Diva 29

So somehow, somehow. This is one way of starting the page, so very slowly. This is her 8th writing stint today, she is forgetting which month it is, which day. Slightly she remembers, slightly it is on the wednesdayish side. Writing away, typing away. She just wants to finish this, if she produces 4 more pages today and ten more tomorrow, she is done for the year. She just has to print it out, which is always a drag, what with all the pagenumbers doing their own thing, the files being slightly incompatible, she will have to roam all over the lower mainland to get this done, print it out in different locales, because each and every printer, each and every computer has its own incomprehensible interior working. Like people. Exactly like people. She might then only draw a title page or not, she would call this “verbal doodles” – how utterly profound. She writes, she writes. Her fingers are getting numb, outside the sun still shines. She will listen to this sculptor @ seven, she will still go 2 the market. Do this, do that. Ah, writing. Would help if she verbally doodles something profound. Her syntax is slightly off, her grammar out of kilter. Could pass 4 artsy. Maybe hilit would do better without 2 for two and 4 for four. Ah, hilit. On a sunny day like this, on Granville island, sometime before evening, while the sun shines, while the words are stalling, while something, something. Anything. Ah, words, they should become a tad more profound, so she keeps on typing and hopes for the best. Fatigue is setting in, creeping more over her right side, less over her left side, she stares into space to find some words that will magically flow into her fingers that type, type, type. Ah, 200 pages about writing, that should be fun. She has to finish this, in time, in time. A cold is gripping her by the throat, that cannot be good. This kind of writingy marathon. Cannot be good. Not for her health, not for coherence. But then again, she will

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have finished the task, produced something tangible. Killed trees, killed ink. Words, words, words. - Behind her people are getting ready for the gradshow, she will not float over the stage in chan hall. Might as well. There is always next year. At least she will have finished this. The I N S T A L L A T I O N. Luckily it will be only 8 days this year, so no one will even see this. It is just crappy stuff, but at least it is something. A brown chair, 3 books. She still has to sow the magazine together. Five oh one, it is five oh one. The art school, the art school. She randomly amasses words, repeats them to fill the page. She could use a larger font, she could fill more space. No one she knows has ever read “war and peace”, not evens seen the film. Everyone just knows that it is a so very long book. Maybe it is total nonsense, it is just famous for being long. Yep, that must be it. Words, words, words. She types mainly with the middlefinger of her right hand, now she cannot show someone the finger. Hahahah. So very funny. This is not exactly hilit. She just types away and, well, anything will do. Next to her sits a serious scholar, who seems to weigh every word he puts down. He consults his notes, is so very serious. Obviously a non-animator. Words, words, words. - There is not much space left to be filled, she might be pretty much on her way to skedaddeling thru to the end. She ponders if she will be still be able to make a film next year and she ponders if she even wants to. Is there life after art school? Judging from the high percentage of Emily carr grads working at the art school, there isn’t. Hey, it is Granville island, the sun shines, birds are singing, the oceanfactory produces concrete, isn’t life grand. She just hates this school. Dysfunction, dysfunction. Will someone ever read this, anyone. She ponders, she ponders. And then she ponders some more. She never thinks, for her only pondering will do. And this is the end of page 58. Good. Good. Good. There is still some empty space left. FILL IT. now!

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