weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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 non-difference, 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.
1
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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.
2
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
--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 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. -
--
3
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 non-existent. 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. 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,
4
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
once a month. At least not Friday the 13th, 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 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-
5
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, nonfortune, 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, 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. -
--
6
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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
7
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
nailpolish, hand on mouse to her right, no nailpolish. On this wordprocessing assemblyline. 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. 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,
8
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 thingie will not cut it, not yet, not ever. Bushes sway, there is nothing left
9
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 self-righteousness. 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.
10
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 applestores the city over, records ten seconds of herself on i-movie, puts it on vimeo, tenseconds 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.
11
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010 -
nasrin khosrowshahi
--
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.
12
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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.
13
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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
14
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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,
15
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 wallowing on negativity, describing her walter mitty dreams, treatising longwinded pieces on lovers not taken, buildings non-built, magazines notpublished, 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.
16
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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.
17
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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
18
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
19
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
20
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 onehundreds, 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. -
--
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. -
21
--
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
22
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 nonhappen. 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, 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.
23
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 窶話out 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 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
24
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 TWENTYONE, SPELLCHECK, save- we’re outta here, outta here. Nothing more to say, nothing, ah, nothing. -
25
--
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 good, not that good, not that good. High literature, low
26
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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,
27
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
bliss, hallelujah, or something, or something. Alas, page is over, have to 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-skinsummerish, AC-too weak-summerish, 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
28
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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.
29
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
30
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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.
31
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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.
32
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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.
33
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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 MACRUBY RED. She types, types, looking for a sec at the little fold-up, that reminds you to
34
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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? 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 coming-outish 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.
35
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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,
36
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, minutaeinvolved 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, 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.
37
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 appliquÊ 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, longneeded, 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, 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
38
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 窶話out that word count, how 窶話out 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 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
39
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 behind her, and it seems this place is still open and she can type, type, type, frantically under the gun, while
40
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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,
41
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
diffused, fifth avenue. And why nyc, why not downtown tinkertown. 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,
42
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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.
43
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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 nonmovement 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
44
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 rearranged, malleable, so very nonmalleable. 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 nonconducive 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,
45
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
46
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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.
47
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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” 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
48
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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. -
49
--
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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. -
50
--
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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. ---
51
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
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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 types, types, day marches forward, she types, types. And 16 264 word, sixteen two six four. Words and words and words. -
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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
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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. -
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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 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,
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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, none. Only writers block, omnipresent, omnipresent. And save and spellcheck. She haults, tries to push some more words into the computer, while the
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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. -
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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,
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into the keyboard. She types, types. Slow morning here in vcc, slow words, ah, slow words. Math/science tutor 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
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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. 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
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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 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. -
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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 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 drive-thru 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
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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. -
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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, 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.
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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. 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.
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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 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
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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 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. -
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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. 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
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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 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
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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
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ponders, she could mention the beigeness of the 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. offsyntax writing, grammatical glitches, holes in logic, the fascinating array of shitty,
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
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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. 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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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 longwinded 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.
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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.
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 hates 2 write and hates to write. And the rain rains down, yep, rains down. 23 707twenty 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,
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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.
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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,
76
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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.
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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.
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2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 nonability 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 beige-brown 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,
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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 janeaveragedom. 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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. --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
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 midmorning, 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. 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
85
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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.
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weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
87
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
88
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, dayin, 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 forward, by typing and
89
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, non-cheesiness. 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
90
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
91
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. 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
92
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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
93
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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.
94
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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
95
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
the discorded, dysjuncted side, ah, what can you do, what can you do? She has to feed her words to the machine, day-in 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. 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
96
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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
97
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 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,
98
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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. -
--
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 crime-story author, she, the author of this text listens animated while
99
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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, 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
100
weightlossbook, weightlossbook
2010
nasrin khosrowshahi
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 窶話out 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 well-constructed, 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. -
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saturday morning, she watches food channel, starts typing, somehow this does not really go together, 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.
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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, 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.
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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 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. -
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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
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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 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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nasrin khosrowshahi