Geva 1

So it is September again. Some day in fall, some computer, some city. She is 53 years old. She writes some stuff. She is bored. She ponders. A little bit. Outside everything is grey, her words do not readily flow onto the page, the essay stalls. She should drop her class, something about modernity. Today is the last day to drop. Modernity. What exactly is that? So very many years of artschool, and still she has no clue about all these terms. She is good, though, at hiding this her ignorance, only slightly being caught in her total cluelessness by some other creature. Days melt into weeks, she moves forward, her degree moves further away. It is like climbing a mountain, and the peek keeps getting higher and higher. Or something like that. Metaphors and allegories seem not to be very profound today, her words say something and she means something else. The market was still getting ready, fruits were piled up, pastry arranged. Steely wagons were blocking the sidestreet. On the other side of false creek, blue buildings say hi. She puts her roll of paper into an empty locker, somewhere in the painting studio. She does not have a studiospace, she missed the deadline for applying to one. Or so she thinks. Like always, artschool is about confusion, and this is the premise of her existence as an artstudent. And, as stated so many, many times before she abhors everything artrelated. Science might be better, what with all those numbers, quasi-quantifiable stuff. This school is so full of accidental artists and maybe that is what makes it so fascinating. No one here confirms to the stereotype of the flaky artist, people are serious, determined. Hardly anyone drifts through art school, except for her.

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This was her first page of many, some book about art school, something for her grad project, something for GEVA 401. senior studio, whatever that means. The bridge is majestic, like always, dramatic, eluding description. The library is filling up with talking people, she types away, ever so slowly, ever so haultingly. She should say something profound. Something slightly on the intellectual side. Thought provoking maybe. Thought invoking. That kind of stuff. Outside the concrete plant says hi. There are better words to describe that, but you, dear reader, get the gist. Or not. On the time magazine is an image of mc cain, she sees it when she turns her head and looks at the library stack, the one that is like a display. Diagonal, slanted. Black metal. Political stuff boiled down into a story, manifesting our powerlessness. Something like that. There are more words to be written, more words that are sharp as a blade and cut through the bullshit of this world. Her writing is stalling, so profanity has to do. Should be more effective than illustrating her insights in a civilized manner. The page is not yet finished, each and every day she will write two pages, in times new roman, font size 12, double-spaced, print it out, all from September through December, the trees will cry, but her gaduation requirement will be fulfilled. In this insignificant art school, in this insignificant life, on this insignificant planet. It is about twenty to ten, she should print this out, make her way to the fourth floor, in the south building of Emily Carr and dump her paper into locker 877 in the painting place. She should wordcount, spellcheck, and do other things, too. She should.

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