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P. 1
friday morning

friday morning

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Published by nasrin khosrowshahi

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Published by: nasrin khosrowshahi on Oct 09, 2009
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10/18/2010

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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09
here, every day, hold her head in her hand and type. Somehow the holding your head phrase sounds macabre, like holding one’s skull. Ah, words, they never do what you tellthem to do. Like paint that runs away into the wrong direction, so she heard, so she heard.She feels very disillusioned with writing, that is just the nature of the beast, like clayfalling down to the ground, cracking, pots, that were never meant to be. She writes,writes. There are so very many holes in the writing, all the holes, all of them. The day before she listened to charles jencks, at ubc, was ok, but she really loved when he talkedabout the pauses in architecture, the voids, the negative, not-there space, the absence of material, the absence of matter. The in-betweens. He could have talked much more abouttheory, that is what she prefers.STARING AT THE EVERCHANGING LINES ON THE MONITOR NEXT TOHER, THAT takes her into the afternoon. Someone coughs, far away, the noise of ascreeching chair, an opening door. She types, types. Today she has rubyred nailpolish,well, more really red, which is not exactly a term to describe red, it all looks kind of likea ladybird, or more like those red mushrooms with white dots, the ones that will kill you,in german they are called fliegenpilz or something, who knows, who knows. Her ideasare all smushing together, there is total absence of sanity, lack thereof, there is her sittinghere watching the squares of the keyboard, whitish, the silvery background, behind thesquares, the black shadows around the squares, the black letters, her fingers with the redtips, the beige of the hand. So, basically, sprinkles and dots of red, white, black lines, beige to pull it together, she types, types, types. Spellcheck, spell check, maybe, maybe.The page crawls to an end, ever so slowly.- - -
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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09
she is back in the maclab, in front of the computer that she used the day before,the one that crashed, the one that somehow messed up the writing, that one, that one. It isa Monday, one of many, here in the art school. She ponders how long she has been in this place, what she will do with her degree, once she gets it, what, where? This is what shethinks about. While walking thru the hallway to the lab, this is it, this is it. She types, fast,wants to get this over with. Two pages, two pages should be more than enuf. Should nottake that long, what with her fresh non-existing monday morning energy. She types,types. Words come to her, there is this weird scrollingly, scratchingy noise. Something,maybe reverberating, oscillitatingish. She is not quite sure if these words even exist, whocares, who cares. Writing feeds on itself, one word invites the next. Like sitting on a bike,once pedaling you can’t stop. Something like that, yep, something like that.she ponders, a tad. Looks at the yellow-orange- ochre flowers in the corner of her screen, it says Jewelry Auctioned on the image, whatever that means, whatever thatmeans. Who wants to buy jewelry while typing? She writes, writes. The psychedelicswirls swirl like always, on the monitor next to her. The a.c. is loud, she types, types.Listens in to her hammering away, asymmetrically, pauses, fast typing. A bell rings in the back, she types, types. Another monday morning, another page. One of so many, one of so many to come. She writes, writes. Something shuffles, again, another shuffle. The blinds are still down here, this place is still utterly desolate. She types, types, types.There should be more to say, alas, there isn’t. Door opens, it always has this weirdsound in the beginning, before the opening, the anticipation, of the opening, the opening.She has to run tons of errands, but first the pages, first her writing. It structures the day,grounds it, somehow reluctantly, though. Page 26, page 26. more swirls, very matte, kind
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seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09
of motioning into the background. Someone comes into this room, shuffeling, sits downin the computer row behind her. She types anyways, fast, fast. There is no time to turnaround, one cannot suddenly start socializing, the machines do not permit that, thecoldness of this place discourages human interaction. All these white walls, reminding usthat we have to produce stuff that will ultimately adorn other white walls. Walls in agallery, images on white paper, letters, words on white surface. She is not quite sure if that is a strong, truthful observation, she writes, writes. Has to fill this very page, withwords, with words. Has to heap them up, let them flow onto the page. She writes, writes,writes.The day motions forward, silently, forcefully. vancouver in 2009, in october.some computer lab, some g26ranville island, some second floor, some north building.You get the drift. Her poetic texts are so utterly repetitive, repetition as style element, asthe most lasting, most everlasting element. Repetition as the overpowering constant, allthru her text, her images, everything, she builds. Maybe not thru everything she builds,she hardly ever builds. Should though, should though.Silently the page motions to its end, spellcheck coming near, coming near. Shediscussed her writing with strangers which kind of inhibits her, she is not that good oncequestioning comes, she cannot perform if she feels watched. She ponders how weirdly,creepily loaded these infos are, she types, types. A greenly-dressed lady comes in, morelady than woman. Blond, slightly serious. She types, types. In front of her the black cable, squirly, the one that is connected to the small gadget that she has no clue what it isgood for. Who knows, all these machines are so very weird, anyways. What matters, arethe words typed in, those ones, those very ones. Her text slides into an abyss, who cares,
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