photos, the author types and types and types some more. her head is exploding and she feels like barfing. all over this keyboard, why not, why not? so finally she is at the top of page 92. she ponders if that is a significant number, she is at wordcount 29 518, is that significant, and why are we so mesmerized by numbers? ah, very philosophical questions.

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she ponders, if she has turned off the dryer, when she left home, maybe she should sit at home and guard the appliances while they work instead of roaming around and heaping words onto keyboards. she should go back to painting, at least paintings are sellable, they go with the couch, go with the couch. and she types, types, reluctant, slightly meaningless words, she feels like sneezing, she wishes her typing speed was higher, she types and types and types. it is a quarter past five, the author ponders if she could wring something philosophical out of that number, if she could write something intelligent, something about a dry afternoon in an art library on Granville island, she ponders why she used the word DRY to describe an afternoon, what does this mean, what does it even mean? words are poked into the keyboard, appear on the monitor, ah, she writes and types her days away. 29 692. if she keeps this up, she might very well hit the 30 000 mark, today, today. once she is there, she can call it a day, dance in the sun, walk by false creek, watch seagulls and falcons, eat a hotdog while looking at the other side of false creek, be a tourist, mingle with the tourists, one tourist among many, her words are nonsensical, which is fine, ah, so fine. 29 765, 29 767. her stomach hurts, she had too much junk food, a piece of cheese cake, a donut, a piece of banana loaf, this cannot be good, cannot be that good. in the old times, writers would consume vast amounts of alcohol, nowadays they live on sugar and caffeine. or mainly sugar and grease, in her case, that is how you write, write, you really need fuel to type, so much energy needed to push down some buttons’ on a keyboard, and she types, types, types the text forward. 29 852, save, spellcheck, why not, why not? she could call this “librarybook”, a book that is penned in a library, funny, ha, she types, types, slightly obsessively, purely obsessively. the day marches forward, it is half past five, she does not need that many words, less than 200 will do, should do. a 30 000 word text, a stolpering one, reluctant one, she should stop to make up words,

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stolpern is a german expression, you cannot really take it at random and force it into another language, can you, can you? ah, and she types, types, types. 29 953, she is not quite sure if she deciphers the small blue number correctly, anyhoo, she types and types, and types, against her stomachache and her headache, ah, words, words, words. only 13 more words, only 13. and she types, types, types this forward, 30 000, finally, ah, so very finally. the woman to her left throws her hands in the air, the author feels so very triumphant, a 30 000 word text, only 20 000 more to go. and she typed, typed. -

she rolled out of bed, somehow made it to this computer, the one to the very right (or is it left), slightly groggy, she is sitting here in the so very outer corner of the art chool library, facing the wall, it is still somewhere in mid morning, outside sun, granville island, tourists, the like, this keyboard is white and full of brownish specs on it, all the fingerprints of all the students, she types and types and types, the short horizontal line on the F is more pronounced on this keyboard when compared to all the other keyboards all over town, that is how it is, how it is, the author feeds her words to the machine, this is what she does, does. She woke up in the middle of the night, lay wide awake for two hours straight, was pondering on the validity of an art degree, did not get anywhere with her thoughts, went to sleep again, anyhoo, she types, types, types, this better be good, be good. Who wants to live with existential angst, artists have to be good at denial, and she types, types, something clicker-cluckers in the back, someone walks by, two women start talking. One person has more info than the other, she dispenses info, the author ponders if the phrase “a person has info” is even correct and, furthermore, she is not quite sure if she inserted the “even” in the right place, ah, syntax, syntax. And she types and types. This should be over soon, today will be the day of merely two meek pages, meek not necessarily by contents, more meek by the state of being two pages only, the author struggles with the words, with the incoherence

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that seems to stick to her sentences, today, today. Must be the friday the thirteenth element of this day, summer in Vancouver, words stalling, she types and types and types. Slowly motioning towards the end of page 94, she needs about one more page, random observations, random stuff, so very very random. Next to the computer, a scanner, a green basket, a green folderthingie that is glued to the wall, black thingies in the green thingie, somehow, calling thingies thingie is not how good texts work, too much thingies today, way, way too much. The words don’t flow fluently, she splattered this with way too many typos, this cannot be good, cannot be that goods. Anyhoo, the day marches forward, leans into the weekend, her writings for this week are done, she will have a happy happy weekend without the force to type, type, her fingers can rest, may rest. This is not art, pushing down at random squares, this is not art, not art. It is way too mechanistical, she ponders why she so overuses the term WAY, her writing is bad today, so very very bad. Save and spellcheck might help, wordcount might help, the knowledge that this text is moving forward, even if it is slumping along, dancing without moving, stalling, screeching, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Words on Friday the thirteenth, this better be good, better be good. Her left wrist is tapping against the sharp corner of the dark-grey table, she types, and types and types. Stares down at the keyboard, hardly looks at the monitor, another person to her right, at the computer, the author types, and types and types. She turns around on the chair, it is fifteen after eleven, a quarter past, she needs some more words and some more words. These are her days on this planet, roaming thru space, hiccupping some phrases into keyboards, this is what she does does. And the page moves on, ever so reluctantly, the author uses up all the platitudes, all the predetermined sentences, she writes types types. Who says it ain’t writing, who calls this typing. She types writes, types and types, and types. And types some more. More. End of page, end of page. End of page. At 30 707, for now, for now.

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still Friday, still thirteenth, sitting now in the vcc learning center, she had a too greasy piece of cheesecake in the pastry place upstairs, she is sitting at a computer that faces the lobby, she types, types. It is exactly one o’clock, she ponders, by the time she will type this, it will be one and some more minutes, time marches forward, relentlessly. The author walked by the noon concert on Hamilton, in front of the cbc building, it was some kind of esoteric Stockhausen meets john cage kind of concert, nothing catchy, the lunch crowd did not seem to mind, the sunshine, the happiness of lunch hour, the impending weekend, ah, it makes you swallow anything, even discorded tunes, as long as they were not too loud and too screechy. She types, types, knowing that her writing is slightly on the discorded, dysjuncted side, ah, what can you do, what can you do? She has to feed her words to the machine, dayin and day-out, in the same way a bricklayer has to trowel the mortar on the brick, again, again, again, in order to build a wall, a building, a physical construct. Writing, bricklaying, it is all the same, same. She ponders if her weird and strange absolutes, belched out after a screechy piece of cheesecake, will hold true, will hold true. Maybe, maybe not. Writing is so relentless, so absurd, you do not see any visible progress, just a little blue number that denotes your progress, some obscure, esoteric word count, somewhere in cybaspaihs. 30974, 30975. This software is a tad off, there is no space between the 30 and the 974, seems each machine has its own idiosyncratics, so it seems, so it seems. For some weird and strange reason, this computer’s earphones don’t work, thus, no music, none, none. Outside, Friday moves forward, she types, types, types. On the bottom of the page, it says 96 of 97, she ponders if she will reach 100 pages, by the end of the day, by the end of the day. If she wants to, wants to. The author is such a sucker for li’l round numbers, that is why she is such an obscure art worker, the only thing that counts, is output, fast, relentlessly.

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And, yep, obsessively, who needs normalcy, who wants normalcy. Commotion outside, lots of voices, masculine and utterly loud, she types and types and types. She ponders, what else to write about, how to describe the banal, the everyday, how, how. The ORDER HERE text on the red plank above the café place in the lobby, the green palm in front of it, the sun umbrella next to both. Some kind of tropic oasis in the midst of a school, in a rainy part of this planet. Hmm. Weird, so very strange. Do they decorate the interiors of Jamaican buildings with plastic igloos? She types and types and types. The page motions forward, the author does not feel like writing, she could stop, should stop. But her fingers tap at the keyboard, so very automatically. Words and words and words, one after the other, one after the other. A weird and strange song from the hair dressing place, she types and types and types. This place has a fashiondesignerish place, you can take some courses, become the next tom ford. Ah, why not, why not, how tough can it be? The author ponders, her writing does not seem to go somewhere, maybe she should really consider designing the next collections, collection A, collection B, some fabric draped over ppl. Why not, why not? And she types and types and types. Types some more, types some more. The woman from the English tutor place starts cleaning up next to her, puts everything in place, the author ponders, maybe this place will shut down sooner today, what with Friday or so, her thoughts on becoming the next coco chanel meets tom ford have to wait, wait. For now, ah, for now, save, spellcheck, the like, the like. --It is one fifty-nine. She is still in vcc, she changed her computer, though, she checked, this place is open

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until four, the English tutor lady tutors a lady, they are both pretty loud, especially the tutor woman, she talks and talks, pencil in hand, the other one nods, it is like a trombone playing the leitmotif and a harp chirping along, the author ponders, that does not really seam like an orchestra formation that is done, she types, types, listens to the “don’t get caught in a bad hotel” song, types some, listens some, this is how she does it these days, wordproducing, a job, a non-job, something to keep her busy, something to do, something 2 do. She watches the scene in the san francis hotel for the nth. time, it is just so entertaining, it fuels her writing, makes her type, type, all this rhythmic noise, she types, types, fast sentences, fast sentences. Who really cares that her writing lacks protagonist versus antagonist, that is so yesterday, so very yesterday, what matters are her fingers typing, the middle finger doing eighty percent of the typing, the left hand just plays second fiddle, typing, ah, typing, maybe, one day she will document her typing with a camera, five hours of film showing typing, that will put ppl to sleep, it will it will. the author ponders, her typing is becoming arguably nonsensical, she types, ah, so very automatically, she looks at the green stickers on the monitor next to her, she types, looks once more at the stickers, life is slightly redundant, an exercise in how to combat boredom, that is what writing is, reading is, as much fun as watching paint dry, this is what art is, by definition, by definition. Maybe not a very common definition, but, hey, we can redefine everything and anything. Her ears are full of “boycott, boycott”, catchy tune, you should type it in on you tube, lady gaga never sounded so good. And she types, types, her days away, her days away. She should walk home, thru downtown, how many more words does she really have to type, she is at 31 749, this is not nano month, not nano month, not yet, not yet. And she types, types. -

Five pages today, it is 2:20, none of these sentences even scratches the surface of what is possible with

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words, this is only self reflexive bullshit, she just does it to stay ahead, to practice her typing, to flex her writing chops, like a pianist will push down the keys at the organ, the grand piano, each and every day. Like a violinist would fiddle, like a harpist would, you know, like a trombone player, a singer, a dancer, who has to do her stretches, go thru the motions, go thru the motions, each and every day, each and every day. Sleep, eat, write. She types, types. Outside a bulldog-like person walks by, holding something rectangle, the author types, tries not to mess up the letters, they are way to near to each other, they scramble into each other, inadvertedly inadvertedly. Top of page 99, she moves forward, two twenty-nine, typing, while the music is so very overwhelming, this cannot be that good for her ears, and the typing is not that good for her fingers, her back is scrunched over, she tries to make some finger gymnastics, she has to type, to type, this is what she is put here on this planet to do, typing, typing, while the music is in her ears, she has to push these squares down, she notices that the letters are in the center of the squares, whereas in the other black squares she uses at home, the letters are to the side, this is what she does, does, comparing squares on keyboards, this better be good, better be good. If she could only find a publisher, kind of strange though, her writing, she feels that there is a publisher for everything, with the right amount of marketing, this should fly, somehow, somewhere, anyways, she types and types and types. And save and spellcheck. We are practicing here for nano month and seems as if every month is nano month. Animators are predisposed for long long sittings of writing, you get so used to it, putting in long hours to get very little in return, sisyphus rules, ah, sisyphus rules. And she types types. Save and spellcheck and outta here. Outta here. Page 99 of 100. Page 99 of 100. -

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Now in the front of the telly, the room is way too hot, she types, types, wants to make it to one hundred, heaps the words onto the page, watches a pretty weird local show, an interview with a crimestory author, she, the author of this text listens animated while typing her own text. Outside green, it is 5:38 PM, she tries to listen in to the show, while typing away, which does not really work, not really, not really. Words amass, she is at 32 237, she is on top of page 100. Now a woman talks about the history of tea, hmm, maybe, a tad less boringness would be nice. She changes the channel, in order not to listen to the woman in green listing all the different kinds of tea, she seems to make up half of the stuff she talks about, dispensing info ever so straight-facedly. Her eyes are tearing up, that is what happens when you write and write. she ponders if being somewhere on the middle of page 100 counts, she feels nauseated, this is it for her, fresh air is what is needed here. Save, save. -

On the telly, the diary of bridget jones in French. Kind of strange, but, hey, the author has watched it so many times, besides, seven years of high school French should have had some kind of remnance in her brain, apparently not, apparently not. Anyhoo, she heaps the words onto the page, all she sees on the telly is a lot of socializing, in London to boot, the author feels very bored here in slight suburbia, where typing seems to rule her days, wordcount, the like, it is getting romantic on tv, the author really loves the scene with the fight, at the end, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Reaches the end of page 100, well, not quite, not quite. The author ponders, ponders. Maybe she should make her way to kerrisdale, hang out there, anything to avoid all this constant typing, the words that are not really there, that are kind of still in the incubator,

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the storyline that basically just has one protagonist: the author herself, and her non-ability to write seems to be the only over-arching action, her stagnation in writing and, as sporadical subtext, her inability to lose weight. This is a too thin narrative, ah, way too thin, way too thin. Anyhoo, she types, soldiers on, wades in the mud of her disjointed words, types and types and types. Hunched over, hunched over. 32 577 words, and one hundred pages it is. Ah, finally, finally. -

It is still “bridget jones”, on the telly, somewhere near the end, at one of the big fancy dinners, somewhere where bridget makes an ass of herself, she always does, that seems to be the recurring theme, her trotting forcefully over all kinds of pots, smashing them with her faux-pas, anyhoo, author types, tries to phantom how to anglicize faux-pas and throw it into plural, the film is pretty funny at this point, the author ponders if describing a film in text is even possible and if it is any good, what about literary merit, what, what? She seems to be the queen of asking weird and funny questions, that is how she writes, writes, she just went thru what it takes to have a book published (research on the web), it seems that her work is totally unmarketable, hey, never say never, she types, types, and types some more. music on the telly, some longing voice, maybe shania twain, or someone else, someone else, she types, types, types. Anyhoo, at this point the scene with marc darcy, who likes her just the way she is, somewhere around the corner, she types, types, while watching the utterly cheesy film, and, hey, cheese is good, romance, ah, romance. Snow, near to kiss, very, nice, so very very. And she types, types. This is fun, typing and watching a movie, better than popcorn, so very, very much. and she types, types, types. Waiting for the part where she runs thru the snow, ain’t no mountain high enuf, she saw the film originally in metrotown, on a rainy day, in mid november, during the day, ah, pathetic, pathetic. And she types, types, types. Save, spellcheck, we have to watch a film here.

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Film is over, fin, commencement, she types, types, types. Dark outside now, the treebranches against the white background, she types, wants to finish this until next Saturday, she is going on a trip to oregon, this should be finished by then, writing under the gun, typing under the gun, she needs sugar, caffeine, the like, to produce her best stuff, stuff, the author is holding a conversation while talking, while talking. Lets the music, the voice of her conversation partner, the darkness outside, the reflection of this room in the window, the reluctant freshness of the weather, all of it, all of this, flow into the text, silently, obsessively. Her text marches forward, on the telly, larry king interviewing willie nelson, author types, watches tv, it all kind of flows together, but she said that already, wrote that already. She looks at the brown paperbasket on the ground, ponders, ponders. At this point she is out of words, she really does not know how to come up with the last 17 000 words, all her writings are so utterly redundant, redundant, it is all ‘bout her fingers pushing down on the keys, it is all about her writing angst, existential, existential. And she types, types. Feels kind of exhausted and exhilarated, at the same time, at the same time. Still tv, still tv. One of these days, she will jot down a magnificent blueprint 4 a magnificent story, a wellconstructed, well-thought-thru narrative, but, hey, until then all these verbal sketches have to do, improvisations, thoughts, that come and go, linger for seconds, sprinkle all over the keyboard, negated and affirmed, whichever suits the moment, suits the moment. And she types, types, types. Ah, typing, typing forever. 33 172. Thirty-three one seventy-two. -

saturday morning, she watches food channel, starts typing, somehow this does not really go together,

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kind of bizarre, watching oversized eggs on the tv-square, typing some words, looking at ppl beating eggs, a person talking about chilli powder in a british accent, some more egg beating, the author ponders if she can pen something readable while watching all this food stuff, all these food shows, it is actually one show, but lots of different chefs, it seems to be some kind of competition, the chefs are dressed in the same grey uniform, the judges do not wear uniforms, the chefs are mostly british, the judges are American, in between ppl talking about sage and citrus, some more egg beating, the drama unfolds, unfolds. The author ponders, how many words will she be able to put down, she needs about 20 000 words if she wants to make 57 000, she has to type it out by the end of the week, kinko it, bind it, take the book on a trip to Oregon, see, how it can survive the car trip, how it can handle itself in another country, at this point it only exists somewhere in the clouds, in cyberspace, one has to see how it works as a tactile rectangle little box, because that is ultimately how books look, like boxes, or maybe bricks, the author is not quite sure if her writing is nonsensical, if it is sensical, she types, types, ppl on tv talk about chocolate, discuss plums, dessert, the show is about desserts, it seems, she types, types, types. Now she hears them talk about calamari appetizers, so basically it is about whole meals, they are now judging the different chefs, lots of background music, kind of leading up to some kind of climax, the author ponders, there is no music like that when she cooks, only stillness, silence. chef Michael, you have been chopped, the woman in hoops talks to chef Michael, the author types, types, types. Maybe someone should document her writing, seems that a documentary gives instant credence to whatever you do, the author types, types, save, spellcheck, the like, the like. -

Now there is a show about ppl eating like they used to eat in Edwardian England, very cute show, you have to see it to know what it is about, it is kinda tuf 2 describe it. the author watches tv, while typing,

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somehow she cannot concentrate on any, but she goes on typing, typing, the pages have to be filled, filled. The author types, types, outside green, kerrisdale is happening, the house around the corner is going up pretty fast, starbucks on Saturday morning, coffee, pike roast, tall, banana loaf, a whip of half and half, she is back here, typing, kind of jumbles up the chronologicals of the day, anyhoo, the text marches forward, and that is all we want here. Page 103, oh, well. It is now Day Two of the show. She ponders what Kidgeree is, what are friandes? Now it is about Fletcherism, which means chewing, chewing, forever, forever. someone says “my jaw hurts a bit”, the author ponders, if writing on each and every excruciating minutae of each and every Saturday morning show on the food channel can stand in for eloquent writing, but she does it anyways, at least she practices typing. While her back is hunched over, she somehow feels that once she stops her daily typing regime she will leave writing for good, toss her reluctant dream of becoming an accomplished writer, anyhoo, she types and types and types. Kind of wills her writing career. The Edwardian show is still going on, it is all about eating, obviously, it is the Food Channel, after all. The person on the show states that Churchill had champagne with breakfast every day, but that sounds kind of strange and bizarre. Anyhoo, she is at the bottom of page 1o4, well, the page marches forward, marches forward. 33 844 words, not bad, not bad. -

It is 10:33 AM, it is Saturday, it is august 14, it is 2010. She changes the title of this text, she changes it every few days. Adventures of a couch potato, that is what she calls this concoction at this time, it is actually not that accurate, she is technically not sitting on a couch, she is sitting on a chair, hunched over

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the laptop on the small table, her right arm rests on the armchair “handle”, the couch potato state is not about the couch, not about the sitting, it is about the constant watching of the telly, which in her case is not even true, she stares down at her typing, just glimpses over at the tv, every now and then, it is about listening in to a program and trying to type at the same time. It is about trying to concentrate on two different tasks, both equally redundant, equally uninteresting, unadventurous. And she types, types, saves and now it’s on to spellcheck, spellcheck. 34023 words, she should go out, walk around the neighbourhood, it is good for her back, there has to be some kind of rest in between typing spurts, kerouac typed On The Road in three weeks, wow, the author needs some fresh air, she listens in to this constant “chef this, chef that”, where was Food Channel ten years ago? and she types, types, it is now about the chef of Toronto four Seasons being at a greek festival in Ottawa, it is a show about sheep and lamb and it has the red food sign in the right bottom corner most of the time, the author has no clue why she types all this, there are more important issues, issues. 34 147 words, oh, well. -

She is back at the laptop, kind of changed her mind, she does not really want to write a 57000 word book anymore, she’d rather right the epilogue now and leaves it at that, how long has a book to be, really, who makes up minimum and maximum word counts for novels and/or novellas, her text is not a novel anyways, not in the real sense, it is just a text, it went thru several stages, the title changed constantly, she might still go back to the weightlossbook title, it is in the header anyways, so summer 2010 and all the other tentative titles are put on hold, for now, for now, 4 now. It is a nice Saturday in august, she might just wrap, this up, print it out, rearrange the words at a later date, for now, she is happy with it, maybe it should just cure, like meat, like a good wine, rest and rest and rest, the author typed, pretty religiously, for the last two months, time to wrap this up, go out on a high note, better

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books will be written, worse books too, she typed, typed, her days away, this is what came out, this very, so very very text. Full of funny neologisms, funny words, strange syntaxes, words amassed, a slight building outta words, that kind, that kind. wordcount 34 411, or something and something. Words slithering near the border of coherence and, hey, what is coherence anyways. Time to enjoy the sunshine, kits beach, the like, the very very like. -

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fall

so she sits here, stalling in her old alma mater, not knowing what to do. Thus, she finds herself in front of the computer in the art school library, might as well pen another master piece. 300 pages of fall, double-spaced, times new romanish, an account, a journal, something, something. Outta art school, spring, summer, fall and winter. She is getting very fluent @ querying nyc agents, when her epic is penned she could easily query 50 agents simultaneously. Someone will take her up, someone will, someone should. After all, she manages to start most sentences with a capitalized word, put a small dot @ the end of a sentence, what more do you need, what, what? She usually writes everything in English, which is good, you know, sticking to the same language throughout a text, that might help, infusing the text with an illusion of coherence. She ponders, is it more lucrative to write in English or in Icelandic, what with foreign rights and stuff? Well, at least she has a quasi-exotic name, you know, the other, the other. Then again, you might not have sat thru endless reiterations of what passes as cultural theory these days, a biologist does not really know what the term “the other” means. Well, neither does the author, but she has a BFA, a freshly minted one, the problem is, of course, that most ppl don’t know what a BFA is. The author scratches her head, she stares down at her ruby red fingertips, the ones with MAC nailpolish. The author ponders, does everyone know what MAC is? Make-up

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artistry corporation maybe, the author ponders, if she is writing 4 posterity. Will her writing be in the pantheon of writing, does she have the “je ne sais quoi” of an Oscar Wilde, a Tolstoy. She ponders, the only difference between her and Homer is gender and breathing. Yep, that must be it must be it must be it. So, writing, huh. No more drawing 4 her, the world has lost an illustrious illustrator. Has gained an illustrious writer. The world the world the world. Her writing is pure genius, no more self deprecation, only boosting and bragging. The writer in fall. Typing and typing and typing. Someone might shoo her away from this computer, she is not a student here, not anymore, not and not. An alma matrix, alma materian, who makes up these quasi-latin phrases? Who and who and who. The author ponders, she will send this off to the agent in brooklyn, who practices the mandolin or to the one who changed companies in September. To the one with the authoritarian voice, to the one who used 2 be an editor and on Charlie Rose. To the ones who started their own publishing company, full of social justice books 4 the white guilt crowd. She ponders, yep, that should do it, throw around terms like white guilt, left and right and center, make sure that you manage to insult everyone, ah, everyone. You are no Seinfeld, lady, not yet, not yet. Ah. She types, types, slithered off-course, maybe sticking to one theme would be better, betta. Women peruse the art mags, ah, ladies, don’t waste your time in art skool, artists, they don’t make money, don’t, don’t. they have rewarding careers, but no money, none, zilch. The author ponders, how much of an advance do expiring authors get? Ok, it is aspiring, but expiring seems to be anything but a Freudian slip. She types, types, types, one twenty in the art skool, her back to the ocean factory, September the thirteenth, ah, 13, the big 13. Author ponders, is this too much for stream of consciousness-writing, to the edge of unconsciousness? Her typing sucks, so

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does her writing, whiffs of Kerouac and Capote, she should stop to read up on the gossipcolumns of dead writers. She should pen monstrous epics in Azeri, why English, ah, why, why?. She feels dislocated, diasporic, ah, a happy fish outta water, gasping 4 air, gasping 4 air. She ponders, she should play up the “fish-outta-water” aspect, it would have a big market share. Everyone can relate, everyone, everyone. We have to target everyone. Everyone is a potential customer. She types, types. Put this on scribd, it is not just a vanity press, she types and types and types. A day in her old alma mater, words that splash onto the monitor, coherence, a tad, a tad. She longs for paint brushes and black stick figures that march over white monitors, feels like crying, ten years down the drain, ah, art school, art school. Confusion is so very palpable, she is outta words, outta words. --an absentminded day in an absentminded life. She finally was able to save her file to the desktop, she starts to type, hunched over, she will feed her words to the machine, while her body is contorted, strangely. We don’t do that when we speak, the spoken word leaves our lips, relaxed, happy, to be out there in the world. Writing is so very artificial, the dissemination of utterings into reluctant black signs on white surface, anyhoo, typing time, typing time. Upstairs the rumbling of the dryer, forcefully, she types, types, wishes for a different environment, where she can study ppl’s expressions, where she has subject matter abound. Today, a Tuesday, a September, a city somewhere on this planet. A typer, a writer. Words that do not what they should. Words with minds of their own. Grammar and syntax, at the mercy of this keyboard. And

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she types, types, types. Takes her laptop to the green couch, changes one physically awkward position for another. But, hey, typing must go on, must go on, must go on. Downstairs her “and amsterdam” files, her “nanomonth” files, her “artskool” files. Books half-written, half nonwritten. Attempts at literary success, literary non-success, what is literature, anyways, anyways. Existential questions, ever so slightly, fragmented thoughts, fragmented words. She types and types and types. Page 3, page 4, this is her fall chapter, an account of a life, divided into seasons, this better be good, better be good. Coherence would help, something ubiquitous like an outline and what does ubiquitous really mean? Stream of consciousness, my butt, the author should find a strong story arc, somewhere, somehow, she should wrap her words around dragon tattoed girls and spidermen, she should reiterate archetypes of the modern, the myth of the modern. And she types, types, types her days away. Her daily adventure of starbucks on 41st, later on a ricotta muffin at café artigiano, but first, first, words, ah words. One day she will learn how to play the mandolin, one day, one day. No reason, no reasons. The dryer, its second cycle, the author just notices that it is the washer, ah, this is why her fact-based journalism stinks and teeters away. She feels insanity merging with incoherence, the days of dementia are nearing, ah, so very much. Senility, what is that. It is a woman in a red shirt on a green couch, typing away at her oversized laptop, with ruby-red fingernails, on a rainy, ah so very dreary day in september, while fall leaves get ready to rain down, to awash the streets of this city, she types and types and, ah, types some more. Her words are reluctant, angst ridden, that is how it should be, paint dries up in baskets, images are non-drawn, Daniel Richter, the art world is all yours. No more animations, no more paintings, words are gripping her, laptops are seducing her, her visual arts degree is for the birds, for the birds.

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She sits up straight, she should tackle bigger issues, take the narrative from the meticulously personal out into discussing strong meta narratives, she should write about pressing, pressing issues. That is what pens are for, to fight against injustice, you cannot be nothing more than a storyteller, a harpist on the canada line, singing for dimes, dancing for the pennies that are bestowed upon her. Maybe, some time later in the day, she will make her way down to Granville Island, where fringe festers forcefully, where the black clad lad tapdances on the beige wooden board he hurled around on the bus. The author shreaks at the sudden noise of the mail in the metal slit at the black wooden door, she notices, ever so softly that her words lack a certain tinge of coherence, ah, all loose ends, all loose ends. Use more fuckin’ adverbs and adjectives, nouns, pronouns, the right kinda syntax, yeah, that one, that one. She types, types,. Listens in to the clicker-claccker of the keys, typing, ah, typing. The page comes to an end, she has done her work 4 the day, this is what fuckin’ poets do, she can now march forward into the mundane of her day. --In front of the telly, typing in the light of the laptop, friends on, well, the telly. She types, types, ah, types her days away. Dryer upstairs, calling her, take the load out, put another load in. she tries to type and watch tv, her brain does not really work that good, her words splash onto the monitor, the September day here in vancouver walks over into the sun. She scratches her head, her word creations are off, but, hey, that must be how writer days happen. Joey talking to Ross, she tries to follow the storyline, it is funny, ah, and now, a state farm ad, now, a cheese burger ad. This is what she writes about, one day, ah, one day, a story will develop out of this,

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organically, one with a protagonist, an antagonist, one that adheres to the rules of narration, religiously, one that has cliffhangers and valleys, one that flows eloquently, a good good text. This is not it, not yet, not yet. This is just typing, not writing . That kind, that kind, that kind. Rhythm, tone, style, she types, types, types against the angst of the artist who cannot write, can’t, can’t. And the flow of the words moves along, the author still has some more minutes until two, some more words, some more words. Some semicolons, some apostrophes. Typing and typing and typing. -

another day in the art school library, the printer spits out paper upon paper, September 15th it is, she sits here, outside dreariness, the worst key board of them all in front of her, words splashing onto the monitor, this better be good better be good. The author paid fourteen bucks for parking, this is so insane so insane. Quick cost analysis, she certainly does not make fourteen bucks per day with her writing. She should go out and sell her words, there are farmers markets around town, ppl sell their harvest, why are there no writers markets? Not the kind where a shrill marketwife sells her wares. The author ponders, the term marketwife does not exist in English, but, hey, who cares, cares. Her writing is substandard anyways so it does not really matter. Outside the ocean factory, inside a writer with her writers block. The bridge against the white sky, her typing stalls, she will fill the pages , anyhoo, anyway. So this is why artists jump off bridges, it is the inability to find the right phrase, the perfect note, the eloquent line, it is the wrestling with demons, the triumph of the muse, that kind of stuff, the too convoluted sentences that finally do yer in. the artist ponders, her writing is about, about, she

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tries to perfect her elevator pitch, ah, my writing is about- stop, long pause. I write about…, nah, maybe, “I write” is more than enough. I am a writer trained in visual arts, yah, that might cut it, is en par somewhere with “I am a plumber trained in hairdressing”. You can’t train in art, for god’s sake. She types types types. Words splashing onto the keyboard, she types, types, types. Time to go downtown, downtown. She shuts her eyes, envisions her answering, “well, Charlie, let me tell you”, fun 2 be on Charlie Rose. It shows that you are intelligent after all. Who would have thought? And, once more, who would have thought? -

once more in vcc, the learning center, once more the ear phones musicing along, don’t get caught in a bad hotel, music, rhythms, not too loud, her words have to be penned, silenter music should be better, the sharp lines on the monitor next to her, dancing, outside in the lobby, scaffold after scaffold, a red dressed woman and all her face-book pics, women in yellow and green, walking by, studygroupers in the back, two afternoonish, author typing, typing, not very full of herself, her queries are turned down, somewhere in nyc someone bursts her bubble, substandard writing, seems to be the verdict, seems 2 be da consensus, konsensuss. She will write anyways, trees fall in forests, or something, and something. Her words slush away, too soft, too harsh, too mushy, that’s the way it is, the way it is. One day of these days she will make her way downstairs, retrieve the “and amsterdam’ and the “nanomonth” files, she will come up and start typing, typing, typing up the longhand stuff, but until then, she still will fill pages with 2010 stuff, fall stuff. Her writing deteriorates, just like her body deteriorates, old age, makes you write

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worse, makes you write worse. Ah, negativity, negativity. She should start up an mfa program or something, the luster of solidity, certain classes, at certain times, structure, modules, the like, the like. And on to page seven, smush words into the keyboard, fast, fast. The math/science tutor sign, hovering above, like always, like always. It is september sixteenth, already, already. She ponders, how should she, how would she describe this. In one word. Text, journal, who made up words like elevator pitch. She types and types and types. That is how it should be, that is how it should be. Playing with words, until they flow onto the page effortlessly, like playing an instrument, forcing letters into thin air, like drumming, fast and fast and faster. She pauses, ponders, she will go up to the pastry place, it is too late for crème brulee, all the caramel puddings are snatched up in an instant. And she types, types, types. Like playing the piano, her neck turned downwards, very, so very weird and contorted, words and words and words. She finished one page, which means, one more to go. The header got convoluted, she has to fix that, she will, will, how tough can it be, can it be. Today, nothing but useless repetitions, today, nothing but mechanistical pushing of keys, today the muse does not live here, not anymore, not anymore. She can hear the scaffoldppl in the lobby, they are so lucky, their movements and motions are meticulously choreographed, writers , painters, animators, they have 2 create as they go, this better be good, better be good. Inspiration, transpiration begets it, well, good luck, good luck. Something smells weird, toxic, she feels slightly sick, nausea so palpable, that’s how it is, that s how it is. She types typo after typo, she will go back and fix this all, once it is finished, that’s how it is, that’s how it is. English tutor sign, green and white, she ponders if she should take a class here in order to have someone edit her ah so fascinatingish book. And she types, she types, types her days away. Typing while listening in to the sound of hands non-clapping,

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listening to her typing, to the talking of the study group, she types and types and types. These are her days, weird and strange, but as long as she can make it to one of these typing places all over town, life is good, somehow, somewhere. And she types, types. 2668 words, for the fall part of “on canada line’, what kind of title is that, too, well, too blah. Or maybe good, good enough. She types anyways, types her words forward, down to page 8. How tuf can it be, how and how and how. She ponders, over fragmenting her sentences into oblivion, is that literature, well, is it, is it? Who knows, who knows who knows, no one will publish this, someone will publish this. Someone will read this. She will pay someone to read this. Seems to be the only way to garner readership. So this is what art does to you, it makes you feel slushed up, annoyed, deathly, it is fun though to tap away at a keyboard, makes her fell important, as if she has something to say, something to say. And words, and words, and words. She constructs her non-narrative so very carefully, while her back and her neck cramp away, she types, and she types, forcefully, to the edge of page eight, this is enough, so very, very enough for today. Stop, save, spellcheck. Not necessarily in that order. --at the computer, in the library, a so spectacular, so generic anylibrary, typing and typing, against the futility of her writer-existence, struggling with her demons, penning something, ah, something, devoid of melodrama, awash in pathos, with just the right kind of wordings, the right, ah, so right kind of style, typing it is, typing it is 4 her. Syntax sucks, spelling sucks even more, but she doesn’t care, she is here, freshly bathed, to do her day’s work, two pages, ten pages, whatever it takes to force her amongst the tenessee williamses and the t.s. elliots of this world, she has to conquer the literary world, and god only knows why and what for. There is no money

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in this, no satisfaction, nothing, nothing, the only reward is the journey, or something like that, something of that kind. Rarara- platitudes for starving artists, she should read up on those, consolations of losers, of nobodies, that kind, that kind, and she types, types, types. The old and stale adage about typing and writing, why does it even matter, what one pencil pusher says about the other, she types and writes, slightly oblivious, slightly not. Her text doesn’t make sense, her writing sucks, she will finish this up, finish this up, two pages each and every day, two pages, two and two and two. Sitting in a generic library, while feeling like barfing, that is not much fun, not much, not much. Who is she to think that she can write, is each and every half-wit who knows how to type, a writer, an author, a literary giant? How do writers differ from the creative geniuses who pen grocery lists, how and why? Existential questions on a dreary september morning here in vancouver, after a short stint on the canada line, a walk thru the rain down Dunsmuir, and she types, types. Ponders if she should write more ‘bout vancitay, less about it, who is the target audience, who, who, who? She dots her words with punctuation marks, she tries to teeter more next to orthographical conventions, maybe her words can garner the interest of a nyc-agent, maybe she will be finally published, maybe she will venture out on a book tour, the question being is, of course, if that’s what she really wants. Does she, well, does she? Paint and black marker, they cry, all her training as painter and animator, all of that, for the birds, for the birds. Who in her right mind would change film and other visual stuff for books, in a country where no one reads, to paraphrase Grisham. Why should she write, why does she write? A man in a Harvard shirt talks to the librarian, why would anyone wear that? How is that Harvard shirt different from her red and orange striped shirt, do real Harvard men wear Harvard shirts? Some

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do, some don’t, author types, types, this is not the time to discuss stuff. She feels exhausted and nauseated, all her thoughts start somewhere and end somewhere , and she does not cater to the plot wishers of this world, and,and, and. Her sentences have no beginning and no end, is this what is commonly referred to as rambling? Rambling, ah, rambling, rambling 4ever. And she types, types, disillusioned, full of negativity, she has to get it out of her system, so that she can face the world, face the world. She has to fuck-up this text, each and every day, hurl her insults into cyberspace, it is better than strangling oneself, this finger gymnastic at the type-writer, the texts that result out of it, ah, she types and types and types some more. Some kinda art, some kinda book, some kinda piece of shit. Her words, her words, her words. Reluctant, forceful, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. Full of pauses, cadences, that kinda stuff, stuff. Page ten it is, not bad, not bad. Sometime in september, sometime, somewhere. Harvard man and librarian still talking, both equally ugly, beauty does not exist here, in this place of books and intellect. Author types, types. Good words, bad words, mediocre words. Solemn words, singsang of the day, the blue info desk sign hanging from the ceiling, the AC deafening, nausea palpable, she’d better stop better stop, before insanity sets in, before, before. Not quiet two pages yet, not yet, not yet. The music of her words, the headache in her forehead, the day of a writer, so blah, so very very blah. --she is now in langara, in the library, outside rain reluctant, it looks as if the clouds will spit any second, but they don’t, so it’s pretty weird, she types and types and types. She wishes she had classes, something to keep her occupied, the only thing she does these days is writing and

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practicing for her role in the community theater next door, actually technically it is a role in a play in the senior center. She ponders, ponders, her writing should go somewhere, better sooner than later, her words are not good enough, apparently, apparently. She ponders, ponders, how come she got an A in every text she ever wrote, how come she is not able to sell these her words, something must be wrong, something, ah, something. Maybe she used less “ahs” and “ohs” in her school work, that must be it must be it must be it. Maybe she put commas in deserving comma places, maybe she was less than an artist, more than an artist. Maybe her stuff made more sense, who knows, who knows, and once more, who knows. Typing, typing, such an utterly redundant task, the day crawls forward, blue in the sky, behind white and grey. Woman talks in the back, loud, forceful, aggressive, ah, agressively. Author ponders, this is not the correct description, how can she possibly hurl descriptions at reality, how, how? And she types, ah, types, ah, types. She ponders, she should take a writing class, ah, why not, something in continuing ed, but she is not quite sure if she has what it takes to weather the sharp crits, she would only crumble, will only crumble, she cannot handle criticism gracefully. Who can who can who can? Ah and ah and ah. And ah. Upstairs, slits of white in the grey ceiling, the author is not quite sure if she wants to still keep on feeding her words to the hungry machine here, maybe she should just call it a day, take the canada line down to waterfront, change for the expo line, go to commercial , get a small sicilian cannoli for two bucks at the Italian bakery, that is basically overpriced, but good, and then have a tea, the author ponders, if it is just the long trek that makes the pastry in that bakery desirable. The long trek, the steep price. She should stick to writing, typing, writing away, she should tackle important issues, she should gather the dust bunnies at home, in a pile, she should do this,

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that, the other. Always the other, always the other. The author ponders, will her nonsensical writing stand up, will it outdo or will it be outdone. Hmm. Depends on the quality of other words typed at this very time, depends on the intellect of the reader, depends, depends, depends. Everything is relative everything is relative. And she types, types, types, this is what she does, nausea is so very near, there are no stories left to tell, none and none and none. But she said that already. Woman in red sitting next to her, man in cartoonish t-shirt at the other computerseat. Author types, types, types. Page, who knows what, she types and types, all thru insanity, fast and fast and faster. Two twenty-one, somewhere in fall, words splashing, murmur of ppl, words and words and words. One day she will query this, substract all of this into one word, she ponders if substract is the right term, ah, who cares, who cares, who cares. She could call this “diary”, “journal”, “account”. There must be better words to describe this her text, fascinating treatise, or something or something. Amazing novel, amazing non-novel, life in words, something, ah, something. She is losing it, ever so slightly, ever so slightly. There goes her brain, not working, non-working. Splints of humour in the text, who would write her days away, all thru spring and summer and fall of two thousand and ten. And she types and types and types. Types, types and types some more. End of page 12, so very, very, very near. --In the art school library, typing pretty fast, against the sleepiness of a Saturday afternoon, her words slightly skewed, the author tries to smush as many words into the machine as she possibly can. She feels kind of isolated, especially now that all these people are around her, giggling ones, serious ones, the 3-D class discussing form in front of all the art mags on the rack,

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the author just attended a reading, which was weirdly divided, one author was extremely good, the other extremely bad, so it seemed, so it seemed. But readings are good, whatever is read, and the small lindt chocolates were really good, and, hey that’s all that counts, all that counts. Who cares about the art, the food is what counts. Especially at openings, readings, finissages, whatever. The author types, clicker-clackering against the printer that hums happily. The person next to her draws a robot, huh, there is hope 4 humanity. And she types, and she types. granville island slowly, the market is still open, brimming with tourists, the author will go there, but first some more words, fed to the beast, fed to the beast. She feels so very uninspired, dragging her words along, trying to hold on to fleeting thoughts that leave her, running away, running away. Writing begets writing, whatever that means, whatever that means, poetry will evolve, silently, solemnly, quality will, should march stoically into quantity. She types and types and types. Her words, her words, so very, very off, never, ever good enough. These are her days, typing away, wishing for perfection, for glimpses of eloquence, of elegance. She types and types and types. Her words, her words. As if she didn’t say that already. She pauses, ponders, if she should leave this computer station, if she should sit facing the ocean factory, she interrupts her thoughts, she stares into thin air, she wrestles with the language, and the language wrestles back, wrestles her down, defeats her, leaves her so very, very void of words, of words. The black clad lad next to her coughs, not once , but twice, there is music in the back, on a cell phone, on a computer. Librarians talk, a student with pink ear phones, to her right, to her right. A September afternoon in the art school, silence before closing, she types away, types away. And now we are on top of page fourteen, the author talked too much, preferred conversing with a colleague to penning her master piece, master pieces have to wait, should wait. 4:32, her words

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splash onto the monitor, roaring, reluctantly, something like that, something like that. You are no poet, you’ll never be, no painter, no animator, just a pusher-down of keys, whatever that is, whatever that is. A word-worker or something, not even a smith, a writer wrestling with words, with words. Until they start to blur, until they start to take shape, until they sing, ever so reluctantly, still ever so poetically. Ah, whatever that means, whatever that means. She should apologize for poeting her days away, clunkering the words together, disjointedly, but somehow, somewhere she feels a strange contentness, today the language flows effortlessly, who knows why, who knows, and she types, types, types. Time to get some pink salmon candy from the market, time to walk by false creek, time to laugh at seagulls, time to feel the reluctant sea breeze, time to end this, wordcount this, leave this. The words have to hover along, in cyberspace maybe, in this computer on granville island, maybe, on a piece of paper, maybe. --Pretty fast sentences, on a Monday morning, before work, before taking the Canada line downtown, before the long trek thru rain and all those bodies on the train, she quivers, the way she mentions bodies, too reminiscent of body bags, decay, the like, anyhoo, the poet, the painter, the animator, the reluctant, so very reluctant scribe in the little room, typing and typing and typing. She sits here contorted, trying to feed her words to the machine, trying to pin down eloquence, while words rush away, leave her grip, she will never nail it, never ever, no one can, no one can, the futility of creativity, omnipresent, ah, omnipresent. We have the outline, the proposal, the blueprint, somewhere, somewhere, we just follow orders, follow orders. Her words today, so very very substandard. But she writes and types, this is what she does, what she does,

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one day someone will pay to read her words. And if not, she tried and tried and tried, to pen the perfect story arc, to nail the story, to put words to paper, that kinda stuff, that kind of stuff. It is getting late, she has to take the bus down to Granville island, that better be good, better be good. Today, her words, so very convoluted, not following the rules, she should try her hands at clear narratives, perfect stories, ah, perfect, so very perfect. She scratches her head, is this all, nothing but existential whining, that is no subject matter, the struggle of the artist, who cares, who cares, who cares. Vancouver in rain, September mourning, September morning. And she types and types and types. Feeling that she has genius, knowing that her dribble sucks. Outside, the reluctant blue of a fresher morning, upstairs, the rumbling of pipes and insulations in the woodwork. Once there was a squirrel in the wall, it took five days of pestcontrolppl efforts to get it out, alive that is. She types, types, types. The words fast, so many, so many. Loads of laundry waiting solemnly, silently in the blue basket with the holes that disintegrate, anyhoo, she types, types. Against this rainy, drizzly morning, as fast as she can, as fast as she possibly can. Another story, of nothing new, nihilism 4 ever. Who cares who cares who cares. At six twenty in starbucks on arbutus, two taxi cabs, one blue, one white checkered, checkered with black, two writers, two coffee ppl. The drizzle of a vancouver morning, awaiting the day, awaiting the week. The lowly writer at her laptop, with words that don’t rhyme, don’t make sense, that is how it is, that is how it is. A construction worker with words, trying to smush all these words that never ever fall into place. At least a bricklayer has solid bricks, non-malleable, whereas words run away to wherever they feel like, like sand, like clay, so tough and difficult, and she types, types, types. Two pages, not yet, not yet, not yet. Her words today, screaming for

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rework, today, only scribbles, only, only. She is aghast at her lack of eloquence, the clumsiness of her lingo, must be the rain, must be the constant drizzle onto this city, must be and must be and must be. Poetic this is not, accurate this is not. --She is now sitting in the art school library, starting to type, it is not even eight thirty yet, drizzly grey morning, described ad nauseum. She ponders what to write about, has too much to say, always, always. Pondering if “mandolin player of brooklyn” is the right and accurate title for this, is there ever a right and accurate title, can there be, can there? Her words smush and dribble into the machine, lots of words, lots, lots. She feels like a piano player in an airport lounge, she is aw riter without luck, far away from fame, or fortune for that matter, and, maybe, well, so very maybe, that is what she wants to be. Her words polter onto the key board, they are happy humming, or something, and something. The words of an unpublished author, full of angst and destroyed ego, all these words, ah, all these words. Melodramatic, hopeful, expressive. Full of tears and sadness, so very happy sadness. The author types, like a piano player, artistic, full of the mannerisms of a composer, a virtuoso, something like that, something of that kind. She should stop, and spellcheck, work put the faults, eleviate those, flatten the text or aggravate it, make it better and worse, at the same time, all at the same time. And she types, types, types, happily away. Her skill as a writer increases, her skills as a visual artist, on hold, on hold. For now, 4 now. And some more words, some more words. this is the fall chapter of 2010’s master piece, each year has a different master piece and they are all master pieces. Books without readers, films

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without viewers, paintings, all alone, rotting away, rotting away. The journey, ah, the journey. Songs that are not sung, symphonies never played, the wishes and wants of artists noncelebrated. That is how it is, that is how it is. Who needs art, gimme arms that kill, knives that cut, who needs minstrels that sing of love and lore, that are peaceful, way to peaceful. The troubadour of canada line, the mandolin player of brooklyn, the poet of, well, some other locale. The animator of Tabriz. And she typesw, and types, and types. Convoluted incoherence, why not, ah, why not? Page two, page two. She has to do laundry, has to cook, lots of ah so domestic stuffi-muffi, but, hey, first words, first pics. If time is left, we will get to housy stuff. We should be able to do it, girls are, ah, so good housewives. At least that is how the myth goes, the so very unsubstantiated myth. Women tent to suck at housework, but, hey, they can make the grade just by virtue of proclaiming “ I am female”, and she types, types, types. Some more words, ah, some more words. Outside, still greyness, it is 8:47, or something, or something. Her words are too vague, maybe that is how it should be, maybe, so very maybe. She repeats her phrases, someone sneezes, loudly, the author types and types and types. Word count, near to six thousand, for the fallpart of this book, she has 91 000 already, 91 plus 6, hmm, 97 000, not bad, not bad at all. First novels should be between 300 and 550 pages, she read that somewhere, who knows why, who knows why. Info floating around on the internet, and she types and she types. She ponders, if this needs a winter chapter, maybe, spring and summer and fall are more than enough. Winter is for reading, not for writing, and she types, types, types, types her days away. That is how it is, that is how it is. For now, for now, for now. She should stop these repetitions, she should make her way

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to the market, should do this and should do that. Her writing, her writing. Some kinda singsang some kind of sing sang. -

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