Scribd 1

She sits in the emily carr library, granville island, summer, august, june, or july, somewhere in 2009. that much she knows, that much she remembers. Loud noises, metal on metal, is this a constructionsite or a library? Outside the ocean factory, outside the oceanfactory. She types, she types. Not fast enough, not slow enough. The woman beside her types, so much faster, so much slower. She can hear her own typing, so much louder, she can hear the metal. She can hear the incessant typing of the woman. Somehow this sounds as if she is going nuts, not yet though, not yet. We don’t do senility, senilemess, whatever the noun is. The state of being senile. The voices in your head. Yes, those ones. She is fascinated, slightly obsessed with pdfcoke, which she had no clue that it even existed, she just stumbled on it by accident, last week, and ever since she uploads, uploads, uploads. She has less than 100 films on you tube, now she has more than 100 docs on pdfcoke. Somewhere in the clouds, somewhere in cyber. Is cyberspace above us, is it down here near us. Somewhere near my feet, somewhere on the floor beneath my chair. Slightly funny, slightly funny. Someone chuckles, something heavy, very metally stumbles to the ground. Voices, clirring of metal. Her nailpolish is still red, still remnances of her manicure are there to entertain her, while she types. Red points against the black keyboard with white letters. More black than white. Solid black, white lines. Mostly on the left upper quarter of each and every key, each square. She should draw a diagram, take a pic. Words don’t suffice, but they are all she has. Words and words and some more words. She wanted to pen something called “ on the other side of pdfcoke”, “somewhere near pdfcoke”, something slightly exhaustingly poetic, stumbling awkwardly towards coherence, courting academia, scholarly musings smashed into poetry. Whatever theat means. Sounds good, though.

The woman in the paleblue shirt walks by, she can see her for a splitsecond, outside of the window. It is the same one that sat near to her typing. She was wearing capris, ruffled ones maybe. Outside the bridge, green leaves, a flag. - Still there is more space to be filled. If two pages is what we shoot 4 here. Two doublespaced ones. Indented and/or unindented, with temperamental, inconsistent grammar, jarring orthography, punctuation as we please. There is no editor, no censorship. A writer’s delight. There is no fear for crying trees, there is only the noise of her typing. There is the smushing of her words into space, cyber, cloud or gallery. Ok, this does not make much sense, only a smitten of coherence will do. That is all we can ask for. Anyone can ask for. Coherence, ah, coherence. So very very yesterday. We don’t do coherence. Can’t do coherence. Not yet. Or never. Fragmentation rules, smushes us from place to place. From this space to that space. Fast shuffeling of one’s surroundings, between gasps of sleep to next gasps of sleep. So very little time on this planet. cat stevens, yussuf islam, oh very young. She tries to remember the words, it always plays on the kitchencounter, the eternal cd in the grey-silvery alarm clock meets cd player thingy. The costco- ey one. She makes up words, very suburban mom ones, not academic, insightful ones. More female ones, 30 to 70 000 per annum ones. White ones? Hopefully non-domentional ones. Not atheist ones, but happily agnostic ones. Very happily agnostic ones. - Outside the leaves quiver, back and fro, like staccato, only visual. Visual staccato. Voices in the back, librarians talking librarianish. A lone woman in front of the magazine rack, brown locks, green sweater, ocean factory, and finally THE END of theis dismal page.- Writing and writing and writing, sentences and words that jar into each other, organically, inanimate. Yep, that’s all, folks. For now, for now, 4 NOW. Slite sketches, observations maybe. Could be. !! - , .