Diva 15

She hasn’t been in front of this computer for a long time, weeks and weeks went by without writing a lick, she just motioned around town, silently, in a gaze, from lecture to lecture, from exhibition to exhibition, trying to formulate her thoughts. In the end this is the road to nowhere, it is so much better to plant oneself in front of the computer and produce something, anything. Hold a tangible object in one’s hand, a piece of paper with lines thereon, easy to decipher, in a language that is easily translatable into all 137 languages there are. So that it can reach all 6 billion inhabitants of this planet. And next we target outer galaxies. Think big, think big. Who cares about a measly 2 point 4 GPa, what exaktli is a gpa anyways? Gipa, gipa. So she will not go on to grad school, big deal. YES, BIG DEAL. How come she let her grades slide so very much? How come she did not strategize better? Take easy courses, easy A’s. in her case those are the bullshitting courses, blablabla derrida, blablabla Sigmund Freud, female gaze, male gaze, signifiers, capitalism, late capitalism, not so late capitalism, modernity, blablablabla and bla. Mindbogglingly stupid concoctions of words, incomprehensible to a decidedly large segment of society. We have our own lingo, we are part of an exclusive club. Try to build something stable for a change, something that does not disintegrate with the whiff of a seabreeze. Something like the bridge over Granville Island, something like the oceanfactory outside of the window. Something like this library. She looks around in awe, in disgust at her own inability to even fold an origamiish crane. Words on paper, that is all that she can master. And she hates that. So she sits here and whines about that. Whining on paper. Instead of ideas on paper. Manifestation of the inability to produce something, anything tangible.

29

IT IS RAINING OUTSIDE, the day is slightly on the depressing side. Greywhite, insignificant, one of her many days here on this planet. She will print this out, put it into her locker, another page of a book that will never be published. Cannot be published. Ramblings. Musings. She ponders about the difference between ramblings and musings. One is thumbs-up, one is thumbs down. Her life here is stagnating in this stupid little art school, a journey towards a degree that never comes. That seems to be slipping away from her grip, that is not meant to be. And if it is finally issued by the school, it will have a 2 point 4 gpa. Try to get into grad school with that. Who designs the educational system? Raccoons? She loves the raccoon quote, picked it up somewhere, appropriated somebody else’s wit. There is this quote about geniuses who steal. Basically saying that geniuses something, something. It is the time of the day when she prefers to cut her observations in half, let the sentence end in midair. It is called art. It could be called art. She ponders what else to write. In this library, in this school, something insightful, something trivial. Something, something. She looks at all the words and ideas put on paper, bound into books, all around her. Years from now this will all be in cyberspace, all of human knowledge, all of humanity’s poems, endless ramblings, endless stories. Somewhere in the clouds. Words, words. She ponders why it is one of those days when no sentence she pens seems to make sense, when the language does its own thing, she feels like a potter who is exhausted by the impermeability of the clay. Today the clay does its own thing. Her clay is all these words that refuse to march in line, orderly, nicely, neatly. Today it is disjunction par excellence. Might as well. The rain slowly stops.

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