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.down reality on a horizontal sheet of paper, wood pressed to pulp to paper. She listens to all theassociations that take her to different worlds, the conversations at the tables around her are soannoying, so trivial. She longs for quietness, for stillness. Everyone has something to say. Andthe stories seem so very much the same. The observations are so very generic. And maybe that isgood. Continuity, Community. She gets weary of overhearing all the conversations. She feels sovery tired, so very old. Everything is boring.- - -Maybe she can sit in a coffeeshop and just take photos of random people, take films, tape theseannoying conversations, the noise of the coffeemaker, the music, the swoosh of the carsswooshing by, people walking by her, putting down their coffeemugs, and all the other constantnoise clutter. She is tired and the rain is still falling, deafening her wish to go back to the hotel.Her allegories and her metaphors are slightly on the senseless side, her words on the paper startswimming, the letters loose contour and contrast, she watches her pen make line after line on thelined paper of the notebook, she feels so very dizzy, but forces herself to sit straight up. Her coffee is icy and her hands clam. Outside, outside.The coffee tastes bitter even though there was milk in it. The notebook is filling up and shefeels a hint of accomplishment. She was able to write down a myriad of words and she ponders,she wonders if her writings will accurately illustrate her thoughts. Someone in red boots iswalking by, someone with a red big purse. The car outside now is red. Her observations are filledwith random registrations of colour, the woman beside her has a turquoise sweater, the neon sign63outside is red, the trash paper on the ground in the puddle is orange, the man behind her has ayellow coat. She writes and writes and writes the day away. The music is rhythmic and not very
 
good. Predictable. Something reggaeish, bluesish. Lost. She knows she is lost here but puts her thoughts down on paper. She can see a body shop outside, and a place named Copper Penny. Shefeels like creative writing is so very difficult. There are no parameters. No limitations. Shestumbles into using her favourite words again and again. She repeats the same words three timesand cannot stop herself from doing that. She overuses words like stuff, smush and croach. Sheused to fabricate a lot of new words, smush words together but she abandoned that practice for the time being. Maybe, it is because she is writing longhand these days. The computer brings outa completely different writer in her. The tool constructs the meaning and conducts the music, thecomposition, the symphony, the fragments and the particles of the final piece. The color of theink leads the wording of the sentences, so does the environment around her. The day is going intolater afternoon, somebody runs by, the rain is relentlessly still coming down. She will go to thehotel now. Run away from this coffeeshop here.- - -second book of kingston-winter/spring 2008
goatstory
she went back to the hotel to pick up her notebook and makes her way back to the café on princess street that seemed so very, very inspiring to good writing only some minutes ago, butonce inside she notices that her favourite table has been taken, her pen is out of ink and thus sheencounters problems, she cannot watch the street from here and her tea smells funny, thus she64will not be able to write even fairly decent words, sentences, but she tries anyways, knows thatshe has to sit here for an hour and put word after word down; diligently, deliberately – she tries
 
to squeeze as much meaning into her sentences but even if the words will not take her where theyshould she will still log in a decent amount of time- 5 pages being the absolute minimum.Outside the wintery evening descends on kingston, the city is awash with expectation-Expectation by young minds that will research the world at this time, at this moment- documentwhat is going on in other places, places far away from Lake Ontario, far away from this so verysmall enclave near studentia, within academia. People around her talk, conversations, a differentcrowd than the individuals she left here only an hour ago. Not many persons are working on their laptops squeezing a midterm paper on it, not many persons are reading- the atmosphere is morehalted fun- suspended creativity, the music here is definitely so much better than the elevator music in the coffeeshop she frequents in the morning. She ponders if what she puts down on paper in this atmosphere will be better or worse than what she would pen in a less creativeenvironment. The visual and acoustic overload of stimuli in this place might very well stifle her imagination, everything around her is too colourful, too technicolourish, how can she possiblycompete with this environment, especially when words are her only tool no colourful paint, no photos, no music and thus she cannot produce the same amount of texture- using only onelanguage, only words- words in a language that she only adopted that is not really full-circlehers, that she only learned when she was ten years old and not by immersion, but by memorizingvocabulary, by memorizing grammatical rules.While she is writing away, people come in and look at her with a look of: Why are you not65leaving but she can’t really leave she still is forced by an inner voice to produce a certain amountof sentences, the words have to be splashed on this page in order to document, to demark her existence in k-town in march 2008. Her tea smells very aromatically like Jasmine evoking amemory of real Jasmine bushes and white Jasmine flowers, Jasmine blossoms in her father’s
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