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she wrote near to twenty pages already. It is two forty-two, so there is still time to write more.for today.- - -she has to leave this place, but she will miss the instant companionship of the knitters, they areall so very friendly, so very well-behaved. She likes it here. Maybe she should learn how to knit,knit, knit. Instead of writing. Maybe she will be able to do that. It does not seem to be toodifficult. Maybe, one day. For now, she writes, she animates. She’ll leave, she’ll walk through New York City dreaming of lighttables, missing some things she does not really know how toarticulate. She wishes for peace, maybe, the embrace of a lover, maybe, the wind in her face,maybe. false creek, so very maybe.- - -tedium seems part of this knitting business, it seems to be part of the bricklaying business,tedium is part of writing. She ponders whether her philosophical musings are valid. Sheselfdoubts. Which is fine. In this vacuum of beauty. –- - -she sits down in this Deli at the corner of 14th and 8th, remembering vaguely that one is aStreet, one is an Avenue, but at this point of the day she is slightly confused, which is which, because there is East, West, South North to be put in the mix, she did not want to get out here, but it is fine anyways, she knows how to get home from here, on the other side, there is this bigGourmetplace called Balducci’s, she is still slightly sick, slightly squashed by her cold, the lights191from the ceiling are reflected in the green marble of her table, she can see people coming out of the subway from where she sits, the window is exactly near the steps of the subway which is
 
fascinating, she looks at people, notices vaguely that there is no music in this place, which is afirst in all her constant travels, in ontario, in québec and in new york, a place that does not needmusic, that relies solely on visual entertainment, the noise from the street, conversation, music isnot part of the equation, then again, maybe there is some music somewhere, somewhere in thedistance, she looks outside where the world runs by, where life runs by, this place has a certainunhappiness, a certain uneasiness, she suddenly can hear music, which was there all along, whichwas there all along.- - -She ponders if simply repeating words will make for good writing. Of course not, it is veryskilful filing away at sentences that will propel her adventures here in literatureland, in thelinguistic landfill that she is dropping her insights into.Outside, the city goes by, moves by, people are coming out of the subwaystation, there is a beige stairway going up here. She should have a tea, but it does not really hault her cold. The person at the other table is drinking a Red Bull, the author ponders if that kind of energy drink would supply her with energy, she is tired, still full of pangs of fever, that make her sit here andrest, that make her try to regain her strength, to go into a state of normalcy, where she can breathe and swallow easily, again.The person at the table opposite of her eats and talks to himself while eating, a fly bumps intoher face. Something smells, some foul smell. The Deli is situated at a very strategically valid192corner, it must make a lot of business.She wants to leave.- - -
 
She sits down on a bench in the subway. A woman with red nail polish is reading. So she, theauthor, thinks, that maybe she should sit and write here. It is rushhour people rush by, transfer  between L, A, C and E trains.The subway, breeding ground for musicians, visual artists. Looking at the writing pad, whileseeing all those legs rush by. Walking cycles, lots and lots of biped walking cycles.All kinds of colors, red pants, brown shoes, black pants, wheels of strollers, of suitcases onwheels, people rushing and running, striding, strutting elegant persons and non-elegant ones.high grey heels, pumps, that were bought at a cheap outlet store. She writes away, Someonewheels by canned fruit, behind him someone wheels by a stroller. Someone reads, someonewrites. Someone talks, someone listens.The author smiles. Her observations get more profound, the more her surrealistic state of tourisme, of dislocation progresses. Will she be able to adapt to normalcy, once she is back invancouver. She can’t really sit back home at the Metrotown skytrain station and write like this.She would feel weird, strange. Here, on the other hand, this seems normal, writing to combatinsanity, uncertainty, dislocation. That is what pens are made for.- - -193She just writes away.- - -she is now back in the dunkin’ donuts on 9th avenue at the corner of, maybe 24th., maybe 25th.street, she cannot see it from here, she ordered 5 munchkins, or, actually, she wanted 3, but shealways gets 5, they always want to up her sugar and fat intake, here, take more, clog your arteries, for free, it’s on the house, some person at the donut place has a bypass surgeon in her family, it is just one big conspiracy, corporations and other culprits, organized anything, it is just
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