diva 21

So once more in front of the computer, once more in the library, once more typing away.

Once more searching for words, once more letting them flow into sentences. Once more, once more. This is exactly what she did last year, writing, writing, all through kingston, montreal, new york. She still is doing the very same thing, still somehow entangled in the process, without any tangible result. Except for some kinko-bound bookesque thingies lying around @ strategically arranged places around the house, some pages that demark her having been here on this planet. Maybe that is good so, anonymity seems to be so much more fun. It has the inherent quality of potential, the waiting for the death to make the artist. Outside the ocean factory, outside the ocean factory. Grey, slightly white, the bridge behind the clouds of steam. Her typing, her typing. Sometime in the morning, sometime @ the end of march. In this city by the, by the, wait, not, bay, maybe, by the georgia straight. The city slightly removed from howe sound. Nobody really calls this place “city by�- insert whatever seems appropriate. Usually it is a city by some kind of waterstream, some roundish lake, and Vancouver has definitely a lot of water everywhere. Even water streaming out of the clouds. She writes, she writes, slightly on the nonsensical side, slightly on the sensical side. Senseful, senseless. She knows she has to produce 20 more pages, till april 28th, bind it and draw some smiley- faces on the cover, then somehow take it to the gradexhibitionplace, and let it sit in the public domain from may 2 all the way thru to may 10. eight days of exposure of all her thoughts, all the dribble she produced these last years. Out in the open, for everyone to pluck apart. Not good, not good. Maybe it will just gain quality by the sheer quantity. She will have 20 pages, 140 pages, 10 more pages, 20 more pages which adds up to, wait, 20 plus 140 plus plus plus, math is not her strongest fields, lets say ballpark 190 pages, hey not bad, not

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bad @ all. Ok, given that it is about 200 pages of nonsense, non sense, it is still pretty good, more on the good enough side though, but who will really read any of this, one or two sentences before moving on to the next visual form, some painting, some sculpture, some shapes rushing over a monitor. Her installation will be one of 300, who has time to really decipher it word by word. 190 pages, it does not work with virtuous choreography of the single units, it works by basically being a performance in condensed, tactile form.

It demarks her effort and that should be good enough. Next year she will finally have time to work on her animation film, something with directed studies, something along the lines of a feature long film. How hard can it be, just amass some drawings, put them on the animationstand, click, click, and the machine does the rest. Sound will be tough though. Some publicdomainy symphony maybe. - Outside there is a yellow car parked, a person walks by it. A bus makes its way over the bridge, the page is not finished yet.

There is nothing more to describe, nothing worthy of description. She has covered all the basics already, strangled all these sentences together, tried to capture the look of this place, so many many times. Some books on the shelf, some ocean factory, the very same place, in front of the very same computer. Pretty redundant, to come here day-in and dayout, to feed some words to the hungry little computer. 20 more pages, ten more days, and this will be done. Hang in for the home-stretch, how tough can it be. She feels like the marathonrunner who can see the end of the line, the banner calling out “finish� and the sudden pull to stop and refuse to take one more step. She will not do that, she will take her time, go to the market, take her time, ten days within a 15 day span. Words, words, words, they will be delivered, whether coherent, whether incoherent. All poured over 20 leafs, leaves of paper. It is 8:59 and her day has just begun.

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