Diva 9

Finally February. In thr library, on a Monday morning, outside kind of gloomy, tenish. She is not quite sure if she should continue writing this given that it is so nonvisual. Over the concrete plant there are tao bright lights, the air conditioner hums, the computer humes. The humming kind of interferes with each other. Kind of two parallel layers that are kind of off. Her writing is muddled by selfdoubt, somehow she should be yielding a paintpbrush, not typing away. Typing is less mwessy, less messy on the hand, but more trying for the brain. Scatters the braim. Then again so does painting which is physcically exhausting. Come to think of it there is no real difference. Smoke is coming out of the concrete factory. This place is slightly on the desolate side, waitimg. Thimkig. Her words are stalling, do not come easily. Might as well be, as long as she piuts in a certain amount of time as this machine somethimg aill form automatically. Someone is reading a newspaper, some words on paper, that some lost soul like her has typed into the typewriter. Today negativity is paramoune, woooshes over each and every paragraph. There is mnothing left to say. The only thing left tpo say is ; There is nothing left to say. This cant be good. Words typed in only for the sake of typing, forming text only to see where it goes. Ther has to be more structure, Ah, structure. If a text is bound into a book, it must automatically be good, if it is mlsa – style, it must be coherent, intelligent. The structure of an essay cements the argument, even if it is the most outrageous argument. Used to be that if some words are utterered by a member of a specific gender, those words used to have more weight. If push comes to shove , nothing muchhas changed. Anyways, now the package is important, the right syntax pushes meaning. This does not really make sense.

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She ponders if she should skedaddle to the more coherent side, if she should try to make a point, but why, that would be pointless. Writing for the fun of it is just more fun. Outside everything is so very grey, grey of all shades, the person next to her is a very fast typer. Just listening to the constant tapping at the keyboard makes her pudh in the aords ever so much faster. Someone is standing on top of the concrete plant, way up in the sky. That would be the last job sjhe woud like to have, it is so much more safe and comfortable here with all these books. Pretty boring, too. The market should be open today, because it used to be closed on Mondays in January, but today is February second. She ponders if writing down useless And bamal observations could constitute art. If writing is art. If this is an even viable undertaking. She can see the blue concretecars from here It is 10:25, her work here is half done. She has a certain amount of pages already, she should write about art, structuralism, other isms, she should write seminal texts. But those days are over, @ this time she has written all rthe seminal texts of a lifetime, mnow it is just useless rambling. Might as well. How many texts does one person have in thehe. Hr. there is just a certain amount of insuights that can be conceived over a lifetime. After that it is only reiteration, stagnation, stating the obvious again and again. Scholardom, it is bound to be doomed. Scholarly research. No such thing. Above her the concrete has weird textures, like sand on the beach, wet, like granules of samd. What kind of corbusian structure is that. Books on the shelves next to her, lots of them, all filled with words, words, words. And ouside concrete is micxed. Books, concrete. She will find the relation. Later, later. And that is the end of this PAGE. Incoherence rules. For now. .

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