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This is actually her second writing today- maybe even her third- actually,
definitely her third. The computer has changed, though, she uses a pc, another computer
here in the library, facing the wall, not the ocean factory, not the window. Words splash
onto the page, pretty fast, pretty forcefully. Still thinking about what to make for senior
studio, if writing will do, if filmmaking should be introduced into the mix, drawing, some
paint. Where do words suffice, where are they more than enough. Writing so many many
essays made her leave visual arts, it was a slow but steady process. Not necessarily a bad
one, but somehow she left the road, the path she started out on. It is like going to New
Weather outside is pretty sunny, might as well, some remnance of indian summer.
A dictionary to her left, blue, green, yellow. Writing, writing away. She could draw and
maybe that is what will be done 4 this project. In the end. Something more visual, with
lots of pretty pictures. Images, non-words. Instead of all these silly little signs, real
images, non-words. Visual art school, visual arts school. On the shelf a Volume magazine,
a new one, one she has not read. As of yet. All the other magazines titles, all the current
issues. Rectangle after rectangle, all kinds of colors, leaning on the black shelves.
She ponders if her proposal will be rejected or if she could go ahead and start
producing this stuff. Is there even a process of approval or/ and disapproval? How does
The day shivers slowly into the afternoon, no one knows what that means, but it
sounds good. Has the right amount of drama. Weirdness meeting strangeness. The page
comes 2 an end, there is one more left to write. Words instead of images, is it enough, is
it? She ponders if she should have a header in this, if there should be more consistency,
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less consistency. She writes, pretty fast, pretty annoyed. Where is the spellcheck, what
time is it? Writing, writing. Might not be enough, might be too much. How much does it
pay 2 be a conceptual artist, what x-aktli is a conceptual artist? What does it mean? Is it
even a job description, something to fill in @ the passport office. Occupation: conceptual
artist- huh?
She went thru the syllabus, A, A plus, that is reserved 4 stuff that challenges the
boundaries of the field, expands the known boundaries, something like that. What does
that even mean? Why is effort in itself not good enough, why can we not just go for
rewarding a certain amount of time put in? what is excellence? What is failure? Who
defines that? Should she start painting, pick up a paint brush, wean herself from this
keyboard, does she even have to, and if push comes to shove, does she even want to?
What will her future be in, will it be in pursuing a phd, or will she make stuff? Or both?
Or none? Why does everything have to smush into one neat, well-defined category? Why
do artists have to issue statements? Shouldn’t we opt for statementless art? Which one
Ah, the page, coming slowly, ever so slowly 2 an end. Artwriting, she could
pursue that, in another lifetime, maybe. Words are non-forms, way too abstract, they are
not as good as film, are they? They are so very stagnant, non-moving. Just somewhere
Anyhoo, she writes, had a meeting today, which did not go well, why should
meetings even go well? Some just don’t. Ah, @ least the page is done. And that is all that
matters. All that matters 4 2day. Nothing but bullshit. Call it poetry, if yu like, if yu can.
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---
somehow she is here in this lab, the mac lab, she hasn’t been here in ages, might
non-congruent. There is no way in hell that she has a clue what the f. congruent
means, she knows she should use better language, cleaner language. How come
the whole f. thing is indented? which wrong button did she push?
The writing is kind of getting out of whack, the indenting frazzles the writing beyond
recognition. Somehow her system does not work anymore, she will write this all in one
swoop. Or something like that. Her system was so well-defined, so utterly refined, two
pages per day, without headers. She randomly changes it, is not quite sure if this is a good
idea. There is some hammering going on outside of the lab, could be on Granville Island.
She ponders if she should shoot 4 literary merit, or 4 volume. Volume is pretty good. It is
getting late here on Granville Island, she can see the southbuilding from here, if she turns
around on the chair. There is typing going on here, there is a door opening, there is the
screeching of another door. The monstrous hammering again, a sneeze, another one. Very
female, slightly squeaky sneeze. Door opens, genderneutral. She writes nothing but
bullshit. You may disagree. You should. You better. You’d better. She writes and writes
and writes. Is not quite sure how she can smush all these pages 2gether, does not even
care that much. As long as she can listen in to her tying. And she writes and writes and
writes. Introduces pauses, hiccups in2 this text. This is not last years writing, this is the
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once more she is back in the library, it is summy outside, she types an “m” instead of
an “n”, provides this place with future material. This will be a future book stored here
in this very library. At least that is what she projects. And the indenting is way off
Another day, today very saturdayish, quietness, morningness. Nothing to see here, no
inspiration whatsoever. Total bla. She writes anyways, words have 2 be put down, must
be put down. Painters are smashing pigments in2 the canvas, somewhere on the 4th floor,
sculptresses, weld against the grain. The artschool, the art school. Somehow, somewhere
somebody animates. Not her, not her. She writes, writes, reluctantly, forcefully. A page.
The page. Coherence would help, could help. Obscure scribbling is kind of out, meaning
is the new black. It is good that she is the only person that has a clue what she is talking
‘bout, why squander legibility, coherence, meaning? Why be straightforward when you
can be utterly vague. It’s more artsy, so they say, so they say.
still september here in vancitay, the sheer boringness of this place is crumpling
her throat in2 pieces, nothing happens here on Granville island, nothing ever does. This is
such a bla place, so very very predictable. Art is supposed 2 be fun, full of energy. Huh,
not this school, it managed to dull down art and design and media like no other place on
The author ponders if she can really pull this off, writing one so very long treatise
against this very place that will issue her degree, it is like a med student writing his
dissertation ‘bout the dangers of surgery, how surgeons tend to loose scalpels in
ANYHOO, THE CUMULITIC CLOUDS MOVE THRU THE AIR, PAST OCEAN.
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she writes, writes. Writes, writes, writes. Some more words, a lot more words.
There are books on the shelves, to her right, to her left. Lots and lots of books. That no
one ever reads. Some times, ever so often, people, take out stuff, rummage thru the pages,
to find something citeable, quotes to sprinkle into their essays. That is how you forget
how to draw, how to paint. 2 much theory, way, way too much theory. That is how you
anyhow, anyhoo, she writes, writes. Wonders, ponders, a tad, not that much. Her
brain is more feeling like turning into mush, it is that time of year, that time of the
semester. Now and here, @ the very start. When she still has to hunt for a studiospace,
still has to do all the admin stuff. When she has to settle in into some kind of reluctant
routine. The ocean factory doesn’t care, neither do the clouds motioning by behind it. She
writes, writes. Spellchecking would be good, could be good. Why not, why not? It is kind
of good that no one ever reads her stuff, as frustrating as it is, it spares her the snickers of
disapprovemenr. it makes her write more, forcefully. No one critiques, thus she might as
well write. No naysayers, that seems to be pretty good. She can just produce stuff until
the cows come home. Words. Sentences, dots, and commas. Always commas. The
keyboard rattles, relentlessly. Too much words, too much words, way too many many
words. Page seven is coming to an end, not bad for two days. She writes, writes, writes,
---
another page, another page. This is actually page 8, so, there, this is going pretty
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fast. She started yesterday and the words are pretty evenly splashing onto the page. Like
gesso, maybe. Like underpaint, overpaint. Not that many hiccups and the ones that are
there, are good, submerging her prose into a lightsea of sprinkled dots. This place is oh so
desolate, very very lonely, just her and all these computers. The maclab. Outside the sun
shining, brightly, outside granville island is happening, forcefully. She writes, writes,
writes. Ah, why not, why not? 77 pages will be finished in no time, she will have ample
time to splash paint on canvases. This is not how she should work, she should start
making a film, go to the animationlab, start getting her permission to use the linetester,
she should do this, do that. Start a film, any film will do. She has sooo many ideas, there
are so many storylines, ah, so little time. Typing text should help. Will help. Is utterly
addictive, watching one’s fingers press down these buttons. Kind of like a dance, her
fingers are like legs, tapping over the keyboard, the squares reacting to the pushing down,
This is page eight, but she said that already. There should be more pressing issues
than this, better, more valuable issues. Life and death issues. Politics, questions of who is
right, who is wrong. Who is bad, who is good? Questions of team A versus team B. not
just text waxing on ‘bout sunshine, lollipops. she writes, writes. would prefer to be
somewhere else, somewhere far far away from a keyboard. Where words don’t count,
She ponders: what if someone she knows will read this, what if, what if. Yep, this
is what methinks, and I never got committed. Page 8, page eight, page 8.
Start of page 9, words are stalling. This keyboard here in the maclab is a little too
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easy to the touch, typos are unavoidable, the keyboard is so very inviting to typos, it is
Page nine, page nine. She is getting crazy in here, she should scream, take this
fucking keyboard and smash it into, into, let’s see, hmm, into what? A skull, the window,
her own head? Maybe insanity is not her thing, not yet, not anymore. Walking down to
the market seems so much more pleasant, what with the sun shining over the sugary idyll
that is granville island. Maybe there are not enuf clouds in the sky. That must be it, no
Maybe she should write about art, on art, this being an art school. She had enuf of
art. That’s it, that’s it. Eschewing the relentless obscurity of art, that is her forte. Should
be, could be. Anti-art rants, that should pay the bill. She watches her middlefinger tap all
over this keyboard, the air conditioner makes noises, too metallic, too obnoxious. If this
damn page ever comes to an end, she can leave, leave, fresh air, here I come. Pageend
Somehow there are better words, more eloquence, less screeching of the wheels of
the language. Better orthography, better lingo, better grammar, a whole lotta better. She
writes anyways, that seems to do the trick. If you keep on doing what you do, there will
be a reward. A house on the hill. Maybe. A trip to amsterdam. Maybe. She writes, writes,
writes. At this point she’ll be happy to finish up with this school, grasp her piece of paper
dearly, dance out of this place. That should do, could do. After all, it is a start. She writes,
writes, writes. One day down the line there will be drawing involved, painting involved.
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another day, another day. Some monday in the beginning of september, in the end
of september. September with a lower-case “s”. Very 2009ish. She writes, writes. Coughs.
No, not swine flu. She writes. oceanfactory is in place, as always, the sky is reluctantly
overcast. Clouds like cottonballs in front of blue backdrop, altogether making 4 a grey
texture with a pale-blue tint. Books make noise, against the metal. People whisper behind
her, working on their assignment, cooperating. She hates and detests cooperation, does
not want her vision diluted. Cooperation, collaboration, it is usually one person’s idea and
the rest of the people are there for cheerleading. One leader, lots of sheep. Bahhhhh. So
much 4 that. She writes, writes. It is 2 chilly in here, way too chilly. Those are the things
she can describe in the ecuad library, nothing ever is happening here. No blood is spilled.
Just regular days smushing themselves forward. A library like any library. Anylibrary.
She writes, writes. Produces some more stuff to be bound into books and be read by
someone unsuspecting. How do you know if something is worth reading? You have to sit
thru it. Until the very end. When you know for sure that the butler did it. She writes,
writes. Saves this, reaches for her black mohair sweater. The one that set her back 200
bucks and has tiny holes in it. The one that feels so, well, great. Toasty. She writes,
writes. This is page 9, maybe 10. she is not quite sure anymore, it seems to be a quarter to
ten. All these numbers, fragmenting her prose, structuring her prose. She should write
poems, treatises ‘bout word issues, no, world issues. She should write about art, about
line, form. That kind of stuff, that kind of stuff. This is her last semester, her very very
last class. Her lastest seniorstudio project. All this text, all of these words. Hammered into
the computer here in the library, or in the maclab on the second floor of the north
building. She writes, writes. Might just crumple part of this up, that is her final project.
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There is a concept behind it, there must be, should be. Some artpiece conceived in
beerguzzled stupor. Not that she guzzles that much. Just every now and then. While on a
trip to places faraway. Beerguzzle inducing places. Like Amsterdam, always amsterdam.
Somehow this text slithers down in2 utter incoherence, might as well, might as well. she
ponders what else 2 write on, is there anything left to be said? anything unsaid? Storyarcs
are soooo very overrated, she refuses to do storyarcs. Hates it, detests it. Literature should
be like jazzmusic, plays with form, with color. Pauses, capitalizations @ random, @non-
random. There should not be editing, there is a reason, why a writer chooses to capitalize
“Amsterdam” in one place, and refuses to do so, in the next part of the sentence. There
are reasons for anti-syntax, these are the rhythms that are dictated by the here and now of
the reality of typing, of penning something down, by the blue ink used, by the scratching
of the pen, by the slight resistance of any given paper. The physicality of the process
dictates certain forms and it makes for that much better writing. With slight hiccups that
bounce the words forward. Eloquently, anti-eloquently. Full of elegance, courting non-
Outside black birds flutter thru the sky. The leaves quiver ever so reluctantly, ever
so forcefully. She writes, writes, writes. There are only so many words in her repertoire
@ any given time, this is not her language, not her language. Ha, as if it is any one
person’s language. She adopted it, still searching, still trying to stutter in it, stumblingly.
Might as well, might as well. Page 11, page eleven. Pretty good 4 the beginning of the
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she is back in the maclab, in front of a computer, near to the door. The blinds are
down, feels kind of claustrophobic. Yep, she feels like a labrat, in this white place,
neonlights, not that she knows how labrats feel. Besides, she can leave whenever she
feels like it. She had way too much sugar and fat, her arteries are clogging, clog-clog. Her
writing is utterly bad, like always. Eloquence does not live here anymore, has never lived
here. It does not really matter, she is merely a craftswoman who is supposed to produce a
certain amount of words on paper each day. 4 months worth of writing, she then has to go
home and start to type up her other masterpiece. The handwritten one. This is how she
fills her days, there is no research going on here, merely the arranging and rearranging of
word after word after word after word. Airconditioner way too loud, way too deafening,
like always. Is this how an art school is supposed to be? Of course not. This is merely a
computerlab like any other. The world over. How did schools look like 30 years ago?
Without all these dreaded computerlabs. When people could play in the sun. instead of
putting in time in front of a computer. She writes, writes. Tries to run away from her
pissed-offness, tries to ignore it, to fess up to it. The airconditioner is strangling this her
creativity, she writes anyways. Writes, writes, writes, writes, in an art school. The wrong
medium, ah, what medium do you work in? Words, why? Words, words, words. And
some more words. No clay, no glass, no paint. Just simple, simple words. Utterings.
Utterings on paper. Trees crying, well, there is always scribd. Good old scribd. So very
reliable, so very very functionable. Who cares that no one publishes her stuff, her texts, it
exists in cyberspace. So, she does not pay the rent 4 all the big publishing houses, her
words are still words, flow with the syntax, against the syntax. And once more, she has no
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clue what she is talking about, writing about. Huh, fun 2 be insane. Someone has to be.
The chairs in this place are too weird, she finally found one that is reasonably
fine, the other ones are all slanted. She writes, writes. There is nothing happening in this
room, she just has nothing to describe. Only the movement of her fingers over the
keyboard. She ponders. There is the opening door to describe, a woman walks in, in a
blue-white shirt, a coffeemug in her hand. She rolls her chair in front of a computer,
shuffles her papers around. Aha, there is a subjectmatter. She rolls her chair around, ever
so slightly. There is the back of the computer just crying out to be immortalized in words.
Silvery, grey, black diagonal stripes. In candycanemode. There is a golden lock, a yellow
cable, a red one, there are voices in the other room, someone saying ahem, ahem, over
and over. So much to describe, where to start, where to start. She will be able to fill these
pages after all, and that is all we are shooting for here. This is page 13, not 4 the faint of
She watches the little computer icon, the one with the feet, the one now standing
still. There is the firefox logo. There is the psychedelic swirly on the black monitor next
to her. There is the cracking of the other chair, the noise of paper. The whoosh of yet
another chair. There is so much boredom. She will not come here tomorrow, come back
wednesday, to put down all these words. She turned into a typist, this is what she does
Hers are only words, no more fascinating drawings that make one’s breath halt, stand
still. Just silly little words. She might as well jump off the burrard bridge, this her art
adventure did not go anywhere. Utter, utter stagnation. How nice, how very nice. And on
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that note, she might as well finish her writing for today. Here, in september of 2009, here
on granville island, on the second floor of the north building of emily carr. Something
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