P. 1
tuesday morning

tuesday morning

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Published by nasrin khosrowshahi
ah, working on this text, it kind of crumbles into the monitor, like a stale oatmeal-raisin cookie, boy, am i hungry, ah well, ah well, writing is such a boooooring endeavour
ah, working on this text, it kind of crumbles into the monitor, like a stale oatmeal-raisin cookie, boy, am i hungry, ah well, ah well, writing is such a boooooring endeavour

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Published by: nasrin khosrowshahi on Oct 06, 2009
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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 tell them 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 clay falling 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 talked about 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 about theory, that is what she prefers. STARING AT THE EVERCHANGING LINES ON THE MONITOR NEXT TO HER, THAT takes her into the afternoon. Someone coughs, far away, the noise of a screeching 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 like a 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 ideas are all smushing together, there is total absence of sanity, lack thereof, there is her sitting here watching the squares of the keyboard, whitish, the silvery background, behind the squares, the black shadows around the squares, the black letters, her fingers with the red tips, 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. ---


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 is a 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 she thinks 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 not take 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, who cares, 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 that means. Who wants to buy jewelry while typing? She writes, writes. The psychedelic swirls 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 weird sound 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


seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 of motioning into the background. Someone comes into this room, shuffeling, sits down in the computer row behind her. She types anyways, fast, fast. There is no time to turn around, one cannot suddenly start socializing, the machines do not permit that, the coldness of this place discourages human interaction. All these white walls, reminding us that we have to produce stuff that will ultimately adorn other white walls. Walls in a gallery, 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, with words, 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, as the most lasting, most everlasting element. Repetition as the overpowering constant, all thru 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. She discussed her writing with strangers which kind of inhibits her, she is not that good once questioning 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, more lady 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 is good for. Who knows, all these machines are so very weird, anyways. What matters, are the words typed in, those ones, those very ones. Her text slides into an abyss, who cares,


seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 she has finished her daily requirement, thus she is out of here. The market, the market. --2:12 PM. Once more in the same lab, once more typing. This place is full of people here which has its advantages, its disadvantages. Like everything. Platitudes pepper her prose, why not, why not. She should do some research. She could once more write “why not” and another “why not” to top it of. She must be the only dumbohead who produces text instead of image. Text is on one side, visuals on the other. So they say, so they say. Computers, huh, killing visual arts. No more holding on to the paintbrush, not for her, not for her. No more dipping a stick into a pot of paint and swirling it around. Not 4 her, that is. She refuses to make stuff, just waltzes in here each and every day and starts typing. Walks by false creek, types some more. Goes 2 the market, types some more. Reads ‘bout stuff, types, types. She ponders a tad. She must have used this sentence before, her mind works in utterly predictable ways. Her synapses like to fire in predictable ways, along certain tried and true paths. She ponders about this not being an accurate description, who cares, who cares, just write on, cowgirl. Well, now we have 2:26. PM. She has 2 smush some more sentences onto the paper. Keeps her busy. Fills her with a sense of accomplishment. Doesn’t sell, though. not yet, not yet. She has nothing 2 say anymore, everything worth saying has already been said. Words have to accumulate onto the page. She turns around, starts staring at the grey-silvery pipe in the corner to her left. Pretty nice one, impressive, slightly majestic. Brown wooden beam in front of her, woman in purple with glasses. So much 2 see, so much to describe. Thus she types, types, types. Who needs readers after all, as long as she


seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 has the physical power to push all theses buttons, she might as well do it. Yep. Yep. She could use less yep, more yep. At this time of the day all her thoughts have the propensity 2 smush in2 one another. She stares @ the ceiling, searching 4 a conclusion 2 her thoughts, there is none, none. None whatsoever. Might as well, might not as well. She stumbled by accident on another stylistic curl, affirmation, disaffirmation. Yeah, yeah, might as well, might as well. 2:35, Time 2 wrap this up. Ha, might as well. --in front of the computer, in the emily carr library, typing, typing. Oceanfsctory against the blue sky, some swirls of white, longish, feathery, click-clack from the librarian’s desk. Something moves outside, someone moves inside. Black thin shadows. She types, types. Nothing happens, nothing happens. Time is standing still, moving forward, she writes, writes. There are stories 2 be told, not by her though. No punchline here, only line. Sans punch. Sorry, we don’t do punch. Punch doesn’t live here, only endless repetition of word after word after word. If the sentence is grammatically ok, who cares about style, substance, who cares, who cares. Endless typing, that will do, that will do. Voices near the door, metal sounds to her right. Someone shuffles thru the mags, this library, this library. Green short leaves, lots of them, with yellow in it, some quivering in the octoberday, she writes, she writes. Can’t see cars on the bridge, a lowly, lonely pedestrian, coming from downtown. Apple on the monitor, she writes, she writes. Silent nausea sets in, she types, types. Ah, to be bored in a library, should be better than being mowed down on the street. Boredom doesn’t hurt, just malms you silently, grinds you ever so slowly. Stomps you into the ground, one millimeter at a time, one quarter inch, one quarter inch. She


seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 types, types. Page 29, page 29. she repeats way too much, she should write something intelligent, something insightful. Hmm, insight, as delicious as strawberry icecream. Which drops from the cone onto the pavement. Yep, that is how insight is. What a weird word, insight. Insight, the opposite of outsight. Too much emphasis on sight. Whatever happened to ignorance, total bliss, not knowing anything, total, total blindness. Cluelessness. She types away, her days in this art school. Somewhere on granville island. It is nice here, toasty, there is a public market, the tea waiting on the second floor. She seems to have an affinity 4 second floors, she types, she types. The words rattle down onto the page, screechingly, haltingly, they refuse to fall into place. This is not her day, she will barely stutter two pages into the monitor. Eloquence, elegance, it will definitely not swoosh her off her feet today. Her metaphors are weirdly, so very strangely clumsing onto the page, into the monitor. Page 29, page 29, page 29. maybe she should just stop, go 4 a walk, come back, the motion, the movement, the wind in her face, will automatically translate into good writing, good enuf writing. But she cannot really leave this her chair, she’d rather have this over with, spellcheck it, correct the most obvious glitches, save it, email it to herself, she’d rather have the rest of the day off, she’d rather clump thru these strange motions as soon in the day as possible, first the kits gym, then the peppermint tea, then her writing, predictability should pay the bill, in the end, in the end, creativity, puh, doesn’t exist here, not any more, not any more. Artistry is grind, it is materiality, a piece of paper with signs on it, words, lines, a blueprint, a text. Codes, for someone else to decipher. This is how it is, how it is, how it is. She is happy, the page is finished, she can leave this too, way too sundrenched


seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09 spot. Spellcheck, spellcheck, spellcheck. Where are her glasses? --she is not happy with how the text turned out, there are all these obvious cluttery sticks and stones within the writing, the ones that staccato thru, in a so very annoying manner, all this fumbling with the language, this missing of the beat, the weird inconsistencies. The ones that cannot be resolved. The ones that have to stay in, all the knots, all the tiny, bumpy roadblocks, the little scars in the fluency of a language, any language. It can drive you crazy, but, hey, we go down to the market way before that happens. Trained to go near to the edge, but never, ever lose it completely. Yep, that is art, that is art. Seems to be the only art that she got good at. Over her years in art school. Not that good a result. Ah, might as well, might as well. ---


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