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.

---

24
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

25
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,

26
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

27
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

28
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

29
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.

---

she is actually sitting here again, to write, to write. another day, another text. The

oceanfactory @ 10:15, SHE WRITES, SHE WRITES. SOMEONE IN A RED

AND WHITE CHECKERED MENS’ SHIRT IS SITTING NEXT TO HER,

maybe a male, maybe a female. She doesn’t know, she is just watching her fingers

fly over the keyboard, the individual next 2 her just barely registers in the

periphery of her vision. Ok, it is a girl, a very pretty one, which was not really that

clear judging from the shirt, that is a flannel worker’s shirt appropriate for loggers

and hunters. She writes, writes. These are her days here, in the artschool, she

overslept today, which should be fine 4 an artist, starving unemployed art student,

a mere nobody in the scheme of things. a walter mitty. Hahahahaha. She writes,

writes, keeps her happy, the very mundane typing away. Her middle finger, the

30
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

one on her right hand, hurts though, a beautiful woman in a black blazer stands @

the info desk. She ponders if it is ok to write about female beauty, she tends to

usually admire male beauty. Besides, male beauty is rare, they are usually quite

ugly, the ones her age. They somehow manage to age non-well. Women can just

smear some lipstick on and they are fine. So it seems, so it seems. There must be

more pressing issues than this, the oceanfactory is bathed in light and shadow.

She writes, writes, writes. Said that b4, page 31, hmm, hmmm. Not bad. Not bad

@ all. She should get a cash advance 4 this, though she read yesterday that that is

a terrible financial mistake. She really has 2 get more into analyzing the market,

for this her fourth manuscript. She sent manuscript 1 to two places in town, they

rejected it. She sent it off to MIT, they rejected it. Well, to be fair, it is not a

scholarly treatise, but then again, harvard publishes fiction, thus, if her stuff was

really good, MIT would have picked it up. She could still opt for all the other

university presses, for a literary agent, that kind of stuff. The prob is really that

she does not like to be told to even change an apostrophe, and that is quite a

conundrum. She can just print her stuff out and hand deliver it, print it @ kinkos,

that’s it, that’s it. She ponders, likes the image on the monitor two computers to

her left. Looks like a black and white comic book cover, her favorite aesthetic

anyways. She types, types, the page scrolls slowly to an end, she is utterly hungry,

longs for an oatmeal raisin cookie, a chewy one. This is what she longs for these

days, a beer would be good too. Not with the cookie, though. She writes, writes

and writes some more. Woman with bitter face walks by, why da bitta face, why?

She writes writes writes, nonsensical ditties, deep insights, huh, @ this point of

31
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

the game we can do it all. Huh, what game? Talking to oneself is so much fun, so

much fun. So she heard, so she heard. From herself. Ah, insanity. On a sunny day

in october, in 2009, here on this planet. Still alive, still alive.

---

once more she is in the maclab, writing, writing. It is 2: 16, time for writing her

next two pages for the day. It is way too hot in here, and there is no loud AC noise, so

maybe that is why it is utterly sticky. Way too sticky. Anyways, she writes, writes.

Ponders some, looks around some, writes some. Some more. She looks at her beige

glasses, maybe they will inspire some ideas. For subject matter. If one keeps on writing,

interesting thoughts will just appear out of thin air. So they say, so they say. It is midday,

afternoonish, she has to be here, in order to do her writing and then there is the talk that

she will attend at seven or so. There is an opening too, downstairs in the gallery, not

exactly what she likes to do, people, no, not that, they are the worst. Besides she is just

wearing her lululemon exercise garb, not exactly what one should wear to an opening. It

is a design opening, though, not that big a deal. She writes, writes, writes.

---

once more back here in the maclab, she writes, writes, actually that is not what

she was doing, she was rummaging thru all of her emails to find one specific

email, the one with the seniorstudio syllabus in it – it took her forever, she gets so

confused with all this sorting thru,

once more back in the library, there was a class in the room she was in in the maclab, a

second-year class called “digital imaging essentials”, the students were pinning their

work on the walls, all squares on bristolboard, very impressive work, she wishes she

32
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

could do that, maybe she can, maybe she can. She used to handdraw posters, she should

go back to making static images instead of hammering letters into a computer, she is and

always will be a visual artist, god only knows why she ended up writing. And she writes,

writes, this is all so weird and utterly strange.

Anyhoo, today the oceanfactory is grey against white, nothing but overcast, a very

strong greyish white, no texture, no texture. The oceanfactory looks kind of drab, there is

not enough contrast, this is how the taj mahal must look like, some days are better, some

days are worse. Kodakmoments and nonkodakmoments, she does not care, she has to

write, to write.

---

back in the library, back in the library. a reluctant day starting out, quietness,

some constant talking, some rattling behind her, some silent computer roar, some typing,

some quietshing of a chair near the sign-out desk. still it is all quiet, harmonious, not loud

enough, it is like the humming near a lake, without strong cascades of sound, all peaceful.

Now a movie sounds up, the two women near the window are watching a film while

talking about it. Ah, the noises and voices of zero nine, all exiting, all technology, all

new. She writes, writes, nonetheless. Writing survives, grounds us, all these words,

pushed onto a page, into a monitor, page after page after page. Like dumplings in a soup,

dim sum, she types away. There is so much on her to-do-list, meeting, attending a

filmmakers- get to know you session in downtown, anyways, she writes, writes,

somehow she overheard on the radio that the word” anyways” is incorrect, says who, says

who, the language police? She writes, writes, writes, one cannot standardize language,

can one, can one? She writes, writes, writes, moves her hand so that carpal tunnel is held

33
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

@ bay, pushes the squares down, produces, crafts a text. Too many typos today, way too

many. Spellcheck, spell check. She has to pause, how many words can be this mispelt,

having a convolution of consonants trapping the meaning somewhere within, she writes,

writes.

So, page 33 is finished, on to page 34. outside the window to her right she can see

all the geometric lines of the northbuilding framed by the window, a very cubist, 70s’

image, very postmodern, very modernist, at this point of the game, who cares if she

mixes up all these terms, they have so utterly vague meanings, are mere whispers in the

wind, in the dust, she types away, listens to her typing; that keeps her happy, she feels as

if she produces, something, anything. She builds a world, so does the typist-typer behind

her, rattling at his computer. Must be a guy, actually, it is a woman. The typing sounded

masculine. She writes, types. Nothing but bullshit, nothing but bullshit. She will go down

to yaletown, find the place that served the fine espresso, that one, that one. Today is

friday, flaneuse day. Hmm, seems as if everyday is flaneuse day, gone are the days of

paint and clay. Typing is where it’s at, these days, these days.

page 34 is not quite done, as of yet, as of yet. She looks around for inspiration, to

use this so very loaded cheesy term, inspiration, huh? There is always the oceanfactory, a

brown autumny branch diagonally spearing in front of it, there is the woman in black

leggings and white very big handbag walking by, there is this very keyboard, her

redtilted, nailpolished tip of a finger. This one, that one, the other, stomping down on the

squares with letters, there is the constant talking behind her, the constant talking in front

of her, the waiting at the printer, the card that whooshes in and out, there are cars moving

by, not one, but two, there is her loneliness in front of this computer, her utter, utter

34
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

aloneness, it is her against the machine, the keyboard, the keyboard. It is her

kaleidoscopeing words upon each other, making them up as she goes, this is what a

language is for and any language will do, should do. These are her findings, her

absolutes, her statements carved into stone, these ones, those ones.

She ponders if she writes rubbish or gold, as if it even matters, as if it even

matters. The oceanfactory will still be here tomorrow, so it seems, so it seems.

---

and how does the ocean factory look today? Very bright, very white against blue.

Yep, once more down here on granville island, another page, another page. She

ponders if she should still keep on truckin’ along this line, if all this writing, day-

in, day-out will finally result in an F. she thinks that writing in a visual art school

is just fine, a book, bound @ kinkos, on a chair, is a perfect project to undertake, a

perfect end of the year, senior studio project. In an art school, in an art school. A

book on a chair, how visual can you get. It has all the elements of an objet d’art, it

has the toil and the sweat of the artist, the effort, the constant working, as

documented by all these pages, so no one can accuse her of not having put in the

time. The chair is a found object, and any chair will do. As long as it is a chair

that belongs to the art school, and when she did this the first time she noticed that

each and every department has its own set of chairs. And yes, people have called

it a cheap plinth, but who cares. Anyhoo, she writes, writes. Her mind wanders

off, to watching what is going on here on a saturday, pre-thanksgiving in the

library of the art school, on granville island. Not much, librarians, two women

working on their project, near the window. She writes, writes.

35
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

She might eventually go downtown, catch another one of the “meet the filmmakers”

salons. Why not, why not? But first writing has 2 be done, has to, has to. A certain

number of words, typed in, meticulously. properly spellchecked, with the right amount of

ignored spell suggestions. Tolstoi never spell checked, why should she? He did not

spellcheck with a Microsoft spellchecker, yep, that tolstoi, she types, types, feels slightly

nauseated, she has to do this, that and the other, her to do list is exploding here. She

writes, writes. Ponders, if 35 pages is a good amount of words, if it is enough, not

enough, somewhere in the middle. And it is all in times new roman, all in 12 point size,

all double-spaced. All with default borders. So, basically her way of arranging these

words is slightly predetermined by the software developer. They predetermine,

predetermine. So does the ocean factory, so does the woman talking into the phone, at the

info/reference desk. The author ponders, how much does she really determine what is

written down, each and very day, she doesn’t, she doesn’t. The form of this very space

dictates her thoughts, she just writes, writes, writes, strolls down here physically,

hammers away. Puts in a certain amount of words. Looks up @ the ocean factory, looks

down at the keyboard in front of her. Writes, writes. Writes and writes and writes.

Outside the shadows of blue beams of the overhang in the north building, shadowing

down onto the grey metal of the wall, a car goes by, a split-second glimmer of the lights,

another. People in white t-shirts talking to each other. She writes , writes. Nausea makes

her halt, the ocean factory, the ocean factory. She ponders if this her writing is poetry, is

prose, if it is and always will be utter bullshit. Might be, could be. She writes anyways,

has to and should. A woman in black with a biker’s helmet comes in, smilingly. Time for

going down to the market, ah, lunch. someone rushles behind the bookstacks. someone

36
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

walks by with a bell. ah, the library here, so very very subtle. with 37all these books, its

so very silent sounds. She writes and writes and writes.

---

so, back here in the maclab, it is still morning, it is still granville island. She

types, types. Not that good that this computer tends to seduce her into doing other stuff,

facebooking, emailing, checking this, checking that. When typewriters ruled the world,

writers started to hammer on, physically pushing the keys, and they were not even called

keys. Probably they were called, hmm, something, something. She could google it, find

the very correct term, but first she has to type. Type. Type this up, produce two pages,

make this go from 36 to 38, pages have to be filled, have to.

She ponders. A tad. The woman in red and black, the one to her right, is looking

at the monitor in front of her. The door opens. The author writes, writes. Feels a slow

ache in her back, a cramp that luckily ends, someone walks in the hallway, with clapping

shoes. She writes, writes. Save the file, save the file. Outside voices, talking, someone

makes a lot of noise with paper or some other whooshing stuff, she types, types. Against

the nausea, the boredom, against the incompetence of her own ineloquence, she tries to

find the right words, the words that never ever come. Nothing will ever be good enough.

The only thing that matters is that one comes here each and every day and tries, tries.

Wrestle down the muse, wrestle down the muse. Whatever that means, whatever that

means. Hungerpangs smush her silently, quietly. She writes, writes. Some more and still

some more. She ponders if she should be a more serious writer, find someone to represent

her, find an agent. Do the initial investment. Her work is not good enuf, as of yet, it might

never be. But it will always be good enuf for distribution, no artwork is perfect. That kind

37
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

of stuff, that kind of stuff. Is pondered about by her. Pondering, not thinking, that is what

you do once you become a writer. A poet. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. Someone

categorizes this, who, who?

She lost the thread of her musings, which is fine, goes with the sudden onset of

the oh so temperamental AC, the sudden loud, smurfing around. Probably there is no

word called “smurfing”, but, hey, we can always opt for poetic license. She types, writes,

all thru fall of 09. these are her days, squandered, thrown to the wolves. She could do

other stuff, important stuff. She could and should stop using words like “stuff”. She

should polemicize. Whatever that means. But, in the end, she has to write, write, write,

write, watch her fingers tap away at this keyboard, at any keyboard she can find, all over

town, all over town. In Richmond, in Vancouver. vcc, ecuad, vpl and rpl. All thru the

lower mainland all thru the lower mainland. ubc, sfu. And kinkos, always kinkos. These

are her days, these are her days. The printer noises around, so does the ac, she types and

types and types. Page end, page end, where art though? So much repetitions, so many

repetitions. Carboncopies of words, of sentences, she writes and writes and writes.

Neverending, neverending story. anti narrative rules, should rule.

And the swirls on the monitors turn around, silently, silently. A chair bellows, she

writes, writes. Hopes, wishes for this page to be finished, so she can motion down to the

market, to get a bagel, a cranberrymaple cookie thingie, it has another name, has another

name. She feels herself going insane, silently, suddenly. But always contained, always

happily. All thru her days here on this planet. Oh well, @ least the page is finally

finishing up. Time to spellcheck, save the file, email it, put it on scribd, the usual, the

usual, the so very very usual, no hiccups in her life, could there be anything more boring

38
seniorstudio- nasrin khosrowshahi- fall 09

than the life of a writer?

---

she does not have much time, to make an illustration, a poster 4 seniorstudio, she

drew 3 sketches, she will ultimately manipulate them, make them into something,

well, nice, something with the right amount of contrast and specs of beauty,

somehow, somehow. She is once more in the library, writing away, not her usual seat, not

her usual computer. Might as well, might as well.

She is way too hungry 4 writing, lunchtime. Words can wait, lines on paper

should wait. Have 2, have 2. Today is the day of omitting lines, omitting words.

---

she is not quite sure, if she is doing the right thing, she left her shawl and her coat

on the black and white checkered sofa in the painting studio on the fourth floor of the

south building, but, basically, it looks pretty derelict and no painter would take that with

her or him, it kind of blends in with the derelictness of the sofa, she is sure that she could

move to amsterdam and come back and the coat would still be there. She ponders, she

ponders. Today nothing makes sense, she had three bananabreads 4 lunch and dinner,

way too many calories, but @ least she has enough energy to type, to type forcefully. She

writes, writes. Faster, faster. She feels like a racehorse, a pretty shabby one. Her

fingertips are still nailpolished, still rubyred, the keyboard is white, with black letters.

She types, types. Fast, fast, fast. Ah, writing, pretty dangerous. She smacks ker knee

against the table, when turning around on the chair. Pretty dangerous, the life of a typist.

She writes and writes and writes. Slathers this her text with repetition after repetition,

there is nothing to say, nothing to say. Airconditioner humming, a woman typing, she

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writes and writes. A text, a text and any text will do. Should do. Could do. Smushing

words into each other, scribbling line after line. This is what people do in art schools, at

least this is what she does here. She is not really learning anything, two of her profs told

her that, but what do they know, what do they know. How could you possibly teach art?

You can’t, you can’t, you shouldn’t even try. Art is unteachable, that is how it is, that is

how it is.

She writes, writes. Two pages, each and every, every day. Then spellcheck, then

saving, that kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. The day before she lost two pages in

cyberspace, maybe three. Vanished forever. They were actually very good, utterly

eloquent, she went down to vcc and penned them. Something went wrong when saving

them, she could never retrieve them. all those words in vain. There is more where that

came from, no, there isn’t. All her insightful musings, vanished into thin air. Dissolved,

evaporated. The library of lost words, the library of lost words. That was the name of a

play she saw, it was great, the library of lost, lost words. She writes, writes, writes, words

that got lost have to be substituted, by new one, by new ones.

It is 12:52, on a wednesday, a dreary, rainy one, here on granville island. Words

shoot onto the page, not good ones, just barely passing ones, not even mediocre ones.

Words and words and words. Whatever possessed her to writes, it is more the fun of this

typing away, it is gymnastics for the fingers. It gives her life a reluctant sense of purpose,

it is a happy obsession, better than serial killing, we’re just killing time here. Time and

words and paper. She writes and writes and writes. Page end, page end. Ah, finally.

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