8 or A Book About Coffee Houses

Dissertation or the mall I live in june 2016
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DISSERTATION
1.
Everything about this computer is weird, the monitor is diagonal, not diagonal in a too
weird way, but still too skewered to put the innate feel of balance of the user in question, the
socket is diagonal too, the chair is too high and when changing it to the one on the right, the new
one is too low. There are two persons talking and laughing opposite of the writer here, behind the
computers that face these computers. The one that can be seen has a dark beard, a slight built,
and wears a shirt that is checkered, small checkers, orange red and black and white, the shirt
looks a little like a flannel shirt but this being midsummer, flannel is out of the question. The
monitor is still not at a right angle, even though writer here adjusted it, it kind of bounced back.
You have to do it again, straighten it up. It is very important that all things around a writer are at
a right angle, that will help the thoughts to march in line, regimented, logically, following each
other. Writing is a very fragile undertaking, one wrong word and everything is out of kilter. It
does not help that writer here is not a native speaker of the English language, nope, English is an
acquired taste. An afterthought. The city she grew up in, Hamburg, apparently has a leaning
towards British English, there are studies about that, a historical boundance between the island
which swims in the North Sea and is now all over the news what with Brexit et. al. and Boris
Johnson being on the first page of the newspaper, lightly dishevelled in something that is not a
suit, a windbreaker maybe, which makes him look dishevelled which is kind of funny, he never
ever looks shovelled, he always looks like a Boris that is born in the UK.
So, this is how her writing goes, it slithers from the description of the computer, a slightly
inaccurate one that tries to mask as an accurate one, all the way to Boris Johnsons fashion attire
or the lack thereof. Apparently good writing is judged by the propensity of the writer to dwell on
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one subject, to write a mini dissertation about one item, whatever that might be, you are not
allowed to slither away to other stuff, the man with the beard and the checkered shirt in red and
orange and white and black talks again, on second looking at him, it becomes clear that he does
not sport a beard, it is merely a five oclock shadow and he has a much rounder face and his hair
is combed in an upsweep,. Even the shirt is not orange and yellow, it is pink blue in cooler hues,
the tonality is towards the grey and blue spectrum and not the warm orange red one. There are
more persons now in here to the right to the left, all these young students in the community
college, this place is like kindergarten just like the Y next to this place is like a grave yard, the
people in this place are too young and the people in the gym and the showers are too old. There
is no middle ground here. There are all the construction workers that work on the new Science
and Technology building, they are kind of in the middle, not too young and not too old, they all
walk as if they own the world, whatever happens, we will build something made out of steel, and
glass and concrete and mortar, something erect that will withstand seismic shifts, earth quakes,
that will be here long after everything else is gone to dust, dissipated away. after all our demise
and even decades, millennials after, people will come here from outer space and take pics of the
ruins, take selfies to send back home to the home planet.
Writing is an interesting profession, it is better when they pay you a dollar per word. If
you do it only to find a publisher later, than you are in trouble, trouble. It is like bringing the
apples to market in baskets and wishing for foot traffic, you are much better off if you have
secured a contract beforehand, either because you come from a lineage of farmers or because
there was a pre-existing connection between the apple pie-company and this Appleyard. It is all
about connections. Feminist theory blames white males, ageist theory blames youth, racist theory
blames the race which runs the country, which is different on different continents. Marxist theory
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blames people with too much money. Writer here should really write an op-ed for the times, to
quote Elaine Benes.
She, writer here, not Elaine Benes, is not quite sure how to describe her writing, mixed
genre is a good-enough word, her writing lies somewhere solidly positioned between fiction and
non-fiction, apparently there is a market for words, texts that claim to be just that. A literary
agent at a conference on you tube mentioned that non-fiction will always sell better, that is a fact.
Poetry will sell less. Non-fiction is serious, not flimsy and evaporating. Non-fiction is solid and
straightforward, anchored, you cannot really pen non-fiction when your computer is at all the
wrong angles, when a woman in beige and a woman in pink sit next to you. Then you can merely
write stuff that is in fashion mags. The woman next to author here is crunching on something,
one can hear her teeth malming something into pieces, loudly, which belies the thin fabric of the
dress and her sun-burnedness. She picks stuff out of a Starbucks bag, which is weird, what do
they give you in Starbucks, that crunches? Apparently it has chocolate too, she is licking her
fingers, one by one. It could be cinnamon, but it must be sticky. Something that has to be licked
off the fingers, middle and ring finger. The woman has an ice-tea too. Hi, Alex. People are
talking to a person named Alex. Alex, who is female. It is all female here in this part of the
computer lab in the library of the community college on 49th. Author here has 1035 words. On a
mulmy Monday morn in June, late June. This is another masterpiece in the making, she has to
pen a masterpiece, has to will herself to do so. She refers to herself as writer here or as author
here or merely as SHE, it is always the third person singular to whom all of this happens. It is
better to refer to oneself as SHE than as I, one could call oneself a HE, maybe that makes her
voice more important, after all the patriarchy is alive and well, the persons who will pay for
producing and distributing her texts are male. Or are they? Who are the decision makers,? The
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decision makers of yesteryear were male, the ones today are all over the place, male and female,
from all five continents, all races all religions. Todays world is different, diversity rules. We are
in a brave new world. Another school of thought is, of course: The more things change, the more
they stay the same. Maybe one should just concentrate on producing good words, words that
make sense. A tad at least. A tad a tad a tad a tad here. Mixed genre, huh. This is her dissertation,
why not call this text dissertation? It sounds good, makes it less flimsy. We have solid things to
say, make a point. The dissertation of the common man, common woman.
Author here rolled outta bed in the morn, found herself in the mall some secs before the
shops opening in full force. The food court was humming, there were mall walkers, today the
man in white slacks was with his wife and they were fighting. That happens after 41 years of
marriage. You always have to fight about where to put the remote. You have to take a stand. The
remote has to sit on the right side of the green sofa, millimeters in place. It is crucial to the rest of
your life, to the rest of the life of humanity, of each creature on this hurling ball, hurling thru
space into eternity. Author here should take a class in astronomy here in the college, she is
friends with one of the profs, he remembers her name, which might be built into a good grade.
The solid foundation of first-name-basis results in good grades. It is all about personal
networking, that is why LinkedIn is now bought up by Microsoft. They have a headquarter,
LinkedIn that is, in Mountain View, a strong building in downtown San Fran, they have buildings
in New York and Chicago and Omaha, Nebraska. They are in India and in the UK. How will they
fare in Brexit? Their workplaces are fun, they have big balls and small balls, they have bean bag
chairs and color on the walls. They look like an upscale preschool, Creative Learning Center next
to Blackhawk, the one that you will drive out of your way to reach. Upscale working places are
so in. Author here ponders, this is why she loves this computer lab, it is like an upscale working
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environment. And she still can use the computer until her membership will get cut off suddenly.
There is a coffee place outside in the hall, there is a strong AC blowing all the time here. There
are flecks, specks of sky and greenery, it is light and airy, you know that there is an outside
happening while you are here inside the bunker and typing up your words, ah, your words here.
While you are painting with words and, ah, with words here. She will send this out to her editor,
who is not really an editor, he sells condos and has opinions, he is family, which might not be
that good. Never ever work with family, if you want to stay on good terms. Nope, she does not
need that specific editor, it is better to send this out to total strangers who will either laude it or
dismiss it as flimsy and full of distractions. Or as inaccurate. Well, one thing is certain, these are
all full sentences, for the most part, and the sentence fragments are just in there for show, to liven
up the text. First rule of design, always stick to tradition, to the rules, to the way that something
is made. Just tweak corners, insert snuffoes but do not kill the whole project. This still has to be a
text that is easy to read, that makes sense somehow. Mixed-genre, ah, mixed- genre here.
Now there is a woman sitting diagonally opposite of writer here, she is all black and
white strong contoured. Her hair at an angular, her clothes at an angular. Angular shapes,
everything is geometry. Black versus white, strong linear contrasts. More like Yakamoto than
like Club Monaco, not the flimsiness of Club Monaco but the seriousness of Yakamoto.
We have near to 2000 words here, the parking in the Y might expire, we have to save this
and then go back home, we have to edit this and reedit this, there have to be more persons than
this one narrator here, the one that calls herself SHE or WRITER HERE or AUTHOR HERE, or
now, NARRATOR HERE. Writing is so difficult, so tough so tough so tough. There are online
workshops for creative writing, the people who are the tutors are named Josh or Amy, they are
straight out of kindergarten, they are well published with 5 novels under their belt. Author here
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does not like to be tutored in writing, it is too confusing. Art is a subjective field. It is what you
learn to do by doing it, there are no strict rules and the rules are there to be broken here. 1984
words, people talk in Punjabi and Mandarin, the day outside is happening, it is Vancouver after
all, the sun is shining reluctantly, all apologetic, sorry, there is no rain in the rainiest city of them
all here.
2023, outta here and outta here.
2.
THE MALL I LIVE IN
I always wanted to write about the mall. A mall, anymall. The quintessential mall. The
mall of America. I wanted to write a book titled dissertation or the mall I live in. A vignette that
is both hi-brow and lo-brow. That marries a mall and academe. There is a lot in there to explore.
Juxtaposing the banality of a mall and scholarship. Consumerism versus science. Versus
technology. Humanity at its highest point and at its lowest point. The mall is maligned in social
sciences. But only in the social sciences that is taught at American universities. The mall as
something bad. Where nothing productive is done. Nothing is created. An aberration of
community. There is a value judgement when talking about a mall. There is no praise for the
teamwork that goes into constructing said mall. Constructing the AC, the building, the whole
entity. An entity for the people. Though mall cops will make sure that certain people will not get
in. the homeless who sleeps on the bench in the corner inside of the mall. Even the well-dressed
man in the business suit, white and sporting a tagheuer not even a Rolex. Even he is slightly
suspect, even if he looks like James bond. Especially if he is not wearing an omega watch. There
is a disconnect. This does not go with that. Literature about the mall. Poetry that sings about the
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mall. A treatise on Costco. The description of America. Something that will be taught in the
American studies department at the university of east Anglia.
Author here tries to lose weight. She wants to get down thirty pounds. She weighed thirty
pounds less than this last October. We yo-yoed up. How could that happen?
Author PONDERS, SHE HAS TALKED ABOUT TOO MANY THEMES FOR A
POSSIBLE BOOK. Weight reduction and the perils thereof. The mall. American studies at
university-level in a European country. Author is all over the place. While sitting again in the
computer lab on 49th. In the library of the community college. The computer lab in the library of
the community college on 49th. Next to her a man in blue and a woman in black are talking.
While showing stuff on the monitor. The man in blue rolls the mouse, the woman in black with
glasses points her finger at the monitor and talks about what she sees. She has a Pakistani accent,
he is Chinese. He does not have an accent. Mainly because he talks very very low-voiced, one
can hardly distinguish what he says. He mumbles, he could have an accent or not an accent. An
accent that is non-British, non-American. The accent of someone whose native language is not
English. Author here ponders, what is native lingo. Does any of us talk in the language of the
place we were born in? And besides, arent all places on this planet multicultural, multilingual to
start with. Trump has stuff to say about Americans and nonamericans. He is scolded and praised.
He will probably be the next prez.
Author here has 512 words. The man with the blue sweater has an accent, a very
pronounced one actually. He speaks English as if he speaks Cantonese. With that kind of
intonation. Intonation is everything. Bernie sanders has a strong Brooklyn accent, though he
hardly ever lived in brklyn. He lives in Vermont. Trump does not sound like queens, even though
he hardly ever left the five boroughs. And author here ponders how she can possibly weave all
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these observations into a book where she can be paid a buck per word. If she pens 100 000 words
she should be remunerated. One buck per word would make 100 000 dollars. There is of course a
difference in Canadian dollars and US dollars. She should look into accounting. How does this
all work? If you live in Canada and want to publish in nyc or London, how will this work with
your tax bracket. You are basically exporting words. Intellectual property. We have 670 words
here on a day in June. The last book that author here read was AMSTERDAM, there were hardly
any dates, the only thing we knew was that the book was written before Y2K. In 1998 it was
published. The author studied creative writing at the University of East Anglia. Apparently they
are very keen on believability, so you have to write in a way that mirrors reality. Author ponders,
should writing mirror reality. Can it ever? Even a mirror image is not the real thing, it is a picture
on a shiny surface and the sides are reversed. Writing is different from what is, you use words
utterings to tell others about what you perceive to be the real thing. Everything is subjective. My
reality is different from your reality. I see the world around me through my prism. With my
eyesight which might not be 20-20. And in the author heres case, the eyesight is everything but
twenty-twenty. One eye does not even see stuff the way it used to three years ago. 847 words.
The man in blue rolls the mouse, the woman in glasses and in black garb, points at the
monitor and talks. The computer room, huh. A man or a woman sits to the right of author, with
freshly washed hair, curly, still wet. Might be male or female, the clothes are unisex, so is the
hair. It is a male, but that is actually irrelevant. When one sits and types one just peers down at
the keyboard. Everything else is seen out of the peripheral vision. Make of that whatever you
want.
941 words here.
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Her writing is all over the place. It is philosophical at times and very descriptive at others.
Self-reflexive. She wants it to be both fictional writing and non-fictional. Poetic. In the times of
blogging, vlogging, instagraming, u-tubing, twittering, tweeting, writing is becoming obsolete.
Art making with a computer. Gone are the days of type writers. No more using carbon copies.
One wrong tap at the keyboard and all of your writing is dissolved. Nothing saved in the cloud.
All your words are ephemeral. Which might be good, especially when they are shitty. 3076
words in total ( part 1 and part 2), over two days.
3.
Another DAY
In the library again. At the computer. Jotting down words. The ac is humming. A woman
in blue comes in, smiling, talking to another person. Her hair is in a ponytail. There are images
on her blue t-shirt. The noise of keyboards can be heard, the typing. Another sound, the sound of
a zipper which is kind of stalling and not opening smoothly, must be a zipper of a bag, maybe a
bag that is round. A zipper that is non-straight. More sounds of a keyboard, very fast types.
Everybody is on their phones. The man opposite of her, the woman to her side, at the far, a grey
jacket with knobs therein, a light pink phone. Her hair is dark black. The person near the printer
opens it up loudly, jostling his keys, throwing the papers in, smunching up the rest of the papers,
throwing them out while he leaves. Or something like that, the chronology should be different.
Author here is once more typing up a masterpiece, this will be her summer, in the end there will
be a book. The printer is printing up, singing its songs, more papers than one. In this place people
just print short papers, nobody works on long winded masterpieces. Nobody thinks of herself as
an eminent writer, only author here has the audacity to see herself like that. She is round now,
she yoyoed up. She is forty, fifty pounds heavier than last October. It is end of June now. Do the
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math. She bounced down only to bounce up with vigor. Ah to be round enough, to be well-fed.
The reason why she gained weight back is because she is surrounded by foodies who like to talk
about food. She walks thru the supermarket and looks at cookies that she never had before. Icecream sandwiches that she never had before. This is the only reason for her weight gain, the idea
that you can be as interested in food as your thin counterparts. You cannot. You are the fatty who
has to be always vigilant. Not every food item in the supermarket is for you. There are
boundaries. Any supermarket has 50 000 food items. A buffet with 500 000 items to choose
from. Author here has 376 words already on this Wednesday in late June of 2016. Her typing ah
her typing here. Nobody will publish this, but who cares, who needs an audience of strangers?
We poopoo what we cant have. Forever unpublished, how does that feel? It is fun to come here
and type up stuff, it is a life. An office, something like an office. She is not good with the home
office, her house, that has to be cleaned and organized through and through. She is no organizer.
She is a creator. Of words, of paint on paper. A content provider. What a weird word, but the art
school ppl seemed to love it. Some of them. The art school was weird and strange and fun. Her
raison detre for ten years or so. One big studio where you could throw paint at canvases. And
then talk about it. She will go back, she likes that. But now, typing has to suffice. It is not good
for her back. Sitting hunched over and throwing words into a machine. 552 words. On a
Wednesday at 9:32. She parked her car in the Y. apparently that is verboten.
A man at the printer, in white and black and blue checkers. A very large number of the
students here wear checkers, small checkers. It seems to be the school uniform. Where are all the
hipsters, where do they hang out? Not enough hipsters here. This is no Williamsburg, that is for
sure, everybody strives. They want to make it. The American dream. Though technically this is
Canada. Author ponders, maybe she should not analyze social stuff. She should merely describe
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what she sees. Like a photographer who has lost his camera and has to do it with words. You
have to throw words at stuff. There is a woman in pink with something glittery in her hair. She
wears glasses and has her hair in a bun. To work against the glamour of the glitter. The glasses,
the dark brimmed ones signal seriousness, an impending job as a doctor. You have a headache,
take these pills and call me in the morning. How do you bear yourself when you are sporting a
stethoscope? Should you be straight or hunch over? The fashion sense of people with
stethoscopes. The stethoscope crowd. Another tribe just like hipsters. Author ponders, maybe
these are the wrong words for someone who is 61 and might need a lot of those stethoscope
wearers in the future. A woman next to author, she throws her thermos against the table. She is
loud and now she has a paper that is in a plastic sleeve. Once more the thermos, open and close.
She drinks, she is thin and young, very thin, famished. That is why she is this loud. She is no
writer, no author here. There are no authors in this place. Author here is the only one. Her
masterpiece floats onto the page. 866 words, we need some more and need some more here. The
woman puts down the cap of the flask. The silvery flask that goes with her black attire. Author
pauses, looks up at the pipes on the ceiling. She could describe those. They are white grey, look
kind of as if there is fur on them. Pipes that look like textiles. Something velvety on the metal.
Ah, pipes, pipes. We have 935 words here. On June 29, 201628, 2016. Somebody sneezes,
sneezes. 946.
She can still sneeze some more words against the machine. The woman with the flask
takes sips. Constantly. Her flask makes her thin. The cup of the flask is very small. Like the
small cups in sushi places. The woman is Indian. The flask is very thin. That is how people stay
thin. Aha. They purchase thin flasks. Then they sit in front of monitors and stare at what is on the
monitor. They do not type. They lean forward and make a confused face while trying to decipher
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what is on the monitor. They roll the mouse. So now we know how to make it into the land of the
thin. It is all about what you do all day. It is 10:01.in the AM on a Wednesday.
Still another thing to consider. Do you fill the flask with cold water or hot tea? The flask
is not very high, it is actually pretty small. It seemed to be very voluminous, but it is not. A
woman in a short skirt hands out papers with writing thereon. She has a bare midriff. Back to the
flask. If it has a hot liquid in it and it spills, it might burn the person. If one is clumsy. Ah, the
world of flasks. That is why we come to this place, not in order to type up philosophical texts.
Nope, we watch people drink out of flasks. An anthropological study. A man and a woman on the
other computer. Opposite of author here. The man has an accent, the woman does not have an
accent. The man is very polite. They are all young. Then again, author here does not see the
woman, though. The woman does not have a pretty voice. Value judgements. There is so much to
see in this place. It is airy and light. There is a glass wall that lets one see the rest of the library. A
room with a window. And then you can see the windows that look outside into the garden. In real
houses there are no rooms with window panelled walls. Well, the majority of walls are walls
made out of stucco. The woman with the non-pretty voice leaves. She is very pretty, but very
matter of fact, she has short short shorts. Apparently if you are very pretty you have to sound like
that. The man is very tall. They are both beautiful. Students. Nobody cares about their looks,
author ponders if she even should write about how people look. She has to discuss more pressing
stuff. Brexit. The like. Isis. The bombing in Ankara airport. Not what is happening here in this
computer lab. 1306 words. It is ten and 14 minutes. Her master piece here. The penning of a
masterpiece. The edit, the rewrite here.
IN THE AFTERNOON
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The telly is singing its songs. Outside the sun is shining. An ad for LOral. An ad for
orange juice. Author here makes up her mind to not change the location where the story happens.
Then again, nothing is set in stone. You can adhere to an outline or you can wander off. It is not a
blueprint for a building. In writing you can venture out. Explore. Explore plotlines. The writer
who types. In different locales. Writing is a solitary profession but you do not really notice it if
you doing it in a public place. In the library, in a caf. You can always people watch. It makes the
story slither off, that is what happens when you are disturbed in your stream of thought. And
maybe that is only good. Different faces, different perspectives. All the coffee houses on this
planet. All the pubs. On the telly, the episode with the time machine. The show is Big Bang.
Laugh tracks, laugh tracks here. We have merely 4689 words, the idea was to type up 2000
words per day, author managed to come up with 2000 the first day, but only with 1000 every
consequent day. We have to type some more in order to make up for the lack of words. Her right
hand starts to hurt, cramped-up typing does that to yer.
TTZEHOE
Once more she is in this place, the coffee house in the little city outside of Hamburg. This
is where writing happens. Three women near the window. Chatting. The waitress and her bored
face. The fashion store. Nothing ever changes here. The scene is always the same. So familiar.
The illusion of comfort, of security. Ah, Itzehoe, Itzehoe.
THE WRITING WORKSHOP
It is her time for reading. She can stay in her space and read from here. She does not even
need to stand up. She has written two pages; two pages were all that were required. She listens in
to her own voice. She is describing a bus ride. That was the task, to describe a trip on public
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transport. She describes the trip from the Meat Packing down to Union Square. A pretty short
trip. While the rain is coming down on New York City. She used nice words, good enough
words. Everybody claps at the end of her reading. Politely, not enthusiastically. Her choice of
words was too tame, too lame. No excitement-inducing narrative, just describing stagnation.
Stagnation in a moving vehicle. The bus that makes its way down 14th Street. People with bored
faces. Fat people thin people, young people, old people. And the writer who takes mental notes
here.
The teacher is very young, he is from California, his name is Josh and he has published
five novels. He is very polite and very accurate in his assessments. He is good at teaching
creative writing though one gets used to his critiques and cannot really write anymore without
running stuff by him. The writing workshops are counterproductive, they stifle creativity. It
always happens if you try to teach what is basically unteachable. Art you cannot teach. That is
how it is how it is.
THE ROOM WITH THE TELLY
Anderson Cooper and his spiel. Spit the words out at the machine, even though they are
not accurate enough, not remarkable enough. Mediocre words will do. If you do it long enough,
then it will all fall into place here. 5090 words, we just need a thousand more here.
Outside the sun is shining. The mall will be open until nine. It is nice to walk through the
mall. Stuff to see. You can have a coffee and aa piece of cake. Think about your writing. About
the constant plotlessness. The story that is a non-story. They all are. One can create a narrative
with the plot creator, this website out of the UK.
LATER
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It is way too hot in this city. She tried to go for a walk, it was just way too hot. She was in
the mall for a coffee and a piece of cake. The weather in the mall was nice. The weather in the
mall. Nobody knows if one can call it weather if it is inside. The world of the mall. She is a lot in
the mall. A mall rat. In different malls. They are all generic, so they say. Nah, there are subtle
differences. The differences of the malls. Malls as subject matter for a piece of writing. A literary
piece on the subject of malls. We have 5277 words here.
LATER ON
The songs on the telly. While outside is happening. Sunniness. Silence. Not enough is
happening to feed her writings. The tones of Seinfeld. Schnell, schnell.
STILL LATER IN THE DAY
The wish to write 2000 words per day. The silent hope that quantity will beget quality.
The knowledge that that is not how things will happen. 5338 words. The tiredness that stifles her
typing. The physical exhaustion. In the left side of her body. There is not enough power to push
down the keys. Writing is something she is not cut out for. She is no hard drinker. How can yer
write without being a booze hound? It is impossible.
5392 words.
The telly and its songs. Nine in the eve. The freshness of the weather. A breeze, ah, the
breeze. You still have to feed some words to the machine in order to feel that you have
accomplished something. The works day. Enough words to fulfill the daily allotment. A round
number. 2000 words per day. She will not be able to keep that up, it is way too much. On the
telly, two and a half men. Lughtracks laugh tracks. 5472 words here.
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LATER LATER
The trek down to Itzehoe. By the cities, the small villages. While there are raindrops on
the window of the train. There is something comforting about the feel of failure, the writing of
words that will never make it. There is a routine, the quest, the regimented voyage out to the
coffee house in Itzehoe. She hardly has seen anything else of that town, she just goes to that
particular coffee house, twice, three times a week and writes a tad and then goes back to
Hamburg. It is slightly crazy but so is any routine. At least she is doing her writing. Once she is
in her space at the coffee house, once her tea is in front of her, the words come to her
automatically. And the apple crumb cake sure is good in that place.
BANKASTRATI
Once more, the coffee house in Reykjavik. Her favourite place on Bankastrati. A latte and
this round cake with the pinkish mushy stuff inside and the chocolatey glaze on top. Outside, the
Thursday afternoon shoppers. Women talking to each other while lugging around shopping bags.
Filled with clothes, shoes. Shopping as recreation. As social event. Author here puts some words
to paper, in green, slightly leaning to the left. Cursive letters on the lined yellow paper. English
words while everybody chats in Icelandic. The lilt, the sing song of the words that she does not
understand makes her pen certain words. The monotony of her undertaking, writing some words
each and every day. In different places the world over here.
FRIENDS
Ross and Chandler and Rachel, Joey, Phoebe, and the blond one, Phoebe. These are all
reruns. They kind of interfere with her writings. One cannot really follow the story on the screen
while writing. Something has to give. But we have 5780 words here, we merely need 200 and we
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can call it a day here. Outside the night is so near, the first tones of darkness are all enclosing this
place here.
NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT HERE
Some commercial about apartments. An ad for a car. All these cars are always outside of
cities, which is weird, people are not that much on the road in nature. Or maybe they are, how do
I know? Another car, or maybe it is the same car. They are both blue. Buy a blue car. Think about
the Kelly Blue Book price. And back to the coffee house in Friends. 5887 words. Rachel and
Joey. It is chilly in here, a tad too cold. A June eve with sprinkles of chilliness. And now
Chandler and Monica. And there is this actor who was in Seinfeld, too. This is what we write
about here, malls and sitcoms and diets. The really important stuff. The stuff that changes the
world or makes it stay the same here. 5952 words, tomorrow is still another day to work on this
text here. She will make her way to the community college, start typing until she has the right
amount of words. 5984 words. Rachel and Joey talking. Ten more words and we are outta here
and outta here.
4.
AFTER
After traversing the city, she is back in the art school. This is not what she wanted to do, she
made up her mind ah so suddenly while going over the bridge on the arbutus bus. The library
here is usually usable, nobody asks for ur student card. But, apparently, there have been seismic
changes, you now have to have a student card, a valid one. You have to be registered in courses
in this semester. Which is so different from the community college where your IT-ID does not
seem to expire and you can use the computer room long after your classes are over. This one
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computer in the library apparently works, in the library here in the art school. She is using it,
hopefully nobody will shoo her away. The other ones, you need a log-in.
So she traversed the city. Since five in the morn. She is tired, this is way too much for an
unsuspecting body. To overdo it does not make you thin, it makes you sick. Your knees will give
out. They are not used to a four-hour long trek thru the city. Four hours is way too much even if
you have the ideal body mass index. Your feet cannot do it. Your knees will act up. And we
definitely do not have the ideal bmi here. We lug around too many pounds. Which is too much
for muscles and bones and joints. They say that the human body is adaptable and will function
according to what you want from it. At this point she wants it to write the obligatory 2000 words
here, though it is kind of boring in here, this is in a desolate place, the antithesis to the computer
room in the library of the community college on 49th. That one is full of life, this place here is
dead, dead, I tell you. Somebody behind author here raschles with paper, plays around with
books, puts stuff down noisily, rearranges things, or maybe cuts up things with a paper cutter.
There are persons talking near the front of the library, this place too is social. Somebody coughs,
somebody makes noise with plates or a coffee cup. Somebody speaks Spanish or Portuguese or
Philippino. A man. A woman puts plastic sleeves into folders, apparently these are plastic sleeves
that have to go into folders, into the hanging folders inside of the black cabinets. Aha, they must
be sleeves with slides, because those are Yesterdays technology today, that is how academe
works.
Who uses slide projectors at a time when everything is digital? They have bought
expensive equipment that is now totally obsolete, that is how all art schools work.
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Sign of the times. The computer here does its own thing, author here types but somehow
her words are not on the monitor. They are somewhere in the cloud or just vanishing by
themselves. She has 500 words or so, that she can deduce here.
She is on a diet, she started out today. She will half her weight. She weighs 200 lbs, she
will end this at 100 lbs. 100 might be too little, she does not even recall the time that she weighed
that little. Maybe at age eight. To be too thin is not good. Can one even stand at five point four
and weigh one hundred? Author here comes from the metric system, the land of pounds and
inches is a foreign land to her. She goes a lot to the Y in downtown where everybody uses the
metric system, mainly because everybody is from somewhere else. From Denmark, from brazil.
From exotic places, Iceland and the like. The foreigners in downtown are all well-to-do yuppies.
With three degrees, masters, PhDs. People who come here for postdoctoral studies. Better
people. Not your average joes. Author here feels as if she is dead. She is sixty-one and does not
know what to do with herself. That is why she pens 2000 words per day in order to write an
amazing book. 2000 words per day, she will finish this her treatise in 2 months. She wrote 100
000 words since April or may, after her course in the community college was over. The literature
course that inspired her to pen her own literature. She finished this book with narrative holes and
sent it out to 32 lit agents in nyc. Four of them rejected her already , the other ones are either
waiting or ignoring her. Nobody will take her book on, it does not fit neatly into those
prefabricated genres, mystery, romance, thriller. The ones that you see in bookshops. Apparently
everything has to be categorized. Hers are mere texts and there should be a market for them.
There is a market for works that teether between fiction and non-fiction, between poetry and
journalism. If push comes to shove, all writing is mixed-genre, it comes with the territory of
inventing something new. Categories are for the birds. Life is messy, you cannot distill it into
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formulaic accounts. The philosophy of writing, at home she has this very heavy book about
norman mailer, which she shoved under the sofa with the flowers on the fabric, mainly because
norman mailer has not that good a name, the guy stabbed his wife and got acquitted. Not a very
good thing for a writer, writers are supposed to be harmless, they merely talk, they do not stab
people. You cannot be violent if you are an artist. Which is not true, apparently a lot of people
who are artists are violent. Creativity gives them a free pass. I am a genius, I can do whatever I
want. The rules of society do not apply to me.
Same with trump. Who uses that kind of language? He insulted the eye doctor and won.
He still is better than Hillary though. Sanders would have been better than both.
Politics, huh.
Author here does not write on politics. Brexit et al. Politics is corrupt. We write about
diets and malls. Art. Nothing is apolitical. There has to be a plot here but we still do not have a
plot. And we are not going to have a plot. No shooting for a narrative here. We have 1000. That
is pretty good.
1000 words, we need 1000 more. Later on, this will all be edited, once we have our
glasses, because here we have no clue, what is going on, only the letters on the keyboard are
visible to the naked eye, mainly because they are big and black against the white of the little
squares here. Ensconced in silver here. 19097. Make that 1097.
The art skool is happening, the library of the art skool on Granville island.
On the last day of June. In 2016. The place is silent and hectic at the same time, someone walks
forcefully behind author here. A woman talks, says words, somebody is listening, nobody is
answering. She dispenses info and nobody rejects her opinions. Life is happening slowly near the
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circulation desk, that is how library circulation desks are. Not exactly the sights of drunken beer
brawls. In libraries you are quiet and somebody with her hair in a bun and dark rimmed glasses
shoos you. The stereotype of the librarian. Huh. Author here ponders, what is the stereotype of
the writer, the one who provides the words that will then be bound and stashed away on shelves?
Will she ever be one of those? Will her words be distributed? And does she want her words to be
distributed? Her words are never ever good enough, all her sentences have narrative holes. Last
night she read her stuff out loud and she noticed how bad it was. The person she read it to, did
not listen, thankfully,. She was busy with her phone. But author was listening in to her own
words and felt way too ashamed of her own writings. You are your own worst critic, so the
saying goes here. It is 9:57. A morning in June. The lastest day of June. 1400 words, then again,
author here is not quite sure what the word count icon says because she does not have her glasses
with her. It is kind of like tapping in the dark. She feels hungry. She has her lunch with her., the
one that she bought in Whole Foods in the morn. She was at Whole Foods at seven, in front of
her this young kid from New Zealand who said a lot of things that nobody really understood.
When you are from the other side of the world you become gregarious. Author should travel, it is
summer, the world awaits. For a writer, travel is the best. You cannot really wing that many
words out, if you stay put in your own place. Staycation, that is merely a buzz word. She walked
all over the city, to Starbucks to ubc, to whole foods, to this place in downtown which is next to
that very fancy gym. She was at the Y and weighed herself, she walked thru the mall before it
was opened. She too different buses and different trains. She watched people who all walked
with a purpose because they had to be somewhere in an office at certain times in the morning.
The nine to five crowd, the new Jerusalem. The staton island ferry crowd, though it was more the
crowd out of surrey. Commuting is the same wherever you live. Only the writer, the person
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without an office is somehow floating in between, trying to be as inobtrusive as humanly

possible. It would be worse if she was a famous author, then she could not really work, she could
not watch people. Anonymity is good for writers, fame has its price. Fame and fortune is
detrimental to the work of artists. So it is so it is. If you cannot observe without strangers
bothering you, then your life-line is cut off. You have to be able to observe and then you can
write about what you observe when you were walking thru the city, from yaletown station to the
Y and back. Author here ponders if she made herself clear, she is never ever very clear, she is
kind of vague. Good writing should be lucid, hers is never lucid enough. Orwell would not
approve.
The problem with walking thru the city is that one has to take mental notes and one does
not really remember everything one saw. The writing is delayed. It is better to sit inside a caf
and take notes, describe the here and there, describe exactly what you see right there. Author
here has 1777 words, so we do not need that many more than this. Maybe 200 or so, fast, schnell,
schnell.
Every day 2000, who can stick to that, who can keep that up? She will be exhausted, will
just stop writing, her middle finger is acting up already. The back of her neck hurts from being
tilted down. That is why seasoned writers look straight ahead at the monitor, or at the paper in
the times of typewriters, in the times of yesteryear.
She will travel to New Zealand or morocco or she will just stay put within walking
distance of her home. Writing is so fragile anyways but she said that already some four days ago.
Everything she says is repetitive, she has to make up fictional characters who then say what she
thinks, let them repeat her words. She will put words into their mouths, literally. Maybe she
should construct, produce a graphic novel. 1900 words, so little left to finish this, home run home
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run home run home run. She will have a piece of cake one of those with cream on top, cupcakes,
one with shavings of coconut. A velvet cupcake with white on top, 1974 words, this is coming to
an end coming to an end. Her masterpiece, one of many one of many. She repeats herself that is
the easiest way to accumulate words. You dont even have to think. 2011. Outta here and outta
here.
5.
THE FAST WALK THRU
2000 words we have to construct here, in the morn on a Friday. There is not much to see
here, a kitchentable like all the other kitchentables in the world. This is where it all happens, all
the creativity, all of the masterpieces painted penned. So, Campbell is going back to Chicago, yes
he is, this was the conversation in the coffee house in the morning at nine. Who is Campbell and
what does she do in Chicago? Is Campbell a he or a she? Is this something to write about? While
taking the car up to the village, this is what we are thinking about. Perusing all of the thoughts. In
the gym, one person to another so you are taking it up a notch, wise cracks in the morn. Later
on back in the market, the woman does not know the code of the other woman who used the till
before her, that one has to check out until this one checks in. So these are the human interactions
of the morn of the writer, you now have to get back to the typing machine and weave something
out of that. The day before she looked at books with pictures of hats, maybe there is a story in
there. There was a wedding. There was an info night for translators and interpreters. All of these
things were a-happening. The weather was nice the day before and it is overcast today. How can
you write in this weather, how can you not write in this weather. Is writing what we do here?
Writing while nonpublished. Writing for the birds. Singing to the birds.
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The fast walk thru what is happening. Changing sights, you are always on the move. No
stagnation whatsoever. Moving thru this world. And then sitting still reading writing drawing
smiley faces. Watching the goings on on the telly. The fast walk thru here.
321 words,
So if she does 3 chunks like this 3 chunks, no, 6 chunks, seven maybe of 300 each, then
she is outta here, then she has done one days work. The work of a writer, a confused writer who
does not know if she writes fiction or non thereof. Novels, ah a novelist. There are associations
of writers, groups that cluster together that support each other. That go out for booze hounding.
Or tea hounding. Do writers drink alcohol or tea? Do they frequent coffee houses? Each and
every day she wonders about the persona of the writer. A writer. How do others do it? The world
of writers. People who toss words against a machine while the day is marching forward, while
people stream in and out of trains the world over. That is what she should write about. The
faceless group of people on transit. Commuter trains., subways, u-bahn hochbahn. Travelling,
changing your place. Moving thru the city and from city to city here. She can watch it on utube,
let it sing to her while typing. The opening of the doors the shutting of the doors.
512 words here.
So, moving from subject matter to subject matter. Jumping around. Subject surfing. She
watched this vid on utube, on buzzfeed. 10 subway people everybody hates. The napper, the pole
hugger, the one that does not want to go to the middle of the train, the crazies, so they were
mostly just photographs and text, but movies too. You can do that on the web, how can writing
even compete with that. How can you use mere words to communicate a message when you can
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use sight and sound and audio all wrapped in one, just like reality is, well, reality has smell too
and the feel, touch. All five senses. And we walk thru the world and then live to tell.
635 words. Only 1500 more to finish this up. She could take this laptop down to the
coffee house, the problem is the impending rain, we cannot have shores of water drizzle down on
this sensitive equipment. Gotta be chained to the computer here. Gotta sit here silently. While the
fridge starts up its songs, just in time, just in time. It is as if the machine knew that it was getting
so desolate in here, so it had to make itself heard. These machines have all thinking souls and we
are getting all crazy here, one brain cell at a time one brain cell at a time. There is a lot of
literature about millennials, hey, what happened to the boomers, how come they are not the focus
anymore. The boomers and its writerly generations.
The ones that write at coffee tables, kitchen houses. Make that kitchentables and coffee
houses. The ones that walk the malls all over north America. Europe, asia, Africa. The persons
who sing their songs to all of these machines. Built by Samsung or Hewlett packer.
And where are we going with this?
822 words of this bullshit first thing in the morn, editing will come later, this is merely a
first draft here. At ten in the morn on a first of July in Vancouver Canada. The day when
barbeques have to happen. Forcefully, forcefully. Nothing like the stench of charred meat to
make you feel part of a unity.
880.
Once more some more words here some more words here.
BANKASTRATI
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Iceland is so near so far. This is where she wants to end her days. At a computer in a
coffee house on bankastrati. Reykjavik is where it is at. The persons walking by in the shopping
passage. No cars, no bikes. Just women with shopping bgs. The life ah the life. The round cake
with mush therein, the fork that goes into it and then there is nothing left but crumbs here. The
wafting from the coffee silently subsides here. The voices around here, Icelandic lilts, Icelandic
intonations. What were the different accents of a country of 300 000? Can you see which side of
the geyser you are from. This place is silent and quiet and hectic and furious at the same time. It
is a place like everywhere, a Nordic place where people are temperamentful. Why do we
attribute certain qualities to certain regions, to people from certain regions? North, cold,
subdued, south, warm, fiery. Ah stereotypes, we have to ask trump about that. He is good at
social sciences as good and as bad as anybody else. 1075 words here. We have to leave this
place, walk around the city, see the different parts of bankastrati here.
ITZEHOE
Her seat in the back of the coffee house. Her piece of paper, her notes. Her writing.
Everything is happening on the page or more like not happening. There is no plot and there never
will be. The writing is the plot, the sheer process, the descript of the pen on paper, how marks are
made, how words are formed. That in itself should be enough to talk about, to read about. The
still words flooding the page. When did writing start when did reading start? History of words,
herstory of words. Anthropology, science. The mathematics of words. We have not enough for
today, every day has to have 2000 words. Or high water. Come hell or high water. There, that is
how the saying goes. Her choice of words is abysmal, it does not help that people here speak
non-English. Writing in Iceland, writing in Germany. Well, god luck with that good luck with
that.
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New York City

The writing place on 14th, near to union square, up three flights. A woman is sitting at one of the
desks, does not even look up. Types fiercely. All of her posture signals that she wants to be alone.
She is the one who is working on her thesis for NYU, the one about curators in Holland. A very
specific theme. And the timeline is between 1960 and 1990. Over coffee in a place near the
meatpacking, the woman told her all about it, she is divorced and originally from oak park,
Illinois, Hemingway country apparently, a so very white place.
Author here chugs herself down in front of her desk, talks out her notepad, rummages
thru her bag, she does not feel like writing, she never ever feels like writing. Writing is nothing
but a bloody bloody chore. A raison detre that seems to do her in, kill her. It is a mere obsession
like all obsessions. The obsession to breathe the obsession to die. Her words do not make sense,
not in the clinical way. Craziness is what happens when you type up words relentlessly
relentlessly. You are dislocated even while staying put. You are high on words even though you
are not drinking, not smoking. The silliness of a writer, the quintessential writer, any writer, be it
norman mailer or the person who pens grocery lists. A gallon of milk, butter, cheese.
Descriptions of things that are plucked away from a grocery shelf to be put in a basket to be paid
for to be put in a fridge to be consumed.
Ah, new York city. There is more to this place then writing on the third floor of the
writers studio. There are Broadway shows, there is times square. There is Duane Reade, the
laundromat. The 24 hours open grocery store on eight where the person behind the counter is
slowly aging. From young tousle-haired boy to middle aged man of the burbs, full of
responsibilities and lines around the lips to go with that. Even some lurking grey hairs already.
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The woman that writes about curators in the middle to late twentieth century seems to
have enough, she packs her bags and streams out. Nobody in the writers studio. The
desolateness of this place. Her office away from home, she could write at the kitchen table. The
problem being there is no kitchen table in her tiny apartment. Just a bed and a flowerpot as big as
a house. New York City in winter in summer. Always brimming with something, the sounds of 8
million, something like that something of that kind, the boredom that is New York.
AFTERWARDS
She is getting an award, an award for her words. She has written award worthy words.
She will thank the jury while talking into a microphone. That is why we write. To get a piece of
metal and sometimes glass. Or plastic. People will clap, politely, fiercefully. A token of
appreciation, a participation mark. Writers are a dime a dozen, she has finally made it. Though
she trained as an animator. Funny, huh, how that happens. She used to paint and now she writes,
she will talk into the microphone. Funny how that happens here.
STILL WORDS
The fridge is now quiet, we need some 200 or 300 words to finish this up. Outside
reluctant greenery, some branches move silently, quietly up and down. The branches that nod in
the distance. While all the other branches are stagnating silently. The one oboe in the front row,
symphony of green branches on a tree in the distance. 150 words and this torture will be over.
The story that is still a nonstory, a too thin story. A self-portrait, a colossal selfie. Who will read
this, who is the target audience? The writer who self doubts happily. Luckily there is no time for
self-doubting, words have to be fed to this eager machine here, some more words and still some
more words, they have to be pasted into the original text. 80 words, that can be done. It is still
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mid morn, there is stuff on the telly, parts of matlock and his always befuddled face. After that,
diagnosis murder, fun ah, fun. Then, friends, mike and molly. All of the sitcoms constructed in
Hollywood. 40 words and then the feel of accomplishment will sit in, silently and happily. The
words that are in the machine, fed to it and fed to it. Then more, schnell, schnell, and we are
finally there, the last step all over the finish line. The loneliness of the long distance runner, tom
Courtney, a very young one, in black and in white here.
6.
A FUNNY DAY
a.
More a funny time. To sit at the typing machine and start to feed words into it. On the
telly, a movie in black and white, a muted black and white. As if you see the black and white
through fog. It is way too soon for the day to begin; it is four thirty or so. Not even the coffee
house is opening its doors, though there is one down on Dunbar that opens now, it might not
even close at all. It has copcars and taxi cabs parking in front, it gives out donuts all day and all
night. There is a gym some meters next to it, the one that opens at five in the morn. Author here
used to frequent that place, some six years ago. Nowadays it is the Y, mainly because she is a
member there. That is why she has to go there, it is more a chore than anything else. There is no
enthusiasm for the place. The muted black and white movie on the telly. Changing to the station
in nyc, they have the Fourth of July, it is all about patriotism and something about the spirits of
nyc. Different alcoholic bevs, spritzes, keep it local, keep it fun, drink responsibly. Something
about rude dudes. And now an ad for furniture. Bobs specials or something. 221 words, 1800 to
go in the morn on the Fourth of July in 2016. The words that splash reluctantly, she has to
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fashion other places, other spaces. Coffeehouses in other cities, make them up. Fictional stuffimuffi that is what fills the books on the bookshelves at Chapters here. What will be published
and what will be deemed as unpublishable here.
Editing has to wait, her words are full of glitches. It is time now for the hotlist, that is
what they say on the telly. A woman in red talking about the holiday transit in nyc. It is five oh
two in Vancouver here. Which makes it eight and something in New York. Eight Oh Three. 344
words already. 1700 to go.
b.
Itzehoe, Itzehoe. The rain outside. The three women near the window. The waitress and
her bored face. The fashion store on the other side of the street. Yup, the coffee house is
happening as it is always at ten in the morn. She has her laptop with her, types silently up her
words. Her tea wafts a tad, the apple crumb cake is untouched as of yet here.
c.
421 words here.
d.
A walk through the streets so fast, so early in the morning. To the coffee house while the
streets are all fresh. All without people. Merely houses and streets. Greenery. Apparently the
movement is good for the body, makes the blood run faster, run without obstructions. Jogging is
even better. The things you can do to stay fit. To maintain a certain body weight. To have the
right kind of BMI here. Miami named rudest city in the US.
e.
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So, what is happening on Bankastrati? Same as always, same as always. The round cake
with the mush therein, the coffee with milk. The quaint coffee house, silent, no actin whatsoever.
Author here is the only patron in this place.
f.
She is taking a taxi from the train station to the holiday inn. It has been ten years or so
since she has been here. Nothing seems to have changed. Kingston as it was as it will be. She
pays the taxi driver and goes into the hotel. This time she has a reservation, but there is always
space. And if not in this hotel, then in one of the other ones near the lake. She gets her key, puts
her bag in the room on the second floor, makes her way to the timmys across the street. It is dark
now, she is tired, the flight out of vancity, the subway ride to union station, the train ride from
Toronto to Kingston. Exhausting, even though you are sitting all the time. And her bag is not
heavy. A bag is easier than a suitcase, lighter. She does laundry all the time anyways, and most of
the hotels that she frequents have laundry rooms. You just need quarters, rolls of quarters. She
will do a reading in the small bookshop, her short story has won a first price. A whodunit of 2000
words. It is pretty good, apparently good enough to win the first prize. She will get 500 bucks.
There is a second prize, 300 bucks, a third one, 100 bucks. Aah, Ontario, ah, Queens. It is colder
here, windier. She walks over to the timmies. There are still people in here. Some students,
maybe. Though this place is further away from campus. She has a tea, English breakfast, orange
pekoe, she asks for the bag on the side. It is near to eleven, but it is still eight for her. She is
moving on west coast time. A donut, a honey cruller. The next morn will be the shin ding in the
little bookstore. The plot thickens. She feels dislocated and is not quite sure when it is. Last time
she was here, as ten years ago, at least that is how she remembers it. She wrote all day, she was
always in this tim hortons. There always was a woman with beads in her hair, she used to read.
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Author here was writing long hand, in blue notebooks that she got from the drugstore. When she
was back in Vancouver, she typed it all out. Nobody wanted to publish it. All of her writing was
about the different coffee shops where she did her writings. Obama was not prez yet. She later
went to New York City, that was fun. An April in nyc. In Chelsea. She wrote all over nyc. And all
over Kingston. In different tim hortons. In this coffee shop near princess street. It was this irish
holiday, there were pics of leprechauns and shamrocks everywhere in the storefronts. St patricks
day. She slithers down memory lane. She has aged a lot since then. She lost weight and gained it
back. Her hair is grey now, she could taint it with colour. Dyework. Or she could just go grey and
wear more make up. Ah, what to do with ones features. The honey cruller is happily sugary. She
feels lonely, alone, desolate. In a city with a penitentiary. And a university. Near a lake. Outside
of Toronto. Kingston is funny, everything is measured against Toronto. K-town, huh. She might
once more go down to nyc. Over montreal. Last time she had too much luggage and this time
around she has hardly any. She bought this red suitcase that was oversized and the person on the
train complained forever that he will hurt his back. Nobody asked him to take the suitcase and
complain later. She went all over montreal with that suitcase. The too big suicase in montreal.
She was in this place called hotel Europa. For one night. She mostly sat around in the bookstore,
indigo. She looked at maps of montreal. She was too tired to see the real montreal. She just read
about it in lonely planet. She went to coffee shops. People spoke English, not French. You can
live in montreal forever and never learn a word of French. That is what the mc gill crowd does.
Or the people who live in westmount. The anglophile enclave of Quebec. She chews on her
honey cruller, while reminiscing. Outside, the lights on the lake. Nobody knows that she is here
in Ontario. She will do a reading, she will win a prize. The plot thickens. That used to be the
name of the bookstore. It was all about detective stories. Author here is kind of feeling funny to
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write a mystery story. She will do a reading. Time to make her way to the hotel, while looking at
the last lights on the lake. This place is so far away from anywhere. The city that does not really
exist. Dreamy. An illusion of life. All university towns are like that.
g.
Sheldon Coper on then telly. Outside a rainy day in late June, make that early July. The
all-encompassing overcast. She was in city hall twice today. It was exhausting. The women
behind the counter were nice. She was at the bank too. They were nice too. She had coffee, the
persons behind the counters were nice. Author here is bored, all of her conversations were with
people behind counters. And now it is the telly. She will go for a walk. During overcast time.
Shed rather walk through the mall, no drizzle. She weighed herself in the Y and the news is not
good. All the weight she has lost has all bounced back. She always loses weight only to put it all
back. Her middle name must be yoyo. 11 549 words, she did not do her writings the day before
here.
h.
The laugh tracks on the telly. 500 words will do, she did not write the day before, or
merely 300 words. It is all math, more math than pursuing nice enough word creations. The
language all calibrated. Into neat packages. Welcome to the world of word count. How did they
do it before Microsoft office? Outside the ah so shitty weather. The greenery that is bla and grey.
13 degrees Celsius, what kind of summer is this?? The summer that does not happen. But maybe
it is better than blistering heat. Everything has its good sides and its bad sides. Philosophical
musings against a laptop. 11 681 words here.
i.
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300 words. She did not write over the weekend. Which makes yer rusty. You have to play
the instrument each and every day. It is what you do. And then you edit, throw out the bad words.
If you can. There are always more words to be typed up. You will figure it out, eventually. How
tough can it really be?
j.
She could go down to the coffee house and have a tea, something to do after writing. Put
a stroop wafel on the tea. Look out at the cars. Wow. This is one boring job. You become a writer
if nothing else works. It is the lowest of all the cottage industries. No wonder they are all booze
hounds.
k.
200 words. On the telly, the woman from the progressive ad. Flor. Maybe that is her
name. author here watches way too much telly. Writers have to be out in the world, observe, not
hunker down in front of a typewriter and wait for inspiration. There are better words, better
stories. Publishing seems to verify your authority as a writer. The money that somebody will
pump into the distribution of your musings.
l.
bankastrati and itzehoe. Coffeehouses on the other side of the world. The paper that
awaits her scribbles here.
m.
penny yells at wolowitz. 100 words and then the writing day is over. It is more a chore
then fun. Like putting baseboards on a floor. Nail them in. Writing is a trade, more than anything.
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It is definitely not something artsy fartsy. You push words onto paper, sometimes it works,
sometimes it doesnt. Hit and miss. There should be a soccer game on the telly, who will be in
the final? Germany won against Italy, so they advanced. 20 words or so and we are done here
and done here. Eleven words. Nine. The countdown. Six words, two, we are there and there.
Finally, yay and yay here. 12 007. 12 009. 12 012.
7.
a.
The walk on bankastrati. The strangers that pass her by. The summer evening throwing
itself into the night. People on a day in august in Reykjavik. This is so far from anywhere that
she knows. She is all by herself here to work on her writes. Which she kind of does not stick to,
shed rather walk through the city and look at the sites. The houses, the people. Geysers she saw
already, how many times can you look at them. The life in the city is more interesting, more
fascinating. She loves her coffee house and she goes there at least twice per day. A tad too much.
She listens to the lilt of the people. She constructs characters for the novel, but maybe she will
change it all and go for something completely different.
b.
On the telly, Seinfeld. She missed the last episode, the final one. It is a rerun of course,
she has seen it many many times. Apparently people who watch Seinfeld are like trekkies,
anyhoo, now it is another episode. Still Seinfeld. While outside the day kisses the night. She
ponders, this sounds a tad too cheesy. You have to flex those writerly muscles, have to
experiment with the words. And sometimes it sounds really bad. You can always cut it out later.
There are always the coffee houses to describe. She walked to the village, had a mint tea and one
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of those Amsterdam style waffels. Put it on the tea so that the caramel filling gets all melty and
gooey. Which did not really work, the tea was not hot enough. In the end the only thing that
happened was that the waffle got a tad too soggy and slightly on the disgustingish side. This is
what we write about here. Might as well contribute to yelp. With a pic. 12 323 words, on an
afternoon in summer.
c.
The coffee house in Itzehoe. Nothing is happening except for what is happening here
every day at ten. The fashion in/fashin out store opens on the other side of the street. The woman
is wearing green and a black hat, she wears a tad too much make-up. Guess, that is what one has
to do if one works in a boutique. Gotta overdress a tad. Inside here, the three women near the
window. The bored waitress. The glass of tea and the crumbly apple cake. Everything just as it
always is. It is starting to rain, she writes and has to make the train back to Hamburg in time.
Nothing ever changes, the routine makes everything feel comfortable, secure and predictable,
writers need that, the routine holds her in like a tight fitting security blanket. This is how words
can be written here.
d.
Walking through downtown. Walking is good. Look at peoples faces, try to construct a
story. A whodunit. A romance story. Author here ponders, she is not interested in stories. The
walking itself is fascinating, the ever-changing scenery. The silent boredom that is condensed
into urban hecticnes. The trains that spit out the persons out of suburbia. You have to step aside
and let them pass you by. Skyscrapers everywhere, imposing. Silently watching yer.
e.
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WRITING SOME WORDS

On a chilly morning in Vancouver, while waiting for the computer lab to open. She is writing it
in her head, while walking all over campus. By the art place, by the theater place. By the books
that say modern and classic love stories. By the posters that tell you to take English 2 in fall,
something about dead British poets. Keats et. al. writ. Full of words that nobody uses anymore
and that sound scholarly and well-read and that basically do not have any meaning to the modern
user of the language. A glorification of days past when snapchat did not exist, when you could
not yelp, in short, when the dark ages were both comforting and stifling. Ah those simpler times
when you were nostalgically longing for even older times. And now she is in here writing her
new book, the one that will not be published because that happens to all those books that are
penned by mere mortals. Nameless poets that die in the gutter, that rot in the gutter. The gutter of
suburbia while changing channels between Friends reruns and Seinfeld reruns, while having too
many chips with vinegar flavour, while packing on pounds and losing those pounds, perpetually
perpetually. While driving because driving matters. She has 213 words already, she missed a day,
so maybe she will make up for it or just simply let go of the idea of penning everything in time.
Slithering to the finish line one day later does not make any dif in the scheme of things. She will
now think of the writer in bankastrati, in the coffeehouse where they never go out of round cakes
with choco glaze and pinkish mush therein, a fictional place that does not exist and does exist
somehow because yelp cannot be wrong neither can zimbio or tripadviser be. You have never
walked the streets of Reykjavik but if you own a computer you can travel there virtually. Ah to
be a writer in 2016, everything and anything is possible. Somebody coughs up in the computer
lab here, it is a computer room but lab sounds more scientific, more nice, importance that is
given to our endeavours here. The illusion of scholarship, the three storeys of this place with all
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its books here. Here it is that world lit is made, words that dance all over the world stage here.
The black screens without persons sitting in front of them. Later on, we can go thru the malls or
hop on the trains. There is always something to do in this city, nope, New York it aint, but there
is always a way to keep busy. There are shows on the telly waiting to be watched, how is that
different from catching a Broadway show. There is law and order and all the street names, the
exact addresses in between the storyline fragments. Author here types and types, 100 000 words
for each month, after she is gone, somebody will find it in the attic and she will be feted
posthumously. Who needs lack of anonymity while still alive? She writes writes, then has a
coffee and writes some more. Her car in the Y, hopefully nobody will feel like towing her brown
car. It is brown and inconspicuous, it looks like all the other cars in the parking of the Y. That is
the car that a person who goes to this particular gym owns. People who work out in this place
drive that kind of car. Everything is programmed in todays world, we live in our small lil tribes
here. The world of 2016, a book written in 2016. Should reflect reality, a tad a tad. How can my
reality be like your reality? There are no communalities, every man is an island. But somehow
she made it into the land of art, she has no studio and she deplores the isolation of the studio, so
this is what we do here, writing as performance art. The sending out of queries, performance
online. Sending out manuscripts so many ah so many. They will all be rejected but it is the
journey that counts the journey that counts. So how can a book written by a writer in an attic
reflect reality? Most people are not writers, they go about their daily lives. The Manifesta 11 in
Zurich is all about artists and regular people, the theme of this year being what would you do
for money? It is about art and money, that seems to be implicit. Author here reads about that art
show in Zurich, said Manifesta here. Anyhoo, writing ah writing, we could talk about trump and
isis, about politics and stuff, war and peace. Important things, not about this lil room with all its
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computers that make a lot of noise in here. Not about the sounds of letters typed and mouses
rolled, the reality of a place of study is irrelevant ah irrelevant. The coffeehouses in bankastrati
or itzehoe, the writers studio near union square that is what we should write about. Fictional
places that are hybrids of reality and illusion. Writing and typing and typing here. We have next
to thousand already here on a morn in July while the weather is everything but sunny sunny. It is
Wednesday hump day middle of the week, her words her words her words and her words here.
899, okay okay here. And somebody sneezes loudly loudly in a masculine voice. And a chair
rolls against the floor here. This place is black, mostly mostly here.
f.
She can still feed some more words to this machine. Or she can leave. Options, options.
You never know what is better. To stop working or to go on working. And let us be real, is
writing even work? It is not physical, it is not grave digging. It is silent, effeminate, it is like
embroidery or knitting. To put the words in line so that there will be one tome, one bigger unit.
Schaffe schaffe Haeusle baue as the Germans would say. Which means that you tinker and tinker
until you have built a house. You construct in small small increments. Or something like that.
Something of that kind. The computer lab is getting loud, those two thin guys in the back could
care less to be quiet, they are always loud and socializing, two young turks, with matching outfits
one in light turquoise and one in light pink. How can one hear oneself think when this lab is too
loud ah too loud here. We have 1097, ah well ah well here.
g.
way too tired to write more. It is still in the morn, she slept enough, but somehow writing
does that to you, it is boring, exhausting. It is an endless, thankless job, very Sisyphean at its
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core. There is no Everest in sight, no peak to hover on, no space for yelling eureka, you cannot
scream I am king of the world a la the guy in that movie about the ship that sinks. Ok, titanic, leo
di caprio. Writing is the slithering towards ones demise, even if you sell your books, even if you
have Pulitzer Prize and booker and nobel, in its essence it is a thankless profession. One that
nobody choses, one that one stumbles upon when nothing else works. Writing choses you. It is
the last resort,. Being a barista is a happier profession what with thank you and please, there is a
social element that writing just lacks. To sit hunched over with the neck at a weird angle, ah, so
shitty a job so shitty a job here/. The only fun is the impending word count here. 13871 words
ahah aha here. How did this happen, how did this accumulate? She had some 600 words the
night before and she wrote some 1200 in the morn, so it all adds up adds up here. In the old times
the narrative was important, nowadays the word count is paramount here.
h.
13 897 words.
i.
She rests a tad. Looks at people walking by, she takes off her glasses. A man in a yellow
turban and a man in a dark red one leaning into brown. There are so many turbans in this lab,
young people though, there is a light blue baseball cap guy walking in front of the window
opening to the floor outside. Somebody makes noise with potato chips, you cannot have chips for
breakfast, she feels a knot in her chest, typing does that to yer does that to yer. Seventeen words
more and we are there are there here. Seven words, something makes noise in the back and 14
002 it is it is.
8.
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a.
The day starts up somehow. Well, it actually is in the midst of day. Outside the sun is up
and running. One should be outside like all those daycampers. The sunny sunny day. Hanging
out outside instead of working at the kitchen table and pretending that it is an office. An office is
constructed differently, even a home office. And home offices do not really work. You have to be
in some hub where others are that do what you do. To have a one-person studio, that does not
really work that well. That is why writers tap away in coffee shops. That is why PhD thesises are
written in the library. And what is the plural of thesis anyways? Theses? Can we just make up a
plural, one that can pass as a neologism. On the telly, a stupid ridiculous show. One of those
stupid ones. Change that to a show with laugh tracks. Hot in Cleveland. It is funny, snarky. Sit
coms are for jaded happy souls. They are the right visual and audio fodder for writing a treatise.
Or grocery lists for that matter. And we are at 14 207. The trivago guy. One should go to a hotel;
one should travel the world. Instead of being put and type away. Ah, bankastrati, where art thou?
The place with the right kind of coffee house. Where they have round cakes with mush inside. A
hot coffee, with milk on top. In a glass. With whip on top and sprinkles. You can always look at
images on yelp and then sit and write about them.
b.
14 282 words.
c.
some 300 words while listening to the funny stuff on the telly. Hot in Cleveland is the
new golden girls. Apparently there is not that much of a market for a show like that anymore,
maybe these are different times. More family valueish times. No more married with children, it is
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not as good as modern family. Al bundy will always rock. That is what we write about here,
diets, malls, and sitcoms. The non-lit subject matters.
d.
14 363.
e. `
WRITING ABOUT REYKLAVIK WHILE NOT LIVING IN REYKJVIK. WHILE
HAVING ICE CREAM ON THE SOFA. WHILE watching hot in Cleveland. She could go out to
buy junk food, somehow it seems to feed her writingish abilities. Sugary food, drive thru
cheeseburgers. That is what feeds writing here.
f.
so it will be Portugal against Germany or maybe not. Wow. They won against wales.
Wow. Nope, there still will be france and Germany. One has to google this, how does this work
here. Who will play whom. Or is it who?
g.
it is three and fifteen minutes, writer here has to go out and take a walk, sitting inside is
not good for writers. Movement makes for better better words. Writing is art, like ballet. The
choreography of the right rightest words here. Typing harshly choreographed. The dance of the
language, the lingo done right.
h.
14 613.
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i.
on the telly, trump-talk. Cnn, cnn. Now some commercials. Women in blue. An ad for
mattresses. And we are writing bullshit here, the main objective is to drive up the word count.
You have to write each and every day, suddenly this all will fall into place here, somehow,
somewhere. It is all about the practice of typing, as capote so famously stated.
k.
so very tired but we have to feed some more words to this machine here. There is no
reason why, maybe it is merely the fun to push down buttons. All these buttons on the laptop
here. Good sentences wont hurt either. Logical ones, well balanced ones. Well thought thru
ones. Writing is different from painting, from throwing paint at a canvas. Different from
scribbling with a felt marker over white paper. She writes as if writing is visual art. It is not or
maybe it is. Words as pieces of black marks on a white surface. It is different from talking, from
formulating ideas. Writing is physical, it is about typing, about pushing keys on a keyboard.
Writing as visual art, yup, why not and why not here. This is getting confusing here, it is not
good to make conflicting statements. Make up your mind when you state something. Your logic
has to go one way, not scribble around. No diddle-daddling allowed here.
l.
14 746 words here. The day is coming to an end, silently, quietly here. Trump vs. Clinton,
that is what keeps the people on the telly vivid. A woman named Hillary is talking about Hillary
Clinton. She even looks a tad like her.
k.
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it is 8:47 PM on july six in 2016. The telly is still singing its songs here. We could write
about bankastrati or about itzehoe, mainly because it will transport us away from here, to places
that are on the other side of the world, that are more interesting, fascinating, mainly because it is
far far away, on the other side of this planet. If you cannot travel in person you travel in your
mind, imagine that you are somewhere else where everything is different while still being the
same. A coffee house in bankastrati is different from a coffeehouse on arbutus, there are
possibilities, there is a novelty, there is excitement, there is escapism playing in, something like
that, something of that kind here.
l.
14 917 words here. They talk, talk on Clinton vs. Trump here. Tiredness is
overwhelming. An ad for adult diapers. Nice, is that the target audience of political shows? An ad
for a Volvo that is geared towards mature audiences. An ad for genetic testing. Forty words and
we are at 15 000. A fourth of a book. Riveting, the tale of the wordcount. 14 981.
m.
14 983 words here.
n.
a restaurant, a meal. The potatoes with too thick gravy. One should practice describing
stuff, so the wisdom in one of those online writing workshops. Which makes it kind of
confusing, the writing practice, that is here. What is interesting about describing potatoes?
Fictional potatoes?
o.
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15 033.
p.
SO NEAR
So near to the writing place, but still waiting. The gatekeepers have to open the doors,
slither the glass doors to the side, one does it on the right side, one does it on the left side. Doors
on opposite sides. There are many doors, glass doors, they slide in, two of them on each side.
They slide at an angle, again two on each side. And then there is another door that camouflages
all of them. Author here is not good at describing this, a picture is worth a thousand words. And
still, words seem to be paramount, we have to describe things, we see with words. The visual is
not enough, words have to be there. Especially in a library, there are three storeys filled to the
brim with words. The library of the community college on forty-ninth, the new library, the one
with all the grass-green carpeting. The one that is light and has glass panels everywhere. That is
airy and non-stuffy. The old library was not like that, it was definitely stuffy. This one is airy,
though one ponders if the thoughts that are thought in this kind of environment are as good, as
focused, as the ones that were thought through in the old stuffy one. Author here wanted to drive
down to the bookstore, the giant warehouse filled with colour, with book upon book. Where there
are comfy seats, where you can just sit and browse. There are cinnamon rolls in the mall nearby,
actually the bookstore is part of the mall. There is a coffeehouse right in the bookstore, one with
pastry and all. Food and books, it all goes together. If you write, if you read, you need some hot
beverage with splashes of milk therein. Consuming words, producing words, it all has to be
cleared with something hot down your throat.
Ah, to describe the bookstore, there is something that you never ever can get right.
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There was an accident on 49th, when she was driving by, a fire truck, a biker who was actually up
and mobile, he had long hair and looked very athletic. He was fixing his clothes, tearing at his
vest that had big yellow diagonal stripes thereon. There were policemen who were ordering the
traffic, it was a quarter past seven, it was drizzly and rainy. An ambulance came from afar.
Apparently it all went ok, a car drove into a biker, but the bike guy was athletic and young, he
just bounced back. Maybe he had lost conscience before, but life had won and he was up and
atom. It all was scary though, accidents always are. It can happen in a second, and we are the
onlookers, who happily go to the gym or to the writingish place. Author here feeds her words to
the machine, she wanted to write about the bookstore, she wanted to go there to scout, to take
mental pics. But all that research would have cut into her writing time, shed rather do the
writing here and be done with it for the day. The day is too rainy anyways, you have to write
indoors and after you are done, venture out into the world, do the writing while you are fresh,
while you had your cuppa joe and ur marble loaf, this is the right time to fashion up all of the
right words. A surgeon cuts into flesh after he rested all night, a writer should do the same. It is
presumptuous of course to compare surgery and writing, but who can stop us here. There is a
place for words, apparently ah apparently. Words on paper, words on a screen. There are
industries that are supporting this, publishing, computers, typewriter manufactures. Author here
is rambling just like a Donald Trump after the Fourth of July. That is what makes Trump
interesting, he does not talk polished, he just blabbers whatever comes to his mind. An everyman
or something who does not edit his words. But boy is he ugly. And he always talks about other
persons appearances, look into the mirror first, Sir. Anyhoo, typing here and typing here. She
will shoot some 4000 words into the machine, her car is parked in the underground parking lot,
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in space 150, until 11:43 AM. Let us see, what we can produce until then, construct a narrative
that drives along just peachy.
The description of the bookstore. The place where books are stored. Where they are sold
and returned. There is always a lineup in that bookstore, that warehousy bookstore. People buy
books and they buy gifts. Trinkets and animals made out of fake fur to put on the bedspread.
Toys for kids, toys for adults. The chain does not seem to be in trouble, there are chains that are
and they are closing their doors. You can read anything and everything online, you do not need
physical books anymore. Author here has near to one thousand already, there is something
comforting about the bookstore in the mall. The artificial lighting, the sanitary conditions. No
flies, no mosquitoes. No rats that run over the ground, and if they do, it happens for moments, for
moments. You can look at Lonely Planets in the bookstore, look at images from places you
would rather be. New York and Reykjavik. Helsinki. Places with funny names and funny
languages that you do not understand. Where you are as foreign as can be. Author here does not
discriminate, she is foreign wherever she goes. The constant status of a fish outta water, that is
the best ah the best. Never ever get too close or you will burn. Ah, friendlily dysfunctional. We
write and we write here. Observe the people that hang around in bookstores, the persons who
work here, all black shirted with red letters on their backs. CHAPTERS it says, and INDIGO, if
you go to Ontario. The bookstores in New York City have other names, there is this one near to
Union Square. Somewhere tugged away in the back. And then there is always Strands, and
Powell in Portland and this other one in Austin. The bookstores that are friendlier, more
sophisticated, that try to convince you that they are not actual bookstores. There are those small
bookstores, mom and pop ones. There are those in Amsterdam, each store exploring its own
niche, we only carry travel books about Reykjavik, that is our specialty. Books as commodity,
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there are books about bookstores. There are books about writers of books. About watering holes
of writers of books. Author here is filling the pages, she should write about love and romance
and apparently love and romance are both the same. Crime fiction and love fiction, that is what
sells apparently. Not languid descripts of bookstores here.
She has 1127 words in the desolate computer room of the library on 49th. She should stop
a tad and stop a tad. A woman in a red and black plaid shirt walks by, it is way too rainy here in
Vancouver, summer has made up its mind to not be happening this year of 2016. A man in a
turban at the computer to the right. Everyone wears a turban in this school, Vancouver has a
bustling Sikh community. A woman in another red and black plaid shirt, a flannel one, is sitting
at the other computer and is reading whatever is on the screen, studying it with an earnest, thin
and not well-combed face. If you are studious you do not really comb your hair and you have to
make sure to wear dark rimmed glasses. The persona of a scholar, what defines it, how does it
happen? Somebody sneezes, somebody makes hiccupy noises of short cries here.
Author jumps around describing the here and now and describing places in nyc or
Reykjavik. You can do that when you write, it is better if the jumping around is not too jarring,
that is why in Law and Order there is a scene in between scenes that tells you where something is
happening. With a loud sound. In writing you do the same, you change the line, put a number in
front of it. Anything to signal that a new scene is starting up or you can slither silently into the
new scene here. Suddenly you are near to Union Square, on the third floor of the writers studio.
Or you are in bankastrati and having the round cake with pinkish mush inside and chocolate
glaze on top. It is all confusing, maybe even more confusing to the writer than to the reader. This
is how dementia packs you at your throat, you write gibberish and then they put you away. Lock
the hard strong doors, you cannot think straight anymore and chances are you never ever could.
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1500 words, her right arm is ah so tired, there are better ways to keep busy than hanging
out in the computer lab of the library of the community college on 49th. Nobody wants to read
your words, nobody. There is an EXIT sign outside on the floor.
1508 words, a nice undertaking for a day in July. The rain is coming down, it always
comes down on this very city. Your Computer User ID, there is a little orange poster on the wall
that says something about the user id. What about it? Author ponders, is this the right place to
pen a novel and is this even a novel?
She wrote something about Norman Mailer but the computer chose to eat it up. Her
words have vanished. By themselves. Something about Mailer and novelists. Once it is vanished
you cannot recreate the thought again. People after this will not hear her amazingish insights. We
did not preserve them for eternity. Writing as vanishing art. The words that are over once they are
uttered. Like a subway train that you miss to board. This is what author does a lot these days. A
hobo on the subway. Studying peoples expressions. A woman walks by with her hair up, another
follows with her hair down. We have no plot here and that is fine just so. Ballets do not have
stories, symphonies do not. The chair rolls over the floor, loudly to the back of her.
Nettie Stevens discovered XY sex chromosomes. She did not get credit because she had
two X chromosomes. That is the funny pun on VOX, another article calls her a badass geneticist.
Author had never heard about her, but apparently we learn about the world, about herstory and
history from google doodles. There was life before google but those were simpler times here.
She is back at the typing machine, even though her back hurts and her right arm. Maybe we just
need to type up words, there is this website called schreibsuchti, which kind of means addiction
to write. We gotta write here, it is an obsession, write until you disintegrate and until they sweep
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you away. The words ah the words the words. It is all about taking pauses, taking showers, going
for walks. That is how good narratives are fashioned. Everything has to be reread, reedited. You
have to ration your writingish spurts. It is not a sprint, nope, it is a marathon. And there will be a
finish line. Writing in chunks. You have to sleep, walk thru the rain, have some meals but not too
many. Go to the gym. Rome was not built in one day. We have 1905 words here. Stop and
spellcheck spellcheck here.
AAAAAAA
IN THE RAINIEST PLACE ON THE PLANET
So, now she is back in the room with the telly. It is all later in the day. Her writing is kind
of off, not ordered enough. she will edit it later but somehow there is no way that you can build
this into nice little chunks that move just the way they should. It is tricky with words, they do not
work like that. You cannot order them into nice, overseeable chunks. Or can you? Should you?
Stories that can be devoured in exactly one hour. That is how movies work. A whole life distilled
into two hours. Without commercials in the breaks.
On the telly, a commercial for an insurance company. With the statue of liberty in the
back. It is always lady liberty, all green all imposing, all stretched out arm. Now it is the woman
who talks bout weightloss. You too can be thin. Well, maybe I like to stay chubby and round and
unwrinkled. Who needs a turkey neck? Lose weight fast, nah, lose weight slowly. Take all the
time you want. You have to be satiated, you have to be happy and healthy. And back to matlock.
Matlock in the rain. We have some 300 words here, we need some 1200, what with the 500 from
the evening before it will all gel together. Nicely ah neatly here.
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800 word still. Then her days work will be done. Somehow this all got confusing here.
Still matlock, everything is on the beach. Which is weird because it is all rainy in here. Well, not
in here, but outside. The overcast that makes you sit inside and write and watch whatever is on
the telly, a beach on a screen. Summer on the screen. California. A woman in green. It is all about
finding a murderer, it always is. Whodunit. Who is the killer, who was the killer? Everybody is
beautiful and well groomed. Packaged killing. There is suspenseful music. There is romance. A
slight phoniness over all of this. And matlock with his earthy charm. That kind of juxtaposes the
debauchery. The woman now puts a needle into the body of the other person, he stares at her and
then looses consciousness. The movie is certifiably creepy.
And the music does not help. You cringe. Author here should drive out to the bookstore in
the big mall. Or take the train there. If you write a book you might as well sit in a place with lots
of books. Words bound. Into neat packages. Outside the greenery is happening, wet and well wet,
it is way to dark for July. Matlock is finished, which is signaled by the theme song, author had no
clue that this is all over, who was the killer?
Now another movie, diagnosis murder. A radio host and a person who listens to the radio.
The persons who listens seems to be a weirdo. He plays with plants. The person who talks into
the mike is very solemn. Author here has no clue what is going on. Now, the hospital. Scrubs and
white clothes. The guy who used to say mary poppins. You murdered 52 people.
17 500 words here.
Apparently somebody will be put to death because he killed 52 people. And now the
theme music and the opening credits. As if this is something normal. ME TV. It is always
rerunning of shows from long ago. They show Gilligans island and Colombo. Mamas family.
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And the original odd couple. Not the movie. The show. Not the one with the guy who plays
chandler on friends. Yup, it seems, we watch tons of tv here. 17580 words here. Something about
a bomber now. A man who talks to the guy who played the man who said mary poppins. Now an
execution. Maybe we should change the channel here.
17 614.
400 words and we are outta here and utta here.
The solemn music on the telly. And back to the hospital. The community hospital.
General community hospital. Or community general. A room inside the hospital. An autopsy,
apparently. Outside the rain is coming down here.
We can imagine a coffee house. That is what writers apparently do. They imagine places
that they have never ever been. They describe train rides they never took. Situations that are
unreal. Fiction fiction fiction fiction.
And outside the dreary greenery is happening. The sun that should shine brightly and
refuse to do so. The overcast that is always there. On the telly, the story unfolds. One again the
mary poppins guy, dick van dyke. We have 17 737 words here.
Author could write about other things, instead of watching the liberty mutual ad again.
There are differing ones, they all show the statue in New York harbor though. An ad for adult
diapers. You even can get samples delivered to your door. And now an ad for a garden hose. A
better one. One that contracts to its original size. The narrator is very cheerful. Cheerful and
matter-of facet. A happy male voice. The hose has some webbing, whatever that is. And you get
an extra one for free for this incredibly low price. To order call the number on the screen. And
back to the murder scene, it is not inside of the hospital, they now talk to a person in uniform.
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Apparently some of the protagonists are physicians, the other ones policemen. Now, suspenseful
music. That always works. With crime movies it is all about the music and with sitcoms it is all
about laugh tracks. We have 17 901. Still one hundred words and the work for today is done. We
even ironed out the day when we missed the daily write. If you miss a day of work, you make
sure that you work overtime the next day. Writing works like that, just as everything else does.
The poet who works in a regimented way. Militaristic attitude in art. That should always work,
has to always work. You have to will the text forward. 17 980, 20 words and we can go out to
have ice cream with cookie dough therein. That is how you pay for good writing. That is how
you show your appreciation. 18 011, 18 011. Yay and yaya and yay.
IN THE RAINIEST PLACE ON THE PLANET
So, now she is back in the room with the telly. It is all later in the day. Her writing is kind
of off, not ordered enough. she will edit it later but somehow there is no way that you can build
this into nice little chunks that move just the way they should. It is tricky with words, they do not
work like that. You cannot order them into nice, overseeable chunks. Or can you? Should you?
Stories that can be devoured in exactly one hour. That is how movies work. A whole life distilled
into two hours. Without commercials in the breaks.
On the telly, a commercial for an insurance company. With the statue of liberty in the
back. It is always lady liberty, all green all imposing, all stretched out arm. Now it is the woman
who talks bout weightloss. You too can be thin. Well, maybe I like to stay chubby and round and
unwrinkled. Who needs a turkey neck? Lose weight fast, nah, lose weight slowly. Take all the
time you want. You have to be satiated, you have to be happy and healthy. And back to matlock.
Matlock in the rain. We have some 300 words here, we need some 1200 what with the 500 from
the evening before, it will all gel together. Nicely neatly here. Hey.
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9.
On the telly, two and a half men. That and laugh tracks. Outside. The sun is shining in all
of her glory. Well, al least partially. As much aas it is possible on this hurt day of july. The
writing has to be done, the words have to be fed to the machine.
a.
the coffee house in itzehoe. The walk from the train station to the coffee house.
Everything is just so. The houses, the cars. A small town outside of Hamburg. Her writing
marches forward, the words accumulate. Nowadays it is more like a journal, disparate musings.
Whatever she pleases. It is all about practicing the writerly profession. Later on she will find the
best stuff and send it out. That seems to be a strategy as good as any. She could be a painter again
or an animator. But it seems that that ship has sailed. Now it is writing, it is about words. This
was not her first choice, it kind of crept into her art practice, ever since the first gallery report.
Ever since they wanted her to write about what others draw. Little small essays that describe
what you see. Why would anyone read about a painting when one could watch it? Why use
words to describe the obvious. A picture is worth a thousand words, how can you revert that
maxim into writing about pictures. Debate about the aesthetic values. Some art historical
connotations thrown in for good luck. Visual art does not have to be explained. It has to be
looked at. Simply and only. That is what is wrong with the art world today. Too many words
here.
The rain is coming down, reluctant drops. The town is desolate, apparently most of these
people are commuters. They work in bigger cities, in office buildings. Well, the people who run
the coffee house live here or maybe they live somewhere else. She could ask them, start
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conversations. Conversations is not her thing. She likes to make up things about people. Fictional
lives. Stories that do not really hold true. Some narrative that might slither parallel to reality or
totally oppose it. The street is getting a tad wet and her shoes are not good for walking over the
payment. She might fall again. She falls a lot these days. She dislocates her shoulder, gets
stitches on her head and her forehead. How tough is it to put one foot in front of the next? She is
not a toddler who just learns how to walk, but somehow she manages to drop her whole body
down onto the ground and hit her head on steps, on sharp edges. She has to walk; she does not
know why there is this propensity to lose balance. Maybe better shoes are what will cement her
step. Soles that do not glide over the wet floor. She has this pair of shoes that are really
comfortable, but they tend to make her slide. Make her trip. There is something about the design
that is utterly faulty.
b.
bankastrati. The place where they serve round cakes with pink mush in them. The
glistening chocolate glaze on top. Ah, bliss. The lilt of Icelandic to go with the cake. With the
mint tea. There are persons walking outside. She could do some shopping. New blouses, new
pants. The stores here are kind of expensive. You can get the same wares elsewhere for cheap.
She is not a shopper. Every purchase is a big operation. She is the one who will hunt for a certain
kind of cut for five days. And then, when she finally has made up her mind, the store has sold
that particular cut. Yup and that is how we are not a fashionista here.
c.
union square, the three flights of steps to the writers studio. All the ones that are not
really successful. There is a happy whiff of failure about the whole place, a grim will to make it.
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Even though there are no publishing contracts glooming on the horizon. Writing in the face of
adversity. There are workshops to be taken though some of the writers prefer to go it all by
themselves. There were no workshops for victor hugo. Tshechov wrote without tutelage by other,
lesser writers. You just have to do it. This is not football, you do not need a coach. Just do it, a la
nike. Just write your stuff, your words.
She will go down to the Melissa place or maybe to the donut place on 14th. Donut places
are nice, they are so pedestrian. So anti foodie crowd. The everydonut of the everyman. Nobody
in this city is a foodie, a gourmet. Everyone picks up a hot dog from the hotdog stand. It is like
an appetizer for a fancy restaurant where you want to be seen. The sauerkraut on the dog is more
delicious than the overpriced stuff by the hyped up restaurant de jour.
d.
she has to lose weight. Not for cosmetic reasons, actually the extra poundage around her
neck makes her look chubby in a good way. Total strangers smile at her in the mall. She has this
blubbery mom like feature that signals I will feed you. The extra pounds that explode around her
midst. It feels comfy, satiated. The happy smile on her lips that comes from having enough to eat.
How can you be thin without being emaciated.
e.
19 163. On the telly, the show with the two women who wait on tables in Williamsburg.
The women with yellow uniforms here. Snarky remarks shouted out with convictions. Who
watches this? Not a hipster in Brooklyn. It is a fictional story about fictional people. Mere
characters. Caricatures. The laugh tracks hold the storyline together.
f.
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eight hundred words and she will have written enough words for this day. She kind of
cheated, she has some 300 that were left over from the day before here. An ad for a pill on the
telly. When did this all start up, the commercialization of ads for pharma. An ad for a chocolate.
Now that is more like it. And an ad for a car. They are all the same, something with four wheels
hunkering down the freeway. Tough they are more in nature, the nonautobahn cars. Cars that
have something to do with trees. No reason why, but most commercials are utterly pointless. 700
words about the overcast, the telly, the oncoming evening of the day that is not quite there as of
yet. She tries to be as wordy as possible. Words work en masse, solitary words will not cut it.
The more words you make up, the more they can be good . or bad for that matter. Quantity of
words. Ah. The nerds on the telly. The big bang persons. The comix store. They all talk about
their nerdiness.
g.
deafening laughtracks. Author has seen all of these episodes before. This is what people
do once they graduate from art school. They watch tv. Binge watching is what we graduated to
here. There are no art professions. No careers. No openings. She will just have to continue
vegging out on the green couch and listening in to the songs of the laugh tracks. It is a life,
though not of the non-pathetic kind. One has to let go of loathing oneself. Somebody will take
her on, eventually. There is always the route of self publishing. The words will not rot. She has to
order them though. Sporadic paragraphs mushed together, that will not cut it here. The edit, the
rewrite. She prefers a mouse to clean up her writing, it works better and more efficient. The
computer in the community college on 49th has a mouse near each screen, but the monitor is too
far away from the seat. This is what makes for good writing or bad writing, the right material.
When she used to write longhand, the pen she used was paramount. The paper. That is what it is
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all about, the right material for the right words. You only can formulate lucidly when you have
the right pen. Though, apparently, Orwell, penned 1948 in bed. And we have 19 627 here.
h.
boozehounding is what real authors do. Those that are worth their salt. Bars, pubs,
closing times. How can you possibly write without consuming fermented bevs. A beer, wine,
whiskey, vodka. If you merely drink chamomile tea, then your words have to suck.
i.
some two hundred words. She can go down to the market, walk by the aisles of
toothbrushes and cookies, look at canned beans or at brooms, and then come back and write
something about consumerism. There are always reader who like to read about consumerism.
How it is next to debauchery. Great minds all think alike, thus, maybe they are not that great.
They are mere herds of sheep. Bahhh.
j.
she could pick up crayons. After all she trained as a visual artist. Crayons, huh.
k.
19 760. Some sentences should do. Coffee houses and the descripts of them. The tea that
wafts, the cake that crumbles.
l.
Sheldon and Amy. The credits at the end, the familiar theme song. 200 words or so.
m.
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an ad for a fitness studio. Open 24 hours. You can exercise all day here. Then you will
lose weight. Or you can of course count the portions of what you eat. Make sure to eat at certain
times in the day. Write it down.
n.
a new episode of big bang. Lennards mother is coming for a visit. She is in the good
wife.
o.
a walk over 14th. She will just walk around a tad, only to look at people in order to get
ideas for her writings. It is all about calibrating your pauses. About the right amount of steps you
take in between writing spurts. Taking the subway is good too. So many faces, so many people.
Study their shoes, their hair dos. Look out the window when the train goes over one of the
bridges. Look out at the water towers. She grabs a donut, one with jelly in it. The quintessential
jelly donut with oozing jam. That makes everything fall in place. If you do not have donuts you
can hardly function. Then again, too many donuts will make yer heavy. Yup, choices, choices.
The choices of the poet in New York City. Two more words and 20002 it is here.
10.
On the telly, Barak Obama in Warsaw. He is taking questions and most questions are
about the Dallas shooting. Outside there is silent greenery, it is ten in the morn on a Saturday in
July. Obama is at the Nato summit.
a.
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a silent day in itzehoe. A coffee house, a rumbly apple cake. Not pie and not quiche,
though technically all quiches are savoury. A flan. Nope, it is a crumbly cake, very pedestrian,
nothing fancy. It is the fare of regular people. Whatever that might imply. The author types away
at her laptop, she put the computer in a bag, so that the raindrops will not hurt it. Her writing
days in this city, this so very small town outside of Hamburg. She thinks about her writing while
she is on the train. The train dictates its songs to her. There is no plot, but these days she is less
apologetic for that, she does not even feel that it is a liability to not have a plot. We are way past
that. The sentences have to gel, that is what is important here. Author looks at the three women
near the window, do they always come here for a chat? Apparently they do. The waitress has her
bored face; the fashion store is opening up. It must be ten in the morn. The fashion woman has a
pillbox hat on her hair, on her up do. Ah a silent day in itzehoe here.
b.
wow, does she feel sick. Sick out of nowhere. Health is so great, you only appreciate it
when it is gone. She has to barf. Throw up, but tries not to. On the telly, an ad for a flash lite.
Buy ever brite. This is all we can do here, sit and type. While feeling like shit. Maybe a walk
would be good, but you have to have the energy for a walk. Better to stay put, better better.
Usually she feels good, but today is not like that. She had almonds the night before and some
kind of raisins that were red and pretty big. Cranberries, maybe, they did not agree with her.
Feeling sick while feeding words to the machine, we have 20 377 words here, still 1600 more are
needed. Words that have to be pushed into the laptop. Writing is her raison detre and it makes
her feel better. The focus of throwing all of these letters into the keyboard seems to make her feel
better. The action of typing, the formulating of semi coherent sentences. That do not really say
much, that are all about coffee houses the world over. About trains and the sights, she sees when
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looking out of the window while raindrops are falling down. The motion of people that are
thrown from side to side and up and down. The slight motioning of the subway trains. People
who stare stoically in front of themselves., trying to avoid face contact with strangers. You just
have to go from place A to place B here and then, once home, you walk write about that. And
maybe, maybe, somebody will read this at a later time. People have to read, in order to get
grades, in order to get paid. The whole publishing machine is over-whelming. She used to make
films but not anymore. Her film making days have expired. Nowadays it is all about all of these
words here. The writing about itzehoe and bankastrati, about the writers studio on the third floor
off fourteenth, up from union square, up towards the meat packing. New York is fascinating to
her, but merely certain sights, certain places. Certain laundromats, well, actually one specific one
on eighth. And then there is this grocery store where the person who run the place, is older every
time she comes here. From curly haired youth to short haired man of responsibility. The change
of men over the years. Women are not like that, they try to look like sweet sixteen all their lives.
There are plastic surgeries, there are nose jobs. On the telly, a show about surgery.
c.
20 696 words here.
d.
20 700.
e.
it is five and thirty minutes. On a Saturday afternoon in July. On the telly, two and a half
men. And all of those laugh tracks. Lyndsey and Alan. Outside, the greenery, the reluctant sun.
shimmers of summer over the city. A cool brightness, one that is more grey than blue. Grey
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flecks of sky lurking out behind the leaves. Charlie on the piano. What to write about that? Berta,
Alan. 20 744 words here. The afternoon that is full of tv and the like.
f.
20 790.
e.
all the houses on bankastrati. All the storefronts. There is much to describe. She will take
notes, later, and then go back to the hotel room and put it all into words. Short notes that are
followed by wordy elaborations. That is how we construct a narrative. The narrative of the street.
This particular street. It is fascinating to her mainly because she is not from here. The novelty.
The way that she will never ever be from here. Always looking on as an outsider. She does not
even speak the language of the people here. Two or three words of Icelandic that is all she wants
to muster. She wants to stay an outsider. It helps her with her writing. There are no commitments
whatsoever so she can focus on her art. On the word count. On the obligatory word count per
day. She has to fulfil that. In the same way that a marathon runner runs for no reason. The tour de
france bicycles go through France for no reason. The fun of achieving a goal. Even if it is
basically a nonsensical goal. That is what writing is to her. The words put on paper, like
embroidery, like knitting. The yarn of the story or the non-story for that matter here. 21 600, for
now and for now here.
f.
there is actually a concrete outcome with knitting and embroidery, so it is different from
the written word. Well, if you print out your writing you have something you can touch and hold
in your hands, a piece of paper, many pieces of paper bound into a book. She ponders, there are
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other things more pressing than the considerations about the gist of writing, she will now first
have the obligatory round cake in the caf, and then she will stroll back to the hotel.
g.
21 102.
h.
the rain outside of the train window. Silently we are going down to itzehoe. The person in
the uniform, her ticket. Danke. Bitte. Not much of conversationalists, these people here. Well,
obviously, it is not true, it is a mere stereotype. Nordic people as cold as the weather. It feeds
writing, one can make up stories that describe lack of emotion, but they are just that, stories.
Words on a page. Author here struggles with the words, each and every day. It is always a
struggle, always a fight. If it came easy it would not work. The sentences do their own thing,
they wander off. Outside the rain becomes more dense. She will walk from the station to the
coffee house. She did not bring her umbrella. Ah, fun here.
i.
a Sunday morn against the type writer. She had her coffee, was at the gym. And now back
to the typing machine. In the coffee house there were two persons who spoke a language that she
could not figure out what it was, the woman behind the counter said to her nice to see you.
Author merely smiled, she should have said something nice, like nice to see you too, she did not,
just got her coffee and smiled. Ah, the etiquette of the coffee house, it is complicated. The other
woman has lost weight, it is very obvious. Author here has lost weight too, she hardly had
anything the day before. She felt sick and just had a piece of bread for lunch and one for dinner.
Not even a whole piece. Sickness is good for your shape, you cannot eat, cannot hold anything
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down, you weigh less and your joints are happy happy. Yup, these are her insights on a Sunday
morning in July, a bird makes funny, gurgling noises outside, twice and after that it is silence.
Only the noise of the typing here. 21 423. 600 more and we have fulfilled yesterdays allotment.
j.
short writing spurts here. Her descripts are off, there were two women in the coffee house
behind the counter, one blond one and one black haired one. It was not that clear in the writing.
Maybe it does not really matter in the end, after all, these are mere inconsequential stories. There
was this other barista too, seems, that they are all students. They sure are young. 21 501. In three
days she will have her stitches removed. Or four days. She has to figure it out, the exact date
here.
k.
21 527.
l.
on the telly, this show that promotes a program named tai-chen. No, not tai-chi, but it
looks just like tai-chi. Slow movements in unison with other people. Apparently it is good for
you. For your balance. For your core. There is a woman who says that she is eighty and she runs
faster than all the others on the tennis court. And she plays tennis three times a week. And we do
not even play tennis once. And people are afraid to fall. Apparently gymnastics is good for that.
For posture and the like here.
Writing about what is on the telly. This is literature for you here.
m.
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some more words here. While the telly is singing its songs. While the day marches on
outside. There are all these pinterest buttons that come to her in her inbox. They are all about
writing. How does pinterest know that she writes? Who somewhere in Silicon Valley knows that
she is into writing? Well, everything you do online is common goods anyways. No biggie.
n.
three hundred words. Three hundred and then she has fulfilled yesterdays allotment.
Then again, one could say that the weekends are off, that you merely need to write five times a
week. A nine to five job. The new Jerusalem. You have to get to your writing studio on the Staten
island ferry. Then it becomes official that you are a writer. Even if you never attain publishment.
Who really cares? What is the dif between published writers and non-published ones? Some
gloss of approval that we can do without here. She will make sure to catch the train down to
itzehoe here.
o.
an ad for the fight against Alzheimers. an ad for something that does not have artificial
flavours. A non-artificial flavour product, apparently a pet food.
p.
21 833.
q.
what will she do when she reaches Z. How do you partition your words in a coherent
way? On the telly, Fareed Zakaria. It is interesting to listen in to the telly, but it kind of interferes
with her writings. The brain works in different, conflicting ways. You try to consume words and
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spit out words at the same time. Something has to give. The endorphins that are released when
you have to do too much is good, the rush, on the other hand, your writing suffers. The choice of
words here.
r.
Fareed Zakaria. GPS. 21 932 words. This is about the Dallas shootings. Talking heads.
Outside the sun is shining. Apparently today is the last match of the soccer contest.
s.
bankastrati, well, why not describe that place once more. The round cake with the gloss
thereon. The fork that goes in and the crumbs that stick to the fork. The steam that comes out of
the mint tea. Three more words and we have 22 001, finally here.
11.
You can watch France versus Portugal in a tad more than an hour. There is live stream.
Somebody will win.
a.
you can go to the mall, too. Watch with others. Yell happily, boo happily. She has to pen
some two thousand words. Here. Pounding away at the keyboard. We have 22 059 words here
and we will stop this at 24 000. Apparently you have to write each and every day here. The
words ah the words. She could describe bankastrati, itzehoe and union square. The three places
where the author writes. The fictional writer. Nobody knows where the fictional characters end
and the real writer starts up. It is weird to write fiction. It is much better to write non-fiction,
mainly because it sells better. People like to read about reality. Stories are on a lower ladder, they
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are all about zombies and the like. Today this being Sunday there will be Colombo on the telly.
The one show that holds the week together. The guy in the rumpled up raincoat who wants to
find the real stuff, who looks at each and every detail until he gets to the gist of the story. The
investigative attitude towards life. The facts that count, that supersede anything and everything.
And we have some 22 222 words here. A nice roundish number here. Only 1800 to go. She has a
tummy ache which kind of interferes with writing. With finding the right words. The tummy ache
subsides. No more aches at all. You can just go ahead and forge all of these words to the machine
here. Write the masterpiece. The war and piece of today. The one that will make her famous over
night. Maybe not a good idea, for a writer, fame is death. You have to be able to be a fly on the
wall, to observe and observe and observe here. You cannot do that when others are observing
you. 22 330. Some more ah some more here.
b.
the stroll down bankastrati. People walking by her, Icelandic sentence fragments.
Somebody speaking in French for a change, in a strong Quebecois accent. Reykjavik is not that
far from anywhere anymore. The coffee house with the round cake awaits.
c.
22 378.
d.
so now the final of euro 16 is on, Portugal versus France. Nobody has scored as of yet.
There is an ad for energy of Azerbaijan on the side of the stadium. Still they are playing, one of
them had a knee injury. Maybe author should not be a sports writer, you have to have more
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enthusiasm. The British commentator is good, because that is how soccer game commentators
should be. British and male.
e.
would be good if she could watch both her typing and the game at the same time. There
have to be buttons pushed in order to achieve that.
f.
they are still at 0/0. She just can watch it sequentially, in an either/or way. Either the
match or the word docu.
g.
22 511.
h.
so, Portugal won. And that is the end of it. On the telly, a journalist in some jungle talking
about stuff. Outside the sunniness is going remiss. Reluctant sunniness. Different shades of
green. Green with some orange therein. There are more interesting things to describe than the
colors of different leaves. The description of shades of green, not enough to form a story. We
have 22 570 nonetheless here.
i.
on the telly, the running of the bulls. In Spain. In a city that starts with a P.
j.
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she gets out at union square. She has to go up to the writing studio but does not really feel
like it. What is one more master piece or one less. She always goes to the readings all over town,
in this club at the bowery and in this place in midtown. New York is a city of writers; Brooklyn is
a city of writers. Everybody aspires to something else than what is the day job, that bloody day
job. She ponders, now there is something to write about. The aspirations of people. The day job.
Something like that, something of that kind. She walks up 14 th, finds herself in a dunkins.
Donuts are always fun; it is her fuel. America apparently runs on dunkins. The ads cannot be all
wrong. She lives on donuts and cheeseburgers these days. This is a city of walkers so it does not
really show. No beer belly either.
k.
the seat on the train next to the window. The raindrops against the window. Once she is in
itzehoe, she has to walk through the rain, but at this point she can stay put. Think about writing.
About how boring it really is. Nothing but words against some machine. The try each and every
day, the utter failure as a published scribe. You have to be really committed to do this. Believe in
yourself. Or be utterly crazy. Well, her word count is at 22 843 here.
l.
bankastrati, round cake, glaze. The usual, the usual. The exotic is now the everyday,
Icelandic has lost its novelty. Now it is merely a language of which she cannot decipher a word.
Some music in the background that has nothing to do with her here. In the hotel, she can watch
English news channels, Cnn, Aljazeera. Not that it really matters. Everything mushes together in
this place. The highlight of every day is the round cake with the chocolate glaze. The ritual of
coming here to this caf. She even posts reviews on yelp about the round cake. And one picture.
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m.
Samantha Power on the telly. We have 22 958 words here.
n.
she needs some one thousand words more. Once more she can describe the coffee houses
where writing happens. All the action that is inherent in writing. The boredom, the stagnation.
The utter rest, the refusal to move through the world. You just sit in silence and write about your
observations. Rehash them.
o.
now they are discussing the soccer game on the telly. The win of the Portuguese. Nobody
mentions the fashion statement of the Portuguese goalie. Which was actually the most significant
visual statement. Forget about the outcome of the game here.
p.
23 057.
q.
something to write about for 1000 words. She should take this down to the coffee house
on Arbutus, there is always something to see. People with their dogs, joggers. Cars going up the
street and cars coming down the street. People ordering differing cups of coffee. With milk,
without milk. With whip and without. Something is always happening in a coffee house. It is less
sterile than sitting in your living room. More stuff to observe. These days she goes out in the
morn, takes the subway and then comes back to write about what she saw. She observes and
internalizes. It is one node of writerly strategy.
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r.
in Tokyo there was an election, the same person is head of state again. Re-election
apparently.
s.
there has to be a new coffee place to describe here. One with dainty porcelain. With nice
coffee and nice sugary goodies. With nicely dressed persons. Where you go to be seen and you
go to see people. Where you make sure that you look impeccable, not like a tourist coming thru
town. Author here should look at images on yelp to get some fodder for what she wants to
describe. Look at images, read thru reviews. Yelp and you tube, that informs her writings here.
She still needs some 700 words or so at 3:36 in the afternoon of a Sunday in July.
t.
on the telly, four different persons are interviewed about the Dallas shootings. And now
an ad for, wait, indeed. A site for jobs. An ad for a car, an ad for a hair product. The narrator for
the car is always the same. The ads are different, the person talking about the car is the same,
stays the same here.
u.
23 353.
v.
on the telly, reruns of other news show clips. That is how 24-hour-news is done, it is all
just a big repeat. Push a button and make the same thing play again. News has lost substance, it
is all entertainment, ah, the good old times.
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Author here has to find some 700 words, she has to bead the words together, how did
they do that when there was no word count icon on a monitor.
Coffee houses in bankastrati and itzehoe have been described ad nauseum, the writing
studio too, the one on the third floor near union square. There is only so much you can wring out
of a subject matter this sparse. It all becomes repetitious. Everything has been said before, the
eternal lament of writers. Nothing new to say. And still we find new words each and every day.
The contentment that comes with typing a certain amount of words per day. It is like jogging,
like doing crunches. Sitting and typing. Sitting and writing longhand. You can change your seat,
go and write at another table. In order to see the world a tad different, in order to achieve a
slightly different perspective. On the telly an ad for a glue that glues your dentures on. And an ad
for a beach, for a spa, a resort. Young people travelling, old people travelling. First the target
audience is shown, the grey haired ones and then the young people are shown as if to contradict
the idea that this is an ad targeted to old people. Marketing is a science, apparently apparently
here. She still needs some 400 words on a Sunday afternoon in July, in order to feel that she has
accomplished something. Like practicing for a marathon, like practicing playing the harp.
Writing is the same, type and type and type here. Sorry, apote, there is nothing wrong with
typing.
23 670 words. Outside, the day is getting grey, a tad prematurely. Premature greyness.
Different tones of green on the leaves. Brown leaves, browned leaves of all the blossoms. There
is something new to describe here. 23 750 words here. Make that 23 705. The fast glance at the
word count icon is not necessarily accurate. It is just that, a fast glance. Numbers that might be
there or might not be there.
200 words. On the telly, the news. Protests.
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Hot tea and sugar cubes. That is what she lives on. And bread and cheese. Her weight has
to go down, radically. It always goes up radically and goes down radically.
23 781 words. Some 200 and we are outta here. The meticulous counting of the words.
The words themselves have to have substance, this way of writing will not cut it. Or will it?
Outside, the afternoon leaning into evening. Time to go for a walk, to do the reluctant exercisings
of the day. Still some 130 words are needed and nothing on the telly to describe. An ad for a
toothbrush, an electrical one. An ad for sunglasses. And now, a toothpaste ad. Everything is about
teeth. 130 words. Writing ah writing here. Tea with sugar and writing, this is the life.
Still some more words. The last days for the day. The day when Portugal won over
France. She is officially out of words here. Filler words have to do. Outside, the day marches
forward. She will go down to the market, slither by the aisles and look at ice cream and baked
beans. That is what will make her write once she is back inside here. Fifty words. Fifty long
words that will finish this, drive this forward here. We are at 23 967.
Still some more words still some more words here. 23 977. Greenery outside, telly
singing its songs, nothing nice on the telly, ten more words here, six, four, finally at 24 000.
12.
Another 2000 words. On the telly, big bang. Author here wants to get a jump start on the
2000 she will form up the next day. Apparently the more you write the better it gets. Or not. One
can only try and hope for the best here.
a.
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the ubiquitous descript of the coffee house in bankastrati. The one that definitely exists on
yelp. You can see the pictures; you can read the reviews. You can watch a vid that shows
bankastrati. That is enough research for a book here.
b.
a store in bankastrati. Which is actually called bankastraeti but we call it bankastrati here.
The store has outdoor clothing. Author here watches you tube movies that each have 35 views
max and that are all about a walk on bankastrati. She should find the yelp page about the
coffeehouse too. Everything should be authentic. You cannot make up reality that you base on
movies and yelp. It is kind of way too off kilter.
c.
on the telly, big bang. These are all reruns. Author has seen them all before and will see
them again long after she has written this up. The tv that dictates its stories to the author. Outside
the greenery is more checkered than before. There are shadows now that signal impending eve.
The upper leaves are bathed in light suddenly. There is more contrast in the greenery. She had
some pasta dish, with some veggies and chicken bits therein. A frozen meal that has the exact
amount of calories written up on the package. We should really be able to lose weight; it is pure
math here.
d.
24 277. The raindrops outside of the train to itzehoe. The ticket controller, bitte danke.
The train is chugging along. It is soothing, somehow like a commute to an office. The office is
the coffee house. The one opposite of the fashion store.
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e.
24 321. Still so many many more words left to be typed up here. It is 6:49 on a Sunday in
July. Nothing to write about. Nothing but the lack of stuff to write about. Writers block en masse.
f.
clicking on all those images on foursquare and tripadvisor. Images of beverages, images
of places she has been to. Images of places she has never been. Different ways of how whipped
cream looks. Apparently there is even a job as a food historian, that sounds like fun. Scholarly
analyzing of, well, food.
g.
some 1500 words to go. She can do it part today and part the day after. Outside, the
greenery is not interesting anymore, all green in one drab colour.
h.
on the telly, the end of perry mason. Justice has been served. Now, it will be matlock. The
weather apparently is ok, it is 20 degrees Celsius, but it sure is overcast. Greenery en drab. On
the telly, a kidnapping with a lot of yelling.
i.
it is actually 15 degrees Celsius and that is exactly how it feels here. A spiffy day in july.
A day that is not really july-ish. But, hey, we always have words to feed to the machine here. She
watched all these images on yelp about coffees in coffee shops, apparently it is research.
Research for this book. The different visuals of whipped cream. Different peaks. With sprinkles.
This is what her writing is about mostly. Things you can see, smell, taste. Reality, facts. The
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visual world. Where do novels begin and where do they end? What is inner conflict?
Foreshadowing? There are different ways to order a novel, she can study them in one of those
numerous workshops all over town. Online workshops. Ah, writing cannot be taught. You just sit
in front of the computer and type a certain amount of words here. It will all work out, has to,
should.
j.
writing about different states of whipped cream seems to be her new subject matter,
especially because she is feeling kind of woozy, she had three stitches to her forehead about three
days ago and somehow it hurts in her ear for no apparent reason, seems that the skin does not
like to be poked with a needle here and kind of reacts badly, the ganglions and the synapses fire,
she used to know much more about that, how neurons react and are neurons and dendrites and
ganglions somehow interrelated, of course they are, all she knows is that this is something she
could definitely do without, she got a tetanus shot too, apparently it will be ok until ten years
from now, this is what we can write about here, while the telly is singing its songs here. She was
at the bank and at the gym and at the coffee house, now she has to stay put and type up 2000
words and any 2000 should do. We are not partial here, the sheer number of the words is what
counts. The quantity, the amount of words. Somebody will deem this printable, will throw money
at her voice being printed and distributed, marketed to all corners of this planet. Why not? She
has things to say. About different consistencies of whipped cream on hot chocolate, whether the
peaks are similar or dissimilar. These are pressing issues; wars have been fought over such. In
Gullivers travels it was like that, so, yay, we can fight over everything here on this planet. 24
905.yay ah yay yay yay here.
k.
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walking up bankastraeti. A day in April. A Saturday. It is nice, though cold. Icelandic. She
wears this wool hat that has flaps over the ears, it is a tad too youthful, but boy is it warm and
happy-making. One feels chummy and the hot cocoa in the coffee house is great too. She even
takes a pic and puts it on foursquare, apparently yelp does not work here or it does and she does
not know which button to push. All those buttons out of Silicon Valley, they are confusing the
world, that is for sure. All of these machines here. And then there is tripadvisor and zimbio, they
too let you upload pictures. She took a pic of the peaks of the whipped cream, they are
intriguing, kind of uneven, not in the way that starbucks gives you whip on beverages. These are
more rough, more Icelandic, more wild and unencumbered whipped cream peaks, they go with
the rest of the country. Yup, that is what she will write about, food. At home, she always watches
the great British baking show, it is really nice, that is just how it is. Maybe the name is different,
she does not quite recall it that clearly, that accurately. She ponders, whether to take the cup of
cocoa with her and walk up the street or whether to stay put in here, where it is warm and nice.
Eventually she has to leave, but maybe first she should finish the beverage. Choices, ah, choices.
She is all by herself, came here to Reykjavik for three months in order to write.
Sometimes it is too weird to be all alone, at other times it is really good for the writing process.
For solitude. There is a thin line between isolation and contentment and solitude, writing is
something where you are isolated, it is you who forms the words and spits them out either on
paper or against the machine. Anyhoo, the cocoa is finished, time to walk the sugar off, the
excessive sugar here.
l.
the donut shoppe on 14th. A donut with jelly therein, red jam oozing out. This is what
writers do, they have donuts, dunk them sometimes, cops do the same. Cabdrivers. She has tons
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of sugar that is what fuels her words. Maybe that is the reason why they are non-published, but
maybe that is good, there is a romance about artistic failure and a bla-ness about artistic success.
Musicians without record labels, that crash on other peoples couches, that is the epitome of
bohemian existence. Not by choice though. Art is not subsidized by the state as is science, there
is nothing one can do here. She dunks the donut, parts of the jelly swim through the tea, she
looks out at 14th. New York has its certain romanticness, this city attracts people from all over the
world. Maybe because it is just a funny city at its core. One day she will take the Staten island
ferry, she never did it before. She just watched 9 to 5 here.
m.
itzehoe is so far from anywhere. Obviously persons from this city will not like it if she
disses their city. She comes here still most days of the week, does her writing, leaves. Her office
in the coffee place, she is really a commuter. Her hotel on the esplanaden in Hamburg is a tad too
expensive, well, actually, it is way overpriced for her purpose. It is geared towards business
travellers, who do not pay out of pocket. She still stays there though because that is the place she
knows best. She is not very adventurous, it is all about taking the train and coming here and
going back, sleeping and repeat. She is an animal of order, of predictability. That is how she can
function slightly properly.
n.
on the telly., one of those soaps where everything is dramatic and you never ever know
who is who. It is always a so very confusing narrative, but people usually are good looking and
well-dressed. And isnt that all we want here. Well this ad is actually disgusting, that is why
author here will make sure never ever to get that particular product here.
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o.
400 words. Fast, schnell, schnell. She can feel her back acting up at the place where her
right arm meets the torso. Somewhere near the neck, slight pangs of soreness. This is what
writing is all about. The right posture, some words and then finish. Writing, reading, what kind of
jobs are these. Nothing but words, superfluous words in the world here. The soap people- talk
about death and injections, but they are dressed to kill. And they fight with each other but
apparently not loud enough to wake the neighbors.
p.
a reading. Yup, she too is doing a reading. She has printed out these seven pages that
describe a person in Amsterdam, it is a good enough passage, it has good sentences, though not
smashing ones. She is wearing a black top and black boots, every thing looks together, the
writing studio asked all of its members to do readings in this place on the bowery. Each person
can read for seven minutes.
q.
outside the day marches forward. Cold, chilly. On the telly, the soap. Everything full of
drama. The coloring is off, all white and black and silvery. The weather is bad, dramatic. The
drama of a soap.
s.
some more words ah some more words here. An ad for cheese. Brie. Images of brie. Now
an ad for ikea. Italian music. An ad for body wash. An ad for some pill. An ad for family guy. An
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ad for other shows. We need 200 more here and then we can be happily go our way. Writing as
chore, that is how it is how it is here. 100 words.
t.
she could change the channel in order to get inspiration for other words. Watching the
going-ons on the telly is not enough to feed you writing habit. Your addiction to writing. It is an
addiction, an affliction. We have to write or else. What else can she do. Shoot the breeze. What
does that even mean. She might as well keep on typing here. 50 words and then this is over. She
needs about three more of this and then she has a book, another book that nobody will deem
publishable. Unpublishable rubbish. Ah. Who cares, we dont need the applause of strangers.
Five more words and finito finito. 26 001 words here.
13.
The coffee house is where she lives these days. Does her writing, has a hot chocolate with
whip that kind of looks as if it is shoveled on. A poetic image of whipped up cream that floats in
a hot beverage. She feels happy here as if she can really really write good in this place. She
should have applied for the residency, then someone else would have footed the bill. She was
past the submission deadline when she made up her mind to come for three months to Iceland.
a.
she tries not to come too often to this place, once a day, twice a day. It is such a nice place
to write, the Wi-Fi is free, the conversations are all in Icelandic which does not interfere with her
English writings. It is fun to write in here. Maybe too much fun, if you get too comfortable,
chances are that your work suffers. Apparently you have to struggle against the words, not
happily type some stuff up, whatever comes into your brain. There has to be order, there has to
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be meticulous planning for intricate plottings. Real life does not happen like that, but stories
should have the fictional illusion of purpose.
b.
she is feeling sick, nausea sets in. it is this stupid dieting, even 500 calories less than
usual makes yer feel like barfing up all over the place. But we have to stay stoic, the weight has
to come off, so that the joints will rejoice. No good to lug around too high a poundage. You have
to watch what you eat apparently apparently. You want to stay flexible. There is a right way of
doing things and a wrong way of doing things. Apparently dieting is all about value judgements.
c.
1700 words is all we need here. To make the 2000 of the day. This is of course to get a
head start on tomorrows work. So she can write less the next day. She has to churn out 2000 per
day, every day. It is like exercise. This is what marathoners do, tour de france guys. How come
there are no women in the tour de France?
d.
sitting in the train to itzehoe. The train ride to the coffee house. Each and every day here.
This is what writers do, what this particular writer does. She reads a lot of German books these
days, contemporary lit, regional lit. This book about the Alte Land. It was good. Altes Land, that
was the name. She liked it. It was a book that kind of contradicted the stereotype of the city
people going to the surroundings to somehow get in touch with nature. The book questions that
premise. Author ponders, why is she part of this exodus to the little city outside of Hamburg. It is
not what others do, she is not part of a movement, it is her own idiosyncratic behavior. She chose
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to do her writing like this. Maybe that will result in her book being unique too. One can only
hope. The rain is coming down, getting dense here.
e.
the donut shoppe on 14 th. She walked past union square to get here. There are donuts in
here but she would rather go up 14 th. It is too crowded here, but up 14th one is in this no-mansland where nothing is really happening, where everything is transitionary. People pass thru.
There are different partitions of fourteenth, they each have their own character. Her donut has
jelly in it, she dunks it into the coffee. Not good for stabilizing your weight, she has to skip the
piece of pizza later on. She is not living healthily in this city, you cannot, New York invites
overeating and you all walk it off apparently.
f.
bankastrati on a Thursday in may. Weather is nice, people are walking outside of the
coffee house. Shopping bags, laughings. In here the round cake with the chocolate glaze and the
pink mush therein. The cuppa joe.
g.
she kind of is changing the descriptions of the places mainly because she is looking at
pictures online that are different from what she describes. This is not good. You should never
ever change the story. It gets all confusing. Stick to an image. Describe it the same. This is all
fiction anyways, who cares that there is no dunkins up from union square or too many people
inside of the coffee house on bankastrati. Even reality is just that moment in time, the perspective
of that time of the day. Do not look at images online, it is not good for writing. You have to make
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up a story and stick to it. And 26 789 it is ah it is here. Outside evening is overflowing the city
here. She uses too much HERE, an overuse of this one word. Here.
h.
26 826 words. On the telly, rowers. Author never ever rowed, which is weird because she
is from a city where everybody rows. Ah, she left when she came of rowing age.
i.
some more words to drive this up, near to the round number. So that she merely needs
1000 more. Something she can wing easily the next day. 26 885.
j.
this is the show about the commie in Seinfeld. It is just funny. 100 words while listening
in to the story and the laugh tracks here. It is about the big race. 80 words.
k.
26 923. The daily worker has personal ads. We try to quote lines from the sitcom and it
does not really work. Hi, louis.
l.
Kramer as Santa. He scares the kid. 26 955. Arlene. This is Ned, he is a communist. 26
966. And once more the coffee shop, the diner. 26 975. This is loris. Well, you really went bald
there. The first million. Have you seen the new addition to the Guggenheim? Oh the big race.
And 27 005 here.
k.
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1000
So maybe we should type up some one thousand words here. The weather is still rainy,
the everything but summer paradigm is alive and well. Author was at the mall, the one in the
other city, she had a coffee and then she sat and looked at people. There were these construction
people, a small scene worth to write a book about. The one guy who was the designer had a
weird hair cut, gay but not really gay, a little too ladylike while still being slightly manly, maybe
the term is metrosexual. They used to use that term it is not en vogue any more, it is one of those
words of the year that got forgotten very fast. Anyhoo, that haircut was of the metrosexual kind,
apparently it should tell you that that particular white guy is creative, though, it is weird how that
haircut can signal that. He was wearing blue and green and beige, and apparently the tones that
he chose were saying I am creative, too. The other guy looked more like a beer belly trades guy.
So somebody who will get things done, somebody who is more comfortable in plumber pants
that are too low and show part of his back. They were both male and they pointed at stuff. There
were two others too but author does not remember them. Apparently they were not that much of
cartoonish characters. Author sat in the mall, while the mall was near to opening up. People
streaming in. Retirees, young moms. The biggest mall of the lower mainland. There is a
bookstore where you can read and look at the stuff that other published authors have penned.
Which makes you only feel jealousy so maybe that is not a good idea. There are cinnamon rolls
in the mall, the woman even knows her and greats her. Maybe she had one too many cinnamon
rolls in this place. Author here sure looks the part, she has yoyoed up 30 whole pounds since last
September. Now her back is hurting but mainly because she fell at Burrard station. Maybe it
would have been better if she had weighed even more, the polstering would have lightened the
fall, the extra fat would have made the impact of the fall slighter, smaller. Maybe after a certain
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age you should have more poundage in order to stop the impacts of falls. Anyhoo, her back is
still hurting here. She can hardly sit, has to bend over to one side here. The woman next to her is
coming back, the one who reads up about molecules and is picking constantly at her hair. In a
disgusting way as if she is harboring lice. We have 447 words here. Maybe 500 more and then it
is back to the car that is parked in the Y.
Author, the writer, she is a visual artist who forgot all about drawing. Who writes texts
that nobody will ever read. That are all about coffee houses in other parts of the planet,
imaginary ones in imaginary places. The streets exist but those coffee houses do not exist. They
dispense sugary pastries and those can be washed down with hot bevs, it has nothing to do with
writing, writing and coffee, they do not go together. Why do we think that words should be
recited in places were people drink warm stuff, slightly boiled water? We do not put poetry and
bouillabaisse together? Writing and drinking, it sounds like the hotel Mozart in Vienna some
sixty years ago. Certain things seem to evoke the smell of literature, the feel of literature, nobody
knows why. The collective connotations or merely the associations of a select few. We all have
our own histories, so how can we then see ourselves reflected in all of those words of the writer.
Art is tough, science is easier, apparently and apparently here.
She is in this place, the computer lab of the library of the community college on 49th. A
woman plays with her hair obsessively, she definitely has lice, lice. We have 675 words. We need
some more some more. Author cannot really concentrate here; the woman is driving her crazy.
Stop playing with your hair, damn it. Who does that?
She tries to sit to the other side so that she is not seeing the woman who does not stop
scratching her hair. Author has to change her seat. Definitely. If she does not want to disintegrate
here.
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300
300 words more, schnell schnell.
Still in the computer lab, for some reasons, author here had problems with logging in. She
has to log in to different computers all day long, and she messes up the respective passwords. It
took her a lot of tries. Luckily this computer system is not of the freezing-out kind here. She has
still a coffee and a cake, actually make that a tea. She has lost 4 pounds, she has to retain that.
She has to go down. The sucky weather makes her feel sad. SAD. Seasonal affective disorder,
apparently you get it in Summer too. When summer is more like winter.
At the other compute r a young kid with too red hair, definitely dyed. He looks like a girl.
Author seems to have nothing to write about then to make value judgements about peoples
aesthetic choices. Slow journalism. There is this magazine called journalistic review and it had
an article about something called slow journalism. Whatever that means here. We have 165
words. Only 150 more and todays work is done ah done here.
Something slightly on the intelligent side. The woman next to her is typing, while looking
down at her phone. Apparently the abstract is in the phone, the outline. It looks weird. The
woman has a too pronounced chin. See, aesthetic value judgements. This is what she writes
about here, who is good-looking and who is not. As if that is what is the most important thing on
this very planet. Our looks. Author here still has the three stitches in her forehead, tomorrow she
will have them taken out. Tomorrow, five days should be over. She has to add the days up, ah,
math, ah math here. 286 words. Some more and this is done, ah done here. All these filler words
that splat on top the monitor in front of her. 310. Yay yay yay and yay here.
14.
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So, author here checked, there really is a donut shoppe up from union square, it only has
another name then she thought. But it is definitely a donut place and yup she has been there.
a.
Dominique ansel or whatever his name is and his ice cream tacos. They talk about that on
this show out of nyc. It is 2:46 here on the west coast versus their 5:46. PIX11 News, one of
those east coast news shows. There is one out of Boston too. Edmonton, Calgary, Toronto,
Halifax. LA.
b.
28 171.
c.
writing writing. To get a head start. She has finished todays allotment; she can start up
tomorrows. After all, half of todays 2000 words she did write the day before.
d.
writing about writing. Writing groups, reading groups. Apparently there is a residency out
of the New York library which is really good. And equally competitive here.
e.
THERE
There is a library residency in the new York library, it has a long waiting list. It is geared
towards writers and it is highly competitive. And in the end, what you do, is basically write your
texts in the library. Which is what she does here. She can still use this place, apparently for at
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least a year. The computer lab in the library of the community college on 49th. They just want a
body to fill one of these places, they paid so much for computers, they obviously want people to
use the computers, it is better than them standing unused. It is tax payers money after all. And
she paid tuition too, many tuitions over twenty years. She came here on and off for twenty years.
A nice place to write your amazingish books. The one that will be published, eventually if she
just secures a publishing contract. An agent, the like. The intricacies of being published are so
very intricate. She once more is sitting next to a person who plays with his hair as if he has lice.
What is it with people and reading and playing with those sprouts that come out of your head.
Must be the new thing.
206 words. She is a a tad hungry, just had a small glass of tea, one of those really small
ones. The ones that break easily if you are not careful. She has those breads with sesame seeds
thereon, two slices. The ones that are usually frozen but are now in the fridge and are really hard
to chew. She then went to the doctor and sat there forever until it was her turn. Her stitches got
removed, but one can still see them. Maybe a shower will fix it all or maybe it is better if the
wound crusts up so that there will no marks staying on her forehead. She is so very particular
about bumps on her forehead, we are damaged goods now, a woman with bumps on her
forehead, years from now one can still see these here.
347 words.
After the removal of the stitches it is all about the gym and then she ended up here.
Words that will go onto the paper. A man is yelling at another one about the homework. He
shows stuff on the monitor and now he will go to class. Apparently all these people are taking all
of these classes. The man next to her is reading a book and apparently he has to look up all kind
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of words like atrocious and the like. And now he looks at images of double beds. And manga
figures.
444 words.
Her writing ah her writing. The minutiae of a time done in the library. A woman in blue,
dark blue with white dots thereon. Glasses with dark rims, a bob. She is very young, hardly
fifteen. They all look like that here in this place. The Y is very old, though, but at this point it is
full of day campers.
500 words.
Her 2000 daily words here.
She has some 300 from the day before, saved somewhere on the computer back home
here.
1500 words or make that 1200.
We can do that before having a mint tea in the place outside, one with marble loaf. They
have two kinds, two kinds of tea. She wrote about that before, the detailed descript of the teabags
is paramount. Describing flavours of tea, this is what we do all day here. We use the language for
what it is needed to describe very slight shades, shadows. She had listened to these two talking
on you tube, the day before it was amazing. But she mentioned that already. In the end she did
not even watch just listened. As if it was on the radio.
656.
A man in a red turban.
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No food no drinks no cell phones no games no exceptions. the no exceptions is written in

red. Everybody eats and uses cell phones. It is a notice to all students and all students could care
less.
680 words here.
Today there will be a mattress delivered. She has to stay out, how many persons do you
need for one mattress.
705.
Descriptions of coffee houses should start up.
The bankastrati place. The coffee in the colorful mugs. Somewhere in Iceland. The
whipped cream with the uneven peaks. The person next to her looks at all kinds of images while
reading. Author ponders, can one do that while writing.
A screen full of images, more or less of the same things. An album
That should be helpful for a writer, good for a writer. Even good writings can be outdone. There is something called maximum writing.
With her bad luck, with all of her rejections she needs all the help she can get.
The person on you tube last day was the translator of Kurt Vonnegut, among other writers of
course. Anyhoo, writing writing here. She reads up about all the writers of this world, about this
small publishing house in Zurich that is somewhere in the baecker gasse and behind the
stauffacher.
She does not travel the world but she pretends that she does.
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870.
Lab privileges will be withdrawn.
She feels cold and chilly, who wants to be a published writer anyways. The non published
ones are the noble ones who merely write grocery lists. The person next to her drinks loudly, the
paper cup reverberates. It has this sloshy sound when there is no air in that cup, the vacuum
sound. And once again.
991
The boredom of writing this all up here. Apparently others in here are more into reading,
studying. She is the only content provider. This woman in red types too. Coffee boy leaves,
packs up his stuff, abrupt march away.
Woman in red, orange, and thinking face writes while having glittery nail polish. She
thinks before she writes, apparently she tries to figure out what to say and how to use the
accurate wordings. This is not what author here does, she just documents automatically just like a
camera would do. She scans the world around here. A new person is sitting next to her, a colorful
backpack like a kindergartener, he reads up stuff on his cell phone.
1049 words here.
Boozing would be fun, boozing and eating, ice cream with booze therein here.
She has pangs of a tummy ache here.
1073.
Notice to all students and an image with a line through something. Do not do this, though
the image of what you are not supposed to do is vague and could be a lot of things here.
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1111.
It is eight minutes to eleven, it is too chilly here and she wants to have her food. Stop and
spell check spellcheck here.
29 368 words.
We should write some more some more here. The changing word count is because of the
copy and paste, she pasted the stuff that she wrote in the community college on 49th into the body
of the text at home, it is like taking a shopping bag with stuff and physically bringing it from
place A to place B. 29 428, so we need some 500 or 600 more. Maybe this should just go in one
big whoosh. Stories of itzehoe, of the train ride of the rain that is coming down, that should
lively up the page. Stories of train rides through rain always have to do so. Trains, the vehicles of
times gone by. Movement through rain. Ok, maybe it is just lulling the reader in. both the reader
and the writer. There is the donut shoppe on fourteenth, the one that is called donut pub,
apparently. If you google it, you get the exact facts and all the mystery is shot. The way that a
place used to smell in your memory. Google kills nostalgia.
29546.
Later on she has to get in here and fix all the glitches. That will be her days work. Like
corrigying a test.
29 570. Not that many words left not that many. Bankastrati and its colourful cups. Well,
the ones in the coffee house. Which apparently is a chain. Somehow that is not how we think of
that place, it is more an oasis in a city where we do not speak the language. A one-off. A solitary
coffee house. That is only there once. Once on the planet. A chain does not give you that feel,
they are the same anywhere. A McDonald is a McDonald. Though the taste of a hamburger in
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Geneva is different from one in New York. One in Bellingham tastes different than the one in
Vancouver British Columbia.
Still some 300 words waiting to be written here.
Her text, her text.
It is July the thirteenth. The thirteenth of the month. Oohhh.
She went to have her stitches removed on a thirteenth. Well, at least it is not a Friday
here.
There still have some words to be put into the machine. Maybe the descript of the radio,
the discussion about the man bun or the one about friends versus family versus strangers. It was
all a tad too funny, author is not quite sure if she wants to be the driver who is sitting behind the
wheel and laughing out loud to herself. It is not even giggly funny it is more belly out loud
laughingish stuff. Words that induce loudish, loutish laughter. Slap your knees funny.
The day is grey and green, the July that never was.
Some lights on the greenery outside, but it is a tad too little too late. And boy is it cold
here. 200 words, 150. Friends is on the tv, combined with all the other sitcoms here. The writing
that is too sterile. Not dramatic enough not funny enough. Abstract writing. Writing without
words. Without meaningfulish words here. Literature on a funny way.
Still 110 or so. what is it with all these eights and nines here.
The paper basket that she bought some forty years ago. Or so it seems. In this place in
Danville. Stuff she got there, she still uses. 29 924. That was before pier import became a chain.
It was this very big place with all kinds of trinkets. Not as sterile as the barrel place here. 29951.
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50 words.
Still writing still writing. If boozing would be socially acceptable she would do more of
it. Beer and wine and grog and whiskay. Like this she hardly ever drinks. There is a void the void
of nondrinking. How can anybody be a writer without fermented grape juice? And other
fermented fare. The writing will suffer, suffer.
30 010, yay yay and yay here.
15.
On the telly, some moving images. Apparently, this is about penn and teller. And the
woman who is in how I met your mother, the one who used to be in saved by the bell.
a.
bankastrati, the one in pictures and the real one. The coffee house, where one still can
have a coffee and a round cake with chocolate gloss. With pink mush inside of it.
b.
30 098 words. Itzehoe and the train that goes there. Through the rain. By the sleepy cities.
The comfort of knowing how this works. No sudden changes in routine. That might interfere
with her words. As long as she keeps on sticking to her routine she will be able to accumulate
words. And that is what she is most interested anyways. The number of all of these words. She
likes to be prolific. If you are prolific, something good will happen. If you will success then it
follows that you will have success. And even if you do not have any success you know that you
put in the time and nobody can take that away from you. Itzehoe is so near.
c.
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the telly, the telly. A rerun of big bang and still another here. An ad for chocolate with
coconut therein. Almond joy, mounds. An ad for southwest the airline. They have a sale. Now
Toyota. They too have a sale. Everybody is having a sale. Summer closeout sales, it is that time
of the year apparently.
d.
she was in the mall. Was in another mall in the morn. Had a teeth cleaning. Yup, life is
very adventurous. Her teeth are stable, no new build up. Though there could be still less gunk.
That is what electronic brushes are for and Listerine. A week ago she fell in the sky train station.
On a Thursday.
e.
bankastrati, bankastrati. The round cake. Nobody is in the coffee house, which might as
well. It feels cosy comfy. She blows on the whip on her chocolate. These days she has too much
of hot cocoa. Grownups have coffee or tea. She does not feel very grown-up. Grown-ups dont
become writers. They have more grown-up jobs than moving words around. Harsher jobs.
Moving words around is a very subtle line of work. More intuitive than tactile. You have to play
it by ear and usually you are wrong anyways. There is no right and no wrong, which is another
way of saying that you are always wrong. If there is no wrong it follows that there is no right
either. Anybody can easily catch the logical fallacies. They are there in plain sight. For anybody
and everybody to see. You are falling on your face in front of the world. She blows on the whip,
some flakes dissipate into thin air here.
f.
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getting out at union square. Walking up to the donut pub by the writing studio. Donuts are
more fun than writing is. She has a jelly donut and a tea. This place is nice. The jam oozes out.
Fourteenth is happening outside. She likes this neighbourhood. She knows her way around here
and hardly ever gets lost. Well, that is not quite true, she always gets lost in nyc. Which is ok, it
is a walking city and all and she comes here to lose weight anyways. You have to walk to burn
what you eat here. Something like that something of that kind.
g.
laugh tracks for the sitcom here. 30 611. Great, great.
h.
bankastrati, writing studio, itzehoe coffee house. The places she describes are limited.
But she does not get tired of doing it. Reading about this must be boring though. For her writing
she always comes upon a new way od describing the same thing. Like a new house that you
come upon at your daily jog. It is always interesting upon what you stumble on serendipitously.
i.
30 682.
j.
the day is grey like all of these days in this Vancouver summer. It was nice but once
again it is miffy.
k.
30 707.
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l.
A tad of a tummy ache here. From eating too much. Berry pie ice cream does that to yer.
And roasted veggie lasagna. It is near to seven, outside suddenly the sun came up, there are long
shadows on the greenery. The evening that suddenly becomes sunny and fresh and happy. This is
the time when boozehounds get out, those who write all during the day. She has chamomile tea
or mint tea, too shallow a drink for a serious writer. Serious writing needs serious drinking here.
Her words miss that element, the booze hound element here.
m.
30 809.
n.
30 811.
o.
1200 words. That is all what is needed here. On a Thursday eve in July.
p.
she sits at her typewriter in the writing studio. Well, it is a laptop and not a type writer.
No anachronisms here. She sits and feeds those words to her machine. She looks at her notes.
She has seen other writers look at their phones and write. Look at notes, at pictures that they
have taken. Everything to make you choose the right right words here. She feels like running out,
donut, cookies by Melissa, and then there is the Barnes and nobles or strands. Looking at books
so to write books. There is a subway station she can board to go all over town to find stuff to
write about. In a city of 8 million there is always something to write about. 8 million different
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lives here. 8 million different stories. It is a stereotype that is mentioned and mentioned and
mentioned again and again. an urban myth. In this hot summer weather there are lots of tourists
in town and the locals are fleeing the city. Summer in the city, yay. She can walk the streets of
this place or she can just type. Walking will cut into her writingish time, she needs a certain
amount of words, 2000 to be exact in order to feel elated, to feel as if she is still a writer, a
professional. She went to art school, she used to draw fashion women and flowers, now she does
not do that anymore, there are better draftsmen than her, now she feeds her words to this
machine, this machine here. She pays 300 bucks to this place, 300 per month. There are readings
that she attends, they have workshops, getting togethers. Which are kind of boring, the writers
are way too divers, there is a man writing his thesis at nyu, and there is a poet who is a hipster
extraordinaire. There is a translator who translates from Finnish to English. Anyhoo, she types
and types and she has 31 157 here.
q.
nine hundred words that is what we need here. She is going to itzehoe as always. She
feels disoriented, not quite here, her only reality is writing. And the tea, the crumbly cake.
Reality is overrated, feeling dreamy and out of it seems to be the new normal. After a while you
are too old anyways to have a happily functioning brain. Old people have to be forgetful, it is all
downhill from here, downhill from here. The rain outside, the flat land, greenery. She is
originally from here and if push comes to shove she never ever really left. You can take the girl
out of but you cannot take
r.
31 277.
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s.
the donut shoppe downstairs. On the way to the meat packing. One of the coffee shoppes,
there is this one which is kind of quaint and non-quaint. The right mix. She can look it up on
yelp. Or she can just walk there. Anything but her typing here.
u.
31 327.
v.
bankastrati and her cocoa with whip. She is having it while walking around Reykjavik.
The walking does her good, the motion, the movement. Her feet, one in front of the other. She
sips from the paper cup, the whip is melting and the cocoa is cooled up by the whip. It is not too
sweet and not too non-sweet. This is how bliss feels, and furthermore it is not too cold and not
too warm outside. The right balance, the right mix. Physical happiness is very important for a
writer, after all it is work, it is a job that has to be done just right. You have to feel comfy to go
about your trade. And writing is first and foremost a trade. Like construction work. Like being a
plumber. It is the physical choice of the right words. The orator who is silently picking the
words. Writing is not like performance art, it is not the holding of a speech, it is the making of
those words, the putting together of those sentences and it helps to have a hot cocoa with whip
thereon. The lid is a tad badly put on, she stops and puts it on straight so that the beverage does
not leak out. It is an afternoon in Iceland here, people walking, strolling, shoppers with shopping
bags, the boutiques here in this part are nice but pretty expensive. The malls have better prices in
this city, at least that is how it seems. She does laundry, there is a laundromat that she found not
that far from the hotel. But she does not need to do too much laundry, her clothes are not getting
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sweaty, the weather is still cool enough so that you can miss a wash which is good for being a
tourist slash writer here.
w.
the train slowly moving into the station of itzehoe. Bahnhof. She takes her umbrella, her
bag, walks down to the coffee house. The fashion store is about to open up for the day. Inside the
coffee house, everything is as it always is. Three women chatting, waitress and her bored
expression. Author has tea and crumbly cake, she takes out her notebook, today it is long hand
day. There is a woman sitting in the corner who is reading a book. She is not one of the regulars
and she is a a tad too fat for this part of the planet. People here are basically thin, maybe they
walk a lot, maybe the food is fish and potatoes. Maybe they are not into sweets though that must
not be it. The crumbly cake is always good, good in a rustic way, in an everyman kind of way.
Author puts down her words, the green pen over the yellow paper, she scribbles down her words,
all slightly leaning letters to the right.
x.
31 807. Lights against the floor, the last yelp of the day, before night sets in darkly until
the wake up of the next morn. When some novel 2000 have to be fashioned, this is what we have
to do each and every day here.
y.
walking up fourteenth, it is the end of the day, not quite night as of yet, but the end of the
day, when shadows are getting so much longer, longer. She passes sixth avenue; she could walk
up sixth instead of making her way to the meat packing. Either way will be fine. Her apartment is
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in Chelsea, on 23rd off eighth, she has done all of her writing, she feels like falling into bed and
snoring here. The day of writing is over, her words will do, must do here.
z.
some sixty words and then this is over, some happy sentences, more words ah more
words here, nothing to say really, these are the last days for the day, we have a tummy ache
which is what happens if you have to have a tub of berry pie ice cream, whose stomach could
possibly stomach that, three more words and we have 32 003 here, outta here and outta here.
16.
Writing is when you sit in one corner and put the words to paper. The emphasis being on
sitting. A profession where you are static. Well. Actually you are static whatever you do, you
have to be in one place and move your hands, concentrate on that one task and that is not
possible if you wobble around. She really should examine this. She was down in the market, had
her coffee. It was about ten, so it was really full around the coffee station in the corner. Lots of
persons in white overalls. Lots of talking loudly with lots of thick accents. The fridge is starting
up its songs yup, she is back at the kitchentable, trying to reminisce about what just happened.
The cashier had brown hair, she always used to sport white hair. The one who used to be in
Richmond like ten years ago and now is here. That is the big change, the change in haircolor.
There was nothing really going on in the market, outside the weather is grey and grey. A grey
fifteenth of july. Author thought about the sitting and she wanted to write about that very
thoughtfully, the market kind of distracted her. Finding a parking space, parking, there is ample
parking at this time of the day. Not much to say about that. She does not use that market that
much, apparently it is overpriced. 32 250 words, words about markets and malls. Not words
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about people falling in love or that kind of bullshit. And no looking for a murderer, after all how
much does that happen? What goes on in the deli, now there is a subject matter worth exploring.
Something you can relate to.
Outside there are wisps of birds singing. There is the roar of the fridge. Maybe she
should go down to the community college on 49th. The lab is always brimming with people. Here
in the market it is suburbia, there on 49th it is academia. Different versions of living. Research
and consume. Consuming of coffee. She hardly ever goes to that coffee station, she should.
There is a coffee place in the gas station too, she never ever went there. To have a cuppa joe there
and then consume it in the car while trying not to spill. She could drive thru. She could
go to
the gym. 32 410.

THE PLACE IS UNPLEASANT
It really is. It is plain-out smelly. The computerlab at half past eleven. Why is it this
smelly. Does nobody think that splashing some water on you is good. It is not even hot, there is
no reason for being this smelly. The collective smell of a computer lab. Too many people and too
many people with poor hygiene at that. Hygiene challenged, she is in the room of the hygiene
challenged. They are way too young, all of them, none of them is here to pen the next master
piece. She, author here, is the only one. The one that pens the next big thing. The novel of the
century. The millennium. The one that future students will decipher. That books will be written
about. That scholars will debate. That one ah that one here.
139 words, she had some 700 at home, so she needs some 1300. Her car is in the Y,
where students are not pemitted to park. She had her second piece of cake and a tea. The price
went up yesterday, so the lady said. 104 words here. Typing ah typing.
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This is so boring, typing the same amount of words each and every day. Only so that you
have a reason to walk straight. She got that sentence from German, apparently it is a saying. Just
like they say in American that you need a reason to get out of bed. A man is putting on his red
shoe and the black sock therein. It seems to be a big undertaking. These are the things you see in
here. The things worth noting. Upstairs it is quieter, there are study desks. She can tale a laptop
there. The woman is typing with her painted nails, red, orange, blank. Nowadays no two nails are
painted in the same color, apparently that is too yesterday. The evolving of painted nails. Each
fashion statement in manicure signals which tribe you belong to. Fashion statements are so
important. Authors statement here? I have gained 30 pounds and I have no clue when and where
that happened. It creeped up virtually over-night. She was busy with class and writing and
suddenly she sported thirty pounds more. It is an immense figure, she takes up those weights that
say thirty pounds, it is really heavy. How did she manage to slip that into her body. And how did
she manage last year to slip thirty pounds off her body? Portion control, ah, portion control here.
Nothing works when you are suddenly 30 lbs heavier. Her clothes well they fit they are all
flexible and maybe that is the culprit. Or she was just not in the 160-pound group, not part of that
group. She must go out and buy clothes that are geared toward 150 lb people, that might be the
trick. You have to change your mindset, make sure that you function as a thin person in the
world. Thin thin and thin here.
501 words, she needs some 1200 or so here. Or maybe her math is off.
Descripts of bankastrati. The round cake with choco glaze. The mush inside. Bankastrati
was more fascinating, more exotic before she looked at pics of the real thing. That was the time
when that place was not fleshed out or more so fleshed out in a certain way. A kind of Viennese
coffee house in Reykjavik. One for the simple people. The regular joes. She has 578 words here,
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still typing ah typing. A woman with a black and white dress, all eyes open, all mouth open
reading what is on the monitor. Definitely studying.
Itzehoe and the train that goes there. While rain is coming down. Here.
Union square and the donut place. None of those places are fancy anymore, they have
lost their luster. Places have to retain their fictional luster; you cannot destroy the mystery.
Reality will do that, even the reality of pictures on yelp. There has to be that certain je ne sais
quoi, it should not be destroyed by the real thing. She will describe other places, the one that is
on that little blog series.
700 words here. For now now here.
BACK AT HOME
She still needs 900 words or so. This is going so very very slowly. Maybe sitting put and
getting things done is the way to go. Not running all over town to find stuff to write about. The
construction of the novel, it is just like the construction of the new science and technology
building for the college on 49th. Each day there is something happening, slow and steadily the
building is talking shape. There are construction workers who are there each and every day, even
on the weekends. Or maybe not, author here does not go down to the college over the weekend.
She goes to the Y next door, but not to the lab. It is usually closed, there is another lab though
that is open but mostly it is really desolate and you cannot write in a vacuum. At least she cannot.
She has to look at people, at commotion. Usually she goes downtown, at least that is what she
used to do.
Nowadays she describes a train ride that she has never ever taken, which is what writers
seem to do, they describe stuff that they make up out of thin air. And people listen, read the stuff.
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There are awards given out for those fictional stories about places that do not exist. This is ah so
weird. It is a whole world, literature here. Author writes, she should be part of a meetup of
writers. Something with booze, something where you sit around with other booze hounds. She
feels like getting a pint of ice cream but maybe that is not good, there will be a hangover, her
tummy will hate it. She does not have that kind of tummy that can handle that kind of influx of
boozy ice-cream here. And it is not even boozy though she would rather it be boozy. Writing
about booze and you are a writer. Nobody cares about the words, people care about pubs and
getting wasted. You have to be wasted to fill your days with stories about stuff that does not
exist, donut shoppes that do not live in the real world here. Illusions of donut shoppes, of coffee
houses, of watering holes, of ice cream parlours. Ah she writes ah writes here.
13 494.
The train down to itzehoe, the fast walk through the rain, the coffee house, the apple
crumbly cake. Her words leaning to one side, the meticulous letters. She will transcribe this once
she is back in the hotel on the esplanade, the one that is overpriced for writers like her. That is
very business traveller like, very gutbuergerlich as they say in german. If you put a german word
into an English text it is always funny, it is the fahrvergnuegen syndrome.
Author still needs some 400, outside the sun is coming out reluctantly, stumblingly but
happily. It is a Friday, wow, how did we come down to Friday here.
33 606.
400 words about something, so that her job is done here. Bankastrati and cake, itzehoe
and cake. 14 th and a donut where jelly is oozing out. Her writing is all about the food in
between writing spurts, now there is a subject matter that yall should be reading about. Gone are
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the days of miffy plots that are confusing, that do not make sense. Now it is all about hot
beverages, make sue that you do not burn yourself. The hot cocoa with whip in the papercup,
while walking all up and down bankastrati. Maybe at one point she will go down to Reykjavik,
but the real thing can never be as good as the Iceland that you have in your mind. How can it
possibly compete? Reality is just a big let down. It is the destruction of the glorified illusion
here.
Writing huh writing. The tapping at the computer. She had problems when downloading
her words from the cloud, the words got stuck until the machine finally made up its mind to set
them all free here. The machines do their own thing, whoever knows why this is all happening
the way it is here.
She has to have a cocoa, she had a michelina noodles thingie, with a generic cheese
sauce. Everything tasting happily synthetically. Manmade. It tastes like America. Elaine Benes
said so in the new adventures of old Christine which was a really funny show which is not shown
in syndication, at least not on this her telly. The brother was funny, Hamish something. Wanda
Sykes was funny. It all was just funny funny here. We need some 100 words, a man on the telly
with a white beard who talks about the trans Canada highway. His 15 minutes of fame here.
Grand falls Windsor. A woman in salmon color, too decolteed for her own good. You cannot look
like that, like blah, and show too much cleavage. Something is wrong with that picture. A man in
a suit that has an equally bad color for a suit, who gives them fashion advice. Something about
the shrimp industry here. It is ntv, not mtv. An ad for coffee, the one that is just horrible even by
tv commercial standards. Fifteen words and todays wordcount is done here done here, five more
and two, one, 34 000, great yay and yay and yay yay here.
17.
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She should write a food blog. More an ice cream blog. She went out to get berry pie
flavour, got sugar cookie flavor instead. The woman first though that author here wants sugar
cookie, a sugar cookie. Which became obvious by the question of for here or to go. Nope, ice
cream, sugar cookie ice cream. Oh, I see, do you want a bag or not. She took it without bag
which was a big mistake because the icy cup makes your hands sticky. She had to be careful
when driving, there suddenly was a woman in blue out of nowhere. They say there are more
accidents in backroads on sunny days here. You have to always be vigilant. Writing about a short
trip to the store and back. On a sunny Friday afternoon. The cars are like beads on a necklace, it
is tough to find a bald spot to get into. This street is busy; it is between two bigger arteries. The
sunniness near the coffee house, the lil bakery. She has the website online, she was watching it
and it made her drive out and get the ice-cream. So this is what we write about, but her main
subject matter are still bankastrati, itzehoe and the writing studio near union square. The places
where writers write, more fascinating than the things they write up. The beverages they have, the
hot cocoa with the uneven whip, that is smushed into the drink by the lid pushed down. The food
that changes its specifics because it has to be carried around here. Or in Reykjavik. On the telly,
bones, apparently a show from a long time ago here. Author throws a HERE in wherever and
whenever she feels like. Her writing is dilettante, her words are not that good, not good enough.
They are just words that are sprinkled onto the paper. Her knowledge of this language will never
be accurate enough, there are other words in other languages that she knows but she cannot use
them outside of their natural habitat. Words dont like that; they want to mix in with similar
minded words here. She reads up on writers and translators, she read a lot about harry rowohlt or
more so, she listens to interviews. They are always great and make you notice how bad you
yourself are with the language. Any language. Some people are born virtuosos, you cannot
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compete with that. But you still can file away at your own inferior sentences here. 34 427. It is
Friday, she tries to feed the words of Saturday to the machine. Get a head start on tomorrows
allotment here.
a.
34 454 words.
b.
the bankastrati walk. It is nice while having the hot cocoa. The smell of chocolate very
slightly so. The peaks of whip folding into the chocolatey beverage and making it turn into a
milky Campbell tomato soup like consistency-ish concoction. She ponders, maybe she should
not be a food blogger, she uses too may words that than kill the feel of the food. You have to
describe stuff in detail, but you have to leave words out too to make it work. It is more about
what you do not say.
c.
her words just got lost thanks to a shut down, a sudden shut down of her computer. All
those amazing words are lost forever. Something about the oozing of the jelly out of the donut
but it was more than that. What the oozing stands for or does not stand for. Something about the
city on a Friday afternoon, when people will leave the city so that others can use it without those
extra people. It was written much better than this, it was as if the city is more without the extra
people, musings that were both interesting and controversial. They were definitely poetic and
they kind of turned back to the prosaicness of the donut. The jelly therein and the dropping of the
jelly onto the paper plate. There was a juxtaposition between deep thoughts and banal
observations and it all jelled together all nicely, but then it all got lost because that is what these
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machines here do, they shut down whenever they feel like, at pivotal moments pivotal moments
here. Typing is not what it used to be, you lose words and then they are irretrievable,
unretrievable here. Well, we have 34 744 here, maybe the number of words is all we need all we
need here.
d.
34 762.
e.
she constantly has to save this, it is like running a marathon and constantly watching your
back here. It is very annoying.
f.
1200 words here. The words of Saturday on Friday afternoon here. Two more words and
we have 34 805. She wrote stuff about the writing space and that one can use it 24/7. Not that
anyone will come here at three in the night. The writers are not that artistic, they are more
normally functioning individuals. They have lives. Author ponders if these are the words that got
lost here and if she repeats them in the right way. Everything changes if you paraphrase it, try to
recite it from memory. She has to let go of the words that got lost or this will drive her crazy on a
nice sunny Friday in july. Writing is tough, it can drive yer crazy. Well, she is not that kind of
genius, she is more like a plumber or a bricklayer. Start somewhere, end somewhere. Sometimes
it functions, sometimes it doesnt. Have a beer after work here.
g.
34 945.
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h.
fourteenth on a Friday, sunniness. The donut in the donut pub. She knows the drill.
People walk by on the street. Bike by, drive by. Scoot by. People watching while you are typing.
Her neck is acting up. Writers hang out in coffee houses in donut shops. This is what all the
writers of gotham city do here.
i.
she will never ever land a publishing deal. So she tells herself. She will have an art show
at the museum on the bowery, she will put up print-outs of her rejection letters. They are enough
to fill a wall. The wall of shame, her wall of shame.
j.
35 056.
k.
1000 words more. To finish up Saturdays allotment of words. On Friday to boot. On the
telly, Seinfeld. Laughtracks here. The one with the jacket. The nice jacket. Soft suede. He has it
on with his pee jays. And Kramer comes in. what is with the lining? 35 105.
l.
bankastrati. The lid against the paper cup. Smushing the whip. This feels good. This is
what she does every evening tween day and night. When it is getting just so. When people are
still in the street, after they had their food and before they all sleep. The night life of Reykjavik,
in this parts it is all fresh and happy. The slight breeze after what is hot in these parts. The cocoa
like velvet, still hot enough. Warming the chest up from within. This is bliss, people speaking in
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Icelandic lilt, the street making its spring towards darkness without being intimidating, there is a
sense of urgency, of community, of pensive happiness. The warm hot cocoa does hold up its side
of the bargain. She strolls within the groups of all these strangers that are strolling too, a feel like
being part of a baseball team or a football team. The cocoa, beverage for kids, and beverage of
the gods, both at the same time here. She can see the city from up here.
m.
the train ride out of Hamburg. Every single day. While rain is coming down. Tis is what
writers do, what this writer here does. Her words on the note pad. Writing like exercising, a
certain amount of words each and every day. It seems kind of nonsensical, a futile undertaking.
Certain words. Her stab at immortality. Words that will not been read. You gotta practice those
writing chops. Whatever those are.
n.
650 words still have to be fashioned here. About different things. There is the show on
the telly, there is the greenery outside. The one that always has lights in it at this time of the day.
As if it is all illuminated. How can this be just before it is getting dark. Well, it can be, it always
looks like this this time of the afternoon. On the telly an ad for a plumbing company. They must
do good business to be able to buy ad time on tv.
o.
walking up fourteenth. She averts her eyes when walking by the writing place, there is no
boss who will ask her why she is playing hooky. With her writing desk she is her own boss. She
can come to work as she pleases. She is an independent contractor. And at this point she finds all
kinds of excuses to not open the door to the place and get up the three flights of stairs. She struts
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ahead to the donut place. A coffee and a jelly. That will change the scenery, will make her find
the right words. Strawberry jam does that to yer.
p.
still 500 words. While the telly is singing all of its songs to here. An ad for a car. It is a
funny one. The funny ones are the best. Make you remember the car make.
q.
stories about coffee houses. The world over. The hot drinks that writers fill up on. Hot
cocoa, coffee. Crumbly cakes. Your choice of sustenance will influence your choice in words.
Tea is good, it always translates into the right accurate words. Especially when sipped thru a
piece of sugar. She ponders, how the heck can she make up all of these rules.
r.
Seinfeld, the doorman episode.
s.
the rain coming down on the country, while the train mows through it. It is so boring to
do this each and every day. If she would commute to an office then at least she would talk to coworkers. Like this, boredom is expansive. She is merely an accumulator of words. It is the same
each and every day. The same train ride, the same seat in the coffee house. The same drink, the
same pastry.
t.
300 words left. Some ads on the telly, the day is letting out. Nothing to write about really,
she should go down to the market, look around, walk by the aisles. Talk to the cashier, stand in
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line. That is enough fodder for writing, it should do for now. There are movies to watch online,
there is stuff that can be read. Even the icons around the monitors each have a story. Outside, the
greenery is now steely-colored. So near to be all in the dark here.
u.
200 words. How I met your mother on the telly. Two of its actors are from vancitay here.
One from northvan, one from Vancouver. But all from this neighbourhood here. Still 150 words
here.
v.
still bankastrati. This time shed rather sit inside. Have coffee in one of those dark pastel
colored cups. Have maybe a piece of cake with whip thereon. Change is good, so they say. One
can just watch passers-by and keep on sitting still.
w.
100 words here. Getting out of the union square station. Turning towards the meat
packing. Walking up to the writing space. Two other writers are in too. She looks a tad at her
notes, chomps on cookies by Melissa. Baked by Melissa. Her writing actually reads pretty good.
Not that many glitches. All seems to flow quite ok.
x.
forty words here. While the night is near, so near to the end of the days writing. The
second part of writing here. Seventeen words here.
y.
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thirteen words, eleven here. And some more and we are outta here. One and the word
count stands at 36 007 here.
18.
36 010.
a.
the coffee house will open in one hour. It is five oh one, now, the place will open its doors
at six oh one. Well, technically, at six. That is the time on Saturdays, half an hour later than the
use. The use with a silent g at the end. As in usual but without the -ual-. The y will open at seven
but there are other gyms within driving distance that open sooner in the morn. In downtown there
are all those 24 hour places, at least that is what she thinks here. Maybe they are not, after all
those pips hat live in downtown are all model-figured anyways, without trying. It is just merely
their life styles that keeps them thin. In the same way that the gas station attendant is thin, the 24hour- grocery person is rail-thin. Some life-styles are followed by thinness. It is more an attitude
that makes you stay thin or become thin. Author here ponders, if coming to sit at a computer
makes you thin or roundish and fat. It is not the food; it is the propensity to grab sustenance at
times when you do not need it here. She has 209 words already on a Saturday morn, which
makes her feel that anything and everything is possible here. Her words against the machine, she
could open another machine, make it talk and show images that flimmer over the screen, let it
tell her stories about spaces far away, 6000 kilometers to the east, where the day is starting up
already, in full force in full force here. It is now CNN on the telly, it is about the coup-d-etat in
turkey the one that was averted there. It is this Bergen guy talking and this one guy asking him
stuff, both are on the telly constantly, now a woman who is pretty and who is never on the telly, a
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fresh faced journalist here. An ad for a car. It is five thirteen, she wrote for twelve minutes and
she has about 343, words that have to be edited later ah later later here. She always weighs
herself, every morning, there is an ad for a pill that shows a person weighing himself. The weight
is so much a showing of our health, too much fat cells is bad, less fat cells is good. 401 words
already.
b.
bankastrati and its hot cocoa. The street somehow makes her think about hot cocoa and
the whip therein. The coffee house that is the place that she walks to. When she leaves the hotel
she goes out for exactly this place. The paper cup with its shapes thereon, colorful with black
outlines, thick outlines, the cup that holds the too hot cocoa that is cooled down by the whip with
the uneven peaks. She stays in the coffee house, it is kind of annoying to walk the streets and
balance the cup, it is easier to sit in here, besides it is too cold now, it is morning after all, she
does not come to the coffee house every afternoon, sometimes she comes here in the morn, first
thing in the morn. Changing your routine on the other side of the planet, this means that she is
lived-in here. A nomad who settles down for moments, for moments. She always travels light,
mainly because she once had a shoulder condition that forced her to travel light, she could just
carry a very light bag with her onto the plane. Her formerly dislocated shoulder that was put in
place the same night that it happened but that was sore for months to go, that had to be moved
around in order to get back its mobility here.
c.
the walk from the bahnhof to the coffee house while the drops of rain are drizzling down
on her. It is more like a mist, not like a drenching-thru waterfall here. She has her apple crumbly
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cake, she glances at the bored feature, the bored expression on the face of the waitress in the
corner. Three women chattering near the window, as always as always here. Everything is as it
always is here. The fashion woman in green with appliques of glitter, the hat with feathers, it is
contained drama for the small town Thursday in the store that catered to such a tiny clientele.
The fashion woman was always runway-ready, each and every morning. The runway without the
audience, without the gasps, without the clappings of hands, without the flashes of cameras, both
video and still. The fashion woman could do without audience, she did her performance for the
walls and the racks of clothes.
d.
36 788. Once more images from the averted coup in turkey. Failed coup in turkey, that is
what the headline here says. 5:32, she has next to a thousand words in half an hour. Which means
that she merely needs an hour for her days work. Then it is editing maybe another hour, so her
work is done in two hours, two hours of writing and you have a book all ready, all printable, all
waiting to be submitted. A manuscript so fast ah so fast here. Writing is practice, that is all it is
and all it is here.
e.
the writing place, up the three flights. She sits at her desk, her cubby. There are others
typing away, hammering away in hunched over position, people that want to tell the world about
what they think and what they feel. Writers, people with one too many words here. She opens her
small white bag, the one with baked by Melissa cupcakes, their small ones, sugary, mini
cupcakes, one velvet, one sprinkled-in one and still another all dark chocolatey one. Her hands
get sticky, she rumbles together the papers that stick to the bottom of the cakes, puts it all in the
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white bag. Her early morn sugar rush here. She feels like having a coffee or a tea what with all
this too sweet stuff in her mouth. She should think about her choice of words instead of figuring
out the logistics of her meal here. It is about writing not about eating. It is called the writing
place and not the eating place. Besides, crumbs will attract rats here, there are a lot of city mice
in the city.
f.
37 067 at five forty in the morn. The telly is singing her songs. Is the telly a she or an it?
The screen that constantly talks here. An ad for something called autotrader.
g.
5:42 AM.
h.
six more minutes and the coffee place will be up and running here.
i.
pick up where u left off 3 hours ago - this is what the computer says to her. She had been
to the gym and to the coffee place in the mall, lots of things have happened, she slept some and
now she is back here at the typing machine to feed her words to it. These are Sundays words on
a Saturday, the fridge is roaring, it is always in roaringish mood these days here. There is a
literature museum in Vienna, one where you can look at writers old shoes. Old stinky shoes.
Talk about person cult. Cult of the person. There is not really an English word for that, it is a
German idiom. Personenkult. 37 247, some more words and we are out of here. Outta here as
soon as this started up. The fridge suddenly. Abruptly stops up here.
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k.
the writing studio near to union square. Where writers come to die. That is how it seems
here. This is not the place where amazing minds toil, nope it has this stench of failure all over it.
The great ones do not hover here. Pulitzer prize winning stuff is not penned in these quarters.
This is where writing goes to die, die off. Catcher in the rye was published in 1951 exactly to the
date here. She takes out the laptop, types some sentences and then stops which is what you do
here. After two or three sentences you have enough and do other things. Go out to have food.
Sugary stuff or savoury stuff. The place kind of shoos you away from the keyboard. The
nonwriters studio, the failed writers studio, the studio for the unpublished and unpublishable.
That is how it is how it is here.
She could go on about how this place is counteracting the ambitions of the writers.
Maybe if you think that you need to fork over 300 bucks per month to rent a space to write,
maybe that in itself shows that you need all the help that you can get and you are not blessed by
the gods. You are a mere mortal and not a genius. Not a genius with words. There are lots of
geniuses with words, the construction worker out there on fourteenth is one, the one who says
just the right word and spits on the ground, that is poetry in motion and you cannot bottle that.
The best writers are the ones that got away, the ones that do other things for a living. The ones
who have to earn a living. You cannot earn a living by slinging words together, you can however
earn said living by slinging drinks together here. There was this French guy who worked in this
food booth in the meat packing, he took her art work without hesitation, of course, he knew
about art even though it was not what he did for a living. You either have it or you dont, money
cannot help you with that. Author is not quite sure where she is going with this, what she even
wants to say, but at its core it does not matter here, she just has to wring out a certain amount of
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words here and then she will be done done, can go home to her apartment near Flatbush, the one
where she never ever stays, where she just puts her bag, the bag with the laundry fresh from the
laundromat. Her choice of fresh clothes here. The apartment is too far from anywhere, it is
merely a storage place. If it is too late she does not even go home, she goes out to jfk and sleeps
there on a bench or she sleeps in Penn station. She can do that, she always looks impeccable, if
you look like that nobody thinks you are homeless. You are a business traveller or something, an
urban nomad. Somebody between continents. On overlay between flights here. She still has to
type some. 200 words, 100 words. Sometimes they ring true, sometimes they do not make sense
whatsoever. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder or something, if you agree with my words it is
your fault, if you do not agree, ditto here.
37 834.
Still some more words, she packs up the laptop, smushes it into her locker. She has to go
down to the donut pub, have a jelly one, look at the jam oozing out here. Droppings on the paper
plate. She might have a tea, a mint one. They have two kinds, one has caffeine. She never is quite
sure which one that is and she did forget her glasses, so she cannot read the label. 90 words. She
feels like barfing all over her desk, she feels chilly too. Everything sucks here, she should quit
the place in bushwick and come to this neighbourhood, rent a place in Chelsea. She knows her
way around these houses, it is a much better idea to live somewhere on 20th or 21. This is her
hood, when she first moved here she lived on 23rd. it does not make sense to live out in Brooklyn,
she gets lost there, it is way too big and has no feel of home. She needs to feel tucked in here. 38
009 and outta here and outta here.
19.
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So maybe she could even type up Mondays words here. How tough can it be? She does
not have anything to do so she might as well pen parts of her nextish masterpiece here. The book
that nobody will read which is just fine just fine I tell yer.
a.
she was in downtown and in the gym. There was a person who needed help in the
waterfront station, nope, make that the city station. Apparently they are just standing there to
help potential accidentees. She herself just stumbled and out of nowhere there were all those
people who said that she definitely needs to go to the emergency room. Which, if push comes to
shove, she did not. She could have just walked home and jumped into her car. Her gushing was
just very insignificant, some blood came out, so what. It is like scraping your knee, you do not
need to be stitched up for that.
b.
38 180.
c.
so, maybe she should have those round noodles, elbow ones in cheese sauce. Mac and
cheese as a tv-dinner. Better than kraft dinner. The evolved kraft dinner. And then there is kraft
dinner in a can. So many ways to have junk food. Pizza slices, pepperoni or just cheese. Hot
dogs. Chips. Everything to taste American. She really has to find that clip from old Christine. It
is funny and funny is good. This is what we are writing here, literature on sitcoms, yup, that is
literature for the ages 4 u here.
d.
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on the telly, 2 broke girls. Funny stuff. She could do something else, something more
productive. But she is writing up her amazingish novel, so it is all cool all cool here.
e.
38 311.
f.
she feels like going down to the market to buy a tub of ice cream. Jam, cream. How big is
a tub? Maybe she should not go, it is always dangerous to have dessert in the icebox. It calls out
your name. Siren-like.
g.
on the telly, a movie with brad pitt and Harrison ford. Devil something, devils own,
maybe. About Ireland somehow, an IRA-fighter in Newark, maybe. There is Irishish music while
showing the States.
h.
so, writing, huh. This is what you do these days. Any book published? Nah. Ah, well,
things will take up. On the telly, central park. People speaking irish. Brad pitt asking somebody
youre from Belfast. Pitt and Harrison with their fake accents. Weird, strange here.
i.
so, this is a movie about new York first and foremost here.
j.
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bankastrati, we are here again. In the coffee house. This time no hot cocoa, she has to
watch her weight. Tea would be just fine. Hot cocoa and whip, nope, tea is better here.
k.
38 500 or something here.
l.
the telly and the movie. Which is kind of working against her writing. A serious movie
interferes with writing, which is not what other tv-prorams do. They let you follow the words
where ever they take yer.
m.
she needs some 1500 words here. These are the words for Monday. On a Saturday.
Maybe she should take a breather, maybe that will be good for her writing. You never ever know.
It is a trade where nothing is written in stone. The rules are so very flexible. The main thing is
you have to keep on trying, you have to show up for work and you should work overtime, mainly
because you like the challenge. Because there is something satisfying in achieving a goal, even if
that goal is merely an amount of words typed into a machine here. She can write about the coffee
house in Reykjavik, about the one in itzehoe and about the donut place in nyc. It is not really a
plot but it has to do here. It is better than nothing. The scene in itzehoe becomes more colorful
and less colorful, each reiteration is a tad different. Or maybe she even reuses the words without
noticing it. After all she describes the same scene, the only change that is implicit is the date.
There are different times that she comes to the same place. Just as in real life. The secondary
characters do not change, they are always there. Which is a tad eerie. Are they even real or are
they mere figments of the imagination of the writer? Making up stuff is a toughie, then again you
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can do whatever you feel like. A freedom that you do not really like, you want to make sense, be
logical. You cannot really do that with fiction. A story is a story, a narrative, spun out of thin air,
a yarn, that is how it is. Outside here there is greenery, speckled. It is two minutes after six. In
the afternoon here. Harrison ford on the telly with a baseball cap. Very unharrison ford like. He
looks better in a suit, he has that kind of face. He is unbelievable in a baseball cap.
38 860.
n.
the music is nice. Dublinish. Full of longing. Brad pitt sounds like the Irish guy in 2
broke girls here.
o.
the train down to itzehoe. What is she doing with her life? Writing in English. She would
be better off writing in German. Her German is still good enough, or not good enough. A
language is so fragile, the ability to speak it flares up and down and is controlled by means
beyond our will. On the telly, a fight, yelling. A man in a ski-mask. Author here has never ever
heard of this movie.
p.
a thousand words or so. This is what we need here. One does not even know if the sound
of the ambulance is part of the movie or if it is really out there on the street. That is why it is so
weird to watch a movie that is geared towards a cinema in the privacy of ones home. It does not
work. Sitcoms are fine, so is the news, so is judge judy or a soap. It all is fashioned towards the
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small screen. Movies though, they become iffy when watched on the telly. They do not work in
this medium, the change of media is weird, strange. Medium, huh, media.
q.
she should go out and buy ice cream. This is definitely an ice cream day. Seems, that
everyday is an ice cream day here. There are no dresses she has to fit into. Her pants are all with
a flexible waist. That is the problem here, that is why north americans become all bigger. It is not
the food, it is the clothes.
r.
39 137.
s.
the movie is way too melodramatic. No laugh tracks. Life is too short for a show without
laugh tracks. The music is way too suspenseful. And everything is too violent here. Gargling
sounds. The same director directed all the presidents men. Now that was a movie here. This
movie somehow tries to marry Belfast and nyc and it does not work. Londonderry and nyc.
Definitely not on the small screen. And it is kind of like law and order, it has all these definite
very concise New York addresses in there. On the other channel it is Rambo. What is it with all
these movies, it is a sunny day in July, why are there no romantic comedies a la bridget jones
here. Ok, mike and molly, might as well.
t.
the rain coming down on the train. The soothing idea that she will be there in some
minutes. She will make her way to the coffee place. Under her umbrella. She will write like
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always. Her amazing book. That is kind of fleshing out. Where there are characters that interact.
In a reasonable way. In a way that does not put the reader to sleep. What more do you want from
a story here? The bar is pretty low. Literature these days. She likes the idea of doing readings. To
have a real live audience that does not heckle, does not throw tomatoes. Claps in the end politely
even if they did not like it. Or maybe the clapping is more than politeness. Maybe her words are
amazing, forceful, the ultimate in eloquence. Maybe her intonation irons out the glitches. Or
underscore them. Whichever way, it should be just fine. Yup, she likes readings. The social
aspect, the performative aspect maybe. The short pangs of adrenalin before you stand up to go
onstage and grasp the mike.
u.
Theresa may is the new prime minister of the uk.
v.
she needs some 500 or so. 500 words that march in order. Once more she is at her desk
space on the third floor near union square off fourteenth. She could go down and mow through
the aisles at barnes and nobles or strand. But it is just like rummaging through aisles in whole
foods or trader joes. Books are not commodities, they each have their own story. They are
unicates, one-offs.
w.
there are other writers here. some type, some write long hand. There are bean bag chairs
in the common area and a young woman is sitting there and catches up on her reading. She is a
student at barnard. Or maybe Fordham. Author here has talked to them but she is kind of mixing
up their stories. She knows that all of them write, obviously. It is a writing place, after all. One
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young man who looks very hipsterlike and lives in Williamsburg writes poetry. His day job is
baristadom.
x.
on the telly, wheel of fortune. A woman with long hair is winning. And she is happy, the
prize is a trip to nyc. Well be back in a New York minute. 350 words left to feed to this machine
here. and vanna white in front of the letters here.
y.
on the telly, Seinfeld. The episode with the Chinese restaurant. It is funny. Obviously.
Apparently Seinfeld does not translate very well into other languages. She read an article about
that. She has seen Seinfeld in German though. The dubbed version.
Outside, the illumination on the greenery. That is always there at this time of the day. The
mysterious illumination.
Now, George costanza.
Still 300 words. She has to feed them to this machine here. she will not have to do
anything till Monday eve. Till Tuesday morn. If she finishes this, she will have done even
Mondays work here. Her unpaid work. The writing of words. The 2000 per day allotment. She
can do this for a year. 365, 366 in a leap year, times 2000. All math all math here.
200 words. Mr. Cohen always here. Mr. Cohen very nice man. He live on park avenue.
Less than 200, 180. I know. I know. She peppers her text with bits and pieces she
overhears from the show. A new genre, the collage of stuff on the telly with words that just come
to her. Amazingish, huh.
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An ad for expedia here. still some more words some more. The lights on the greenery are
still there, it looks as if someone has put lights on the tip of the leaves, all the lightened-up tips.
Bankastrati and hot cocoa, itzehoe and crumbly cake, union square and jelly donut. Every place
has something to do with some sweet food.
Writing, huh. She needs some more, eighty here. seven, seven, six. I am counting your
shrimps. Seventy words here. Elaine who tries to bribe the receptionist at the restaurant. 50
words here. Schnell, schnell. No, no, I want that table. What a sorry exhibition that was. 39 969.
Thirty words. That is all we need here. 22. Just a mere 22 words and she does not have to write
for two whole days here. 4, 3, 2, 1, and finally, finally, 40 003, finally ah finally here.
20.
She is sitting on the third floor in front of her laptop. Her computer shut down out of
nowhere, her words got lost. Dissipated into thin air. She had written something about how her
writing is like a police woman documenting what happened on her beat and the reason for this
being that one can hear CNN talking about a police shooting somewhere in the distance. There
were other thoughts too, she wrote something about how this is basically everyday life, not
something creative, she comes here and mechanically types in what she saw on the street. It is
more documentation than making up stuff, more filming with a camera than spinning a yarn,
more science than poetry. The writer as a regular guy, a regular gal. nothing special, nothing
artistic. Nothing that is different from anywhere else. She has 10 151 words here; she will still
type some more here. Make that 40 151, ok, so a tad more. Her words in the computer. The
descriptions of coffee houses. Bankastrati which is actually bankastraeti. How much can she
wring out of descriptions of places? There are basically only three scenes in this book, this text.
A coffee house in Germany, one in Iceland and one in the US. A place that dispenses boiled
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beverages that are hotter than tap water. Not enough of a story here. But negativity should not
win, if you are a writer you can make it work here.
a.
so still the blank screen to fill up with letters. 2000 per day. There are others here in this
place, she can hear the typing. There is a new writer, a rookie. A woman with blond hair in a bun.
Maybe 27 or 28. She wears dark rimmed glasses and sports a blue shirt. Her choice of clothes
does not say anything about what she writes. Maybe a fitness blog, a fitness book. Something
that has to do with food intake or the lack thereof. Author here is preoccupied with the other
writers; it is the only thing to do here. one is in close quarters and the ascent of the three flights
of stairs always makes hr notice her inability to move. Her unfit state. Her too many pounds. Her
hurting joints. She is always a tad out of breath once she is at her cubby. And it is more of a
cubby than a desk. More non-grown-up. You are part of a group; you do not inhabit the corner
office. If you did, you would use an elevator here. There is always a pull to go out and have
donuts. Or something organic in whole foods. Or just go on the L-train and leave the vicinities.
Use Citi bike, there is a station on the way to Strand. Sometimes there is a farmers market, they
have goat cheese and really good ice cream. That is overpriced and designerish and made in
Vermont by people who live off their trust fund. Or one of them has a trust fund, the others are
sharing said trust fund.
She has to type, some words ah some words here. she could write about the train ride that
she never took. Or, wait, she took it, some twenty years or so ago. But not the slow train, no, the
fast train. Not the one that chuggers along and waits up in each one horse town between
Hamburg and itzehoe. The fashion store she saw on you tube, it had a name like that. And apple
crumbly cakes seem to be generic, they are eaten everywhere and anywhere. All readers can
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relate to crumbles and to apples. Her writing could be better and it could be worse here. 1400
words here and she has Tuesdays work done on Sunday here. Her screen is still not filled with
words here.
The new woman, the rookie fixes her hair, her updo. She plays with her glasses. She
keeps on typing here. the writing place is always boring and uninspired. Author here looks at
pins on pinterest, all about writing and the lives of writers. Well, obviously, the lives of writers
are as prosaic as could be. Nothing is happening so you have to make up stories about happening
stuffi-muffi here.
She needs tea or coffee or cocoa. Something hot. Hot here. a piece of pastry. A jelly
donut. A walk to the highline. Anything but here. you always can run away. Run away from the
task of typing up words. Shitty shitty words here. she could describe the coffee house in Iceland
once more. The hot cocoa, the whip with the uneven peaks here. the ornamental drawings on the
papercup. The nice design that makes yer happy. That is made out of primary colors but not too
glaring ones. Muted primary colors that are a tad off. Artistic enough and conventional enough
for a coffee chain in Iceland. The starbucks of Iceland here.
The coffee house in itzehoe is a one-off. Apparently. So is the fashion store, the small
boutique. These are people who scoff at expansion. World domination is not what they vie for
here.
Author ponders, there should be more happening than just the descript of three scenes the
world over. The feel of coffee houses. A doughnut shoppe like any other. The sugar oozing.
Writing makes hungry so does non-writing. The typing versus the nontyping here. she could
walk up to the highline or down to alphabet city. Could walk from water to water, from Hudson
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to east river and back. Up and down 14th. She could make her way downtown or uptown. Or she
could just sit here and type which is exactly why she pays 300 bucks per month. Ten bucks per
day. She does not type up ten bucks worth of words per day. She could not even sell her words
here. you have to be a Us citizen apparently. What has the irs to say about writers and their
earnings. Canada revenue. So this is what is in the way of her amazing career. The accounting
logistics. It is not about the words at all here.
It is so boring to sit here stagnant. And staring at a monitor. She checks her email,
facebook, other peoples Instagram pics. She read yelp reviews about the chocolate place near
unionsquare, the one with the bald guy. There is this restaurant which is very expensive and
where she felt very bad when she was in there last time, actually the only time that she was in
there. Apparently Obama had been in there just two days before she frequented it. The food was
amazing but she felt way too bad than sitting and eating. The bathrooms were on the lower floor
and very nice, though that is not the place you want to be in a nice great restaurant here.
She could describe one more of the bankastrati establishments, people who look very
Icelandic in wool caps with ear flaps. Or people in tank tops, if that is the time of the year. The
hot beverages do not change, neither does the round cake with glaze and mush therein.
800 words here, schnell, schnell.
b.
a Sunday in july, a mazda ad on the telly here. outside greenery and a wild wind moving
the whole package of leaves in a roaring swirl that seems to have nothing to do with this time of
the year here. she has to write some more here in this room where the telly does not kill the
sounds of her typing. This is a laptop not a typewriter, but you still feel as if you are in one of
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those gangster movies and you feed the words to the typewriter in a zerknautscht hat and a
zerknautscht raincoat, one of those Chicago mobster flicks in black and white. Zerknautscht,
huh, it is a german word and you do not really need to translate it, german words have their own
momentum within the English language, they are exotic sprinkles that always work within a text,
they command attention, just because hey are so funny in their intonation within the English
landscape, so jarring and not belonging in there and he questionable meaning that one can only
guess from the context here.
Still 900 words or so before the trek to the mall in the other city, the big mall, the biggest
in the lower mainland. Where people are moving to and fro, where stuff is happening where you
can look at faces of strangers that you will never ever know and that you do not feel to get to
know here. there is a bookstore filled to the brim with all kinds of magazines and books about
everything and anything, books about watering holes that writers frequent and lives of writers,
letters by Norman mailer and other stuff. There are poems by keats and books by Vonnegut. She
does not know much about English speaking lit, which is just fine, you can still make it as a
writer if you do not know the competition. It is all about your own unique sentences, your own
unique choice of words here. And the lack of publication, the moaning about the constant state of
failure. The failed artist, poet, the voice that nobody listens to. The rotting in the gutter, the
romance that basically sucks. The state of failure. Huh, that one ah that one here.
41 567.
Some more words here and some more words here.
400 or so and we are outta here. the writings of Tuesday on Sunday here. the greenery
outside which looks different out of this room here. 400 words, schnell schnell. The fashion store
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outside of the coffee house in itzehoe, the woman who opens the place at ten in the morn, all in
pink and grey, very elegant, all pastel, she should model for miu miu or karl Lagerfeld, instead
she is living here in this godforsaken place and models for the small town crowd. This is as far as
it can be from milan or new York here. there is apple crumbly cake in the coffee house across the
street here. there is rain coming down on the city, there is the train that takes you out of here to
hamburg and then you can take a flight up to jfk for fashion week. Everything and anything is
interconnected nowadays here. author types on her little laptop which is the smaller version here.
her tea is getting cold and her cake is yesterdays cake, it has this smell and taste of staleness that
is nicely preserved just like a facelift of an 81 year old woman who thinks that nobody notices
anyways here.
Author has whip, which is a tad out of kilter what with the balance of calories here.
We need some 200 words and it is outta here and outta here. time to go back thru the
streets of itzehoe, the sun is coming out which makes the place less melancholical and more
glaring. The sun does not become this place, it is nicer to sing the blues in here. it goes with her
unsuccessful writerdom, with the romance of failure. You cannot be a happy unpublished poet;
this does not go with that. You have to suck bigtime as a writer, that is when it is fun. You either
have to make it big or rot in the gutter, artists with medium success are the worst. You have to
fail big or succeed big, it is an either or world. No middle tones, contrasts make for the right kind
of drama here. she does not need that many words anymore, some fifty or so and then she can
join the living here. the fridge makes noise in the distance and a door locks, she is smushing
together all of these locations which is too whirlwindy for whoever the reader is. There has to be
a sanitary descript of each location and the borders of the different layers of a story have be
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concise and non-permeable here. be this as it may here, we have 42 017 here, and outta here and
outta here.
21.
Yes, maybe she should type up some words here. The end of a Sunday in July, so near to
the start up of lieutenant Colombo. There was this documentary about funny houses, one that
looked like a catsup bottle and the big duck on long island. Was a good show. Now it is cnn and
solemn talk, there was a shooting in Baton Rouge in the morn.
a
a commercial on the telly. The greenery outside but without the illumination. No extra
lightings even though the day was certifiably nice and warm and summery, sunny. Full of
persons with tank tops. The weather that makes for tank tops, yay ah yay yay.
Thoughts of bankastrati, the hot cocoa in the colorful paper cup here. the whip with the
uneven peaks smushed into the hot beverage. This is bliss, this is the life. In the land of geysers.
Walking up the street by the houses with the pointy roofs. By strangers that are all out for a stroll.
Life happens silently, without hecticness. It goes with the hot cocoa that is by now lukewarm
here.
b.
42 225.
c.
it is still in the midst of night, she woke up, maybe this is a good time to work on your
writing here. the description of the hot cocoa in Reykjavik, the whip with the uneven peaks that
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silently melts into it, the stroll all over the city while the day silently moves towards and into the
night. She choses her words carefully to describe both the stuff she drinks and the feel of the city
at this time of the day, her writing is getting slowly better the more she hangs in there, the more
words she silently heaps onto the laptop, she morphs into a gifted writer without even trying. It is
inevitable, the more she types the more it gets virtuosic, it is like playing the piano, like riding a
bike, like something physical that you practice each and every day and as we all know practice
tends to make perfect. Her self congratulatory attitude serves her writing just fine. She walks the
city, up the hill and down the hill, she is here on the other side of the planet all by herself which
is good, she is concentrating on the task at hand, her writing adventure and she will finally have
something to show for her efforts. This time around nobody will reject her words, some words
you cannot reject, they are foolproof, they are unrejectable no mater what. Publishers the world
over clamour for getting a publishing deal with her, that is how it is, how it should be, how it will
be. The whip silently melts into the hot cocoa here. bankastrati is happening happening here.
d.
the rain on itzehoe, the walk through the rain against the street from the bahnhof, author
here ponders that the streets near the station are not usually called bahnhofstrasse as they are in
Switzerland. Regional difs, now there is something to write on. Slight diversions, statements that
might or might not ring true. These are all semi facts anyways, she is hoping for a warmed-up
crumble cake, for a silently hot mint tea in the coffee house here. her life as a writer here in
itzehoe, the each and everyday, her words and the silent silent accumulate here.
e.
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out of the subway at union station, up to the writing studio, her trek, her inevitable trek
here. she uses this place, it pays to do this, she is a consumer of a slight rented place that is
geared towards all of the writers in this city. The aspiringish crowd that descends on the big
apple, the words that float thru the crowd to be grasped and put to paper, to be bound in a neat
package somewhere in upstate New York or Massachusetts. She makes her way to the donut
shoppe, chomping on donuts is a task that comes easy to her, it beats the choosing of the right
words anytime. Her words are clunky, they jar a tad a tad here.
f.
42 721.
g.
no looking to the right, no looking to the left, just the straight shoot for the laptop. The
morn that is starting up. she was outside of her place for one hour straight, one hour exactly. Or
so it seems. Maybe she woke up at seven and is now at the computer at 8, she is not quite sure
and all of these occurrences smush together here. when you have a chore at hand, some words
that have to be formulated in just the right order, then you get a tad confused here. she was at the
gym and the gym was just as horrible as it always is, she had coffee and the coffee place sucked
too. Seems that she does not have a sunny outlook today but that is fine, the main objective are
the words here. she needs 1100 more, these are Tuesdays words on Monday. At least that is how
she remembers it. It all is brewing together anyways here.
h.
union station, union square, the writingish place up from union square. She is not even
quite sure on which side of the street it is, the real thing has a concrete address, the figment of
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her imagination has a different one here. she always imagined the place on the side of the street
that is near midtown, but maybe it is on the opposite side. On the side of whole foods. Not on the
side of barnes and nobles. Maybe she should fly to jfk, make her way to downtown to scout the
location. To explore the place here. maybe she should write reality based stuffi-muffi. But there
are things to write here too, places that she just notices now. The coffee place inside the market,
the people and their drinks. A yellow mango concoction, a bagel with cucumber slices. This is
what people eat to maintain their figures. Soy milk for the lactose intolerant crowd here. she
could go down to the grocery store on broadway and have a big salad in order to too lose her
weight to get back to the weight she had in December. The thinner weight here. we have 43 082
words, well, at least we wrote a book here even if the weight is ah so iffy here.
i.
itzehoe and its crumbly cake, she should look at german crumbly cakes, at images, in
order to flesh out her writing, in order to mention details and in order to make sure that they are
the right kinds of details. The consistency of the crumbs, the grease that they were made with.
Are they made in that coffee house or are they store bought? Do they come from the bakery on
the ther side of the street? Is there a bakery on the other side of the street? Itzehoe is there to be
discovered, not made up. Everything has to be factual, just so just so here.
j.
you can lie on the page and you will never get caught. It comes with the territory here.
outside the greenery with different shadows. The fridge and its songs. The july15 in Vancouver
Canada here.
k.
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so, these days she should go to museums. Instead of writing here. after all she trained as a
visual artist and her writing career is just so, a career without any training. It flappers in thin air.
But museums, yup, that is what she knows about. Art, visual art. It kind of got destroyed by too
many words, all those gallery reports all those analyzingish treatises. The words that destroyed
the images.
she could walk to the new Whitney here. she has not been there since coming to this city.
But first she has to feed some words to the machine in the locker upstairs. On the third floor. She
has her laptop inside of the locker which is inconvenient when she wants to write in the evening.
The place is open until 11, but who wants to come here at that unholy time. And over the
weekend you can come in here 24 hours. On holidays too. She looked it up on theitr website
here, she has the brochure somewhere, probably inside of the locker. She does not feel like
writing, feels more like donut where reddish jelly oozes out and drops on the paper plate. Donuts
have this feel of realness that writing cannot provide. reality of writing, nah, writing is surreal,
first and foremost. Poetry, that is weird and it is for women more dainty than her. She looks more
like a construction worker anyways, more burly than like a ballerina here. she needs seven words
to get to the next round number, she counts her words like little ballerina steps here. the rhythm
of the words, the choreography, the symphony orchestra that performs her words. That is what
marketing and distribution is for words here, publishing. How to get an idea into the world here.
l.
Bankstrati on a regular afternoon. No hot cocoa, no walking around the city with wool
hat and flaps over your ears. No, merely sitting in the coffee house and having tea and round
cake. Watching people with shopping bags. The boutiques of Reykjavik, the places with Italian
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names, the new fashion out of Milan. Reykjavik is and was fascinating, there is so much to write
about this place. Reluctant words that seem poetic and unreal here.
m.
do you want to exit tablet mode? She did not even know that the computer is in tablet
mode. On the telly, it is now perry mason, in the other room. How can you write while he telly is
singing its songs here? before that, there was another black and white show, the Beverly
hillbillies. She was falling asleep while watching it. It has that propensity, nothing seemed to
make sense. Seems that nowadays sitcoms are way more linear. In the old times nothing seemed
to make sense. The story had too many holes. Outside the greenery in very big flat color slabs.
Something is wrong with this picture. She writes up her 1000 words, she merely needs some 250
or so here. Then todays work is done, or better yet, actually it is tomorrows work. Her descripts
of coffee places, about the pastry and the hot drinks there. she is writing, typing and typing here.
n.
itzehoe, the coffee house in the rain. The three women near the window, chattering. The
fashion woman in pink on the other side of the street. The waitress and her bored face. The
crumbly apple cake and the mint tea. Everything is just so. It is ten in the morn, that is why the
boutique woman is opening the shop. Her shop or maybe she just works there and does not really
own it. Author could go there and ask her but it seems to be nicer if it stays a mystery. In fiction
as in real life, the stories that are not told is what makes it all interesting. Lots of things you
should not know,. You can just speculate that will bind stuff together, that will give the illusion of
a reality that is concrete and constant. Everything adhering together when in reality nothing
really makes sense. A woman who comes here and writes with an air of purpose even though she
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has no publishing deal and nothing on the horizon. But who wants to lead that kind of life, hope
is the last thing to die. For her her writing career is paramount, it might never ever happen but
that is inconsequential, she comes here on the train that chuggers through the rain, each and
every day and writes some words, some words here. and at this point we have 44 013 here, yay,
ah, yay and yay here.
22.
She feels like ice cream. From the market. With cream and jelly. Too much sugar,
potential sugar that will make her weigh more than she should. There are ways to figure out your
bmi, body mass index. There is one that is over weight and one that is obese. She used to be in
the overweight cat and now is in the obese one. Maybe ice cream should wait here.
a.
so ice cream she had. From the market. Vanilla bean which is too expensive and not very
good. It looks like ice cream with pepper strewn all over it. She has cream with it and jam, black
berry and strawberry. Dieting will wait till tomorrow here. until then she will write about people
in coffee houses the world over. The writer in nyc, the one in Iceland, the one in Schleswig
Holstein. Nobody knows if they are the same person. They are writers. She could make them into
separate persons. Or she can just do it like this, merge all of them together. Outside, the greenery
moves around in sudden spurts of forcefulness. There is even some illumination, illumination in
the making. On the telly, law and order. The person who used to play in family ties. He is a bad
guy here, a murderer. The dad from family ties here.
the woman in law and order is the daughter of Jayne Mansfield. And now a commercial
about dulcolax and about insurance.
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We have 44 275 on Monday evening. Here.

it could be Tuesdays work or Wednesdays here. somehow she is losing count which is
which. She just knows that she has to deliver this in chunks of 2000 here. an ad for ikea, an ad
for Chrysler. The actor is one funny guy here whoever he is. The spokesperson of Chrysler. Like
flo for progressive, like the Toyota woman like the all right allright allright guy of Lincoln town
country.
b.
bankastrati. Her seat in the back. Hardly anyone in here. she has a coffee and puts some
cream into it. She has the round cake with chocolate gloss on it. With the pinkish mush therein.
She has a plate and a fork. No paper plate here. she dunks the fork into the chocolate gloss, splits
it open. Dunks the fork edges deeper into the pastel pink mush. It tastes actually good, not
artificially. The coffee is good too. She has three or four sips here. it is about two in the afternoon
on a Thursday in may. She is now in Reykjavik for about three weeks here. she writes every day.
Mainly long hand, she then transcribes her words in the hotel cell. Well, it is a hotel room, but it
is kind of Spartan. She could change her hotel, there are better places for the same price. But she
is now used to the neighbourhood, finds her way around. She has even located a laundromat.
That is big, laundromats you only find in nyc apparently. Everywhere else it is a problem here.
her Icelandic writing residency. Her words that are getting better by the day. Each and every day
she makes sure that she pens 2000 words here. this will all be edited at a later time. She is not
good at killing her words, she loves them all. Editing is so forceful, so mutilating. To cut out
words that move together in unison, how can you possibly do that?
c.
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an afternoon in July leaning into the evening. No illumination on the greenery outside,
the leaves move around outside. The swerving. Nothing too drastic here. there are some leaves
on the other side too, in front of the front window here.
Cnn or something, the news, a man who is kind of an unlikely anchor here, he has a face
that is not suited for anchordom, his hair is too unruly, he has locks, and his eyes are way too
opened up. He has a funny face and that does not really go with anchordom. He looks more like
a nerdy guy, he should be in science or something. He is in the wrong profession. Anchors have
more a bla- face, not that pronounced comical features here.
d.
itzehoe, it has a stream of water in this city, the stoer. Author never ever noticed it but she
watched a utube movie about the place where she does her writing in the coffee house,
apparently there is a bahnhofstrasse, she learns more about this city by goggling, doing research
online instead of walking around the real place. After all, she just knows the coffee house
anyways and that is what she needs, a table that she can write at. Some place in the public realm
where she can concentrate on finding the right words here. outside the reluctant rain here, this
place always has rain. The rainy city outside of Hamburg. Apparently lots of magazines are
printed here in this city.
She feels sleepy, mainly because she does not move enough. She just writes most of the
time and walks from train station to coffee house and back here.
e.
she walks by the writing studio, she does not feel like going up, shed rather sit in the
donut place. Have a tad too much sugar, writers and cops do that here.
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f.
44 912.
g.
44 915.
What to write about? While the telly is singing its songs. Seinfeld, one of those episodes
she has seen so many times here. the sounds on the screen interfere with the formation of new
words here. an ad for a car, an ad for a new movie here. and still another ad for another car make.
They are all vying for customers, buy me, buy me here.
h.
an ad for donuts.
i.
hammering away at the laptop while watching what is going on on the telly. That is how
masterpieces are penned. Somehow, by magic, the words will fall into place. She then will go on
a book tour, win awards. Will battle with fame. maybe it is better to just type up obscure words
that nobody will ever read here.
j.
45 051.
k.
1000 words, that is what we need here. she could describe bankastrati and itzehoe and
nyc, and even this place here, the stuff on the telly, the laugh tracks here. it is now two and a half
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men, another rerun. Outside greenery, but not darkness as of yet. The day that slowly is coming
to an end here.
l.
900 words. About the hecticness of nyc. The subway train to union square. The people,
the waiting. The never ever changing live theatre. So much to see, so much to write about here.
the clothes that people are wearing. The short interactions. Of strangers. People who wait for the
train. For getting to place A from place B. the stoic faces. The mole people. The subway crowd.
People who move underground. Fourteenth is moving, fast, schnell, schnell. She walks by the
writingish space, she can do her writing in one of the coffee houses off fourteenth. She has her
notebook and a pen. That should suffice for jotting down ideas here. she is paying a monthly rent
for the writing studio. There are others all over the city. She pays for different fitness studios too.
But her main fitness regime is walking the city. The urban runway makes her stay fit and trim.
Move off all those extra pounds she has gathered onto her body around her weight her waist. Her
waste.
m.
700 words.
n.
bankastrati next to sundown, with a hot cocoa in her right hand. Cocoa or tea, all of this
has to go into her body in order to make her type up the right words here. Hottish beverages
translate into good lit. maybe booze would be better, the slight losing of the mind that
drunkenness has in it. The happy stupor. It translates into better words here.
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o.
700 words left here.
p.
an ad for sneakers. Or maybe it is just a clothing store that she has never ever seen here.
q.
the train ride through the rain. She looks outside, stares outside here. the train ride is
always soothing, the commute to her office. The glorified office in the coffee house that is near
the station. Where she does her writings day in and day out here. every single day.
s.
500 words here.
t.
actually more like 570 words here. she describes the same locations again and again here.
the same walks around the locations. The same food. Storytelling is about change of scenery.
Discontinuity. An achievement more substantial than the accumulation of a certain amount of
words here. there are glitches in her writing but if we keep on typing they will iron out magically.
She has to believe that. This is her rookiedom, her apprenticeship as a writer here. you just keep
on doing this and it will get much much better, automatically. There will be a narrative at the end
of the tunnel here. 470 words. While another car ad is on the telly here. apparently today is the
gop convention in Cleveland. There are so many political thingies anyways here. it is an election
year after all here.
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520 or so. Her math is not that good here. there still is another two and a half men
episode here. an ad for six flags here.
45 594.
Chelsea and Charlie. Outside the greenery at its last wisps here. the slow movements. Not
darkness as of yet here. but not daylight anymore either here.
400 words.
Merely three places to describe. She could use the plot generator thingie which is always
interesting enough here. an ad for a movie or maybe a show. An ad for chicken. Something extra
crispy here.
Once more the laughtrack thingie. One of many sitcoms over the course of the day here.
325 words here.
Something substantial to write about.
u.
nyc, the donut shoppe. The donut, the coffee with cream therein. She could have chosen
milk instead of cream here. it does not really make any difference, after all there is sugar in the
donut and grease here. it is not a healthy choice here. she had a salad for lunch at whole foods.
Kale and berries and olives without pits. Two different kinds. Some sprinkles of fish here. 200
words here. she finishes her donut, walks up fourteenth. Everything and anything to avoid the
formulation of words in a book that nobody will read anyways. Even if she puts it online for free.
And she strolls up the street, motion will help her with her writing here. there is this literature
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museum in Vienna where they are exhibiting the shoes of a famous author. He likes to walk
apparently for days on end here.
v.
all this walking does not translate into her writing the right words up here. she drinks
beverages, alcoholic and otherwise, she looks out the window on a train to itzehoe, she types
away. All of this will be edited and put together in just the right sequence, in a way that will be
worth reading out in front of an audience here. 110 words and then this will be over will be over
here. outside the darkness is all-encompassing here, somehow reality and sureality are mushing
together here. she is slowly and steadily and happily going insane here. but seventy words she
still needs. on the telly an ad for a car. A different car, white, big. still another kind of car, one
that is equally white. 45 955. Not that much needed here, an ad for a Chrysler or wait it is a
different make of car. They all look alike anyways here.
twenty words, darkness is around the corner, twelve, eleven, ten, nine words and we will
be happily outta here and outta here here. 46 005.
23.
THE CONSTRUCTING OF A BOOK
So soon in the day, early or a tad late. It depends of how you see it, everything is relative.
If you wake up at five in the morn, then it follows that five fifteen is late. Anyhoo, it is nine in
the morn, on a Tuesday, a rainy one here. She walks by the big construction site, the one that will
be the new science and technology building in the community college on forty-ninth. The
construction of a building, the construction of a book. There are similarities, in each case you
build something that was not there before. The foundation has to be stable in order to withstand
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the elements. The construction of a book, words put to paper in certain increments, meticulously,
each and every day. The sheer abundance of words will garner the final new entity, in this case
the book. She will stop at 100 000 words, then it is a book. That is the unit that makes for calling
it a book, in the historical sense, in the traditional sense. A book of 100 000 words, now there is a
middle of the road book. It is kind of a backtrack to other times, simpler times, when soldiers had
paperback editions in their back pockets. When a story was told in 100 000 words. When a large
group in the population was illiterate. Then all 100 000 words would do. This her book is more a
manual of how to write a book, a day by day account of the intricacies. A kind of
acknowledgement that the writer has no clue how to do this and thus has to somehow, wiggle it
out by herself, all buy herself. She longs for the hot cocoa in the coffee house in bankastrati, the
hot cocoa that she never ever had as of yet. The fictional cocoa as it is shown on the pictures on
yelp. Cocoa tastes the same everywhere, something with a wisp, a hint of chocolate. Liquefied
chocolate. A drink thicker than water, with a hotness that should not be scolding your inerts but
make you feel wooly warm from the inside here. With uneven peaks of whip that are mushed
into the chocolate until the whole drink has the consistency of heated tomato soup by Campbell.
Her walk along bankastrati, her sitting in the community college, the computer lab on the ground
floor of the library on 49th. In the college. She has to make sure that she does not repeat her
words way too often. It is chilly outside, wisps of rain in the air. Her car at the Y, she could go to
the big mall instead of typing this up. By train or by car. But maybe she first should type this up.
A woman walks behind her, in a resolute gait, with shoes that make that kind of sound. Grown up
shows with black platforms. Shoes that command authority, that have a self explanatory sound
here. Authors words did not type in here, they were very good, they were about shoes, very
philosophically and they are all lost here lost here. She can never get them back, it was
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something about the authority of boots that are worn ot of season, that are worn in summer even
though they belong to another season of the year. What kind of poet is she if she keeps on losing
words here. This did not happen with paper here. The writers in the digital age, they are all sad
poets, they have lost words, constantly constantly here. You might be able to write more, but the
best stuff dissipates somewhere in the crowd. You lose your babies, all those amazing sentences,
that are so true, that ring true to any reader the world over here. From New Zealand to new York
to Reykjavik here. She has some 700 words or so, lots of people are sitting next to her, talking in
hindi or urdu or Punjabi. One woman talks and the others are listening listening here. 678 words
here. The smell of bankastrati is reluctantly in the air here. On a rainy day in the summer of
vancouver here.
a.
union square, union station.
Her walk towards the writing place. The number, 35, on the wall. On the shingle. She feels like
not going up to write, it is better to stay away from that place. The words have to find her
somewhere else. They cannot come to her while sitting in closed quarters with other writers. She
could use the rooms in the New York public library, just walking by the sleeping lions will make
her write. She is not quite sure if the lions are sleeping, but one thing is clear, the library the main
one on forty something has the propensity to make you write the right right words here. There
even is a residency out of the library, a coveted one that has a waiting list and a selection
committee. It is not like this writing studio where anyone who has 200 or 300 bucks burning a
hole in their pocket can get in. places have to be selective, the exclusivity is what makes the
spaces worthy.
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b.
yup, it is the donut place here, the red jam oozing out onto the paper plate. This place
frequented by cops and construction workers, she too is constructing, constructing a book. She
does not wear a hard hat but so what ah so what here. She needs work boots just like them here.
928 on a tuesday morn, ah Tuesday morn here.
c.
the train through the rain. Train that rhymes with rain. Itzehoe is so romantic, mainly
because it is so far away from anywhere. She does not belong here or maybe she so very much
belongs here. To write her book that nobody will read. She has to get over the fact that nobody
will read this. She has to write it, that is all that counts here. It is the task at hand, come rain
come shine. Her 2000 words per day that give meaning to her life. So what that nobody will pay
for her words, that is totally unimportant, what counts is that she does it. She is self employed,
yup, let us go with that. An independent contractor here. So she did not secure publication
beforehand. It still does not change the words and especially not the amount of words here. The
rain is coming down, silently, quietly inobtrusively here. The walk through the rain once she is in
the city, luckily she has an umbrella and a yellow one at that. It reminds her of the umbrella in
how I met your mother here. A man stands too near to her in the computer lab. She is kind of
miffed, cannot concentrate on fashioning the account of the train ride down to itzehoe here.
d.
nyc, itzehoe, Reykjavik, it is fun to describe places on the other side of the world. The
escapism, the wish to be somewhere else. Id rather be golfing, it is that kind of sentiment.
While her words prassel slowly onto the page, onto the keyboard, into the monitor here. people
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will read this once it is nicely edited, once that she has read thru it and ironed out the obvious
mistakes here. 1230 words. For some weird reason there are reflections in her glasses, straight
lines in white as if there are rolls of architectural maps. She is losing it, silently, a bad
functioning pair of glasses does that to yer, makes you see things that do not exist. It seems that
those lines are the reflections of the neon tubes on the ceiling above her head here. She can see
them on the right and on the left here. 1306 words, still 700 left to be penned here.
e.
nothing to say anymore, now we just have to make up stuff here.
f.
SHE
IS
way too sleepy, but she still has to feed some 700 words to this machine.
Better to finish this in one big whoosh here. If not she has to go back in later and do this in her
own quarters, it is better to type this up here. Even though there are all these people who are
working on their start up. This is not silicon valley, it is some insignificant college and the man
standing next to her has a very penetrating cologne that is killing, killing, I tell yer here.
g.
some more words here, some fast ones, schnell, ah schnell here. how much do you make
with a start-up? Does it buy yer houses and cars? Independence. She looked at an image where
mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla chan were in berlin and receiving the first ever alex springer
award. What is with awards, trinkets that you clutch with both hands and coo into the mike this is
what it is all about. And your peers clap, thunderously. She will never ever clasp a trinket,
writing in obscurity does not do that to you. Penning a masterpiece and they are all masterpieces,
mainly that is why she will never ever have an award, because she feels that all written pieces are
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masterpieces. The eloquence of a grocery list as great world lit as war and peace. Besides people
read grocery lists, nobody reads war and peace, and if anything you go thru the cliff notes.
h.
the wordcount at 1600, some less some more here. Trh whiffs of bankastrati and nyc, the
whiff of a dumpf walk from the bahnhof to the coffee place in the city some sixty minutes out of
Hamburg. The locations where great words are penned and saved in a usb file, the man is still
smelling way too profusely, even though he is sitting some two seats to authors left. Wow, what
did he do, bathe in cologne. Geez, ah geez here.
i.
there should be better subject matters than disgustingish smells of the people in a
computer lab, she is next to having lunch which once more is a piece of cake and a piece of tea.
We are not very grown up here, grown uppiness is for the birds here. Other writers look at the
monitor while writing, she however looks down at the keyboard here.
j.
300 words about anything here. The slow day, the slow words. She feels like barfing, she
always does here. Smells, feels, that is what plumps over her page. In the distance there is smoke
coming out of a chimney. White smoke out of a white chimney. Somewhere near the main
building of the college here. She needs some 220 words here and then we are outta here, can
walk back to the y and jump into the car and leave this place ah leave this place here. The writing
studio which is what she chose over a painters studio. Your fingers stay clean, the space under
your fingernails here. Maybe painting is better, it is more physical, more of an exertion. Maybe
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painters are a thinner breed than writers, which professional group will keel over easily, more
easily than the other one.
k.
animation that is what she tried her hand at, some ten, twelve years ago. It is a world
somewhere in the distant past here. She might revive it, eventually, eventually. Who does not
want to draw stick figures that march over the paper, over the screen, the disgusting guy with the
disgusting smell, once more, happy thoughts, imagine the hot cocoa in bankastrati. Anywhere but
here here.
l.
some 70 words, some 75. The writingish day is coming to an end, the exercise of typing,
typing up words here. The pushing down of lil squares here. The book that will eventually be,
her dissertation, one of many, one of many here. 1979, so little left to feed to this machine here.
In July of 2016, maybe twentieth, maybe twenty first here. One word and 2002 it is for now for
now for now for now, now here. 2015 words, yay. 2012 or so and stop and stop this here.
24.
2000 words, yup, another 2000 here. after typing up 2000 in the morning. Outside the
tired greenery, the day that is flabbergasted that this is supposed to be summer. Apparently there
are paces where snow comes down, somewhere in the alps. So this is nothing, a jittery July here.
on the telly, two and a half men, a rerun, one of many that will happen all over this day. The
music that will make you write your master piece here.
a.
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48 132 words here.

b.
it is the funny scene where Charlie and Jake say hi to their new neighbour. We could
write about the writing studio here. well, the one in nyc. There was an article in the times about
strand or maybe it was on facebook and facebook had printed it out from the times. It was nice,
all about books and what goes into living and working around all those books here. author makes
her way up to the writing studio, only to throw a glance at the number on the shingle and to walk
by it. She tends to ignore the place, she tends to go everywhere else in the city, everywhere and
anywhere that is not the writing studio. Penning her master piece seems to come easier in other
spaces, in other places here.
c.
a funny scene on the telly, one of many here.
d.
we need some more, some 1700 here.
e.
the cocoa and the street in Reykjavik, the stroll at sundown. While the whipped cream
melts into the paper cup and into the hot cocoa here.
f.
the rain, the train and the small city outside of Hamburg. Her letters on the paper, slightly
leaning to the left. Sometimes they lean to the left, on other days they lean to the right here.
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g.
so she wrote about nyc, about itzehoe and about the capital of Iceland. About different hot
beverages. Today she had a cheese Danish, mainly because they were out of chocolate marble
loaf. One could write about that. The different flavours of pastry in the coffee house. There are
more pressing issues to read about and to write about. But everybody can listen to the news
anyways.
h.
we can write about regular things, food, drinks. The way how one tries to eek out a career
as a writer while the odds are kind of stacked against. One needs talent, a tad more than there is
already. Nicer words, better words. She walks by Pratt, they always have exhibitions. And we are
walking here and walking here. eventually she will find herself at her desk on the third floor.
i.
48 495 words here
j.
she should describe the interior of the coffee house on bankastrati. Each and every detail.
The interior design. Just as a practice for writing, for using the language accurately. How to paint
with words? She can describe the part of the coffee place where one orders the beverages. Where
one stands in line. She does not feel like doing it. It seems a futile endeavour. What difference
does it really make how this place looks like? It is just a coffee shop. Like any other the world
over.
k.
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she feels sick. Too much junk food does that to yer. Too much sitting in one corner and
typing up words.
l.
1400 words left to write up here.
m.
so she drinks coffee and tea the world over and she lives to write about it. But mostly she
likes the place in itzehoe because she feels like a writer here. she puts on that kind of air when
she is sitting in here. it is about the seriousness, the forcefulness, the state of resoluteness. She
puts on an act, because all the world is a stage. But it is better do do it in here than in your own
place, here it becomes a public performance, the quintessential performance in the public realm.
You can even hear the claps of the audience even though there never is one. The waitress, the
three women near the window, even the fashion lady on the other side of the street. The
occasional construction workers. They all notice her out of the corner of their eyes, the woman
who writes, who sometimes even moves her lips as if she is spelling out her words. It is not so
much about being published, it is about living the dream, about having a certain persona, about
picking up that persona and personifying it. Ah well, so she managed to overuse the word
persona here but it is irrelevant, how she writes and what she writes is unimportant, what is
important is that she writes. It is the idea that underlies the national novel writing month
phenomenon, it is about the act itself, the motion to the typewriter, the just do it element. The
time well spent, the time spent writing. The words that are picked and put to paper, the activity of
writing here.
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the rain is coming down on itzehoe, it always is, it is part of the charm of this place here.
It underscores the romanticism of this activity, the writing of words that nobody might read here.
the futile hope that someone will read this here. somebody will even publish this, market this,
distribute this, store her books in storage places in New Hampshire and Missouri.
n.
one aspiring writer in nyc, one of many. She was at strand, on all three floors, she was at
barnes and nobles. She even was in the bookstore in SoHo. Hanging out in stores with
bookshelves. Looking at different titles. She always did that, she used to come home late because
she was looking at storefronts with books near the u-bahn station next to her house in Hamburg.
Well, that is not how it really happened, but you can make up stuff so that it sounds better. It is
not illegal here.
o.
on the telly there is all this talking about the speeches of melania trump and michelle
Obama. Who cares, it is their husbands who are running here.
p.
the donut place, the jelly that oozes out, the coffee with cream therein. She walked by the
shingle with the 35, she likes it in here more. There still is another coffee place that she could
frequent, the one that is part of the first episode of the louise log. At least that is how it looks. It
is off fourteenth. There are many places around here to grab a piece of pastry and have a hot
drink. Which is always more enjoyable than putting words to paper here.
q.
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bankastrati up and down, hot cocoa with whip, her feet one in front of the other here.
s.
outside the greenery. On the telly, trump at the convention. Actually his son.
t.
800 words about writing.
u.
outside the illuminations on the greenery. Apparently today all the lighting is the way it
should be. Donald trump the son has a lot of enthusiasm here. and lots of people cheer though it
seems as if they are not even listening to what he has to say and are more into cheering here. 49
257 words here, we still need some more here.
v.
the sundown in bankastrati, the time between day and night when you still can see where
you walk when your cocoa is getting cold slowly. She has to walk a tad because the motion is
good for writing here. 700 words that are mostly about the process of writing itself, about finding
all the right words of the language here.
w.
once more the train ride, you can sit and describe a ride on a train so many side times or
just so many times here. there are always new details to talk about so one does not really run in
circles. She will get into the city, make her way to the coffee house. Routine seems to be
paramount, it makes her happy, it creates the groundwork for choosing the right words. The
physicality of the surroundings. It is really like constructing something three-dimensional,
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something that has to hold still. Words are these little parts of the language that we utter all day
long or listen to being uttered to us. You then have to go into the zone and pick the right words
here. each and every day. It is like exercising in a gym, running on a treadmill, using a stationary
bike here.
the train runs into the station, rain is drizzling down, but one does not really need an
umbrella, the walk to the coffee house, the usual inside of the place. The crumbly cake and all its
crumbles, everything is just as it was the day before as it will be the day after here.
x.
500 words.
y.
on the telly, a rerun of a sitcom. Not the stuff that makes you write the right words. A
writers block inducing sitcom, the laugh tracks that somehow paralyze the right choice in words
here. an ad for a car, there sure will be another one after that. 450 words about anything will do.
As long as you write the words, as long as you forge forward the word count you should be just
fine. Author here used a word that she has no clue what it was, she typed in the wrong word and
now has to fix it, the best strategy is to just let it stand and go in there later, maybe she will
remember what the original word was here.
z.
this is the last chunk of words for today, not much to say here, you cannot really find a lot
to say when you are sitting inside your four walls here. you have to be out and about to find stuff
to write about, the best thing for a writer is taking the subway, looking at people, observing them.
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Stories crystallize without even trying. The smells and the feel of the world. The immediate
connection with strangers that is a tad too close for comfort. The spitting out of people once you
are at the station. On the telly it is 2 broke girls and all of the laugh tracks here. 49 766, not much
words left to be put down here. she could describe the inerts of a donut once more or the
crumbles of a cake, the whip in a cup of hot cocoa, or the whiffs of mint tea. She can change the
sequence in which she describes these things here. there has to be more to writing than
reiterating the same things from a slightly skewed angle here. she will have a reading about this,
how tough can it be, she will bow once she hears the audience clapping. Or once she listens to
the silence. There is a book about the sound of hands not clapping. It was pretty good; she will
google it to refresh her memory here. 100 words while the greenery slithers into darkness while
having one last whiff of light, the day that silently and suddenly gives out like all the other days
on this planet eventually do here. 49 927, write on here and still write on here. bankastrati and
itzehoe, the writing studio on the third floor, union square when it is all sweaty and full of the
songs of hare Krishna. The hecticness of a city, the pauses, the cadences. The hecticness of
writing, the urgency of penning her words here. an ad for a car and still another here. Toyota
corolla, lets go places. Nine more words, some more and there it is, 50 000 finally ah finally
here.
25.
Some songs on the telly. Raymond or something. Laugh tracks here. the constant on the
tv, the cornucopia of laugh tracks. Yup, that is as good a reason to use the pretentious expression
cornucopia as any.
a.
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through the sweat of the subway station, up to union square. Up fourteenth and then up
the three flights to the writing place here. her desk and a notebook, a green pen and letters that
are leaning to one side. There are others in here and one can hear the sounds of a keyboard. The
sounds of the writing studio here. she could take a cup of coffee from the kitchen but it is more
fun to go downstairs to get something in a coffee place on the street. The look of people, that will
make her write. Better words that is. The right words are so fragile, they are there for moments
only to dissipate into thin air before they even reach the monitor. Writing is a fragile and
temperamentful profession, fleeting ideas that one can hardly pin down. It comes with the
territory; this is the nature of the beast. There is nothing one can do here. the only thing to do is
permanent constant typing. In order to overthrow the muse, in order to harness her. Or him. Is a
muse male or female? Author here always wanted to know.
50 237 words here.
b.
HER CAREER
Her career as an artist has been distilled into walking by the magazine named artforum ad
reading what is on the masthead while not trying to slow down. This is what years of training as
an artist turns you into, a person who writes at the computer lab computer while a woman next to
her coughs her lungs out without any concern that she will make everybody here sick. The
woman is butt-ugly and she made sure that she is dressed really badly and has a horrible haircut.
Yup, that is what you do if you sport a communicable disease, not only do you go to the
community college where there are lots of persons who still have their whole lives in front of
them and cough indiscriminately all over the place in order to take out the most highest amount
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of people, mow them down indiscriminately, nope, make sue that you make their eyes hurt too,
because you managed to look as bad as you can here. Author here ponders if she should now
skoot to the other computer, who wants to get sick in midsummer here, but the problem is that
she has to save this here.
Librarians apparently are curmudgeons and the guy who sits in the library gave her a
dirty look, yup, he sure is a miser, a grumpy old miser. Which apparently is what the meaning of
curmudgeon is, she googled it. People who work in bookshops, people who work in libraries.
There was this article in the times, the one that she could read on facebook, because her ten free
articles allotment is, well, full here. The woman who was barfing out her lunges has left,
apparently she will now make sure that people in the bathroom get all sick here. She is back,
nope, she wants to work in this computer lab here. Next to author is a thin young lady in grey
and black, she seems very inobtrusive, no smelly clothes and no horrible coughs, she just talks
with her neighbour but not too much. She hums though, so that might be a problem here. Author
ponders where is the best place in this lab to pen her 1700 words here, she penned about 200 or
300 the night before, so she still merely needs 1700 or so, she then can top it off once she is back
at home here. The good thing about this computer is that the software does not suddenly swallow
the words, at least it did not as of yet, knock on wood here knock on wood here. Writing is
something for people with deep-seated superstitions, only that is how you can do this, write if
nobody wants to print your stuff. If rejection is your middle name here. Writers are the kind of
people who drive uber, who work for uber. And so are actors. Ballerinas. Musicians. The crowd
without paycheck and/or trust fund here.
She went by train to downtown and then to this other city here, she had two cheese
danishes already or wait, make that one piece of cake and one Danish, she still has another
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Danish lying inside her car, waiting ah awaiting here. She was at the y in downtown, the one
where everybody looks like a model here.
Very urbane. The model y where only fashionistas need to apply here.
Five hundred words exactly here.
She needs some 1200 more. She writes about coffee houses and maybe she should then
go and visit those coffee houses. The writer who wants to learn if the reality matches the fiction
she made up. The places that she kind of picked from the web. Now there is a story, writer goes
in search of the characters, the locations that she herself made up. On the search for the fictional
persona, on the search for the fictional locales. Something like that something of that kind. A
narrative and any narrative should do here. If you use the right words, it should fly here.
Figuring out how to write a book. She has 50 000 already, maybe that should be book 1.
Book 2 would be another 50 000 words, book 3 another 50 000, yep, still another. She will have
a book that is 150 000 words long. Yup, she might just do that. All books have a book one and a
book two and a book three here. Like a play in 3 acts. A thesis, an antithesis a synthesis. The love
of threes. Everybody can count to three here. Literature is very simple and writers are simplistic
minds. They simplify chaos with words, make reality seem orderly. Explain the unexplainable
here.
Writers like her here. She is a woman, are women better at starting writing careers or are
men better at that? In a patriarchy. Chances are, the odds are somehow stacked against her. But,
hey, her training as a visual artist did not bring her anywhere, she might as well keep on writing
and writing here. 625 words already, we need some one thousand or so more here.
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Bankastrati and the hot cocoa. Itzehoe and the crumbly cake, 14th street between union
square and sixth avenue, apparently that is where the writing studio is here, these are the
locations that she describes. There are images online, they are kind of contradictory, how can you
really do research when you are just basing said research on images on a screen that might or
might not be truthful. And what is truth anyways? Your truth is different from my truth, your
perspective differs from mine. Your point of view, your literal point of view. Two persons cannot
occupy the same vantage point at the same time, so there cannot be similarities between different
realities. Everything seems to be subjective, no communalities here whatsoever. And still we
have two people in the whole nation who run for president. Merely two. Author ponders if her
logic makes sense, ah, who cares, the only ting that matters is the word count here. On July 21 in
Vancouver in Canada. There still is another Vancouver down in Washington state here. On the
way to Portland Oregon here.
The wordcount stands at 1019 here, which makes it obvious that she has to pen at least
six hundred here. She walked thru downtown, went to metrotown, but she mentioned that already
here. She was sitting on the train and looking out and thinking about her book. The coffee houses
and the diverse drinks here. The food blog that is all made up. She hardly ever has hot cocoa,
shed rather has grown up drinks because her life is so non grown up anyways. Typing up words
that is not the same as hanging sheet rock. Which is not the right term, there is another term for
construction work Donald trump junior stumbled about that and they showed it many times,
pouring concrete seems to be the most manly thing that he could think of here. Constructing of
buildings, hardhats, shoes which make sure that nothing happens if a brick falls on your toesies,
overalls that are all splatter proof. In the morn, there were those three housepainters near Purdys
in the mall, near the market, they rolled purple paint on the wall there, yup, in oakridge here.
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Author here ponders, is it ok to mention the names of certain malls here, can one be sued, ah
sued here. Writing is so fragile so fragile here.
1234. we need some 500 or so and then we can leave this place ah leave this place here.
Then the literaturial beast has been fed by the right amount of words here ah words here words
here.
Bankastrati, the tourists in Iceland, walking walking. Seems that everybody is not from
here, the tourists that descend on this city because they had heard that there are hot springs to be
stared at.
How many times do real Icelanders, the born and bred, look at hot springs. They are
merely attractions for foreigners, real Icelandic people have a life, a life. Why would you
possibly look at a hot spring anyways, there is nothing to see, move on, move on, this is not page
six here, which is apparently what they say. Who is they, btw?
Ah her writing sucks, it always did it always will. A visual artist who writes, well, good
luck with that good luck with that here.
She does not have her glasses on her, they stayed tucked in in the side pocket in her car,
the one near the drivers seat here. 1421, the 4 is very clearly to see, it has all those points so you
cannot mix it up with other numbers here. She needs some more and then she can leave leave
here. Or she can go back to the mall and take her glasses and then come back here. There are
even glasses on sale in the bookshop of the community college and it should be open by now and
by now here. Yup, this is how we write a book, we move thru the city and type up stuff,
reluctantly and forcefully forcefully here.
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1517 or maybe this is not the right number, we are basically blind here and all the reading
is guesswork ah guess work here. Kind of like Beethoven and composing music while he is deaf
here. Somebody coughs, somebody has mc Donald potatoes, fries. Nope, it is actually a coffee
mug but it has those mcdonaldy primary colors. Weird huh weird here. The wordcount stands
either at 1567 or at 1667 here. The five and the six are too near to each other in shape and form.
We have to wait until the seven comes up because it sure has a very discernable and very
distinguishable shape here.
1625. so apparently it was a five and not a six here. Author read this blog by a person
who writes about coffee places, a reluctant food blogger, more a coffee and tea blogger here. A
blogger who tries to stay thin here.
Her book ah her book.
There is no greenery to see from here and no telly that is singing its songs here. The
weather is nice though even for a rainy July day in Vancouver, BC here. 1702, so maybe she
should just stop this, she can top it off once she is at home at home here.
And now we are at home and pasting the part that was written in the community college
on 49th into the rest of the text.
We are at 51 991, four more and 51 999, yup, 52 007 it is it is here.
26.
2000 in the morn, after a walk thru the glaring sunlight. From the car through the market.
The drive was a tad iffy, she had a turn that was a tad too tight, the woman whom she cut off
unintentionally drives by, all blond and smiley and white suv meets van. Maybe it was not a cut-
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off per se, maybe author here hesitated just a tad too long to turn, yup, there was this weird truck
that said stuff about green something, green something that she does not remember here, we
could not turn because there might be a car lurking behind it and shoot out out of nowhere
suddenly. Once parked, which had something to do with a woman with too much glitter and
pinkness, a tank top maybe that was like a ballerina frock and too long for a top and too short for
a dress, author here parked a tad too far from the market and had to walk a tad more but it is
better to park there because if you park too near the market you tend to run over the stoppard
which you did not notice that it was there in the first place. There is a hippie car that says even if
you win the rat race you are still a rat, in beige and brown and black, something that is a relict
from the sixties and weirdly so. An anachronism that does not fly here.
And inside the market, a straight foray to the coffee place. She could have driven into the
coffee house, the one that is next to the gas station but it is difficult to turn, she somehow made
up her mind too late to do that, if you want to go to that coffee house, you have to go through the
side street and not thru the main artery. It is kind of iffy to turn later, not that correct, especially
at this time of the day when all the ten oclockers are out to have the first coffee break of the day
here.
Outside there is greenery, the first green sprigs of the day.
But back to the descript of her amazing coffee run, the one to which she is wearing the
shirt that is a tad too tight and the pants that are a tad too tight all thanks to the slow but steady
weight gain that we sported in the literature class, that happens when all you do is read and write
here.
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Anyhoo, the walk by the cashiers straight to the coffee place tucked away behind the deli,
not a long line but so many people sitting on those chairs, those not enough chairs here. the
woman is not happy to see her, apparently she does not know about the song out of cheers, where
everybody is always happy to see you, she has this nonchalant look with her glasses and the
happy round lady comes later, the one that is always up. Ordering the cake, author checked they
still have an ample supply of those, and the coffee is really hot and yummy here. there is no seat,
there is a woman with glasses and a red blazer and a grocery cart full of groceries, the one that
has two parts to put the groceries in. the one that is a tad more urban, more light, not the full big
suburban grocery cart that is big as a house. The woman is sitting there with her grey-haired
eminence persona, all reading and having coffee. There are kids at the tables, chatting it up here.
author manages to slip in next to the person with the market uniform and the totally exhausted
face, the one who is too tired to do anything even drink his breakfast, drink his morning vesper
here.
The seat is weird on a barstool, a high stool. One only looks at the wall, a green painted
wall that has brown paint above it. The corner above is all brown. There are four paintings on the
wall, all paintings of coffee mugs. With writing. Collages that are no really collages, paintings
that have a collage style. She has seen them before in other coffee houses, they are part of the
dcor of the chain out of Seattle.
It is weird to just look at a wall, author here sits at an angle, to make it feel a tad less eerie
here.
A woman with beige food in her hand and a very slight built looks for a chair and then
makes up her mind to skoot in next to author which makes author turn a tad more towards the
wall, she cannot sit at an angle anymore, she has to make space for the slight woman with the
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beige food, the beige food in a plastic bag. The woman starts to play wit her phone, you can sit
and look at a wall because you always have your phone, and the screen of the phone to entertain
you. The rectangle mini screen of a smartphone, either apple or Samsung, based on your
convictions. The woman in blazer leaves, so does the grocery person in beige and brown. Author
could change her seat but maybe it is ok to just sit put. The coffee is excellent, so is the piece of
cake here. the gloss of the rim comes off, one has to dive for it later on, from the inerts of the
paper bag with the mermaid image thereon. And finally this is over, there is no place where one
can wash ones hand here.
The kids of summer are still chatting, the man and the other man who talked extra loud
look actually very normal, even though they were hogging the conversation. The orators who
look like they can vanish into a crowd. The performers with the gift of gab and too much to say
here. the ten oclock morning rest is over, the breakfast time for author here. she walks back to
the car, wonders why it is this glary and how she can ever write the right words once she is back
in front of the laptop. Too much glariness will kill your propensity to fashion, to formulate all the
right wordings here.
a.
the tellings about the train ride, this is what she thinks about while she is taking the side
street road back to her place. There are two side street ways, one is longer and one is shorter. she
ponders if she should go up to the cookie and ice cream place, the pastel one that is all dainty
flowers and whiffs of the liberty store in London. Nope, we have ice cream at home and pizza
pops, everything and anything to fashion a slow death from clogged arteries, a hear attack that
will take you in, but you will die happily with a smile on your face. There is matlock on the telly
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at this time of the day in something called me-tv. Where all oldies are shown, relentlessly ah,
relentlessly here.
c.
ideas about bankastrati, the hot cocoa and the ever-melting whip. She should read yelp
reports, all those reviews are poetry in the making, the bestest of the best words to reappear the
feel of food. That is how you convey what you eat, those yelpers are the most gifted writers on
the planet. There is something about dictating you words to a small rectangle that brings out the
poet in each and every one of us, it must be then scarceness of space that forces the writer to
distill all of the words of the language into one accurate and eloquent quip here. the writers of
yelp, there must be an association of those, they have to be unionized here, the federation of yelp
authors of the north pacific region.
d.
53 327, not bad for a fast morn a fast morn here.
e.
she had too many of that three colored ice cream with cream and jam. Strawberry jam.
This is not what writers should eat. Theirs is the booze at all times of the day. The boozehounds
who write.
f.
the writing studio on the third floor. People typing. People having coffee in the lobby of
the place. Some people talking about writing. Or maybe they are actually debating where the
next beast Chinese place is here. down on fourteenth.
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Writing is so prosaic, especially when you are around other writers here. the words are
irrelevant, the choice of words. Everybody resects the choice of words that the other ones have,
these people are all colleagues, all peers. All working along in the same field here.
It is a communal effort in a dying field here. author is happy that she pays the rent for this
space here each and every month. It makes her feel as if she is achieving something. The ritual of
coming here. the ritual of going down to the donut shoppe. All part of the same effort. Her life as
a writer. It is just there; it is just something she does. I am a writer. Oh what did you do, nothing
published as of yet but I have people that are interested. I will meet up with them, everything in
the future, everything that will be done. Hope does never subside for a writer, for an artist. You
just have to keep on plugging here. there are persons with mfas in creative writing, with degrees
in journalism. They all went through the right programs and they all know how to type. And isnt
that what we want here want here.
g.
The rain in itzehoe. The water that comes down on the town. The small town with its
small-town feel. The place that you want to leave because there is nothing happening here. the
next metropolis is so far away. Time stands still here, it grasps you by the neck and silently
suffocates you. Then rain is coming down, it is still pretty darkish for ten in the morn. It is one of
many grey days here. the coffee house is as it always is, three women chattering. Waitress and
bored expression. Crumbles and apples, coffee and cream therein. Whiffs of the heat of the
beverage in the cup. Dancing figures of the slight smoke from the drink. She has a slight tummy
ace, she had too much herring the day before. And beer, which is definitely not a good
combination. Who the heck has herring and beer. Matjesfilets in remoulade here.
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She thinks a tad about her writing but not too much, somebody will publish her words,
how tough can it be to talk people into printing out those words and distributing them. Bound
words, stored words here.
She will give readings, interviews. People will tell her that her words are good enough.
Value judgements about the choice of words here.
She sits in the coffee house in itzehoe and writes about the hot cocoa in the coffee house
in bankastrati. The coffee tourism. The mentioning of different coffee houses. The descript of the
beverages, the right kind of heat of the drink. The way that the slight smoke out of the cup moves
around in the air above it. The crumbs on the plate. The crumbs that stick to the fork and then fall
down. This is what is worth to describe here.
She needs some more words; she always needs some more words. The words are never
ever enough. It is an ongoing struggle here.
Sixty words and this is finished, the writing of this day here in July. Everything is
mushing together, the words are not nicely ordered in their own compartments. She mixes up all
of these locales which is not how writing should work here. everything has to be chronological
here, logical. Ten more words and this is over, three, two, one, 54 400 it is here, it is here.
27.
The hot cocoa and the whip therein here. author here smushes the uneven peaks of the
whipped cream into the cocoa with the lid. She always does this. And the consistency of the
cocoa always changes. It is like a ritual that she does next to the cream and milk stand in the
back of the small place on bankastrati. The one with the red walls. The red walls that one can see
on the street here.
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a.
the boringness of the cocoa. The beverage that she always has when she comes here in
the evening. It is mint tea during the day, it is hot cocoa in the evening. Her routine in this city
with the geysers nearby. There are people on the street going for walks. Talking to each other.
Author here feels so very dislocated. Like jumping on the next plane out of here. the bliss of
Reykjavik is wearing thin here. it is more about the words that she has to write and that are kind
of jarring. She still writes 2000 words a day but it is not good writing. Not enthusiastic writing.
Merely a bunch of sentences. There is nobody to praise her writing. Or critique it for that matter
here.
the cocoa is now lukewarm and has all that fatty stuff swimming therein.
b.
the rain on the town outside of Hamburg. Author here puts one feet in front of the other, it
is the walk to the coffee house, the place where she automatically turns to once the train gets into
the station. This is the only place she knows here, it is her reluctant writing studio, her office. It
is as good an office as any. She puts her words to paper, automatically. When she has the laptop
she can figure out the correct word count and when she rolls longhand she has to eyeball it.
Either way it works for her here.
c.
diving out of the subway station up to union square, the hecticness of the city swamps her
over. Her steps up fourteenth, her steps up the steps. Her cubby, her desk. Later on, it will be the
donut, jelly with raspberry therein.
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d.
she feels kind of sick, too much ice cream does that to yer. On the telly, the republican
convention, well, it is still panel time and the build up to the main event. This is the last part of
the convention in Cleveland here.
e.
outside still greenery not necessarily with flecks and shades, more a slightly darker green
against a more yellowish green here. on the telly, the mentalist. Author here flips thru the
channels which is the symphony that will propel her words forward here. Or not.
f.
54 479. So about 1500 to finish this up. She has done today already, this is extra, the
headstart thingie here. which makes her happy, the extra fast run to the finish line here.
g.
now the greenery seems to have more pronounced lightning, it always changes, by the
minute, by the second. Nothing ever stays the same. The description of what is stagnant or
slightly stagnant here. the job of a writer, an author. She feels somewhere between philosophy
and utter bull shit. On the telly, suspenseful music, two people exclaiming Christina,
sequentially.
h.
cnn, trump to speak tonight here.
i.
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and now there are really larger lights on the greenery outside. This is what we write about
here. not exactly a fascinatingish subject matter here. different shades of green. Author here
watched this video that she had seen before. It is all about the downtown of itzehoe, mainly
about these parts of the street that might make you fall. The steps that should not be there. On the
telly, a man yelling about Donald trump. A pay-pal co-founder. With a funny haircut here.
j.
on the telly, trump. His speech at the convention in Cleveland. Outside, the illuminations
on the greenery. The silent lights. There have to be more words here. 54 692 we have here
already. Some more to finish this up here. discussions of coffee houses. Seems that this is the
essence of this book here. which is kind of a toughie, how do you press more substance into this.
Into the words that describe hot cocoa or hot tea here. pastry that crumbles. Sundowns and the
Icelandic lilt that you do not understand but that makes you happy mainly because you do not
understand it. You can read into the words whatever you feel like. For a writer who has to be
accurate with the words, there is something fascinating in listening to words that you do not
understand here. it is the juxtaposition of clarity with diffused language. She has another gulp
from the cup of hot cocoa here. the fictional cocoa here.
k.
the train into the station. The walk by the fashion store, the woman in beige with slight
glitters especially on the right side of the dress. The rain has seized; the sun is coming out here.
the apple crumble cake inside of the coffee house, the three women chattering near the window
here.
l.
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the roar of the people listening to trump yelling. And boy, is he yelling into the mike. And
still more illumination outside roaring over the greenery. Well, obviously it is not roaring but
somehow the roarings on the telly are projected on what you see. The audio taking over the
visual.
m.
54 935. Three locales are described, well, at least the ones that are far away from the here
and now. The fictional places that are kind of stumbling next to reality. The versions of the real
places. The walk-up near union square. Where the writers congregate. Some of the writers of
New York city here.
n.
54 991.
o.
nine more words and we are at 55 000 here. 55 001.
p.
more talking about the downtown of itzehoe. This time around, author sticks around the
city, she will take the five oclock back to Hamburg. Or maybe even the seven oclock. She
hardly ever sees the city when its is happening, she merely encounters the sleepiness when
everybody is at work and nobody is in the streets here. this place has its new walking place for
pedestrians, the zone of the city where cars are not allowed in. there are cafes on the side walks.
She never ever sits on one of those chairs, well, mainly because it rains like well like profusely.
Her descriptions are off, her sentences are off but it does not matter, the main thing here after all
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is the word count, that is what has to accumulate. 55 137 here and still counting still counting
here.
q.
trump sure is yelling along. People are cheering. The day is letting out with some funny
lights in the top parts of the greenery outside here.
r.
now an interview with undecided voters. Did you like trumps speech. Outside darkness
and some flecks, some specks of still light, white wisps against the dark leaves, stark contrasts
outside here. which stands against the sounds and sights on the telly. Night has definitely started
outside here. still wisps of sickness, too much cream, jam and ice-cream, this is not good not
good at all here. grease will do yer in, every time. There is a wish for kale et. al.
s.
five hundred words more. And then we can let this alone to ferment.
t.
the computer is not connected to the web which is weird and strange. Author here just
will type up the rest of her words and then hope for the best, maybe the computer will somehow
connect, as we all know, these machines have a mind of their own just as all machines have.
Now there is something to write about, the mysteries of things, the intricate lives of them, the
way that they are all against you. Man and machine, man against machine, machine as the enemy
more so than as friend. Anyhoo, writing here, typing up stuff. Outside the greenery, though the
morning greenery is ah so different from the evening slash afternoon greenery, the lights are
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different, the place where they are originated, the place where they are thrown from onto the rest
of the leaves. Her writing is ah so, never ever very clear, the diffuse wordings that substitute for
poetry, for song here. the melody of the words and the inherent incoherence that comes with it.
she is rambling, saying the same things again only in different wordings.
Bankastrati and hot cocoa, itzehoe and mint tea and then there is the jelly donut on
fourteenth. These are the things that bind her passages in this text together. The writer who does
not know what she is doing. Who comes here to the reluctant typing machine and feeds it 2000
words per day here. author was all over town already, the gym, downtown, the coffee place on
broadway which is different than other coffee places, it smacks more like broken dreams than
other coffee places here in the city, the lipstick of the beautiful woman is too intellectual, way too
dark, it signals an actress that does not land a role, but not any actress, a theatre actress, a very
intellectual one here. one that will only perform Ionesco even though Ionesco is from another
time way back in the last century, deep and buried within the last century here. the coffee place
which has its own songs, where urban planners go to rot, where dreams of grandeur are there to
be forgotten. Where architects read jane Jacobs and know that she is a relict from the past, where
scientists are unhappy that they never ever made it into the land of the nobel laureates. That was
the aura of that particular coffee house, there are others around town and they are all different.
Some are very optimistic, those are the ones in the burbs, you cannot do anything but go up from
those places. Hope springs eternal at places like that.
The coffee house in bankastrati, it is so very far removed from anywhere, thus it can have
its own universe. That is why you see people from Iceland reject common policies of the west,
they know that they are different and different in a good way. We have a cool head, we are even
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more sceptic and critical of the policies of the united nations than all of the Scandinavian
countries combined. More so than the Dutch.
Author ponders, her observations are so shmeh today, you get there when you are
smushed against others on the morning commute in Vancouver, British Columbia. When a
woman says hi to you in the gym, a woman whom you do not know but who seems that she has a
lot in common with you. She does not, but she thinks that she does. It is weird what people think
of her when they see her, all of their ideas are wrong but that is no big deal here. we wear a
mask, we all do. It is the way that we have to function in order to be able to churn out the right
amount of words no matter what. Without going insane here. author hates how bright and glary
this place is, the fridge hiccups for once and then keeps on being quiet, she could describe the
rain on the train because that rhymes and that is why she does not forget it, apparently Nabokov
wrote his notes on index cards so that he would not get confused, but author here has it easy,
there are merely three locations in the whole book and how difficult could it be to mix those up,
three places, three food items, though in bankastrati it is different depending on the time of day
here.
56 003. Yay amd yaya and yaya and yay here.
28.
2000 words
she sat in the bookstore on Granville and looked at books about Iceland and reykjavik.
Research for her writing. She then went into the coffee house across the street and looked at
people walking by while having her peppermint tea, the one that is way too overpriced here. This
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particular chain just wants you to pay much more money and mainly because it is local. Which is
weird why does local mean extra pricey?
Anyhoo, she is now in the art school and writes about bankastrati, her research about that
place, that street. Her coffee house is all made up and apparently there is one coffee house that is
highly recommended, caf paris or something. Her coffee house, the one that she describes is a
blend of all the real coffee houses that are mentioned in travellers guides and online here. But
basically, a coffee house is a coffee house, there is not much difference the world over. All the
books about Iceland had a lot of pictures about waterfalls and lights in the sky and funny looking
birds and houses with colourful walls, but the inner dcor of the coffee houses seems to be the
same everywhere and anywhere. Well, the coffee houses in turin are palatial so are the ones in
Milan. But mainly the ones in torino. That said, the Icelandic coffee house on bankastrati is very
basic, no bells and whistles. It is fictional after all. And we have about half a page of written
words already here.
a.
still a nice day, the greenery outside has all the right shades. And a forceful wind too. Her
writing is still on, though she has packed in todays allotment already. Her day was all gym and
walking, all salad and small portions. The weight loss world expects you, welcomes you with
open arms. It is time to once more yoyo down, stay at the ideal weight for a split second and then
pack on the pounds again. This is how we keep busy here. the career of a professional dieter, a
quest that is ongoing and where there is no end goal. It is a state of being, the eternal hope for a
better slash lower weight here.
b.
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it is a different day, it is Tuesday, no writing here since Friday. The world of literary
output has to exist without her. Has to subside sans yours truly. Her words are not uttered, nonuttered. They remain non-uttered. On the telly, the beginning of this program that she hates. The
one where you should rather change the channel, a baseball game, yup, that is good, definitely
better than the scary zombies yelling. Men in baseball caps, we can live with that. It is all about
innings and people talking about red socks and Yankees, yup, we can live with that live with that.
It is not exactly like soccer where you know what is happening, it is clear when there is a goala
nd the way that the score is, is usually pretty straightforward, 9 to 1, we can all understand that.
Baseball is more tough, you are not really quite sure what is happening on the field, but in the
end they tell you who won and who lost and if push comes to shove it does not even matter.
Baseball is more about socializing anyways. It is a social event, a place you want to be taken out
to like in take me out to the ballgame. That seems to be a song about baseball, it kind of does not
make sense to be taken out to a football game. A baseball game is more about tailgate parties and
picnics in the park. Well, maybe she should leave the talking about sports to Oscar Madison and
the like here. `People watching the game shown in close-up.
Play ball here. It even says play ball on the field, behind the players. And two guys talk.
The people who give intelligent comments are always male here. sports announcers have to be
men. It is not a job for the girls except maybe for softball, or womens field hockey. Even the
main teams are all male, the Knicks and the Yankees and the whole rest of em. Nobody watches
the gals play except when she is like the goalie in womens soccer and takes off her shirt, the
famous scene that was paid homage to in big bang theory. It was not really parodied more like
paid homage to here.
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Outside the greenery is coming to an end, there are flecks of sunniness, which is the main
reason why there was no writing going on for the last five days, the weather is way too nice, was
way too nice for sitting inside and typing up wishy washy words, descripts of coffee houses that
do not really exist here. that are made up, taken out of yelp pictures and tripadvisor reviews,
youtube vids that are ah so reluctant ah so reluctant here. her writing does not really ever make
sense, it is just bullshit bullshit here. this is art for you aht aht.
Literature can be very good, but her drivel is just that, drivel here. 56 887, she has to
propel this forward, 58 000 is the cut-off line, even though she did not do her 2000 words per
day now it is the channel with the democratic convention here, coming up, president bill Clinton
here. tony goldwin it is, scandal actor. The actor of the movie Scandal, maybe. Scandal, huh. We
should google this. Tony, Goldwyn. You cannot really google this while writing, somehow this
interface is so very temperamentful here.
56 972.
A spot that is a commercial for Hillary Clinton. A short movie, a dnc video. Dnc must be
democratic national convention here. shes with us, that is the name of the video here. 56 997
here.
57 000.
So maybe we need some more words here. it is Wednesday morn, she was in downtown,
on broadway, the gym, the salad place, the coffee shoppe on Granville. She had a mousse
chocolat. All the foods of the whole day in the first three hours of the day. If one does not eat
anything later, then one could lose weight. All of the calories in one sitting here. and all the
walking around in one whoosh. The running around, the bus drives, the train rides here. the car is
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kind of iffy, the tire has low pressure so one cannot use the car, has to take public transport here.
outside the sun is shining ah shining here.
57 116.
Here.
So write some 900 more here, but you have all day here. today is day three of the
democratic convention in Philadelphia, one can write while watching that here.
57 148.
Here.
There is this summer flavour in the overpriced ice cream place in kits. Something
apparently that goes by the name of chocolate lemonade. What can it be? an ice-cream that tastes
tangy and chocolatey. Cocoa meets lemon. Fruitiness and chocolate. Tangy and cocoa. One could
go out there to this place. It opened just now here. at noon. One has to change buses a lot to get
there. which is where the difficulty lies. Or you have to walk which is not good for the back or
the knees. You cannot get your knees shot just so that you have one of the seasonal flavours at
rain or shine. One of the summer flings here. and we have 57267 here, there are those three
judges on the telly, the ones who are on a show named hot bench and who have a very strong
New York accent here.
57 270 here.
57 300.
Seven hundred words here.
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The cocoa in the little shoppe in Reykjavik, the one on bankastrati. She stands at the milk
place, where on pours milk into coffee, she takes one of those lids and presses it down onto the
hot chocolate drink. This is what she does in Iceland, she goes to the coffee house and has a hot
drink in a paper cup. One can do that at home, but it is more exotic if you do it in a place called
Reykjavik. Outside, the night is near, there are individuals, walking around, enjoying the mulmy
summer eve. Tourists and inhabitants of his city, all together, ah altogether. The sense of
freshness after a long day. The slight wetness of the chocolate flavoured drink here, the one with
the highly melted whipped cream here.
57 439.
500 words here.
The donut shoppe near to union square. Somehow this is not the romantic place where
artists should linger in order to fight with the muse. The donut place is a tad too overpriced, too
filthy for a donut place. Donut places have to be more go in and go out here, this one is one that
will inhibit a writer from writing here. maybe it is because it lies somewhere between the new
Whitney and alphabet city, there is a dreariness about the place that is omnipresent. It lives in
this no mans land between hi-end and lo-end and somehow one cannot pen the write words if
one chooses to frequent it here. she will go to a talk in the new school, it is a political one and
she has to be there in time to gather a free seat here.
Itzehoe and the rain, the fashion woman in light orange, a dress that is layered, that has a
wisp of a dcollet, it needs a nice and thin figure to pull of wearing a dress like that. It is so very
urban, it should be on runways in milan or paris, it is kind of out of place in a dreary town that
everybody wants to leave from.
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57 649.
350 words that you pen while listening in to the court case on the telly, where a man and
a woman are fighting over a rent dispute. Beforehand there was this case between a grandfather
and a grandchild, it was interesting ah interesting. You cannot really type up an amazingish novel
while the telly is singing its songs. There will be a rerun of friends later on, this is what writers
do in their home office. Writing is boring, there are more fascinating professions, ones where
stuff is happening here. with writing it is all about your propensity to type, that is what it is what
it is here..
57 755.
57 757.
There is a sheer poeticness about the word count numbers and they usually differ for the
amount of two numbers, depending on where you look here.
The sun is still shining ah still shining here.
12:37.
The train station of itzehoe, the rain on the roads. She has to go down to the coffee house,
have the usual, do some writing and be back here in the station for the train back to Hamburg.
This is the routine and it will stay like that for the foreseeable future here.
57 848.
12: 35.
Outside the sun, on the telly, the usual. Laugh tracks. Nothing to write about here, we
covered union square and the donut shop, the train station in itzehoe and the coffee house, the hot
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cocoa in Iceland. This is enough subject matter for a book or it is not, but this is all we can think
of here. the interest lies in the fact that the coffee shops are so far from each other, the distance
between the watering holes that are not really watering holes. The places where coffee is served
with cake here.
Fifty words and we are outta here outta here. the greenery is so very bright, reflecting the
midday here in late July.
The rain in itzehoe, the hot cocoa, the donut with jelly therein.
Not getting tired of mentioning these things here.
Thirteen words here, ten, some more and we are where we should be here, 58 001 it is ah
it is here.
29.
It is a day where what you do is laundry. Where you write and use the wrong word.
Where instead of when. Mainly to make the words sing poetically. You have to beat the poetic
license bag until it squeaks out some new words here, some unfamiliar words. That will liven up
the prose, liven up what you have to say. The day is way too sunny for its own good, she makes
it down the street in a car that has too low tire pressure, that warns you that you can merely go to
the coffee house and back here. the rest of your excursions into the world have to be by public
transport, staccatoed by waiting times and by trying to avoid to sit near to the persons who are
scary and smelly. Like the cowboy with colored hair that had to sit next to her while all of the
other seats were empty. There was this woman, very nice and very lovely, she diminished her
loveliness when she went and left all the empty seats to sit exactly next to author here. those are
the ones that are weird, the strangers who huddle up to yer. The potentials, those ones.
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Better to sit here in safety and type up what happened on the too sunny day when July is
so near to letting out and to morph into the other hotter month of the summer.
There are people in the coffee house, people who knew her, people that knew each other.
Which kind of diverted suddenly from the fact that this is still a Friday, even though it felt like
Saturday from the get go. If you do not work in an office, if you are your own boss, then
everything is wishy washy, then everything is ever-floating. Then, losing your mind is something
that you have to tackle head-on. The world of non-pre-existing dates, when you can go into any
direction you want. She thought about enrolling in a two-year program in New York city on the
fifth floor in a street in Chelsea, between sixth and seventh avenue. In one of the side streets.
There she would meet up Monday thru Thursday, from six to nine, she would listen in to
lectures, use her words to give elegant well timed insights loudly for moments and then she
would get a piece pf paper at the end of two years, a certificate that states that she was here. it is
an expensive program, too much of an expenditure. Well worth it or not. It will keep her busy,
maybe that is something worth doing here. or she can just keep on writing the 2000 daily words
here and wish for a publishing deal that will never ever come. She has the wrong prereqs. You
cannot be published when you are merely a voice in the desert. The lonely yowls of the
steppenwolf, romantic sure but not the stuff that will be printed up and stored in books in storage
places in New Hampshire or Vermont here. somewhere in the north east of north America here.
58 541 here.
Itzehoe is too rainy today even for itzehoe. The train ride that comes out of the rain, that
moves through the rain. The vehicle under the rain. She experiments with the language, she rolls
around in between scenes, she used to categorize her passages, more neatly, now she just wishes
and washes in between locales. Geography is in your mind, so is the person who tells the story.
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The narrator, who in her case is always female. A non-boozehound. She listened to this interview
by this German translator who said that he always translates books by authors who are drunkards
and male. I have to relate to the narrator, if there are similarities between him and me, then I can
translate his voice better, I have to be able to relate. So that is the reason why these people in the
coffee houses are always female, they have to be, they have to be here.
Today could be laundry day, god knows there are enough stinky textiles all over the
place, there is enough washing powder in the Costco container, it is merely a job of pushing
down the right buttons here. but laundry cannot be like that, you have to go down to a
laundromat, you have to look at people, there has to be interaction. Doing laundry in a vacuum is
way too private, too isolating. It will drive yer crazy and we dont want that. How does the queen
do it in her place, where does she put her hats? 28 700, apparently Stephen king writes two
thousand words per day, she read about those writing idiosyncrasies on a site called galley cat,
while Hillary was singing her songs on the fourth day of the convention in Philadelphia here.
The drive down to the coffee house, there was enough happening to fill a book with. You
do not have to enrich your words with itzehoe, bankastrati or the donut shoppe on fourteenth, nyc
and Reykjavik and the city outside of Hamburg, those places have to moot around and live
silently on their own, they do not have to make it into this book here, they can rest and rest and
rest here.
Outside the sun is shining, this is the perfect day to run by false creek, mainly if she was
a runner which she is not, her thing is to get to the bus and down to the Y to weigh herself and
make a disappointed grimace, to wonder what the heck went wrong here and wrong here.
58 965.
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There are better words, she had them all, while she was driving down to the coffee place,
while she was trying to ignore the low tire pressure sign in front of her. Her words were the right
ones, the poetic ones. Once back in front of the typing machine, they had all vanished plop into
thin air here.
This is how writing works, you have to make up the sentences while you type. If you
formulate them and try to type them up at a later date, you will not be able to remember them, to
recreate the moment, to play that right, the same cadences again here. 59 07, there is stuff on the
telly, stuff on the telly here.
It is twenty-one minutes after eleven, time to wait this out wait this out here. better words
will come once you had the cheese Danish that is lingering in the kitchen, her salad days are
over, who needs salad when you can indulge in a cheesy Danish. Observations about coffee
places and pastry, now there is a book a book here, a book worth reading. Today caf society will
start up, woody allen is eighty and still going strong here, going strong here. maybe playing the
sax once a week does that to yer here.
59 180. Then Danish, the movie on the telly, the one with dick van dyke, prognosis
something, all of that has to wait in order to type up some more words, her right shoulder is
starting to act up, you cannot type up that many words before your body gives yer a big fat no
here. 59 236, 59237. The romance of the numbers, odd ones versus straight ones, the poetic of
the word count, the word count here. memories of bankastrati, then freshness of an eve
overlooking the city in Iceland, the hotness of the cocoa melting away, giving way to the blah
likeness that is after each moment of exhilaration. Drama and non drama, the weaning off of the
peaks of life here.
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The rain on itzehoe, now subsiding. The city that is still too dark in the morn. There is
something utterly gripping about the side street here, something out of Sherlock Holmes, a
mystery novel in this place, one that is way to English for the cold German north here. the
language that is different, the apple crumbles that are waiting for her here. the fashion woman is
green and glittery today, too raunchy for this slight rainy day in Schleswig Holstein. Author here
will always come back to describe the place of her birth, you can take the girl out but you cannot
take the place out, you know how the saying goes and sayings are never ever wrong here.
She could travel down to Portland for the long weekend but that is a too exhausting
adventure, the sitting still in a moving vehicle for such an extended long time will do her in,
better to stay put here and type and type and type and type this up here.
The writingish hours that explain her life now, the furious hammering away at the
keyboard, this is what we do and what we do here. ice cream in between writing spurts, the
nourishment between the runs. The close-up of tom Courtenay in the loneliness of a long
distance runner, yup, that one that one that one here. In black and white, behind foggy mist. That
is what defines our existence, the movies we saw as a child, the books that we read. I am David,
by this woman out of Denmark.59 599, still writing still writing here. after this she will implode
on the green couch, that is what we do after painting after writing, the exhaustion of producing
something with all your body all your senses. The catharsis of writing or of painting, the fastness
fastness and fastness here.
Like laying bricks, like putting in pipes in plumbing, hoisting them up with a machine,
shouting orders to the man in the truck. Sweating while running, hiking or climbing a hill here.
there are bikes in the city, apparently Vancouver started up its bike program here. which has
nothing to do with what she was saying before, her thoughts come in and out at will here.
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Alzheimers is around he corner, we will all go this down to the utter demise. Suicide is painless,
but that will never ever be what we will do her. Waiting this out, then sun is shining, enough of
these utterly useless words here, there are reruns on the telly of yesterdays debate here.
Yesterdays speeches, because the time of debates has not started up yet here. next month will be
rio month, the telly will sing its songs while showing people who can jump higher and run faster
than the rest of us mere mortals here.
Still some words and still some words here. she should darken up this room here, it is too
light and too bright to type up the right words here. the words that are somehow drunken,
somehow strange and weird here. the neon lighting in this room is too soundly, you cannot really
write with these artificial noises. She starts humming to herself to drown out the extra noises that
make her slither off into the wrong directions, she has t one comer describe union square and the
donut place, bankastrati and the coffee place, itzehoe and the fashion store on the other side of
the street. The places where writing is happening, has to happen, has to happen. Where there is
silence enough to listen to the words in your head to come down onto the keyboard to be
splashed up into the world here. the romance of writing, the utterings that make us real ah real
here.
Apparently Wallace Stevens wrote his words while walking, while moving to his
workplace as an insurance man. Just one thought, one fact to mention here, unrelated, unrelated
here. the fridge is starting up its songs, it is way too hot here and way to bright, this is not the
environment that makes us choose the rightest words, there is always an excuse why our words
are bound to suck, have to fall short here short here. 60 003, away ah away here.
30.
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Later in the day. On the telly in the other room, reruns of the speech yesterday. The five
oclock news here.
a.
the day is too hot and her tire has low pressure. Which means that one has to stay put in
here to type up words. One can make up all those observations about the donut shoppe on
fourteenth. Fictional patrons in the fictional place. One can look at videos on you tube. Videos
that show donut places. The interior, the donuts. Where does reality end and where does it start?
Fiction intermingling with reality. Fiction morphing into reality and vice versa. Weirdness of the
writingish existence here.
b.
60 137.
c.
a documentary about fenway park, tailgate parties and the like. It is all about boston, the
documentary is about different aspects of the city. Author has been to boston, several times about
eight ears or so ago. When we were so much younger than today. When there was no sitting
inside chained to a type writer, when there was more moving around, more motioning in the
fresh air. Writing is sedentary, while outside the greenery has its last forceful shades. Interplays
of darker greens and lighter greens here.
d.
60 227.
e.
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on the telly, a game between dallas and boston here. the people who watch it. The end of
the documentary, waterfront cities of the world here. the remote control is, well, remotely lying
on the green couch here, outta reach, while the sun is still playing up the shades of green outside
of here.
f.
after a short walk from market to car it is back at the typer here. to recreate the feel of
that walk that is the chore here, the task here. using the right words to evoke the physicality of
that walk, the stones on the ground that are light and dark, dark from the wet of the sprinklers
and light because those stones were outside of the reach of the morning sprinklers. It is overcast
and fresh here, even though it is midsummer, the last day of July before august will set in,
forcefully, forcefully. She tries to be poetic but cannot, all the poetic words have been used up
and spat out, there are no more passages left to construct, the language has to be reinvented but
the malaise of writing is omnipresent and makes for a self-defeating existence in writerland, yup,
nihilism is palpable ah so palpable. The guy with too much hair on his head, a relict from maybe
fifty years ago, a weird and scary person in a so very bourgeois parking lot, the car is yucky and
utterly white-trash, kkk-ish in its black and silvery existence. The day is stalling, fresh Friday,
make that fresh Sunday at nine and some minutes, when one does not have to be anywhere and
can still linger in the no mans land of utter boredom here. She will sit near the greenery while
the dryer is mowing through the wet clothes upstairs, she will hate that the table hurts her feet
because her writing posture is ah too contorted for its own good, she will type some words that
are unpublishable as they all are, she will moan into the machine and save her words for a
posterity that will never ever come here. Not to her, she has the wrong pedigree for literature,
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there have to be precedents of good writing, published works, you cannot be a newbie at the
ripened age of sixty-one here.
The plastic bag from the market has Kraft dinner in it, two of them for two bucks each,
they were frozen and filled wit the excitement of a too light blue and yellow image on top of the
tv-dinner here. The plastic bag that moves to and fro while she marches under the trees over the
dark and light stones while two women in black are moving towards the Hellenic center on the
other side of the street. Arbutus is slowly happening, the street that goes up the hill and down the
hill, towards the beaches and the mountains, a slow, relentless place on the west coast here,
where one picks up Kraft dinners for lunch and supper, where the Sunday is moaning, where one
thinks of romantic words only to forget them immediately here. There is an exhibition in
downtown, one that will be there till September the second, one that is not worth the steep entry
fee of twenty-two bucks, she thinks about things like that while walking under the tees, she
thinks about the book about bankastrati and itzehoe and she will wrap up her writing to iron out
all the glitches that stick to the words that stick to the words here.
60 814, six oh eight fourteen here.
g.
too tired to write here, so we caught some zs. hardly slept the night before, so one has to
compensate here. now it is a Sunday afternoon, some 1200 words have still to be forced into this
machine here.
h.
greens outside, in differing shades. The songs on the telly. Greenery on the other side too,
with short intervals of glitter and glam. Well, glam obviously is the wrong word here, it is all
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about using the right, the accurate ones. Eloquence is so difficult, seems, painting is easier,
drawing, animating here. Ah, on the telly two women talking about the white house, these days it
is all about politics, politics here.
i.
1100 words here.
j.
maybe it would be better to go out and pick up some ideas for the rest of the words. The
walk thru the street, though the houses around here all look alike and there is not much diversion.
It is much better down on arbutus, while walking from coffee house to market and back to the
car. There is stuff to see, people, cars, shadows on the walkway. Women on the other side who
hold stuff in their hands and walk to the Hellenic center, all clad in black and all on a mysterious
mission. Here, inside of the house, it is the telly which is way too loud, something called the teen
choice awards and people yell loudly when they hear the name of Justin Timberlake.
k.
61 072, she fees sick, her heart aches, literally. A walk would be good and sitting put is
not good, the blood does not flow, it stagnates in the veins, the arteries. Movement is good, for
circulation, for health, for weight loss. She had some salad days, and now those are over, she
cannot really make it into fitnessnut land, the trouble with going all fit and healthy is that after it
is over, you tend to go the other way, all booze and all grease. As if you have to compensate for
being good, now you have to be extra bad. Everything on the artery clogging side here. Now
Justin Timberlake gives his acceptance speech, he looks like his own father. And the person who
announced him was Kobe Bryant. 61 202 here.
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l.
bankastrati, the hot cocoa, the people on the street. Iceland is what it is, interesting,
mysterious, matter-of-fact. This city here can be all, depending of what you want from it. For her,
the peacefulness is good, the time that can be devoted to writing without diversions. And the
whip melts silently into the chocolate drink here, she holds on to the colorful paper cup with both
hands, wishes that this will never be over, because once she is back in the hotel she still has to
pen some words here, some words here. Writing as chore, every diversion is welcome. Even if it
is a too sweet chocolate drink and the endless strolling all over town. Walking and writing, it
goes together, both endeavors need each other and feed on each other here. Bankastrati slowly
glistens down into the night here.
m.
the oozing of the red jam, the last bites of the donut. People come in, people leave.
Outside, fourteenth is happening, slowly, languidly. Her writing days here, her writing days here.
She goes a lot down to the bookstore, hangs out there, it is good to look at books and to think
about books. It feeds the writing or maybe it does not here. she tells herself that it does, positive
outlook is all that matters to a writer. What else can you do, there is no way but up from here. she
is unpublished, she cannot be more unpublished than she already is here. she always pays the
rent for the writing space, the one with the number on the outside of the building. She reads the
shingle, she goes up the stairs, she lingers a tad in the lobby, at her cubby. She puts stuff in her
locker and takes stuff out of her locker here. The life of a writer in nyc, the life of a writer
anywhere.
n.
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the train ride thru the rain, the small town outside of Hamburg here. The crumbles of the
apple cake. A woman whistles which goes on her nerves, she cannot handle the whistling, it is as
if somebody scratches over her skin here.
o.
on the telly, big bang, the scene where the elevator explodes. One of many reruns,
laughtracks ah laughtracks here. The glimmer in the greenery, evening so near so near here. It is
Sunday, which means that today it is Colombo nite here. Tomorrow it is august first, national
holiday in Switzerland here.
p.
400 words on anything and we are outta here and outta here.
q.
on the telly, two and a half men. Kind of tough to write and watch. This does not go with
that. While the day slowly is letting out here.
r.
the last flecks on the greenery, not that we have not described this before. The
illumination, just the way it is always happening here. An ad for chocolate covered coconut bars.
An ad for a phone company here.
s.
and back to the sitcom, right after an ad for skin cream by the woman who was on friends
here.
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t.
300 words more. The episode with Alan and Charlie pretending to be gay. 300 words and
then we have done the chore. It is all about the 2000 words here.
u.
250.
v.
stories about the coffee houses, meticulous descriptions. That is the gist of her writings.
The pastry, the hot beverages. The whiff of the tea. The silent figures that the steam takes.
w.
outside still greenery, on the telly sixty minutes. A program about people who were
convicted unjustly.
x.
still 200 words here. stories about a slow ride through the rain. On the train here. from
Hamburg to itzehoe, from itzehoe back to Hamburg. In between the spurt to the coffee house,
some words, some tea. Crumbles of the cake on the plate here. And then there is the donut in the
place on fourteenth and the hot cocoa on the hills on bankastrati. The food you have to propel the
words forward. The foods have their own story. A very slow narrative, but still a narrative here.
61 890 here.
y.
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a movie about Greenland here. a documentary. A glacier. The north pole. The ice. Outside
the sprinkles on the green here.
z.
not much to say here, but there still has to be a certain amount of words here. Too much
of a use of the word HERE here. The software is acting up, no reason whatsoever here. you have
to go with the flow when typing, that is just how it is here. And once more HERE here. Her
writing glides into slight nonsense, well, it is the end of her writing day anyways. Some more
moments, and the Colombo show will start up here. The crumpled up raincoat. 62 003. Great ah
great here.
31.
So, maybe the day has some things to wait for. It is this weird strange position wedged
between reality and for a lack of better term surreality here. the Y, the mall, a listen to the car
radio lady about white trash and Donald trump. Her wish to park in Langara and her drive back
out, the idea that you should not waste the three bucks for parking, better to come home and type
up some 2000 as always always. Things are happening all over, the khan family controversy, the
silent icons on the telly. She listens in to the media, the media runs her life. Stories that are read
somewhere tucked away in a studio, where microphones rule and machines that light up at
certain frequencies. where mixers make sure to mix the sound. The car radio, a relict from the
past that is still going so very strong here. something that started in world war one or world war
two ham radios, the ndr building in white on her way to school. Ndr or norddeutscher rundfunk
here. her old stories of nostalgia, the ones she delves into, explores with a vengeance, the
vengeance of a life of sixty-one years on a planet, this planet here. a silent august two in 2016, an
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overcast, dreary day in Vancouver Canada. On the telly icons that do not move, her words march
onto the monitor, the greenery outside is rainy rainy without being wet. A Monday, a Tuesday,
the mall has the flags of british Columbia all hanging in neat order, yesterday was bc day and
that why it was a holiday and that is why the week officially starts up on a Tuesday. Her week is
writing while she hums to herself. As jerry Seinfeld said I never worked in an office. She here
writes or paints or cooks, something in the isolation of what you can call a studio to make it
sound fancier than it is. A prisoncell elevated, after all you can leave and come back, but still a
cubicle should be better, people that you say hi to, for her it is the presence of the cashier she has
seen before, the barista, the man with the solemn look who seems to be born retired here. some
400 words we have already already here.
a.
One could watch matlock or something, maybe the remnances of perry mason. Or one
could just keep on writing, talking about itzehoe and bankastrati, writing writing writing. There
is a writing studio on fourteenth in New York city, it has a shingle outside with a big three and a
Five. The one where aspiring ones mount up three flights, where there is a lobby and free tea,
where lockers hold the personal affects of people who want to win Pulitzer prizes at the very
least. Creatures that want to make a mark that will be there long after they have dissipated to dust
here.
b.
on the telly, a woman talking about cranberry and fennel. Her way of saying cranberry is
a tad too different from the rest of us mortals, the a is too long and has a languid lilt that moves
toward an e more so than an a. and now it is the woman who tells everybody how to run their
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finances. A woman with strong makeup and a man with grey hair. Those are the ones who have
to learn how to manage their money the right way. Now they meet in a coffee house, the door of
the coffeehouse with the big lettering on top. Now they talk while there is pastry in the back and
while there is some kind of silvery thing. A coffee house that is not the kind with the mermaid.
Something local that does not have headquarters in Seattle here.
c.
ten thirty-five in the morn, the telly, people talking about their life on national tv. Why
would one do that maybe they think that this will help. The exposure. Author here is hungry, she
always is.
d.
62 687.
e.
the songs on the telly. A show about vanity sizes. Fascinating. This is what we think about
here. jeans and size 8. Outside the greenery lingers on. It is noon and there is no shading here. no
illumination. The sunny days of summer are over for moments for moments here.
f.
the trainride, slowly steadily. The rain against the windows. The man in the uniform who
asks for tickets. Everything is just so, the writer on her trek to the smaller city so that she can do
her writing there in the coffee house. The routine will forge the words forward here. if anyting it
keeps her busy and out of trouble. 2000 words per day ah 2000 words per day here. the reluctant
novel that describes the coffee places where one can respite from writing. The itzehoe place is
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actually where true writing is taking place most of the time. Against the crumbles on the plate,
against the whiffs from the coffee mug here.
g.
62 857.
h.
62 861.
i.
a too rainy day, it is august and it has the clear feel of November and not even a nice
sunny mild November day. The weather that makes you go thru your stuff and haul out the warm
black turtleneck and wear that all together with a warm toque. That is how we sit in front of the
typer here, curmudgeonly tucked away here. far away from humanity, with socks that do not
match here, one is light blue and the other one is dotted with blue sky colored dots. The
quintessential writer who hardly takes a bath, who lives in her peejays, who rolls outta bed and
makes up a story for the machine here. the writer at her desk, though this is not a desk, it is a
short table which makes yer hunch over here. her words ah her words here. she had her coffee
and weighed herself at the gym and now it is back to typing up a certain wordcount here.
pinterest sent her pins about writing, we just thought you might lie this. How do they know that
she writes, who goes thru her data and notices what she does, what kind of conspiracy is that,
who sits in an attic and goes thru her email. You are next, there was this animation that showed a
criminal conspiring to take her out, or a stalker, it was scary, with blood and monsters, some
person in an attic with dirty fingernails predating and stalking here and that is how it feels when
you get emails that reflect what you do. The minute that you travel to nyc you get job offers from
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jfk, even though you do not even have a workpermit. Something is foul here, yup something is
ah so foul. Big bro is always watching always watching here.
Orwell wrote 1984 a long long time ago \but he permeated our collective psyche here. the
alter ego, the monstrous alter ego.
She has to write about itzehoe and bankastrati, about the places where they serve coffee
and tea. There is a new movie out called caf society, she will see it eventually eventually here.
the weather is way too bad for anything, you just have to hook up in your room, huddle and type
up the words. There is nothing else you can do, you will do here. 63 250. 800 words and we have
64 000 here. so apparently the counting is all right here, the word count goes up in increments of
2000 and that is how it should be. There are writing courses that teach creative writing, but she
will not take one, critiques will do her in in the same way that they killed her visual arts career.
There is not a thing called constructive criticism, criticism is always destructive here.
j.
the walk thru the rain in itzehoe. She thinks about her lot as a writer, how she is nowhere
in author land. Nobody even knows that she exists, that she writes books. This happens when you
have no publisher, your work is for the bird. You could self publish but that does not really work
out for anybody. The rain is coming down on her yellow umbrella, itzehoe is unfriendly and
distant which is how she likes it her. The melancholy will make her write the right words,
describing the malaise of the artist here. her loneliness, her state as a Steppenwolf. The
romanticism of bohemia. That is where writers have to exist, a world of isolation, of selfimposed far-away-from the worldness. The life of an artiste. Or something bullshitty like that
here. she will have crumbly apple cake that is what cheers her up, that is what feeds her art here.
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k.
some more words, so maybe 500 will do. Just type up words and edit later on. After
checking out everybodys Instagram account, and videos on facebook that are kind of making
you feel as if you are intruding on ppls lives. Better to read up about celebrities they are in the
public domain. Their stories. The stories of the politicians who are running against each other.
Cnn is talking ah talking here. she should go down to the coffee house on arbutus and do her
writings there,
l.
63 578.
m.
the number of the wordcount is inaccurate, mainly because it is such a tiny number, one
cannot really read it on the monitor here. on the telly, people talking, yup, all of those talking
heads here. while typing up this amazing story here. And any book is a story. That is our story
and we stick to it.
Once we will land a publisher this will be book on a bookshelf in a bookstore, one with a
spine that a potential reader will pick out and leaf thru. Even sit down in a comfy chair and start
reading some pages or so, a total stranger reading her words. And either agree or disagree. On the
telly an ad for laser spine institute or something like that here. still writing still writing here.
About the hot cocoa on bankastrati. The ones that one holds in the colorful cup with red and
white mittens. Red and white knitted ones. That look as if they are dotted, in small dots. Small
red and white dotted texture. The mittens that hold the colorful paper cup. Yup, that is how
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Reykjavik works here. the illusion of Reykjavik her. Where it is even colder than here in
Vancouver. Two grades colder here.
n.
so many talking heads on the telly. A collage of talking heads. Six to be precise. There
would be more but maybe they could not find that many people to spout out about the trump and
Hilary thingie. Now they talk about other people to run. You have to keep it interesting, after all
there are still 100 days to fill with news until the election. How much can one really say about
the voting when it is still three months ahead and nobody knows what will happen. How much
can one possibly analyze two candidates here.
o.
the donut shoppe and the donut with jelly therein. The oozing. The hot tea. The people
outside walking up and walking down fourteenth here. her writingish pauses. All of her writing is
happening in her head, while biting into sugary pastryish stuff. Fillings of red gooeyness. Baked
goods stuff. Egg and flour pulled together in an oven here. somewhere in the back of the donut
pub. Or at their headquarter somewhere down in new jersey. In Jersey City or so.
The tea and the steam that comes out of it. Hovers over the paper cup here. the life of a
writer is full of staring at the figures that hot steam makes. Is steam always hot? Are donuts
always sweet. These are the things that writers here analyze. Two more words and 64 002 it is it
is here.
32.
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She feels like going to the airport and having a donut. It seems more interesting than
sitting and typing. Everything to get away from the typing machine here. a donut in an airport,
the sugar, the feel of doing a sin, committing a sin against your figure. Eating is such a moral
issue for her, you are thin you are god you are fat you are bad. That is how the world works, her
world. Weight as a moral issue as an ethical one. Not as an issue of health, of the ability to move
thru the world. Nope, it has to do with being an upstanding citizen. Heaven or hell. If you are
thin you will go to paradise and if you commit the sin of gluttony, well, then you need to see a
clerical authority. We are all weird here, in a strange and weird world here. but the word count
accumulates and that is all that counts all that counts here. 64 187, yay ah yay here.
a.
she feels sick, too much typing does that to yer.
b.
should she do this in one big whoosh or will her leaving this place be better for her
writing here. to be out in the world here.
c.
she has written four pages already. Which are how many words here?
d.
another morn, after morning coffee and gym back at the typer here. the fridge is starting
up its songs in the other room, the weather is a tad better than the day before. There was a
collision the day before at seven in the morn in surrey.
e.
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outside there are people talking too loud with each other, yelling over the roar of the
rowing machine. There were construction crews on the way to the gym, there was a talking about
a new book about Seinfeld on the car radio. These are the stories that the morn provides, debates
of futility, when nothing is happening or everything is happening, when the day is about the
coffee in the coffee house, the man who staggers when going in and the slice of pizza in the mall
in the other city next to Vancouver. The slice of pizza that tasted good here.
f.
so, maybe, a big salad is where it is at. Elaine Benes and her big salad. It is just a salad
but bigger. We do not have a big salad. Author here had a big salad, one that she got at the new
grocery store near Dunbar. She has never been there and it was quite a surprise. The newness,
there are no chairs near the coffee place like there used to be, when the place belonged to a
different company. A different grocery store company. Then again, maybe it was the same one,
merely under a different name here. so this is what we write about here, observations that are
non-observations, that is the bread and butter of tis text here. we still need 1500 words here to
make the cut, yesterday was a too turbulent day to write up the right amount here. now it is all
about being hunched over the keyboard, the stationary endeavour that will make or break her
career. Her career that is still starting up, being flustered in its baby steps, haulted before it even
starts up. This is her status, the beginnings of an art career, the days before being a household
name. The nonhouseholdname state, the obscurity, the happy haplessness. For a writer publicity
is everything because you need to write for the public, you need eyeballs on your words here. she
read this book by this prof at bard, he writes and writes about writing. It was good, she was all
encumbered in the writing, sitting in the mall in the coffee place, while the mall traffic was
happening all around her. She had a peppermint tea, which was overpriced, arguably, she read
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about fifty pages of a 500-page long book. Definitely good writing, the man has a way with
words here.
g.
on the telly, Hillary and the Donald, this is what it is all about here until this is over come
November six. The man with the mypillow on the telly, the one who manufactures it all in his
home state of Minnesota and who gives you one extra. You know the words, if you watch tv, you
can recite the words of the ads here.
h.
bankastrati and the hot chocolate drink, this is how bliss tastes, bliss feels, there are not
that many persons outside of the coffee house but still enough, it is the right mix and the
temperature of the drink is perfect, just perfect. The time of the day, the weather, this is the world
of Reykjavik that will make her write up the right words. This is why she came here, to have the
opportunity to pen the perfect words. This cannot happen back in Vancouver, youve got to travel
to a different continent in order to fabricate, to produce the right sequence of words. Location,
location location, it is everything for a creative person. The task of coming here that is what
makes or breaks the words. You cannot write like this in familiar surroundings, you have to
venture out into the world. And only then will you have a great book that you can sell to an agent
in nyc. And if it does not work out you cannot die thinking that you did not give it your all. You
did and you have the plane ticket stub to prove it. You roamed the planet in search of the right
wordings. Three more words and we will be at the next round number here.
i.
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the donut shoppe, the donut shoppe. The right donut, jelly, red. The slight sprinkles of
powder on the outside of the pastry, the ones that crumble down against her black shirt here.
outside, fourteenth, people walking up towards the meat packing or down towards alphabet. This
is her street, she knows every nook and cranny here.
j.
the rain and its coming down on the country. The countryside. The train that moves
ahead. She will be at the coffee house and start writing. She is looking forward to it. The daily
dose of words. Until this will be a book length text. The words themselves are not important, but
their amount is. And we are reaching itzehoe. The train that gets into the station and comes to a
halt. One has to hurry and get out. The rain is coming down but more in a drizzle. The coffee
house is not far away, about 200 meters. And here it is, the place with the three chattering women
near the window, the waitress with the frustrated bored expression, the fashion store on the other
side of the street here. she ponders if frustrated and bored are the same, they are not, but they are
neighbours. Expressions of negativity. She orders, she takes out her notepad, she inscribes the
lined paper. Letters that lean to one side here. and the rain is coming down here.
k.
on the telly, the credits of big bang here. the sign for warner bros. And outside the sun is
shining, apparently august noticed that it is summer here. The greenery is stark, strong
sundrenched colours here. She could go down to arbutus, to the market, walk by the aisles. Look
at the late afternoon crowd, the lines. There is always something going on down there. a
warehouse of packaged food, a parking place with all those cars in different colours. A
supermarket in suburbia. Ginsberg wrote a poem on a supermarket in California. This is not
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California, but still the west coast. And markets are all the same here. though in California they
have alcohol, they do not have that here. not in the grocery places here. she could go to the
coffee place, the one that is always on the empty side. Where people go on their way to
somewhere. To downtown to uptown. It is this transitionary place, next to a gas station. Which
makes for its fascinating flavour, there is much to write about a place like this. We need some
600 words, maybe they should be all about the coffee house. Coffee places are her main subject
matter anyways, the place in itzehoe, the place in Reykjavik. The donut shoppe up from union
square. These are the main inhabitants of her world, structures with roofs where you can go and
drink hot beverages. Respites from the daily drudge, short places to sit in, places that you always
have to leave. Where there is always some dry pastry and some tea, coffee or cocoa here.
l.
still sunny here. very sunny here. differences in shades, on the greenery outside here.
m.
getting back to the train ride in the rain. It is a repetitive endeavour, she does it everyday.
The trek out of Hamburg into itzehoe. Up or down, depending on how you define it on the map.
Well, on the map there is a clear distinction of what counts for up and what counts for down, but
for a writer it is different. You write what sounds poetic, what has the right rhythms. Writing is a
tad like music, you compose a reluctant symphony here, something like that something of that
kind.
n.
the hot cocoa, the reluctant taste of melting whip. With slight tinges of chocolate. The
voices of strangers speaking in tongues that she cannot decipher. She might die here in Iceland,
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writing words that nobody publishes. It is a futile existence but it provides her with a certain
structure. Everyday the penning of 2000 words, that is what we do, each and every day here.
usually she types and when it is over, when her words with the right word count is inside of the
machine, she can pack it up and come here to have a hot cocoa with whip that melts silently and
ever so slowly. On some days she comes here twice, once in the morning once in the eve. She
used to frequent this place in the afternoon, but you have to change it up to make it interesting.
After all, writing is such a boring endeavour anyways, thus any glitch in the routine is welcome
here.
o.
up the three flights of steps, other writers at their desks, the communal sounds of
keyboards, the pecking, the pushing down of buttons. Language spun into passages, the coffee
machine makes hiccupy noises in the lobby. There is this very serious man who does not talk to
anybody and keeps to himself, there is the woman who always talks too much and is all giggles,
all giggles. It takes all kinds here. there are eight million in this city and each sings to a different
tune. The donut shoppe is downstairs and she feels like going there, she always wants to run out
once she is up here. there is something that drives her away, it is the stench of misery, the writing
that is in vain and unpublished. These people here will always stay aspiring, they will never ever
arrive here. once they have arrived they will leave. It is more fun to sit in one of the starbucks in
Chelsea, while waiting for the laundry to dry. She pays the rent for this place, so she has to come
here at least once a month here.
she debates whether she should get cookies or fairy cakes from baked by Melissa or if the
jelly donut in the donut pub is more accommodating to her mood. There are pizza places, a mc
Donalds and a traders joe. She should write some and then go down to satisfy her food
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cravings, there is artichoke down from union square, but up from the infirmary. She has 66 003,
this is it for today, today here.
33.
Seven and forty-three in the evening. On a sunny day in august here. the greenery is
interesting, it is as if there is lighting behind the leaves, a lamp in the night. It is not night, but the
whole place has the feel of an evening restaurant, the lighting is just like that, one feels like
sitting down for a casual dinner while the night will march in silently, in comfortable company,
the greenery has that kind of lightings here.
a.
She had a stroop wafel and a peppermint tea. And then it is back to the room wit the telly
here. it is now late, near to ten. The telly is singing its songs here. gotta type up some 1850 words
here.
b.
before she even gets out the door, she is bombarded by the themesong from the brady
bunch, but just to the youngest one in curls, then it is the smile of mister brady and the punch on
the remote that finishes the story off mid-air here.
c.
on the telly, the end of matlock. Before the murderer is caught.
d.
66 207.
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e.
4000 words till 70 000. Which makes this submittable, a novel that is 70 000 words long.
Lots of famous texts are even less than 70 000. Not everything has to be war and peace. You can
say what you have to say in less than 100 000 words. Printing is expensive after all. Paper, ink,
storage space, transport here.
f.
the woman and her selfies. Author here deleted one but after that made up her mind that it
was actually a very good picture. But now it is gone, it diluted, vanished, does not exist anymore.
It is irretrievable.
g.
66 310.
h.
Greece, south Africa Afghanistan Albania, yup, the Olympics is starting up here.
Alemannia the athletes are in the house here, well, technically they are in rio. Yay.
i.
66340. 66 340.
j.
they asked her to give a commencement speech. Because she is a famous writer.
Obviously this is merely a figment of her imagination but then again everything in this text is
imaginary here. well, not the reality of her day, the two malls, the pizza place, the supermarket
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where she had a piece of cake and the gym where she weighed herself to gage the impact of the
food items she devours here. on the telly, Ralph Nader here.
k.
the apple cake with crumbles on top. She should look at images of apple cakes here. In
order to describe the cake she supposedly has in itzehoe. It seems more doable than making up
the hows and wheres of a commencement speech here.
l.
the borders between fiction and non-fiction are breaking down which is confusing.
Especially for the writer herself.
m.
getting out of the L-train, up the stairs to union square. Full of people this place just as
always. This is one of the stations that is never ever desolate, there are always persons rushing to
and fro. You have to give way, you are part of the rush. This place makes you feel alive, at all
times of the day.
n.
the rain on the city near Hamburg. Reluctant rain drops, not forceful ones. The peace that
is illustrated by this rain. Rain has that propensity to evoke that feeling. Or maybe not. How
would I know. Rain changes everything, there is a force bigger than you. A slight reminder that
nature is omnipresent. She takes her steps toward the coffee house. Once she is at the shingle
with the ornamental 20 on it, she opens the door and is in the place that grants shelter from the
rain. Three women chattering, waitress in bored expression. Her peppermint tea, her crumble
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cake. Everything is in place, there is no excuse to not pen the world churning master piece here.
she will still stay in hamburg, still come here. her wordcount is marching on and it is not a bad
book. It is good enough and that is all we are shooting for here. this is all that is possible, doable.
The main thing is to check into this coffee place each and every day. This her office here. in the
rain drenched town outside of Hamburg here.
o.
on the telly Anthony bourdain in brazil. This is shown all the time mainly because of the
Olympics. The movie about brazil and its food.
p.
bankastrati, the hot cocoa in the colorful paper cup. The whip that melts into the drink.
The moments that one thinks about writing and the moments that one feels happy to be far away
from pen and paper. Far away from the computer here.
q.
more writing about coffee houses. More about donut shops. Pastry for moments. In the
morn she was in the market in the corner next to the cashiers. Where the coffee is happening, the
pastry. People talking, families with young kids, old people. So much to see, enough to write
about. Once back at the computer it has all vanished, it all morphs together. The blank page is
staring at yer here.
r.
66 878.
s.
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the walk through the rain. Back to the station. To catch the train to hamburg. The
commute back to the city. The reverse commute, from the small place to the bigger place. She
will walk through the rain there, think about her words. And tomorrow it will be once again here.
where the apple crumbs are, where the peppermint tea awaits. The things that make her write
here. the routine drives the words forward.
t.
66 957.
u.
a panel discussion about her books. Publicity. She is wearing black and white.
Professional. She debated if her hair should be in an up-do or open. She is wearing glasses, the
ones with the yellow inside the frame. Dark-brimmed glasses with yellow insides. She feels
filled up with anxiety, she has to introduce her book. Answer questions. People are sitting on
chairs that face her. There are others too. There are mikes. She has written more than one book.
About coffee houses. About donut places, malls. The underbelly. Some of her books are stacked
in the bookstore in the mall. It all feels surreal. She screws the cap of the water bottle off and
takes a sip. The water is too icy, too chilling here. slight tinges of anxiety are doing her in,
slowly, steadily here.
v.
67 097.
w.
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nk
the slow train ride. As if time is standing still here. short stops in short cities. Villages.
While the rain is coming down, just as slowly, just as steadily. The water drops falling down,
vertically, the train chucking forward horizontally here. she looks outside, at the rain, at the
greenery, the trees. Houses. Small places, houses outside of the city. There is a romantic feel, a
northern feel to this place. The tip of Germany. So near to Denmark. Scandinavia is the big
brother to the north. That kind of permeates everything. The psyche of the people. She
philosophizes, makes up stuff. While looking out at the rain. Her commute to the coffee place. To
the place where writing will be happening. It is always a big production, that is what makes her
existence as a writer legit. She applied for a residency but did not get in. that is why she came
here by herself, in order to write up the words here. The routine structures her days here. later
there will be cake and tea. It fills her days. Writing, sipping tea, diving with the fork into apples
and crumbs. It is different from the donut on fourteenth or the cocoa on bankastrati. A book about
watering holes. Non-alcoholic ones, reluctant ones. Where life simmers ah so silently, the rain
makes her poetic, you could call it BS if you want here.
x.
67 333.
y.
itzehoe has these tinges of sleepiness. At least at the times that she gets here.
midmornings are sleepy in itzehoe. On her way from train station out to the coffee house. A silent
sleepiness. The apple cake is waiting for her. The chair in the corner.
x.
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walking by the shingle on fourteenth. She tries to avoid this place, writing can happen
anywhere. Just because a place is named writing studio does not equate good writing here. she
tries to avoid the studio, the push and pull, the tension might be actually better for the formation
of the words. There are no clear rules, one has to experiment each and every day. Sometimes it is
happening and on other days the words all suck. It is beyond her grasp. The donut has jelly in it
and that in itself makes her happy. The slight drops of the jam. Outside people motioning up the
street and down the street. All ages here. it is mid afternoon, maybe not the right time for writing
here. the studio is usually filled at this time of the day. But she will avoid it, do her writing in a
small coffee shop off sixth. The weather is nice, languid. Not too hot, not too chilly. The right
temperature for all of the right words here. traffic is slow outside, stalling. 67 561, for now, for
now here.
y.
once more, bankastrati. Hot cocoa. She feels homesick but she has to stay here. until the
right amount of words are penned. There are not many distractions in this place which is good
for the words. For the accumulation of all of these words here. hot cocoa and whip. This time she
has the round cake with gloss on top and mush inside. She sits down at a table in the middle of
the place. Usually she is into to go cups but you have to mix it up. Stick to the routine but alter it
just a tiny bit here. outside the day slowly moves on into the night. Still time to have the cocoa
and the cake. The hotel is not far away from this place here. a group of people, tourists who
speak French. Some days before there was a group of people with New Zealand accents. It is
august, actually there are lots of tourists in town. People with small children.
z.
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on the telly, Antony bourdain in Greece. Outside the greenery with stark contrasts. Not
illumination, just lighter greens and darker greens. Six thirty-four on a Saturday in august. The
end of summer here. lots of writing, lots of hours in front of the keyboard. The words that slowly
accumulate. Steadily. Her days of wishing for a plot are over. The three different coffee places
have to do, how they are different from each other, how they are the same. There is no reason to
write about coffee houses instead of zombies but she likes it and it makes her happy. The times
between the actual writings, the respites in places, the short rests. That is what binds the actual
writing spurts together, the times where nothing is happening here. the negative space. The
negative spaces. Her wordcount stands at 67 876, 130 words and we are outta here and outta
here. on the telly, still the Greek show, now there is singing, music. And stills of foods, salads,
meats. People sitting snd eating and talking about eating here.
so one hundred words is all we need here, about greenery and coffee and telly and malls.
No deep insights. Train rides thru the rain. Walks thru the rain here. union station. These are
enough elements to fill up a story to the brim. Pastry and hot beverages here. forty words and the
day is done. The workingish day, the writingish day. Poetry that not really is here. nineteen
words, while the night is near, twelve, eleven, just some more pushes on buttons, four more
words and 68 000 it is it is here.
34.
having been away from the laptop 4 ages here. since Saturday if the writing on the lower
left side of the screen, the monitor is to be believed. Somebody inside of this machine is keeping
track just as there is somebody in there and counting up the words. Some gnome, some smurf
here. yup, that is how it is, how it is here.
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the day is sunny, there are flecks on the greenery. A greenery that is undecided and
blas. Nobody can make up her mind, least the greenery. Author ponders, she is full of bullshit
on this Monday morn. There was a trek to the market, the ten oclock coffee next to a group of
retirees in white. Then the gym, then the mall, a piece of pizza with chicken and barbeque sauce,
the purchase of a donut that is glazed, sour cream glazed and the trek back to Vancouver here. the
typewriter, the laptop here. the typing ah the typing here. she has to save this all, because the
software seems to have a tendency to devour the words, delete them for no apparent reason.
Something is wrong in Seattlet, which seems to be the place where all of this started, this
software. Somehow, she thinks that Microsoft has o do with seattle as do boeing as does
Starbucks. Just over the border here, down in the states.
a.
some 1800 words here and we have a solid seventy thou. For whatever that is good. If
you keep on typing, something good should emerge here. hope springs eternal. Formulating
sentences is random, it is not a science. Something good might happen or it might not. This is as
unpredictable as the weather. Yup, that is how it is how it is. In rio, Michael phelps won his 19th
gold medal. Just saying here.
b.
these days, she bought books. Four of them and she read thru two in the bookstore in the
mall in the other city next to her own city. It is all about going to places and picking out the
books, physically. It is about reading about them, about hearing about those books on the car
radio. About seeing an interview on pbs. They are good at marketing and she is good at falling
into their traps. Forking over money for big tomes that she does not need and that will take up
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nk
space here. there is no place on the bookshelf. She has to stack the books under the sofa, on the
sofa and under the table in the other room. The physicality of books. Books as objects, words as
objects here.
c.
68 450.
d.
better watch what is on the telly here.
e.
bankastrati, slowly, hot cocoa, the like. Slight sweetness. Sipping the drink while walking
and looking down at the view. She works on the writing, all day, more or less. It is not
necessarily good writing and not necessarily bad writing here. the words on paper. The day
before she read about this book, paper. She perused excerpts online. Language as technology.
She tries to remember, thinks about what she read. While putting one foot in front of the other.
The sun is going down. There are others, mostly speaking in Icelandic. The cocoa is lukewarm
now.
f.
the walk up out of the subway station here. Union station in full motion. Hecticness, the
tooting of horns. Mid-afternoon on a weekday. She takes the route to the writing studio. Up three
floors. There are others typing away. A woman is sipping coffee in the lobby. There is a slight
smell over the place, sanitary, slight tinges of chlorine here. the sounds of typing, pauses, new
words pushed into machines. Everybody is busy. People are wearing their glasses and read
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solemnly. Everybody writes even if there is no publication. Publication is irrelevant, this is a

workshop, a factory of words. There will be discarded words, but it is irrelevant here. the donut
place is happening downstairs, up on the walk to the meatpacking. The jelly donut is part of the
ritual of writing, at least for her. This is how she structures her writing. She is not interested in
how she structures her words, she is more interested in getting this done, even if it is not good.
The main objective is to mechanically do the typing, let the words linger before touching the
machine, before flowing down into the machine here. she feels like barfing, today is not her day.
But 2000 words have to be produced, each and every day.
g.
68 773.
h.
train, the rain, the usual. The three women chattering near the window. Crumbs on the
plate here. she stares ahead, into space in front of her. There are other things she could do than
writing here. unsuccessful writing, after all it is measured by publication. If you write but nobody
deems what you pen as publishable than it is pure failure here. somebody has to judge her words
favourably. One person is enough. Subjective, that is how it is, that is how writing here works.
Anyways, she starts typing again, what else is there to do. What else can she do?
i.
her words are clunky. The structure of the sentences. Some are better structures. It is a
boring job, slinging words together. Baking is better than this. You can eat what you made. With
writing, it is a fruitless endeavour. The amount of the words is what counts. In this case, 68 927
here.
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j.
once more, more words here. different scenes described but mainly the same three scenes.
The same three locations. The same foods. On different dates. But the routines are more or less
the same. Repetition as the main subject matter. It is boring, a description of a boring subject
here.
k.
the hot cocoa, the coffee. Different drinks, warm ones, hot ones. Sipping beverages at
intervals, in between writing spurts. The in-betweens of penning a story. Or a non-story, it is
irrelevant. This is merely an exercise here. a provisional pairing of loose words. Elements of the
language, poured together at random. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not. She puts her
laptop in the locker, makes her way up to the highline. She is good at walking this city, better
than she is at writing, at selling her words. She sends this out, every 100 000 words and her
emails go out. Always rejected, always and permanently. Continually. The donut is nice, jam,
jelly in red. Peppermint tea here.
l.
well, at least the rain is there as always. The rainy city. The coffee house. The shelter
from the rain here.
m.
69 124.
n.
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outside the afternoon marches forward. Pretty dark greenery here. one could go down to
the market, there is always something going on there. persons picking out groceries from the
shelves. Each a different endeavour. Motions of the everyday. People lining up, the short talks to
the cashiers. The parking place outside. Cars. In here, it is merely the sounds, the sights of the
telly. Rio 2016. The thirty-first Olympiad.
o.
the rain and the train. Well, at least it rhymes here. the exhaustion of the writer. The
crumbs on the plate. The fashion woman in pink, light pink and some glittery stuff. Appliqus.
This is how writing is happening. It is boring, you go through the motions. Check in and check
out. Like training for a marathon. A certain amount of time each and every day. After that it will
be judged, usually unfavourably. If she can sell her words, she is lucky. Nobody is interested in
the daily life of a writer. There are lives more exhilarating than the dullness of typing.
Apparently, apparently here. some more sips out of the teacup might help, might cheer her up
here. time to pack this up and head home to the train station, to the hotel, so that next day she can
come back here. this never ends, never ever ends here.
p.
69 349. Words ah words here.
q.
she should write about something else. Something about Michael Phelps here. on the
telly. Applause, fierce one. Red and yellow lines between swimmers. A man in a bathing cap. A
sincere expression, a poker faced swimmer before the swim. Everybody is still in their training
suits. A woman with goggles talking to the interviewer. This is so cool. Congratulations. Thank
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you thank you. The silver here. Two men talking, two reporters. People knowing about
swimming, about the race. Knowledgeable persons. One in light blue, one in middle blue. United
states. An ad for coca cola here.
r.
69 450.
s.
an ad for something, visa. Has something to do with the games. Author remembers those
days when she did not know that visa is a bank card. Some thirty years ago, maybe forty. Better
to lose count here and to concentrate on feeding the words to the machine here. a woman who
gets ready to win here. applause, applause, everything mushes together. The sportscasters talking,
there are two, both male. One can merely hear them. Maybe it is the two in different shades of
blue here. the race is on, the going through the water. People yell, but how will the swimmers
hear them while they have their heads under water here. the sportscasters are exited, one is all
yelly, the other one She, a she has won. Big smile. toothy,. Yay, yay here. It is contagious, the
winning. Not to mention though, that ten others are losing here. there can be just one winner, the
rest has to go home without a medal. No metally hardware here. outside the last flecks of
greenery, shades that are marching into the night here. reflections about hot cocoa, for moments
for moments here.
the day before she saw two ads for Icelandair, you can fly out to Reykjavik, nonstop.
March straight to the coffee house in bankastrati, while lugging the suitcase behind her. how do
you spell insanity here, insanity? Better to sit in here in front of the telly and conjure up scenes of
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hot cocoa, of whip that melts silently into the drink here. you do not need to experience the real
thing here.
someone opens the window, slight whiffs of toxicity come in. somebody has sprayed the
outside, the smell is still lingering on here.
coming up, Michael Phelps and the butterfly. An ad for something, an animation named
sing that will be out in Christmas. It is august now, they sure are starting this marketing thingie
up very soon here.
the greenery and its differing shades here. She ponders if she should describe greeneries
or chocolate drinks here. her choice of scenes is random, there is not much of a relation between
the images he paints.
t.
69 811.
u.
cnn, politics, talking about different things, stuff. Everything is equally boring here.
trump, Hillary, maybe there will be still another candidate here.
v.
170 words against the greenery shades. There are spots of white between the greenery
flecks, short white blinkings here. painting an image of green, how do you possibly describe
something that can be shown in a photograph. Instagram illustrates what you mean, words, nah.
A picture is worth a thousand words, so goes the saying here. still dan lemon and the cory guy,
the one that was fired by the trump campaign here. an ad for a series about agility in action,
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whatever that is. An ad for a car. For a phone company. All those ads are very fast; you have to
make sure to use up that very expensive time on the screen here. and the greenery is happening
here, on both sides. Windows everywhere.
The train and the rain. The hot cocoa, the writing studio. She mixes it up. All those places
mush into one, morph together. We have enough words here, hotel trivago, the ads on the telly ah
telly here. 70 002, 70 003.
35.
Darker green flecks here. the songs on the telly. Talking heads. A woman a man. All they
talk about is the Donald. It is easy for the media these days, you just talk about the Donald.
a.
once more, the hot cocoa. Once more, bankastrati. Everything just like it used to be.
Sometimes the drink is warmer, sometimes it is colder. These are the differences between her
days. The slight differences in temperature. Sometimes the drink tastes chocolatier, sometimes
less. The whip is dense or not. This is not what great lit is about. She walks down the street.
There are always people here which is nice. You do not feel alone. It is a short walk down to the
hotel, but she does not feel like going there. still some more trotting around this city here. later
on, it is all typing for her. The construction of a plot. She does not feel comfortable with that.
Fiction is tough. Making up characters out of thin air. She likes stuff she can touch. The slight
heat that emanates from the cup which she is holding with both hands here.
b.
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later splurts in the day. Glittering. The white on the railing, the lights that reflect off the
railing. One line on the railing. One white one. On the telly, a man talking about the Donald.
Now they talk about his psychological make-up here. a professor at northwestern here. now two
women, one in pink. The prof was good in his analysis, author went and looked at his site. And
the greenery is quite dark, mere glimpses of green left here.
c.
so, today it is all about domesticity. Tomatoes parted into smaller parts, even smaller than
halves and quarters but still bigger than cubes as small as sugar cubes. They are cooking now,
and hopefully they have still enough water to not burn. One has to check after half an hour. They
are in the medium pot that is easy to clean. They are in there with salt and pepper and tomato
paste that is diluted into the two glasses of water. They are over the small burner in the corner,
not the bigger one. They are in there mingling with the white onion, the one that is overpriced.
Actually so is the tomato. The hothouse tomato, the white big onion. Those are sold in onesies at
the market on forty-first. Actually, now that she thinks about it, she remembers that she bought
the produce in the market down on arbutus at ten in the morning. On a slightly rainy, slightly
drizzled-in day in mid august or more early august. Before the trek to the produce section, it was
a coffee and a cake, given to her by the always chipper woman in the corner of the grocery store.
There were six old men talking, in Greek and non-Greek. They had their little retiree-thingie.
Author ponders, they were not that much older than her. But they are very much into living the
retiree-lifestyle. No hip clothes for them. You have to get ready for dying, you have to think
about the plot you will be buried in. maybe that is the right way to live, the convenient way.
People who get ready to die. Not people who aspire to writing a masterpiece, who struggle to pen
2000 words per day. That is a young mans game. In north America you have young mens games
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and old mens games. They should not mix. Williamsburg is where the hipsters live, and the east
side is where old money resides. This is the world in New York terms explained. But it is the
same everywhere. Upward mobility is a sham, so is downward mobility. Slumming, nah, that
does not work here. author reads about that these days, there was this book called white trash,
there is this book called American heiress. Both books were widely marketed by the media.
Apparently the state sponsored media outlets like cbc and pbs whant you to read about social
mobility or the lack thereof. Nobody propagates books about scientific findings, but books about
haves and have-nots seem to be what the government wants you to read on. It is all a big
conspiracy, someone is sitting in a room and holding all of the strings to puppet you. Some
puppet masters, maybe one. The man. Or the woman at that. Somebody plays yer. All your life
you try to pin down who that is, but you cannot really figure it out. Maybe because there exist
too many puppet masters. And if push comes to shove, you yourself are a puppet master, it
comes with the territory of breathing, somebody plays you and you are playing somebody else. It
is how we survive as a species. You are both victim and victimizer, of you want to frame it in
those terms.
d.
the smell of the onions is a tad too pungent. It is really some dreary day here. dreary in
Vancouver here. the fan should take away the smells from the kitchen. Or she can take her laptop
and go to another part of the house to write. Better, yet, a coffee house. Bankastrati, donut pub or
itzehoe. The imaginary places where good literary stuff is penned. By yours truly. Everything
mushes together, there are no neat compartments any more. Which is ok, when you read a book,
after awhile it gets all whishy washy anyways. The same with movies. She saw ghostbusters 2
twice, they totally did different things both times. Obviously it was the very same movie
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flimmering over the screen, but the fact is that it all goes very fast and you do not catch the story
the first time around and maybe you will never ever catch it. That is how it works with
narratives. 70 974, 1000 more and we have 2000. Little specks of 2000, some of them written
over several days here. until we reach 100 000 and then we stop, at random. And then we will try
to sell those 100 000 words to a publisher. And then we will be rejected and then we start again
from scratch here. the life of a writer is like that like that. On the way we might get an mfa in
creative writing, usually publishers like that. It separates you from ordinary folks. You buy
yourself into the intelligentsia of the country by forking over tuition to a place. You become part
of the aristocracy, the thinking aristocracy. Which is just bullshit. And maybe that is why
Marxism did not work here. really, another theme for an op-ed piece for the times. As Ms. Benes
would say here.
e.
her hands feel sore, from all that washing and cleaning of produce. This happened very
fast, we just touched some green beans, an onion and a tomato. With bare hands. But somehow it
made our hands tough here. she is not the kind who wears gloves because gloves make her inerts
cringe. But then again you get rough fingers. Maybe typing is the best, you only get a bad back
and you always feel like barfing. And then there is bad eyesight. Ah, and we have 71 205 here.
f.
using this computer here is always a gamble, it tends to swallow the words. You have to
push the save button again and again here. this did never happen with her apple computer, it
never swallowed anything here. this Hewlett Packard thingie does though. The Toshiba one was
good too
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g.
she could start up the rice here or watch two and a half men here. choices choices. There
is laundry waiting to be folded. Amazing stuff that you can do in isolation here. better to go out,
where people congregate. Who needs the isolation of a suburban enclosure? The city is where it
is at. The people that stream into subway cars, people with faces, expressions that mean that they
mean business, they all have to be somewhere. The writer has not. The writer does not have an
office. The writer is way too free flowing. That is why the writer who takes the train from
Hamburg to itzehoe will produce better words. There is an officialness to that kind of writing
process. Something regimented. Every text has to be done in small increments. That is how
writing works. That is how reading works. The technology of language. How can it be used?
This book named paper is very good, it defines language as technology. At least that is how
author here understood it. It then went on to define writing, reading and the need for paper. Why
paper instead of a stone to carve a message into. And he thought that that was what brought the
writings to the masses. Or maybe not. It was not that clear, it was tough stuff to swallow here.
author usually reads the reviews on amazon.com. and usually the negative ones. Reading the real
book, the real thing is time-consuming here. and we have merely a limited amount of time here
on this earth. She should really look more into what is going on in rio. You know, Olympics et.
al. here. Rio 2016. Summer Olympiad. 71 540, 71 451 here.
h.
one and thirty-two.
i.
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on the telly, beach volleyball. Indoors. In Copacabana stadium. Germany versus Canada.
Some of the players are wearing sunglasses. Indoors. Maybe those are not sunglasses, but just
prescription glasses. People cheer for their teams. A short yell by one of the players, more a
shriek. The sound of a whistle, the whistle. The whistle of the referee, or maybe one of the line
refs. An ad for something, a bank who wants you to help Olympians or something. Everybody is
blood young as they say in German. Meaning very young. Twenty top. That is why they can hop
like that. That is why they can wear bikinis and it looks good. The women in the y, they do not
look good without clothes. Look better nude. Which is the slogan for David Barton, a very
boutiquey high-end gym based in nyc. In Astor place. Wow, it is quite a gym. There are others, in
Vegas, in Chelsea. Apparently it now changed hands or is bankrupt or something. But the gyms
still exist. Look better naked. Who can do that. It is an oxymoron or something. How can you
possibly look better naked? It only happens if you dress horribly. People and their various
bumps. In the changing room in the y it definitely it is all flesh and you have to try to avoid
bumping into people and their nakedness, their wet bumpy nakedness. Really. People should
think about boundaries. That is why you wear clothes to not bump into people. A little fabric to
avoid contact. Look better naked, even if you do all the sit-ups in the world, even if you live on
berries and yoghurt, hate to tell yer, you cannot possibly look better naked. Even if you are on
the treadmill 24/7. If you hold weights in your hands all day long. Lifting weights, nah, you will
look better with clothes on. That is how it is how it is here. but hope springs eternal, of course
here.
author ponders, so these are her insights here. nothing important, nothing that will change
the world here, we write about donuts and coffee, mainly. Today it will be a sour cream glazed
donut from Timmys for dinner, it makes yer happy but it is not good for the artery clogging
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paradigm. But it should make you smile, except if the sweetness will linger on between your
teeth and makes them hurt and ache here. a man talks about the beach body babes, a male
sportscaster talking about female sports. Do female sportscasters cover soccer, how high is that
station from a gender specific view, how good are they with gender rights and that kind of stuff?
Five more words and outta here and outta here. 72 007 here.
36.
Later on in the day. Still the little meat balls are cooking on the fire, still the Olympics are
playing on the telly. Still the greenery is happening languidly here.
a.
rowing. In Rio.
b.
3:47. 72 049. The numbers that define the art. The poetry. The songs. Well, more like
sing-songs here. not so good art. Not good enough or never good enough. Perfection and the lack
thereof. The glitches, the small hiccups. Writing, huh. Better to watch rowing on the telly. The
two men that talk certainly seem to know all about rowing and the like. Competent opinion
makers. Whatever, huh. The day is still at its drizzliest.
c.
author here has been to rio. Some three years ago. For three days or so. In winter. It is
irrelevant though.
d.
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bankastrati and the hot cocoa. Just as it should be. The whip slowly melting. If anybody
will ask her about Iceland, she can definitely describe the chocolate drink on bankastrati. And not
much else. The walk to the coffee house and back to the hotel. That is Iceland for you with all its
geysers.
e.
and bankastrati is actually written bankastraeti with the a and e mushed together. Because
this typer does not have that letter, the a has to do. Bankastrati for you here.
f.
72 241.
g.
running up, walking up. From the subway. Union square in full force. She makes her way
to the writing studio. Passes it by. There is no want on her part to type in that place. Shed rather
find a space where there are no writers. Which cannot really happen here in Chelsea. Technically
it is not really Chelsea or maybe it is. One thing is for sure, all the coffee houses are swamped
with persons at their computers. You cannot write when others are doing the same. You have to
feel unique in order to pen unique words. She could sit at home but that is too isolatory. For her,
it is all about finding the right writing spot, the one where the words will flow without even
trying. Writing should be an easy task, an automatic task, you just write brilliant prose without
even trying, it has to come effortlessly, not chugger clunkily along. Easy like the dance of a
primaballerina. That is how writing should be. Fluent. Words that flow. Something like that
something of that kind. the elegance of the lingo. She walks down to the donut place. Donuts will
not quit yer. Donuts are always there. your friends, your helpers. The food of the cops. Ah,
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donuts here. she chooses jelly, the perfect patisserie piece for a writer. Munching on donuts, that
is what gifted scribes the world over do. That is how hi-lit is made here. she feels like a sandwich
here. it is all about food, though she has lost three pounds. Without even trying. Which means
that it will just plop up again. The yoyo of the weight. Eternal, eternally here.
h.
72 523.
i.
pick up where you left off 32 minutes ago. Yep, that is what the computer tells yer. It is
just author here and the computer. Isolation palpable. She searched flickr pics of nyc, watched a
u-tube movie of union square. Even the walk down to the subway station. It basically makes you
feel as if you cannot write about that, because you are too removed. The scenes are changing
constantly and the human brain can not work with that. In writing you have to describe some
scenes in detail but you have to let go of other scenes. It is not cinematic. You pick and chose in
writing, in telling a story. You scan what is going on and describe some main points. Not too
many and not too few. Somewhere in the middle. It all has to be coherent, you cannot scan in a
too fast way. it is not a race. it is a slow walk. You have to smell the roses. Slowly walking thru
the city, that is how writing and reading works. You cannot get dizzy until you barf. You cannot
go slow, too slow until you fall asleep. You have to make the writing move at exactly the right
speed. In filming it is about how many frames per second there are. In writing there are no
frames, there are words. Hmm, it is getting complicated. Better to go out to the coffee house on
arbutus, better to have an Amsterdam style waffle, the yellow one and put it on the peppermint
tea until the middle becomes all gooey and delish here.
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j.
73 061.
k.
on the telly, a crime drama with a person with a British accent. And a woman who says
why me, I am homicide.
l.
rio Olympics. Greenery outside, reluctantly. The curtains are closed on one side, so one
can just see the greenery on one side. Greenery nonetheless. The Olympics and a woman and a
man. A swimmer or a diver who is catching his breath while answering the questions of the
woman. Congratulations. Thank you. Apparently he won, but he was very serious, not all laughs
and giggles. Well, men do not giggle, real men. And swimmers they sure are real, faster than us
mortals here. some of them are not even thin, actually all the Olympians are all muscle. The
sporty people, creatures not like us. Definitely not like writers who just motion their fingers over
a keyboard. Who are all mush, all mush and anything but muscle. These days it is all about
walking to the fridge and back, the gym is merely a place where one weighs oneself. The place
where the scale exits. Others use the gym as a public bath, apparently the showers are nice there.
m.
73 257.
n.
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the yellings on the telly, faster faster. Somebody will win a medal, the rest will go home
medalless. Its life, thats life. Who needs a medal anyways, you van get it in a store, all
inscribed. No ticket to rio necessary and no training either. You can stay all mush all mush here.
o.
she feels hungry here.
p.
a woman with goggles. Sweden, US. The Olympic rings, wait how many are there? a
woman who smiles while looking at the scoreboard, over her shoulder while moving forward.
Watch where you are going, Ms. medalist.
q.
2000 words per day, who does that? And why? This writing career will not go anywhere.
It might but it might not. Nothing is clear. It is merely a shot in the dark. Norman mailer used to
attend writing workshops, even though he was the giant that he was. The literary one, of course.
But this will not work for her. writing instructions will kill the spirit. Besides, norman mailer was
already norman mailer, when he attended workshops. Those people are famous writers by age
23. Most of them are. It is that one break-out novel that makes them an overnight success. Must
be traumatic for a young person who is just starting out. You cannot arrive at age 23, you have to
work a life time to become an overnight success. Author here plays with the words, she has read
that phrase somewhere, she just stole it, plagiarism that is what we do here. That is how we roll.
How every writer rolls, there is nothing new under the sun, only same old same old here.
repetition is the name of the game here. there are no new ideas, no revolutionary ones under the
sun. everything has been done before here.
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s.
itzehoe, the chuggering towards the place with the coffee house and the apple crumb cake
here. while the rain is coming down on the land here. she feels good, ready to tackle her
writingish chore here. ready to tackle. In fighting position. Some writers have compared their
line of work to boxing, while others have compared it to a marathon run. The question was,
which sport is like writing. For yours truly it will always be like running a marathon. She is not
the boxing kind and maybe it is not good, to think of oneself as a fighter. Let the fighters do the
fighting, she should just stick to the marathon running. And the rain comes down and the train
makes her doze off, doze off here. not much time left until she will dive the fork into the crumbly
stuff on the apples here.
t.
73 707.
u.
on the telly, Phelps. Michael, that is. The crowd is going wild. It says Phelps on his cap
here. people expect him to win, always. How can one live up to that kind of expectation? Better
and safer to stay a failure here.
v.
he has his third Olympic gold in this race, won his third. Close-up of a woman jubilating,
his mom maybe here.
w.
53 773. Nope, 73 776 here.
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The music of rio, an ad for coke, that is. This is actually a US channel, not a Canadian
one. So it seems, so it seems here. she should pen some stuff about Iceland, bankastrati rules
here. these days she runs into pics of Iceland, they are all dramatic, full of landscapes, no images
of hot cocoa and bipolar whip here.
x.
73 841.
y.
the last words for today here. gotta ride this all forward. Tomorrow there will be no
writing, we will be all busy with medical stuffi-muffi here. which is annoying, it always is here.
z.
120 words or so while the telly is singing its songs, while the day marches forward
silently into the night here. outside, remnances of green. On both sides now. A light glimmers
behind the leaves, even though it is still bright outside, well, moderately bright that is. The fridge
and a short hiccup, as a showing of its presence. A sportscaster talking fast, only slightly
interrupted by another one of his kind. Rio, ah rio, all carnival, make that Olympic year here.
maybe forty days here while the coffee maker, the tea maker roars in the distance, some more
words some more words here. swimming on the telly, streamlined bodies from down under, and
by that we mean that the view is from underwater here. and 74 001 it is it is here. yay. Ah yay
here.
Actually not quite, there was a glitch, she copied and pasted a part only to notice later on
that she has the same piece twice in the text. This would not have happened in Shakespeares
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days. Technology has its drawbacks here. On the telly, a man talking about Disney, he has a blue
jacket and a striped tie. A woman is talking to him. she is the interviewer, the other one is the
interviewee. Everything is about shanghai and a new theme park there.
And still we need some words here, the greenery is wearing off, the talking heads are
doing their own thing here. Disneyland Paris, Disneyland shanghai. Something like that
something of that kind here. No illumination in the greenery. Just some blue spots that do not
make any difference. The light inside the room renders the greenery unimportant here. and still
some writing. Rambling seems to be more like it. 100 words, ah, what to talk about here. what to
say in 100 words that is worth reading? A woman on the telly, she has black hair and a thick
accent.
Greenery, greenery, some whitish spots. Still fifty words and this is over for the day. 73
951. The brown paper basket in the corner with a spit of paper outside on the ground. This is
what we are writing on, still the wordcount for the day is not fulfilled here. fourteen, it is like the
Olympics, ten. Two, not quite, yup, we are there are there. ah finally and the wordcount here
stands at 74 011 here.
37.
Greenery outside, different colors. Different greens, dark ones, light ones. Light
emanating from the greenery. Inside here and typing up words after reading stuff online, about
half an hour of searchings and the computer shutting down once only to have the screen reemerge after 2 minutes. That is what is happening while an ad is on the telly, the one where the
kid douwnloads an immense amount of images while the dad pours himself a cup of coffee.
Author has seen the ad before, after all binge watching does that to yer. You remember the ads.
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All of them. It is not necessarily a very productive existence but it is comfy and it makes her
write, type up 2000 words or so per day. She had an eye injection in the morn, yup, this is what
we do with our spare time here off. On the telly, the closer, which is usually a pretty tough show
to watch, nothing goes with anything, the storyline is fragmented at best here.
a.
74 181.
b.
and a rerun of Seinfeld. Lloyd braun. The episode with the gum. While the greenery is
letting out outside here. writing to the songs on the telly here. not exactly great lit. figures on the
telly and typing, a strange combination here. and an ad for kit kat.
c.
the hot cocoa and the melting whip. The heat that quietly emanates from the paper cup
into the red and white mittens. The one that look as if they are dotted. Knit mitts. It is not really
mitten weather but it still feels cozy and warm. Rustic. It is slightly on the chilly side but not too
much here. the whip still melts a tad more. This is bankastrati for yer here.
d.
on the telly, ellen benes. Jerry. Mr. Haarwood. Kramer. They say that Seinfeld watchers
are like trekkies. Yup, seems about right here.
e.
74 328.
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f.
Jon Voight car is no more.
g.
green is darker now, which makes the little white flecks sparkle more, pop out here. a
rerun of two and a half men here.
h.
every day some more words. That is how this marches forward here. today on the news
there was a guy who climbed up trump tower.
i.
74 391.
j.
A too hot day in Vancouver here. she was rushing around since ten in the morn and it is
now five minutes after five. Exhaustion is palpable. Just wanting to sit here and do nothing. Or
write, maybe that will relax her. It always does. The words, the non-words. Two thousands of
em. Writing as chore, as non-chore here. as a mode of unwinding. Apparently writing does her
good and that must be why she does not get paid for her words. If writing was work, then there
would be a monetary reward. She ponders, does money really play into this here. maybe it does
and maybe it does not. On the telly, it is all rio. Well, not in here, but in the mall. Bikers over the
screen. New Zealand winning. People draped into the flag of new Zealand. Though it looked
more like a union jack. But it had more blue. Ok, maybe it was the flag from New Zealand. How
long is the flight from Christchurch to rio. Author here is tired, pooped. She is out of words
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before they have even begun. A shower would be good. You have to feel fresher than this in
order to write. And the fridge is starting up its songs here.
k.
union square, a lot is going on. Hare Krishna and chess players. Hassidic Jews selling
something or giving out a brochure. No, a flower. Wanting donations, nope it seems to be the
flower and the brochure here.
l.
she just sits and watches people. On a green chair, that is where she is sitting here. staring
at her surroundings. She did the same in the train. It does not really help her writings. She thinks
that it does but it does not. Except if you take notes while watching. Then it seems to work here.
but like this, nah. She looked thru the stand in the bookstore, actually there are two or three near
to here, she did not come upon that book that is about watering holes and writers. It was a good
book, it described her state. Or her non-state. Lives of writers, well, they are as different as can
be. Each writer listens to her own song; no two writers are alike. There are no similarities in the
different persons who hone the craft of writing. For some it is a trade, for some it is an art form.
For others a blood sport. She has 74 803, time to quit this, quit this here. sorry, big mistake, she
still needs 1200 words here, she should go up the stairs to the writing place here. where the
others are typing away, where her competition is busy working ah working here. the worker bees
of New York City, all of the writers ah all of the writers here. nyc and its artists, its construction
workers, all of the people who do stuff in a New York minute. Faster than everywhere else, better
than everywhere else. Or it might just be a myth, propagated by the tourist bureau of greater New
York. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, tell that to the person who folds your
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laundry here. more like the city of sunken dreams, more like the city where the competition is
way too harsh here. she for one will go to Iceland or to itzehoe, to the coffee shop on arbutus, to
the community college on forty-ninth, the place where she can still use the computer lab of the
library. They are busy getting ready with the new science and technology building and it is really
spiffy, really ah really here.
m.
the train in the rain, constantly moving forwards, parting the land, the nuages. Well, there
is actually nothing in front of the train and the train does not part anything, not even forests. It is
blank land, but who cares. The rain is coming down in a very hap hazard fashion. It is quite the
sleepy rain here.
n.
75 060.
o.
the cup with the drink therein. She sits down at one of the tables in the coffee house on
bankastrati. She could go for a walk, because it is still daylight outside. But she feels like
changing it up and sit here in the coffee house and peoplewatch. Peoplewatching in Iceland.
There is the right mix between tourists and locals, there are students at their laptops. It is a mix
and everybody is busy. Kind of like in the coffee house back home, the one on forty-first, the one
that is always open till eleven. This place here is like that coffee place over there, on the other
side of the planet. Coffee houses are the same everywhere, each of them having their own
patrons, their specific cliental. Each of them vies for a certain market share, a certain niche of
people that frequent their specific establishment. Especially the chain ones.
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p.
on the telly, CNN. The usual. Trump. Hillary. The like ah the like. Well, someone will
win here.
q.
she did the walking. Down to forty-first here. a tea with peppermint flavour. They have
two kinds of minty tea but rarely do the baristas ask her which one she wants. Rarely. And then
there was the waffle. Amsterdam style. Just like a stroopwafel. Chocolate flavor. Dark chocolate.
And sea salt. It was good. The street was sunny and filled with people. Full of people. Traffic.
Sunniness. August ten and the weather to match. Finally, it is summer here in the city. Knock on
wood or it will change abruptly again.
r.
75 325 here. if she writes 2000 per day then this will be over in fifty days. But that is not
how we roll here. she tends to write the 2000 over a course of several days, at least that is what is
happening recently here. she should work more, harder. How tough can it be? It is not as if she is
penning a dissertation, nope, we just write whatever springs to mind. Whatever ah whatever here.
s.
bankastrati and the hot cocoa here. people coming into the shop and moving out here. she
does not put the lid on the cup which is nice, the whip stays fresh and untouched here. if she had
a spoon she could pick some bites off the mountain of whip. The uneven peaks of the mountain
of whip here. 75 467.
t.
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on the telly, CNN. Don lemon and two other persons. It is about the confederate flag here.
u.
500 words or so here. while the day marches forward here. the greenery is happy with
white flecks. Very solid, very mute. No illumination whatsoever. It is five minutes after eight. In
august. So summer has had its peak already and we are winding down towards fall here. the
words ah the words here. she was in the bookstore in the mall in the other city. An interview with
Hemingway, actually his last interview. What he said about writing. It was interesting but not
really important. Every writer does it differently, her or his own way.
v.
75 583.
w.
75 585.
x.
the rain that is coming down on the train. This is the weather that can make her write. It is
exactly this environment that shuffles the words out of her. Each and every morn she gets on the
train and makes her way down to itzehoe. This is what makes her happy. This is what will make
a writer out of her. The boarding of the train at just the right time. The regimented lifestyle which
will result in just the right words. Writing is so free flowing you have to have a rigid armour in
order to be able to spit out the right words. She has all these little philosophies, all these little
ideas about how this works. They are not necessarily right but she believes in them. What else
can she do? She has to try and keep on trying. Her walk thru the rain to the coffee house, the
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fashion woman, the waitress, these are the persons that march forward her words, her writings.
And the rain is coming down coming down here.
y.
and once more the hot cocoa. The chocolate drink in Iceland here. there is something
about drinking hot chocolate in this country. She cannot really put her finger on why this
fascinates her. Maybe it is just that she is easily fascinated by the funniest things here. maybe she
is just slowly getting strange and losing it. Maybe it is just that she is too much by herself and
merely really talking to her computer, well, not in person but by writing and typing. And she
tends to move her mouth while typing. This is not good, the border to looneybindom is very
porous.
z.
150 words here. union square, the immense onslaught of people after one dives up out of
the subway. She could go to one of the bookstores, there is strand, barnes and nobles and the nyu
store, but maybe she has looked at all the books that she could already. Even as a kid she could
be in bookstores for hours. It is time to write up your own words, you cannot just be a consumer
of words forever here, you have to spit out your own versions of the language, of structures,
passages the like. You have to pen your own bad grammar here. and fourteenth is happening, the
donut shoppe is winking at her from afar. It is late afternoon, evening is ah so near so near, the
night, darkness, the like ah the like here. and btw, 76 009 it is it is here. 76 015.
38.
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Every morn she rolls outta bed and goes down to the market. They have a coffee place
there. today it was about ten, well, about fifteen to ten. Hardly anybody was sitting there,
apparently everybody streams to that place at exactly ten.
a.
today she will finish this, sunken words and all. But first it is some coffee and cake. On
fourteenth maybe here.
b.
in one fast move, this will be over, she is cutting the cord of this, no reason to go up to
the whole 100 000. At this point there is said all that had to be said. The thin narrative was
reiterated many times, later on there can be other versions. This might be a journal or something
else, creative non-fiction or non-fictionary creativity. It is a text, that is for sure. 2000 words over
the course of fifty days, though it is cut short by eight days, we worked on this a mere 38 days
here. summer was too accommodating, walks under the sun are more interesting than typing up a
book. Real life versus fake life. Something like that ah something of that kind here. memories of
itzehoe and Iceland of fourteenth and Vancouver british Columbia. Different locales that one
cannot really be in or at in the same time, but one can imagine this, imagine all those places at
once. You can travel in time and all over this planet, at once at once at once here. that is what
words are here for, mere utterings though that are slithered into a keyboard and onto a monitor.
Sometimes the text tends to vanish, Microsoft does that to yer and nobody really knows why that
happens. Must be somebody down in seattle that pulls the strings in a godforsaken attic with dirt
under his fingers, her fingers. Somebody beside of the law. But that is something for a different
book, a later story. This one is about coffee houses, first and foremost. Where the writer takes
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respite from facing her demons, her inability to write good, to pen good enough words. The good
words versus the bad words. Writing, not necessarily her first choice in occupation. Shed rather
make houses, build streets, drive a pick-up truck. Something physical, something concrete,
words are too flimsy, they slither through the world and then they are gone, you cannot pin them
down, they are flying away, are gone in a moment. That is how words are, time-based is a weird
enough expression here.
how to write the last sentences of a text, how to go out with a bang and not in a whimper?
Writing, ah writing ah writingish here. the grammar is off but it has to do, has to fly here.
outside the sun is in full force, august is still happening and happening here. and 76 498 it
is it is here. make that 76 500 or so, or so. This is how we did our summer, yep, you know what I
did last summer. Inserting some movie titles, some connotations that nobody gets. Little
buzzwords that cream the text here. she types feverishly, the coffee is done and the gym has to
wait here. there are loads of laundry and dishes to be done, it is the same every day, between
writing spurts among writing spurts here. the prosaic life of a writer, an author, whatever, a grad
student working on her dissertation. There are words worth saying and words that are not, some
are better than others, that is the name of the game here. she will finish this, has to, real life is
awaiting, reluctantly ah so reluctantly. There is no good way to end this up, she will stop, slightly
in a daze, cold turkey and mid-air. The words ah the words and the words here. 17 662, nah,
make it 76 669 here, three sixes, seems just about right and just about right here.
c.
76 683. There is a feel of leaving this unfinished, but you have to stop somewhere and it
will always feel as if you abandon the story here.
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d.
76 709. Something with a seven here. uneven, the story of a book. Now there is a title
here. it basically refers to the uneven number of the words, the wordcount that is so reluctant
hovering in the middle. While the sun is shining outside, bright and happy, while the teapot sings
and the fridge roars, while life is in full force far far away from this typewriter. Time to join the
living again, ah again here.
e.
76 789.
f.
the typing machine is way too seductive here, there are still some more words to be
shoved down the throat of the machine here. it is such a long goodbye here, such a reluctant one
here.
g.
on a morn in summer, sun shining and all, summer still happening ah happening here.
h.
76 845, maybe the worst point to end this up. To pull the plug or something.
i.
7:45 AM. On a sunny day in Vancouver, British Columbia. And 67 873 it is it is. There
are stories waiting to be told about bankastrati and itzehoe, about the dive out from the subway to
union square and the donut place, descriptions of jam oozing out of the pastry piece, but at one
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point you have to stop this and try to live without having to go up to the typing machine here.
there is this weird feel of relief combined with the trauma of the sudden end, you have to look for
other creative outlets, write newer books, better books. There have to be other ways to fill your
days, other ones than taking yourself to the computer and hacking away on the keys here. there is
a hole in your life when a task is finished, a chore is done to the best of your individual ability.
Time to push the laundry into the machine here, turn the dial and push the button. Life goes on
after finishing one more book here, apparently ah apparently so. Let others go on and search for
the right enough words, the language that never ever will do as it should here. and 77 063 it is
and it is here. 77 071.
j.
she just walks around knowing that she has just finished a book here. Not really the way
that she had planned it, the word count is off and that pulls everything out of kilter. Texts have to
be orderly, ordered. You have to regiment the words and pull them in. nicely framed they have to
be. So that they can be printed in neat packages. Rectangle books that fit into the back pocket of
a soldier. Words that are pinned down here. you cannot just let them loosely sail around. They are
not mere utterings, mutterings, they are words for the ages. You know the lives of the authors,
their vitals, their statistics. Their stories their bios the illusions of their lives. Their masks, the
face they hold onto against the world. The complexity of a life pinned down in three words, the
shortest pitch of any elevator pitch. A very short elevator ride like the one in the mall from
behind the place where the overpriced but matronly elegant dresses are down to the lobby where
the mac counter resides and its new line of trolls. Yup, we have 77 362 here, somehow she could
not end this up, finish this up. Once you have set your eyes on 100 000, then you cannot just pull
the plug and cut it short, you have to stay in there until the bitter end. She can finish this all in
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one sitting, in one day. Writers better than her have furnished some 50 000 words in seventeen
hours, there was this young woman in Reykjavik who wrote her nano novel in seventeen hours
straight. What is some 12 000 words among friends here?
k.
and what do you do, once you are finished with a book, with your writings, walk the city
at midnight all dressed in a raincoat and a crumpled up hat. Somehow, writers who have finished
a book have to be males, there is a certain air of dark alleyways and impending rain and
desolation about the whole thing, writers after midnight who are walking the street in deep
isolation and deep desperation, the blues and a lowly guitar seufzing, whaling far in the back
here. the whining, the like and the like here. the romanticism of poetry, the weird strangeness of
writing, the endeavour that is lowly, lonely and fruitless. We have 77 466 here, this has to go on
here up to the bitter bitter end here. outside the sun is shining way too high, how can you
possibly pen anything when the sun is this high in the sky. There have to be sullen notes, a muted
atmosphere, poetry is ah so fragile ah so fragile here. she is getting better with the words , that
happens ah so automatically when all you do is type and hum to yourself. The loneliness of the
long distance runner, the wait of the dancer before leaping up into the sky and onto stage here.
and we write we write we write here. the HERE at the end of a sentence is as good a pause as
any.
l.
perusing Instagram pics of people she knows, it is a strange feel of intruding and maybe
one should not do that, the best is to watch movies of strangers, images of strangers and read
books that are written by people that you will never know. The poetry on the bus, usually next to
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the driver. On little shields up above the passengers in the front row. You read those while you
move here. that is how art should work, if you know the artist you are suck too deep into the
lives of the content providers. Instagram as art form, author here knows at least two persons who
use their Instagram accounts as self expression, as a way to produce artsy stuff here. 77 714
words here and counting, counting. On the telly, rio, mark phelps and the swimming, apparently
one sports caster mixed up two swimmers, which is fine by author here but apparently not by the
measures of the world of sports casting. Though that one glitch gave instant fame to the
broadcaster, that is how it is and how it is here. 77 777 words, what a poetic number of words
here. she should stop this, call the whole book 77 777, there cannot be a title better than that.
Something to remember, something that will stick in the mind of the reader. Maybe she will call
it that at the end when all of this is done here, it definitely is a better title than all of the others
here. and the fridge hiccups in the distance and the sun is still shining a tad too bright for a
serious day of writing, of typing up words. You cannot pen prose when youd rather hover
around as a beach bum under the sun here. 17 889, the magic moment of 77 777 is over and once
it is gone, it is gone here, you cannot recapture, cannot revisit this all.
m.
still 100 words, than this is over, her daily amount of words here. the greenery outside is
in different tones, no clear shadows, no clear contrast. Just one big mush here. bankastrati and
cocoa, union square and donut, itzehoe and apple crumbles. This makes yer hungry, obviously
here. 77 964 and save this again and again here, the software has a tendency to act up and to
swallow all of the words here. you cannot work under these circumstances here, poetry has to
wait has to wait here. and 78 004 it is it is here. 78 017 actually here. 78 021.
39.
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Six hours of not writing. And we are back at the typer again. There is laundry to be done
and dishes that have to be scrubbed and rinsed. Well, rinsed, dried and put back in their
respective places. What would be the pronoun that refers to the word DISHES? Her grammar is
always a tad off, it does not sound right and if it does not then it is not. On the telly, an ad for
UMass Lowell. Outside the greenery and the sunniness that is reflected on it. Very big parts of it
happily shining here. an ad for Toyota here. she was at the gym and at the mall. At the coffee
place and in the bookstore. She searched stuff online and read thru a book that was anti internet.
A strange book that did not really grip her. She left it there in the store.
a.
the blue jay episode of big bang. A rerun here. Sheldon cooper on the telly here.
b.
78 190.
c.
she could take the bus downtown or drive to the mall only to take the Canada line
somewhere. The people who commute and the phones they are staring at. There is enough fodder
for ten books here. taking the train is like watching a movie. Virtual reality, you live in that world
here. people watching and moving thru the city. That is what makes yer find exactly the right
words here. Or a waffle and a tea. The walking by the aisles in the market. 78 277.
d.
laughs on the telly. Raj and Sheldon while horowitz is watching here.
e.
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little slits in the curtain and the shiny greenery behind it. This is what one can describe
here. instead of raindrops that come down on itzehoe. Different forms of drops. Now the scene
where penny talks to a writer in big bang. So, what do you write. Can I see it. That depends how
much time do you spend on yelp. Yep, that is how writers roll here.
f.
august 12. He wrote this in a little more than a month. Fifty parts, each 2000 words long
here. at this rate she can pen 7 texts per year. Then print them out and put them on a chair in an
art gallery. Very conceptional. Books as one-offs, as visual sculptural pieces. This is what we do
after art school, instead of flowers on canvasses we write weird pieces that will not be published.
But self publishing is ok, what is the dif between a book published at kinkos and one that is
published at Macmillans or any big publishing house here.
g.
78 466.
h.
she could take this down to the coffee house and start writing there. but the prob is that it
is not a coffee shop for writers. It is the grab a coffee on the way to work coffee shop. There are
differences. You cannot pen the next great novel, American or otherwise while hanging out in the
food court at the mall. Everything is very clearly regimented, compartmentalized here. she feels
sick and like barfing here.
i.
78 546.
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j.
the churning out of words. It goes well with the cocoa on bankastrati. The fuel of novels,
essays op-eds and the like. The drink of the Aztecs. With whip, with porous whip in uneven
peaks. The peaks of the whip in the coffee house in Iceland here. you can write anything when
you have that kind of drink. She took her paper cup back to the hotel, she balances it on the
coffee table in her room, well, technically she puts it down and balances the laptop here. The
balance act is more about the strangeness of having the drink inside the room whereas usually
she has it outside. But it has to be changed up, small hiccups in the routine will result in forcing
the right words into the machine here. she is the kind of writer who needs a clear-cut
environment, nicely neatly interior. No dust on the floor. That is why she writes in coffee houses,
somebody else has done the cleaning already so she can do all of the formulation of the
sentences here. while fighting against the wish to barf all over the keyboard, the very physical
wish. The need to barf here. 78 744.
k.
sitting and writing. While staring at the crumbs left on the plate. Well, obviously she
stares down at the keyboard, she does not look at the crumbs while typing here. she is the kind of
writer that look at the keys, at the squares with letters thereon. Itzehoe is quiet as it always is
here. the place where words are penned. Her office the coffee house near to the bahnhof. And the
rain is coming down, silently and reluctantly here.
78 827.
l.
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union station, the walk up to the meat packing and by the writer studio. She goes to the
donut place. There is something so happy about a jelly donut. Jelly donuts do not judge yer, they
do not care if you are published or not. 78 875. It is all about the numbers and the accumulation
of em here.
m.
on the telly big bang and bowling. chili cheese fries.
n.
so near to 80 000 here.
o.
an ad for a coffee. An ad for a car, a red one here. the coffee was actually an ad for a
donut place, the one that America runs on here.
p.
on the telly. Bones now. Hodgins and that woman who is his wife. Ms. Montenegro. It is
interesting to listen in to the story on the telly, even though you never really know what is really
going on. That is how it is with film, with all movies. Well, written stuff is the same, you get
some parts and others you do not get. Author here took a class of American history, sorry,
American lit at the community college on forty-ninth. It was interesting and it made her into a
writer. We can do that. Well, actually we cannot, not that good. There are no intriguing storylines,
for her it is all about the description of different coffee houses. That is the main stuff, her main
characters are the places with bevs and pastry. The donut shoppe next to union square. One can
watch it on you tube and then describe it. The persons in the subway, their clothes, their shoes.
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The rushing around, towards places and in circles. The typing and the non-typing, the staring into
space while not writing here. the places in between. 79 125 here, still some nine hundred needed
here.
q.
the train and the rain. Two words that rhyme. Rain, train. The landscape outside. Flat
lands, for the most part. Green lands here. land that attracts rain. She feels good, good as a writer.
Writing in English while everybody speaks German with a stiff rigid northern intonation. The A
of people in this part of the world here. the strong accents. Actually it is everything but rigid,
people here have a strong, silent sarcastic undertone lingo. They have this twinkle around their
eyes. Nothing is ever dead serious. The glimmer under the Nordic character. Author was born in
these parts of the world, she feels so at home, she will have to leave again, but she definitely
feels a strong belonging. People use not many words; they say stuff by leaving out words. That is
one way to communicate, one way to exist in the world here. these are of course stereotypes, but
maybe you cannot really write without making gross statements, stark generalizations here. later
on she will have a mint tea and a crumbly apple cake. Not a tart, nothing fancy, the same apple
cake that she always has here. 79 329.
s.
still some more words while the telly is happening here and the greenery, now with stark
colourings. Hi-lights, lo-lights here. a day in summer. The slit in the curtains now is not
illuminated any more. She should go down to the coffee place here. but the time she will waste
on driving can be used up to march this forward. She did the dishes, well, for the most part. The
trick is to never ever finish all of em, let there stay some more to be done at a later time.
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Continuity in dishes. The laundry though is piling up, there is a moment when it becomes gross.
These days she thinks too much about domesticity, there are more important things to write on.
Bigger issues or something here. 79 461, later on there will be editing ah editing here.
t.
some 500 words. About anything. She sits in the train, down here in the subway. A man
with glasses, a woman in a white shirt. Author tries not to stare. The boy opposite of her has
green and yellow sneakers here. and we are in union square. The rush up, by others rushing just
as fast. With a fast gait. She does not really have to be anywhere, her writing in the studio can
wait, should wait. Her fingers are cramping up, she typed too many words up the day before. You
have to pace yourself, that is where the trick is here.
s.
on the telly a man who looks at a skull. Nice.
t.
400 words. That is all we need here. the crumbles near to the apples. Author plays around
with those on the plate. Moves them around with the fork. The door opens, two construction
workers come in. the waitress with the bored face tends to them. Outside still rain still rain. The
fashion woman in green, toxic green. Too loud a shade of green. It is exactly ten, time to open up
the fashion-in/fashion-out store. And the three women near the window chattering. Everything
just so, the players that are always there. well, except for the two construction workers, they are
never there. merely today here.
u.
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the train ride back to Hamburg. She did some writings. Today it was all analog, pen and
paper. Later on she will transcribe this. After a walk near the water in Hamburg. 79 728.
v.
on the telly, still bones. A red ambulance here.
w.
bankastrati. She is in here in the early hours of the day,. Not exactly her usual time. The
round cake with the gloss and the mush inside. Not exactly the time to have cake.
x.
79 755.
y.
some more words here, some more words. Not much to say. Still the docu-drama on the
telly. Or whatever that is here. and the greenery outside here.
z.
the last words of the 2000 words part. On a Friday here. In summer. She did her writing
in the morn, some 1500 words or so. So in the end she will have penned some 4000 or so. The
math is kind of off, not precise here. it just is used to march forward the words. Still some 130
here. The greenery and the lightings. That seems to be the main subject matter for today. And
then there are the drinks, hot stuff. Cocoa, mint. Pastries. The world over, well, actually merely
on two continents. Put that together and you have a book. 79 911 here. on the telly, bones.
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They are near to finding the perpetrator, the murderer. This guy has the wrong tibia length
here. Author watches while typing. They will find the person who committed the murder, in
exactly one hour here.
Still 50 words here.
The murderer is caught. From the reflections.
One can see the city now, at night. DC. The young pair looking at the ultrasound here.
Twenty words more and we need some more. Twelve, ten.
Ten words and outta here, join the living ah join the living here.
80 003 here.
40.
This is a good place to bring a group or to pull out a laptop and be a loner. So this is the
latest google review of the coffee house on bankastrati. 2 weeks ago. And then there is a picture,
a photo that shows people sitting inside and looking out. They are having the coffee in porcelain
cups. One is a man with a grey pony tail. And then there are all those people outside here. yup,
bankastrati in other persons realities. There is an article about coffee culture in Iceland. Author
here not only goes to the coffee house; she reads up about other places too. One person loves this
place because it is open first thing in the morning, much sooner than all the other places in town.
Author here never goes there first thing in the morn. She could try it though. At this point she has
the hot cocoa drink, the one with the whip, the uneven peaks. Somebody wrote about lattes and
how it is great here in town because of the quality of the fresh Icelandic milk here. maybe she
should be a food blogger but then again she mostly types up stuff about hot chocolate drinks and
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mainly about the same drink that she has in the coffee place not far from her hotel. The one on
bankastrati that has red walls and colorful paper cups. That has uneven peaks of whip that slowly
melt into the drink, especially when pushed down with the lid on top of the cup. Describing food
items is good on yelp, but if you describe exactly the same item day in and day out, the novelty
wears off. You just describe how the drink differs, sometimes it is served hotter and on other
days it is colder. Not enough of a subject matter for a book, not a dense enough one. Anyhoo, she
is having her chocolate drink, and outside Reykjavik is silently going to sleep here.
a.
80 337.
b.
the rain and there is not much to describe here. the rain onto the train. Drops. There are
just so many words to describe the water coming down from the heavens. Her linguistic ability is
not that good, her vocabulary not vast enough. The words are trotting far behind the reality,
merely taking stabs at illustrating what she sees here, feels here. she is happy that she is inside,
the train is getting wet which is just fine by her. Later on when she reaches the city she will get
wet. Drenched a tad but not too much here. it is boring, this trek down to the coffee house. The
structure is rigid, good, because she knows where she has to be each and every day here. but
nonetheless the boredom does her in, ever so slightly, ever so slightly here.
c.
80 484.
d.
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union square, donut shoppe. A funny association here.

e.
80 497.
f.
in writing it is all about describing the same thing again and again but each time with
different words. Or, in other words, you do the same thing but it is slightly different each time.
Each time you have a cup of coffee is unique and you are describing that particular unique cup of
coffee here. yup, this is what we think about writing here, at seven thirty on a Saturday in july.
Ok, make that august here.
g.
80 579.
h.
she is doing laundry. Not that much though. Whenever she came down to nyc, she would
do a lot of laundry here. mainly because she hardly took any clothes with herself. She had to do a
lot of laundry mainly because she would be out of clean socks in an instant here. and the weather
was always extremely hot, she tended to come to this town at the peak of a heatwave. Whatever
you put on would be soaked in a minute. The subway was a furnace, everybodys face was
soaking wet with sweat. Everybody sported a glimmer face, shiny face as if she or he was
sprayed with water. That is why she used to live at the laundromat, mainly in the one on eighth.
Where she knew the layout, knew where what machine was. There are other laundry places in
New York. There even is a book that shows different laundromats in New York city. A coffee
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table book filled with photographs of laundry places. In all five boroughs though. Not just
Manhattan. Nope, the outer boroughs too. She ponders why she is so keen to write about doing
her laundry. Does she want to expand her subject matter, it is not just about coffee and donuts
any more? Not just about the colour of the jelly inside of the jellydonut. Yup, there are more
things to describe than the consistency of jelly here. it needs a Hemingway to do that, a Faulkner,
or any number of dead writers here. people who use the English lingo here. author mainly
consumed German language works when she was in high school. She ponders how that will
translate into her writing, does it have any bearing on the words she choses when she sits in the
writing studio off union square. The words you chose reflect on what kind of person you are.
Each person on this planet writes differently. Well, technically, not everybody writes, others are
better orators, theirs is the spoken word here. or just a repartee. A short intelligent quip that
amasses all that is the gist of a situation. That one headline that says it all. The inscription of a tshirt, saying it all with less. Song writing, when you distill a 300 page long novel into three
words, well, make that three minutes of a ballad, song. Narratives. She read this interview with
sting where he posits that music has its own narrative. A beginning a bridge an end. Well, to
paraphrase his words, but it went something like that. What did he mean by bridge. Maybe that
what stands between beginning and end. Anyhoo, typing, still typing here. while staring at the
clothes churning, a-turning inside of the machine here. she is at the laundromat, yeah ah yeah
here.
i.
how to describe rain that comes down on a train? It depends on the mood, the time of the
day, the season, the weather. Rain is not like rain. There is dense rain, mucky rain and clear rain.
She should do some research about that, on that. She should look at images of rain, close-ups and
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zoom-outs. Yup, the rain on the train. It rhymes. A nice enough rain, rhyme. Rain and train.
Regen and bahn. Zug. That is what it would be in German, which is what is spoken here in these
parts of the world. Her trek to the coffee house in itzehoe here. where people speak german or
some kind of diverted german. The local flavour of the lingo here. Schleswig Holstein, this is the
name of the province here. it is weird to write in English about these parts of the world, words
that are geared towards an English speaking audience here. she ponders, what if her book will be
a bestseller and translated into german. Or into Icelandic. People who live in itzehoe or
Reykjavik will read about their place and notice that this is all pure fiction. They will notice the
obvious glitches and the ones that are not that obvious. Fiction, huh. It is always fiction, you
write about something that is over. The minute that you report something it is over, you retell
what has happened minutes before. Even a police report is the version of that particular detective
who gives his version and communicates it to his or her superiors here. 81 302 here.
m.
the telly and trump versus Hillary. Or the Donald versus Clinton. You have to talk about
one of them on a first-name basis. It is the American way, in this country where everybody is a
bill or a john. And by association the same goes for Canada, Australia, the UK. Scotland, maybe.
India. Anywhere that the English language is used. And boy is it used and overused. South
Africa, where it definitely outdid Afrikaans. Lingua franca, huh.
n.
one oh eight here.
o.
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nk
31 390. Her cocoa drink. The whip on it. She likes Iceland and especially her position in
this place. Nobody even knows that she is here. which is just good for writing here. she can type
all day, which actually never ever happens. But she sure gets a lot done here. there are no
distractions if you do not speak the language. If you watch Seinfeld in Icelandic. Kramer with the
lilt of Reykjavik here. author ponders if she uses the word lilt in the right way. Is lilt a
disparaging word or just an inoffensive descript of what people utter. Uttering, that too is a very
loaded word. Words are loaded, they always are. They do not exist in a vacuum. For a writer this
is good because you can flavour your prose anyway you feel like. But then there are
unintentional glitches. It comes with the territory, comes with the territory here. for her the
amount of words is what counts here. 81 553 so far.
p.
trump on the telly. Why is he trailing, that is what they will talk about now, well, yours
truly can tell yer, it is because Bloomberg and joe biden endorsed her. The US is a patriarchy and
all it needed where two powerful old white men to say something against another powerful old
white guy. Well, Merrill Streep was a tad instrumental, but, hey, she is merely an actress, she
reads what others give her to read.
s.
81 629.
A Saturday in august. The thirteenth. Wooo. Scary, huh. This is a day where one just has
to stay under the sheets. She was at the coffee place in the morn, when there was hardly anybody
in there. the gym, when there was hardly anybody in there. the mall when there was hardly
anybody in there, the train, downtown, back again to the mall. The bookstore and finally now, the
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typer in the room with the telly and the paper basket and the green couch here. the greenery
outside is all unicolored, no shadings, just one uniform green. Ahuh. This is weird this hardly
ever happens here.
t.
still some words still some words here. she does not feel like typing, she feels sick or
something here. she drove too long and sat too much. In the train and in the bookstore.
u.
union station, happening like always. She went up to the second floor on whole foods,
sits near the window and looks out onto the square. It is two on a weekday and it is rainy. The
somehow deserted place glistening. This is when not much is happening this is after lunch and
before the commuters will swamp the place to rush home and dive underground to catch their
trains to wherever they live. To go to the ferry, that kind of stuff, to reach the bridges and the
tunnels here. she will go to the writing studio, walk to the place with the shingle that says 35 in
big numbers. This is what writers have to do, they have to congregate where others of their kind
live. Coexisting with other hopefuls here. at one time when they all have arrived, they can live on
the outskirts of Havana and talk to people from the paris review or slash and esquire. But until
then, until you have finally arrived you have to struggle and struggle here. that is your foremost
mtier, your foremost job here. that is your life. She struggles to find the right wordings for what
she wants to say but let us face it there is no right and no right in art. and two, 82 000, finally ah
finally here.
41.
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nk
So now she can write some more here. a woman in blond on the telly. It is the news out of
Toronto. It is three here so it must be six over there. Ontario talk here. the greenery outside is
now very pronounced, stark contrasts. The shades on the green change by the minute. This is
what interests author here, the shades on the greenery outside. How to use words to describe
something that visual, something that stationary here?
a.
slight tinges of propelled barfing, somewhere inside here. fresh air should do her good.
Hanging out inside is not good. But it is what writers have to do. You have to hover around
indoors until you have a good-enough text here. You have to keep up the filing at the sentences
until they are just right, just right here. Until they say everything that has to be said and not one
word too much here. On the telly something with a homerun. The speaker is all excited here.
b.
82 179.
c.
it is near to four in the afternoon here. she is typing here. this is what life is like if you are
a writer. Or a person who writes on writing here. an unpublished writer. A failure, in short. Stay
focussed on the amount of words here. 82 229 here. 2000 already for today, she is basically
working overtime here. sans overtime benefits here. in Toronto tornado warning, so the news
here.
d.
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so, is it Gothenburg or Goteborg? It has a book fair, second in the world. After the one in
Frankfurt. She might be wrong though. This her book will not be part of it. There will be no
movie made that shows the contents of this very book. No movie rights. No publishing rights.
This is an ah so futile endeavour. Grocery lists make more sense. At least they serve a purpose
here. you hold them in your hand and read them or read one of them while walking the aisles of a
supermarket. The walk by the aisles. Milk, eggs, bread. On the telly there is a movie about
something crime-related. The weekend documentary. They usually suck here. and outside the
greenery is very stark contrasty here. 82 382 here. still at the very start of the 2000-word package
here. she overused the HERE here.
e.
82 401.
f.
1500 words left to write here. while the greenery is really illuminated. It is as if lights are
turned onto the leaves, showering them with illumination. Then there are the shadows, it all is
very spectacular. So very different from the mushiness on the telly where there are no highlights
and no lowlights. Just one constant sing-song. That tends to lull you in here. you have to write
stuff in order to say sane, in order to stay awake. Awakeness and sanity go together while the
fridge does s short hiccup. Time to go down to the market and walk by the colourful aisles there,
stand in line and look into peoples baskets in order to have something to write about. But you
have to do it very inconspicuously. There is an art in people watching here. you have to get it
down to a science and then you can write good books, yup, even you. That is how it is how it is
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here. and on the telly, Anderson cooper, all serious here. it is actually part of a documentary and
this is old footage that is part of the documentary here.
g.
a woman on the telly, this too is old footage. She is delivering the news, but maybe eight
years or so ago here
h.
82 622.
i.
later in the day. While evening is ah so near. The greenery is now more grey, darkish, a
green-grey. With white small flecks, more spots than flecks. Pinpointed whites here. on the telly,
a woman who was a spy, an American spy for Russia, maybe. It is a documentary about spies. So
that woman was or is a spy. And boy can she talk, she wears a blue dress and looks like a
schoolmarm. A schoolteacher. She definitely does not look like Mata Hari. Arent spies supposed
to be very beautiful. Like James bond or Mata Hari. Well, one can do some research about that
on google. The lives of spies. The looks of spies here. author read about Stalins daughter who
defected in 1967. Author remembers that. She feels sick, too much typing does that to yer here.
j.
82 766.
k.
so, apparently the woman is a former CIA spy in Russia. The movie is about life long
ago, which is shown by those old tapes. This was a long long time ago here.
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nk
l.
the pictures in the film are all in black and white.
m.
bankastrati and the hot cocoa. The place is basically a coffee house but author here is
more into chocolate drinks at this time of the day here. she feels slightly dislocated but not
because she is in Iceland but more so because all that she does all day long is writing here.
n.
82 867.
o.
and it is dark outside while the documentary is on. Declassified. Cnn something here.
outside darkness and a silvery reflection from inside here. a long silvery vertical stripe. The
words are accumulating slowly ah ever so slowly here. the docu on the telly. A man who is
overweight and talking. In a light blue shirt. This spy is beautiful. More a la mata hari here. a
beautiful woman.
p.
82 940.
q.
the screen is frozen here. not the one that has to do with typing. Nah, typing you can, pen
yer masterpiece here. go on, give it a go here.
r.
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nk
82 973.
s.
the woman in pink. On a fast jog. She comes out of a corner and walks very fast, so very
fast here. it is not technically a jog but it has this determined gait, that is what makes a walk look
faster than a jog. Or maybe it is the surprise element, that she comes out of nowhere and is
merely surrounded by bushes and asphalt. Her baseball cap is white, a yellowish white, a white
with lines therein. Her hair is dark black and onto her back, mid-body it is cut off. A ponytail that
comes out, ah, lurks out under the white hat and over the pink top, which has long arms here. It is
not a real pink and not a real purple, it is not pastel, more a very bright colour that makes an
impact. And the shorts are either black or pink too. The shoes are white and go with the hat. Her
expression is more like grit, more like pissed-off grit. She is at that age that could be ten or one
hundred, and author here notices that she did not really notice what was going on. She just saw
the woman in a split second while driving. Somehow all of the parts of her mush together into
one, she could not pick the jogger out of a line-up. It is more about the movement against the
stagnation of the street, the sheer lust into health which is very different from the driver in the car
who merely pushes down breaks and gas pedals here. The pursuit of youth versus the pursuit of
death here. Youth and death are not polar opposites so the writing here is off, off here. the taste of
the chocolate marble is still lingering, the crunch of the gloss that is too cakey too cakey here. the
coffee that was really hot, this time, very happily hot here. there was a woman in a pink top with
lots of shopping bags, there was a woman in dark long open hair that wanted another kind of
milk. Everything that was happening on the trip down to the market, two kinds of tv-dinners,
both on sale, both store brandish here. now the telly now trump and the media, bias or not. 83
345.
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nk
There are scenes in Iceland and in itzehoe, there is the reality or, and the reality of the
donut shoppe on fourteenth. They all are clones of this trip down to the market next to authors
place here, fodder for imaginary coffee places, imaginary markets here. fiction that is not really
fiction, that mirrors reality because all these places are the same. The voice of the barista which
is too young for a barista, too happy and eager, too non-jaded, interested in the job of doing the
baristadom because there is novelty, novelty here. Author types up all of these words here, it is a
Sunday in august and the novel is slowly coming to an end here. Still some six hundred words
are needed and we are outta here and outta here. The greenery is bright and bla, this is not the
time of the day where there are shadings, it is all a toning to one corner, green that becomes
greener in parts here, that is not interesting enough to be described, there are no contrasts no
juxtaposition, in short it is a drama-less greenery and who wants to chase words to describe a
greenery that is basically not worth describing here. and the wordcount marches forward forward
forward here. 73 557.
Bankastrati, yup, why not describe that. People who do the Icelandic talking, in a mellow
sing song, mainly because author does not understand a word here. everything becomes one big
mush and there is no real reason to learn this lingo that is way too complicated here. the cocoa is
nice, hot more leaning towards warm here, one can sit in here and look out or walk down
bankastrati or up bankastrati. Choices that are really inconsequential here.
t.
the rain, the train. Rhyming of the vehicle and the water that comes down on the vehicle.
Author here is bored, the melancholy of doing this each day is wearing her down, doing her in.
She would rather be somewhere else, somewhere where there is no laptop waiting for the input.
Where there is no word count icon here.
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nk
u.
too hot, too hot even for New York city. This is the time of the year when the city is
devoid of its inhabitants and awash in its tourists, anyhoo, writing has to go on and go on here.
she paid the fee for this month, she has to live up to the task of penning that amazing masterpiece
here, it is a pact she made with herself and with the bank here.
v.
120 words, nope, 210. What to write about while there is an ad for this medication that is
good for happy breathing, something that makes your breath unobstructed if you have a cold.
And now there is a man who talks and propagates something, he has steely blue eyes that go with
his steely blue shirt. He looks as nondramatic, as blah as is humanly possible here. the taste of
the apple cake and the crumbs here. the whip and the chocolate drink here. the tea with a mint
pouch in there.
w.
still some more words here still some more words here. The couch, the green one, the
paper basket and the telly. The interior that furnishes the words here, author is bored already, so
early in the day. Typing as profession, weird, huh, strange strange here. these days she has a more
down tone versus the happy up tone that characterized the beginnings of this her writing
endeavour here. When this started out, at the end of June, June 27 or something, it is now mid
august and it is way too small a timeframe to produce a book. Will a text be judged on the time
that it takes to produce it, if a person works for years to write a book, does it follow that this
particular book is better, more mazing here? And, btw, we have 84 009 here, yay, ah yay here.
42.
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nk
The greenery outside, in different shades here. the upper crown is pretty light here. with
some yellow flecks here.
a.
the main characters of this story seem to be the beverages, mint tea and hot cocoa. With
whip. Too thin a subject matter? Nah, not necessarily here. 84 071 words here. on a Sunday in
mid august.
b.
the cups in which the beverages are served, the plates on which the pastries lie. The forks.
This is not enough to fill the pages here. description of greeneries. She feels like a bad writer, an
incompetent one. Not making the cut here. But the words are still accumulating. 81 432.
c.
she sits in the coffee place on bankastrati here. she is one of those persons who stay here
for two hours straight. Her laptop and the blank screen that awaits her input here. people come
and go, the place is pretty small, tiny, so it always has a feel of coziness. You feel tucked-in
which is a good feel for writing here. the eloquent feel of safety, it translates into good words.
Sometimes good enough ones and sometimes better than good enough here, much better here.
d.
84 223.
e.
there is a store opposite of the coffee house that sells outdoor clothing. Stuff that is
weather resistant. The Icelandic version of mountain equipment coop. it is a tad more boutiquey,
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nk
more designery. Or maybe that is just because this store is not very big here. Not a warehouse
filled up with clothes. The coffee place is nice, all stripes, colorful ones on the ceiling here. so
are the cups and there are sugar cubes on the saucer, brown ones with a slightly burnt taste here.
author here writes on what she sees in this place here. the whipped cream with the uneven peaks.
It is not very bright in here, there is a feel of coziness about the place. Darkness.
f.
84 346.
g.
the pictures on foursquare of the coffee place on bankastrati. She is sitting in here and
looks at images online which show exactly the place that she is in right now. Double the fun. It is
kind of crazy, seems we are obsessed with this place here. a writer should describe different
things not the same place here. then again, a writer can do what she feels like. There are no rules
or regulations. We can experiment here. The whip is still uneven and that is how it should be. It
is the flair of this place here. She could not find yelp pics but there were lots of tripadvisor and
foursquare ones that show this place. We could try zomato too. And then there were google map
ones.
h.
84 471. 84 482 here.
i.
you cannot really write about a place after looking at pictures. You can go there, travel
there. or you just make up a place which is the most fascinating way of doing stuff.
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nk
j.
the greenery, now with small spots of light. One could walk the street and type but it
would definitely be weird. Writing is supposed to forge sanity not insanity. The words are a way
to order the world not to disorder it.
k.
84 562. In the morn she produced some 1500 and in the eve some 500, so we have the
obligatory 2000 here. there was a trek to the gym and to the mall too, actually to two malls here.
there were various train rides. Another thing worth mentioning is the fact that the coffee places in
Iceland are called coffee bars. At least this one site referred to them as bars. And there is a flight
from Vancouver to Iceland, seven hours straight and you are there, with icelandair. She will
never ever go there. it is better to write fiction and make up a place. Besides you cannot really
describe each and every detail, you always have to leave stuff out here.
l.
84 686.
m.
she feels like barfing, throwing up all over the keyboard here. one more word and we
have 84 707 here.
n.
plantains. Part of Seinfeld. The episode where Kramer and jerry are banned from the
fruitstand. Funny, always funny. How did we live before Seinfeld here?
o.
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nk
1300 words to 86 000, which does not necessarily indicate that you are a writer. It means
that you are going thru the motions. Practicing the piano. Running around the block. That is
where it is at. The journey is what really counts. And nothing else here. the end result is way too
temperamental. You have to let go of peeking at the end result. You will be mystified if you are
not there in time. Keep on typing that is where it is at. If you put in the time, then eventually you
will arrive. Or you will go back to painting, to drawing smiley faces here.
p.
84 845.
q.
a lot of research into coffee shops in itzehoe. Apparently there does not exist one of the
likes that she is describing here. she saw this image online which is very much the way that she
describes it here. and the fashion store too. But now there are some holes, some narrative holes.
The coffee shops are bigger, they have great pastry. They have very nice personal. They have
more lighting. Which makes the one that she describes definitely fictional here. better to let go of
research, it only interferes with writing here.
s.
tomorrow will be another day of writing. There is no real need to type at this time of the
day. It is five minutes after eleven in the night here. and on the telly it is family guy here. the
remote is far away from the laptop here and that is why we are sitting and watching a program
that is basically annoying here. wow, that is an immense amount of usage of the word HERE
here.
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t.
85 021.
u.
out of the subway here. union square and farmers market. Goat cheese from Vermont.
Kale. We might as well walk up fourteenth. To the shingle with the big three and the five. Up the
stairs. People typing. Others in the lobby. Reading, talking. The coffee machine is working. They
have paper cups but it is better to use the mugs and rinse them after use. She takes her laptop out
of the locker. Takes it to her desk. It feels like school. Typing, huh. After 500 words she will go
down to the donut place. Jelly donut. Afterwards it is again back to the laptop here. everything is
regimented, planned thru. This is how the words will eventually accumulate. A man and a
woman are talking in the lobby. About the elections. They basically agree with each other. Which
makes it boring. No need to eaves drop. An uneavesdroppable conversation, a forgettable one.
v.
the rain coming down onto the train. Like always. What else is new here? 85 190
words.
y.
the telly is on here. on a Monday while the sun is shining. Well, the greenery has stark
contrasts but the whole image is blah. It is that time of the day, when the shadows are not
pronounced enough. Some time after midday here. the telly is working but there is something
wrong with the online-connection. This happens when one uses the phone. Obviously they
should be non-connected but they are. You can either use the phone or the computer here. author
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nk
feels sick, nauseated. Must be the pizza, the piece of cake and the donut here. the mint tea. This
is not how a grown-up should eat. Too much grease and too much sugar, we are following the
junk food diet religiously here. no animal fat though. Hardly ever.
z.
back at the computer after being away for about 20 days or so. Feeling weird to write
here on a sunny Sunday in September. While the outside is sunny, a tad too much, a tad too
bleary here. while the woman in pink is on the telly, all in pink with a tint of purple therein.
Author here has to produce some 600 words or so, what to write about after having been
away from the typer for some 20 days. But she said that already. The reminder of talking about
bankastrati or itzehoe, about the place near to union square, the one with the big shingle outside
that says 35. She has seen the real thing, in real time to boot. 20 days of New York city, but that
is a story for another book here. a travel book, a travel story. Now it is all about getting back to
work, back into the routine here. the vacay is over; it is all about typing up word after word here.
500 words about the day, about the weird pangs of jetlag that is not overwhelming but not
underwhelming either here. the travel thru time zones, somehow you notice that there is a
different in lighting, it should be late afternoon where it is sunny and early in the day. The
circadian does not like it, then again it is cooler here, not that sweaty hotness of nyc. You do not
need the AC, which is kind of nice. No artificial chilliness, no rumoring of the tornado of the
machine here. no fast and high lights of times square here.
Writing, what to say when you did not fashion coherent sentences for days. Readable
words, words worth reading.
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It was all about playing around with the new smart phone which was weird, author here
seems to be the only person left on this planet sans mobile phone access. She and Jessy Ventura.
It was weird to hold a smart phone all over town, it makes you antsy and strange. You start
talking to yourself, inevitably. You are sitting on coals, all the time at the brink of checking your
e-mail. A very weird feel of fomo, an overwhelming feel of fomo.
On the telly, once more the woman in dark pink. Now a man in a baseball cap here.
outside, the greenery. With flecks. Not much has changed since last month. Author ponders, there
are differences within the seasons. The light falls differently on the leaves. There are more
substantial changes, the falling of the leaves, the bare bones of the woods here.
The feel of being overwhelmed, of sitting somewhere in between time zones. Westcoast
versus east coast. It could be more drastic, the jump from continent to continent here. from upper
part of the planet to lower part of the planet. The jump from season down to another season. But
this still is very annoying, maybe more so because the change is ah so subtle, a change that does
not go deep into the bone but is still there, resistant here.
Her job as a writer, as a typer. The artist that is not going anywhere, that does not do
readings at Bryant park to total strangers. That signs books in bookworld here. or in New York
for that matter.
85 874. Some more ah some more here. bankastrati and the hot cocoa, the train that
chuggers towards itzehoe, the memes, the tropes that make for this book. The characters that are
still there, the ones that she has not thought about for the last 20 days or so. Life is standing in
the way of formatting the words, life, touristing around, adventure and the quest for seeing new
things, new worlds here. a hint of torrone gelato in little Italy, where the young woman says
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torroni instead of torrone. Maybe that is how it is pronounced in Italian, after all she has only
heard about torrone when talking to a British friend. And still some more words and some more
words here. four and we are there, are there here.
86 005.
43.
A NEW DOCUMENT, a blank one to boot
Not having written in a month or so, sitting here in the old community college on fortyninth. While there is a new building, one that smells still of chalk, it has the muffled freshness of
a construction site. This was the place where men in yellow and orange congregated, apparently
it is mingling with the door next to the coffee place. Now it all makes sense spatially, why the
door near to the coffee place was barricaded up, barricaded up here. The computer room in the
library is way too slow for a second day of school, how come this place seems to be starting up
this slowly here?
Gone are her memories of the trip, they are out of the system, here everything is like it is,
the man in the checkered shirt, white and dark beige, more white though, with hair that matches
the beige dots on the shirt. His face bored and matter-of-fact, as if he is succumbing to this his
fate which is putting paper into a printer, a very banal task that pays the bills. Like surgery, like
dentistry, he goes thru the motions while dreaming of palm trees near endless stretches of beach,
beaches., a woman in dark blue next to author here, in thinness and rolled-up hair, in seriousness
and in the task of looking-up stuff. The man in white with an orange lanyard, still lingering, still
thoughtful, the happiness of having structure and the unwillingness to be here, all in one and all
in one here. Author does not know if she will take classes here, this semester, this her fall
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semester. A free lancing writer, that shimmies off a tad too much, there is no structure and no
routine, no knowledge of where you have to be at ten in the morning. Freefall, freefall, this will
not make for a book a book here. There was a query reject in the inbox the nite before, somebody
in the city did not like what she wrote. Keep on trying, they were supportive, this is good but not
for me here. In the city that is way too hot they type this up to here where it is way too cold. She
still has New York in her bones, she came back Saturday nite and it is Wednesday now here.
a.
Bankastrati and its stories.
b.
the darkness outside. Greyish greenery, where it should have been sunny. Whining about
the weather, this is a national sport in these parts of the world here.
c.
the train that chuggers down to the small town. She watches the outside, feels happy and
sincere, she has not to be anywhere but here, you cannot leave the train, you have to sit still and
wait until you get to the destination here. 86 480, some 1500 words more. She has to go in there
later and iron out the glitches but at this time she just types. Types while the train goes ahead
here.
d.
near to union square, the writingish place is one more block away. Rushing towards
writing, now there is something to do here, some weird weird task here.
e.
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the hot cocoa. The chocolate drink. The whipped cream in its uneven peaks. The paper
cup and its primary colors. The stark black lines. This is Reykjavik and its cocoa. Worth flying
with Iceland air. Worth coming here.
f.
86 585.
On the telly, Charlie rose and another man in a blue suit. Outside, darkness. Still hints of
brightness, but the night is more overwhelming. Fall is near. It is September after all. September
seven here.
g.
86 622. The same stories, the three places that make up the main narrative of this text
here. there is nothing new to tell, those places are iconic. While the whole world is happening,
there are bankastrati and itzehoe to stay still, stagnant. You need a routine; you need strong still
places to hold it all together here. the rules by which you structure a written piece here.
h.
dieting while perusing thru glossy pics of eileens cheesecake on Cleveland place. Author
here sat on the bench in front of the cheesecake place for hours, mainly because she was waiting
for the storefront of art and architecture to open. She used the phone, learned how to listen in to
wild wild world by cat stevens, there are ways to make the lil rectangle sing here. all the buttons
on a new phone, all the things one can push and the machine reacts in weird ways or it does its
own thing. Just the nite before author here was accepted by a friend who reacted to a friend
request which she never ever posted. When did this happen and how and why? Only mark
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Zuckerberg would know, should know. This happened many times, suddenly you are friends with
people from the past which you chose to ignore for fifty years. What kind of friendships are
those that are created by a little machine here? social media is weird ah weird here. suddenly it
autocorrects and the message you send is totally different from what you intended, different tone,
different tinge of words, differing hues. Machines run the world and we are mere mortals, mere
followers, careers are destroyed, at random at random. Social media, more like unsocial media,
antisocial media. Media that morphs us all into recluses here.
the pictures of cheesecakes, little ones, portions for one. The images are very good, bright
and shiny, the cameras in phones are so very good. Talented camera phones here. on the telly, a
woman judge, one of many here. outside a generic green, no highlights no low lights here. a
green that is more grey, that lacks personality here. 86 977, we need some thousand more here
for this book, for this very part of the book here.
i.
later in the day on bankastrati. Where the cocoa is always hot. Her slight tinges of
dislocation make her feel warm and secure. The feel of not-belonging and belonging at the same
time. The right disposition to make up great words. This is the state one should be in if one wants
to write. Her cocoa is hot, piping hot. She can feel it thru her mittens. Sips, reluctant ones. The
peaks of whip that merge into the molten chocolate here. she makes her way to the window, up
the barstool facing the passers-by. Bankastrati is pretty filled up with people, evening-strollers
who want to explore the last minutes of the day. Tourists and inhabitants alike here.
j.
87 117.
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k.
the rain that is coming down on the train. Ah, there is something waiting to be described.
The water plunkering down. She is getting sleepy, that is what trains do to yer. Later on it will be
the waitress and the shop lady, the cake and the tea. Everything just so, nothing changing, the
ritual of the place where she puts words to paper. It is a job just as good as any, a reason to get
up, a reason to put on clothes. No money though, it is all a labour of love. A glorified hobby. She
tries to block that part out, she has to. Her writings still goes on, no matter what. It is part of her
daily routine. She should ask for a discount in her train travels here.
l.
the short trek from the station to the writing place on fourteenth here. rain coming down,
spritzes of it. She opens the door next to the round shingle, up the three flights it is. Makes her
way to her cubby, huddles. It is warm in here, maybe even too warm. Overheated. Others are
writing, typing. She takes out her laptop, starts up where she has left off. The machine tends to
swallow her words, the save-button has to be pushed down here constantly. She feels bored with
writing even before it really started up. The jadedness of the writer, a common malaise. Comes
with the territory, if something delves into becoming a chore, that is how it is how it is here.
some things are inevitable, you have to bite your tongue and work thru it. Keep on truckin
forward. Or something like that. Platitudes that make you do the work here. Build up the
wordcount.
m.
87 411.
n.
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greenery, rests of the day. On the telly, talking heads, passionate discussions.
o.
back to the hotness of the cocoa. The description of different shades of warmness. This
would be better in a pic on yelp, using words can not really convey what is going on here.
writing is dead, long live writing. Or something like that. A hot chocolate drink with whip makes
yer spin philosophical yarn. She feels like walking still, though she has hurting limbs from too
long hikes. Homesick is what she feels like, the lonely city of Reykjavik. Where she does not
belong and never ever will. The heat of the drink is as close to home as it will ever get. Hot
drinks feel the same everywhere on this planet here.
p.
87 543.
q.
still some more words here.
r.
500 words or so. She does not produce her 2000 word increments in one day. She takes
two or three days for doing the one day spurt. It is more about practice, about how you divide the
task. After twenty days of non-writing it takes some time to get used to doing this again.
s.
57 607.
t.
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sitting in the laundromat somewhere near the Bronx. Or maybe queens. More like the
Bronx. It is the upper part of Manhattan. She never really knows where she is in this city here.
exploring New York, it never ends. Every place has all these shades, and this city here definitely
has. A child cries, is restless. It is way too hot and she will go down to union square to write.
Later in the day here.
u.
she is at jfk way before her time. Near to the gate, gate nine. People will go to Buenos
Aires and to Sydney before they will go to Vancouver. That happens when you are at the gate six
hours too soon. She likes it, she can hardly walk anymore. Too much walking, 18 days of
constant hiking thru the urban jungle, concrete jungle. New York in the hot sun. the lonely city or
something, it is good stuff for a writer. So many people to look at. Writing comes easy in this
place, that is why there are so many writers here. she had a lot of egg salad sandwiches, donuts,
and banana puddings. Muffins with blueberries, croissants with chocolate. An ice cream that was
not very good, one that was amazing fantastic and superb. A hot dog in Brooklyn. A workout
near the Chelsea piers on a little hill. While the sun was going down, people running in the dark
here. scenes from the city, there is so much to tell here. more than bankastrati and itzehoe, but
sticking to what you know has its perks here. the story cannot be stretched and should not be
stretched, there is a master plan and you have to stick to it. You cannot introduce new pebbles,
cannot water down the story here. 100 words and the work of today is done is done. The words in
the writer studio, the words at the kitchen table, the words in the room with the telly and the
green couch here.
v.
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bankastrati and its stories. Hot cocoa and people strolling. The lights of Reykjavik. She
will go back to the hotel; it is time for calling it a day. There will be new days, other days to do
the writing thingie. Now it is time for resting. She feels her body, her age. Aches on the left side,
suspicious ones. And all she does is write. 88 008 here, 88 008.
44.
The two thousand words for the day. While rain is impending. Two thousand words that
will or will not cut it. That will miss the mark or will be there for eternity, revised, reiterated,
talked about by pupils and teachers. Analyzed and overanalyzed. Those are the words we are
striving for here. that we are striving for always. That is what writing is all about. The eternity of
words that are pushed onto a physical object. That are there to be retrieved later, long after the
author has turned to dust here. mementos of someone who roamed the earth, this earth. After the
dinosaurs here.
On the telly, the vice-presidential candidate on the republican side here. pence or
something, the guy who is the antithesis to trumps bombastic style here. clean cut without dyed
colored hair. A white crew cut. Very different from trumps aura. Midwestern values or whatever
that is. Humility. Politeness. Even-stevenness. The person that trump would like to be but cannot.
Author here should really be a political commentator; how much does that pay per word.
Per diem. Writing on politics here.
a.
the day that marches forward while the chilliness is overwhelming here. the greenery
with sure clear breaks in it. September-greenery so different from august-greenery here. the book
that will go nowhere or will go somewhere, either way it is ok to write here. while thinking about
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Iceland, while thinking about the coffee house in itzehoe. The fictional one that is based on
reality. Where fiction meets non-fiction, now there is a treatise waiting to be absorbed here.
b.
88 277.
c.
there is something wrong with the connection to the internet and the telephone. You
cannot use both at the same time. It is either or. Either telephone or the computer. They are
interconnected and they should not be. Something is wrong with the wiring here. which is ok,
you just have to accommodate it. Make sure that you either use the phone or the computer. Not
both at the same time here. you still can use the typewriter of the computer though. But there is
still a caveat, you have to save your words as often as humanly possible because the machine
seems to have a tendency to swallow up the words. Maybe the machine does not like certain
words. This would never ever happen with a manual typewriter here. or with pen and paper.
Though old fashioned writers are weary that they might lose their words, real physically. The
manuscript will burn, get lost, be damaged by water. There is always something. How do you
save words? Spoken words are ephemeral, if there is no documentation then you said something
and it is gone. There is no way that you can relive the moment. You can attest to what was said at
a certain time, witness it, swear on a holy book that this is what was said at a certain time. It is
not the same as a cellphone picture. Then again cellphone vids might not hold up in a court of
law. Author ponders, somehow she slithered off-track. This does not go with that. Connective
holes, the writing has to have an inner logic here. you cannot do that when all you do is describe
pots of cocoa, coffee and tea. Different places on this planet where you can have hot beverages.
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Which is basically the subject matter of yours truly. There was this recent movie, called caf
society. Author here did not catch it and it does not seem to be in theaters anymore. And it is not
about coffee beverages, it is about other things, more substantial things. Emotions et. al. 88 625,
author here still has to type up some 1300 words or so in order to call it a day here.
d.
the place near union square, she intentionally walks by it. She chose to just pay them each
month, this month she will deliberately stay away from it. She is a member but she does not use
the place. Somehow she feels that her writings do not work in there. the socializing does interfere
with her ability to find the right words. She tells herself that it is better to type her stuff in
temporary places around town. In that sandwich place on eighth. In that coffee house on jane
street. These are places where others gather, writers, students. People who stare at their laptops
and type. Or stroll the internet. There are tons of universities in this town and tons of students
who have to produce essays. This being New York, the best place to write are coffeehouses. They
are air-conditioned or heated, depending on which time of the year it is. They are more
accommodating than the library, have a more home-away-from home feel. You cannot be too
picky in choosing the ideal place for writing a book. There is no ideal place and there is no ideal
beverage. No ideal sustenance that will make you write the ideal words here. but we can try, try
here. last week she went all the way to jfk, she found a space where she could write. The
hecticness of an airport inspires the right words. The temporariness. People moving from place to
place. The urban nomads. The lonely city. She likes that term even though it is eerie. Usually she
likes to be alone because then and only then can she focus on her work. She needs that, the
ability to focus. No distractions, that is what makes her fend for the right words here. but too
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much loneliness will make you fall asleep. Which is of course the antithesis to creating. You
cannot write while you snore up the place here.
e.
88969, 88 969. The space between the numbers gives it more respectability, more
momentum. It underscores the sheer number of words, the effort that went into penning this. If
you write up 100 000 words, then you are automatically penning something. There is a difference
between typing and writing, capote was right. But who is to say that Kerouac was not as good as
capote? They are both dead poets and they belong to the same time in literature. Long time has
passed since. New voices are vying for attention. Women writers, they should dethrone the guys.
Though, let us face it, they are not. America puts certain voices into its artistic canon and the
girls are supposed to not shackle the status quo. Do not rattle it. Gals write about domesticity,
about food, about nurture. About cleaning. About ocd here. and still typing still typing still typing
here.
f.
on the telly, big bang. And laugh tracks. This show author here has seen ah so many
times. There are more episodes but seems that the telly shows the exact same ones over and over
and over and over. Which might as well, it is kind of like her writing here. the same locations, the
same subject matters.
g.
89 176. What to write about ah what to write about? There is an anniversary fest going on
but apparently it is over now. Too late too late here. it is that time of the year, fringe and film
fests, all the things that are basically all the same.
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h.
laugh tracks laugh tracks here.
i.
now, the news out of Boston. Which is weird, who writes about Boston out of Vancouver
here. looking at news of a city on the other side of the continent. But tv makes it all ok, you dont
really know where reality lies. Besides, these are generic anchors who read generic news. What
really matters is what they wear. Information that is kind of tucked inside of the spectacle of
entertainment. Infotainment.
j.
itzehoe, she still has to sit here for an hour or so. Until the coffee house, the apple cake,
the pot of minty tea. That will be the end of her trip, some words put down on paper and then it
will be the trek back to her hotel in Hamburg. Such a weird way of writing a book. But still she
is at it, who cares if this will never ever be published. She is doing it anyways; it might be an
exercise in futility but she is developing these steely nerves that are not fazed by anything.
Writers do not need audiences; she tries to tell herself that this is like an academic treatise that
will be muffling along in some drawer in the university library. In an old cupboard, where only
the janitor might change its place. That is how most writings are and where most masterpieces
end up, in some mothy drawer long after the writer has dissolved into dust. It is the journey that
counts and nothing else does. It helps that she watched the documentary about the making of
Downton abbey before boarding the train down to itzehoe here. the pot of minty tea is waiting,
the rain is coming down and she is happy that she is still alive here.
k.
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nk
union square, fourteenth, the place with those donuts. She frequents differing donut
places but her favourite is definitely dunkins. Where the jelly oozes out of the pastry here. she
never had a cronut but she looked at the people outside of the bakery in SoHo. The woman who
instructed the customers. Ah, what is a cronut, it certainly is not a donut. It cant be one. It is a
lesser donut, not a better one. Just ask the nypd. It is funny, there really are always cops in donut
shops. Way to defy the stereotype, way to play into the stereotype. These are the things she
ponders while being in the city, writing is taking a clear backseat to her quest for the perfect
pastry in this town of eight million here. one day she might take a Gotham writing workshop, but
she can do that from anywhere on this planet, they have them online. Here she walks by the
writing place and walks by the donut pub and the donut plant only to end up in the place where
they have the perfect jelly donut, the one which has just the right colored filling here. where you
can taste the artificial flavoring, where you can taste America here. author is not really a
healthnut, she is more into mayo and hotdogs. New York as the cradle of junk food, where the
pizzas are colossal and fattening here. Even the gourmet ones are.
l.
bankastrati as always. The heat that escapes from the cup, the whip that silently melts into
the dark drink here. she feels happy, as happy as a writer can ever be. She does not chose the
right words, the perfect ones, mainly because perfection is for the birds. It is and stays
unattainable here. the people around her speak in Icelandic, there is a young pair though
conversing in a strong northern Quebec accent. Or what sounds like northern Quebec. She is not
that good at positioning regional lingos and she gets it wrong most of the time here. not
everybody is a born professor Higgins but it is just fine to know about the diversity of ways to
communicate on this planet of ours. She uses grand words these days and not very good. It
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usually comes around as pompous, that is the trickiness with language. It is just like painting,
like formatting visuals. Sometimes it works and sometimes it just does not. Then you have to go
for a walk, go to sleep and start all over the next day. That is how it is how it is here. 89 955. She
writes a tad. While the drink is cooling up, while the night befalls Reykjavik here, while the last
patrons are still chatting along before this place closes down for the day here. ten more words
and she will leave this place in ten days, everything has something to do with a ten, weird ah
weird here. 90 015, we are outta here and outta here here.
45.
All those 2000 words here. while the outside is a tad too sunny, a tad too bright.
Must be because the lighting inside of here is on too. The two light sources competing
with each other here. the telly and its songs on a lazy Sunday morn. Might as well do the
writings here.
a.
a different day here. the images flimmering over the screen on the telly. While the
greenery outside is still and colorful. Sunbathed though not too sunbathed. Reluctantly
sunbathed. The way that autumn bathes the leaves in sunlight here. ah, she is full of bullshit,
takes a stab at sounding romantic, writerly, with slight tinges of poesy here. on the telly the two
women in Williamsburg, the broke ones, the ones in the uniform of waitressing here. writing is
so tough, the words do not really work here. these days she is all into images and into scrunching
together lil films., it is as if words are taking some kind of backseat here. it is all about the real
world, about what you can see and touch and hear and walk thru. Words are not enough; they lag
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behind reality somehow. Too abstract, they are way too abstract. They hit or miss, they are vague
and open to interpretation. But green is green and red is red, something you can see here.
b.
90 260. This is a book about nyc and Iceland, a coffee house in Germany and a room in
Vancouver where the telly never stops up. The community college on forty-ninth, where there is
a new science and technology building and a computer room full of students, somehow tucked
away in the far corner of the library.
c.
90 260 still. Weird ah strange so strange here.
d.
somehow the wordcount seized to work for moments moments here, now 90 338 it is it is
here. 90 347.
e.
fashion week in nyc is almost over, the us open is definitely over. Now there will be the
New York art book fair, then the un general assembly. Not that they are even compatible in size,
in scope. The city that never ever sleeps here. author is back in her own digs, watching that place
from afar. She produces her little treatise about coffee cultures the world over though technically
it is not that. Public places where they churn out hot bevs, while you are basically in between
missions. In her case that is typing up her amazingish masterpiece, the great American novel that
does not need to be American at all. It can be just a novel, a long long book that cannot be
devoured in one sitting. That takes several takes, while the reader has to sleep in between
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readingish spurts. Re-evaluate her mental and physical reserves, recuperate, breathe some. This
is not some short film of several seconds, this is a long one. Stories about the train that chuckers
along all thru the rain, between cities from city to city. Train and rain, how conveniently it
rhymes. Something poetic just by the use of words, the happy rhyming, the very simple nursery
rhyme lingo here. something safe secure, stillness inducing here. outside the last flecks of
greenery, on the telly, the health or non-health of the potential president of the united states of
America here. there was this article today called a nation of sick presidents, alluring to the fact
that these were people with questionable health records. The media has a field day with this,
these are nuances of the political circus that is paying the bills for cameramen and anchors alike
here. while she was in nyc, she was in a hotel next to central park, in hells kitchen, at least that
is what her phone informed her to be the location. It was opposite of the trump tower and the
place where cnn is, these places are physically so near to each other and they entertain the whole
world. Ah what to make of this what to make of this?
She will think about coffee places in Reykjavik, places that are far removed from all that
is on the news here day-in and day-out here. coffee in Iceland, hot cocoa hot cocoa. And fresh
fresh whip, mmmhh, this is what matters moreso than the infotainment on the telly here, on the
telly here.
f.
the walk up to the writing studio, the donut at the donut place, she actually made it to the
place on sixth because she wants to have the authentic kind of donut, the one that is the real real
thing. The one that she cannot have back in Vancouver, the one where the jelly is really red,
really full of the right colour, where you can see and feel the artificial colour and be happy about
it, happy about it. This is how jam should look like, jelly, without any piece of fruit in there. the
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right colouring, the tinge toward blue without being blue, the right red just at the cusp of turning
blue here. this is what the language does, it describes colourings and hues, without showing you
the reader the real thing here.
e.
90 895. Quite an array of words here. outside the yellow peaks on the greenery, like a real
mountainous landscape. It is that time of the day, when the shadows are long and pronounced.
Quite lovely, quite lovely here.
f.
the cocoa, its happy warmness, when you chug it down in gulps. The body that is warmed
from the inside. The view of Reykjavik here, the coast the sea the ice. Well, that is not how it
really is but she likes to look into the distance and see where the water and the sky meet up with
each other here.
g.
90 997 here.
h.
91 000.
i.
walking back to fourteenth, she now had her donut with the right jelly consistency, it is
paramount to have the right kind of jelly inside of your pastry, the right kind and amount of cops
in the donut place. All of this has to be just so in order to being able to pen the right sequence of
words. She walks miles to get it all right, to have the right kind of environments that make her
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judge which words to choose. It is all weird, the functioning of typing has nothing to do with
which foods you have at which establishments all over town, but still she tends to cling to these
superstitious feels, these rituals. It is getting cooler; it is right near to dinnertime. People are
rushing home, people stream to Path in order to catch a commuter taring out of the city. All faces
resolute and business like, she on the other hand strolls determinately to the writers studio. This
is a good time for writing, you are wide awake and not too awake, you have done some living all
through the day, you are a tad beat but not too beat. You will be able to sustain writing, able to sit
in that place on the fourth floor, nope, make that third. At a desk, at a cubby. Coffee houses are
nicer, better, more open, you do not face a wall while writing here. it makes you focus to not
have that many distractions but it kind of strangles your thoughts which cannot hover all over
here. there is no ideal place for writing, there never is here.
j.
91275.
k.
91 276. Still some more and still some more here. in between these words she will go out,
go down to the market, get one of those ready-made entrees, a tv-dinner, something with pasta or
rice, ginger meaty thing, a nice meal in a take-away container, something to pop into the
microwave, something convenient that looks exactly like the colourful picture on top of the
carbon here. she will walk by the aisles in the supermarket, by the persons in beige, dark-beige
uniforms, she will be one of the first customers and she will wait in the parking lot until they
open up here. this is what writers do, they have coffee in the morn, at the time when all the
retirees flock to the coffee place, she will order her breakfast, have it and then go to the gym,
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weigh herself and then be back in front of the typing machine just in time. The routine is pretty
cast in stone, if you adhere to it, great words should emerge here. 91 448, still some more and
still some more here.
l.
the place with the hot cocoa drink, she has her beverage way too soon in the day. It is
usually an afternoon thing, an evening thing, now she felt like mixing it up, the cocoa in the
middle of the day here. maybe the off-routine will make her write differently. New ways to order
the words, everything in a book should not be generic, should not be in a way that is routine.
Predictable. Slightly new avenues, slight strays into other dimensions, other corners. There is
always a different new fresh way to say the same thing, you just have to find it here. this place
does not have a writing studio like the one that she rents on union square, here she either writes
in coffee houses or in the hotel. She watches people, she really likes the lobby of the hotel. The
hotel that is more like a hostel, it is a small place, not a big production like one of those chain
places. Three stocks which seems to be much for Reykjavik. There are of course bigger
monstrosities of hotels but she preferred to stay in this more cozy-ish place. It fits nicely in with
the rest of the buildings, with the rest of the city. You feel more like a local, as if you belong in
here. you need that especially when you do not speak a word of the language. If you cannot
really converse wit the locals here. she takes her cocoa and strolls back to the hotel, it is as if
time has come to a halt, as if it is standing still. Everything for writing some words here, the
cocoa, her food, her strolls, everything is geared towards her time at the computer, her typing.
The rest of the day is sheer sustenance, laundry, sleeping, eating, getting up. Showers. The
routine of the everyday that results in the choice of the right enough words. She definitely is a
writer by accident, she wanted to make movies but that did not really work out here. so it is the
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next best things, stories that are printed and marketed to unsuspecting readers here. she takes
another sip from the cocoa, the whip has melted, she is near to the hotel, next to the hotel here.
writing is awaiting ah awaiting here. it awaits awaits here.
m.
the donut with the too red jelly. The oozing. This is what will propel the words. Or not.
Who knows how this will all work out here. she will do reading, they always organize readings.
It is their thing, the writing place people roll like that. They have connections to local readingish
writingish bars in town. On the bowery or in Brooklyn. You stand in front of a group of semiboozed people and try to decipher what you scribbled down on a piece of paper. You intonate
into the mike. Usually people clap at the end, they clap for everything. Fifty words more to write
and to read here. the donut and its jelly. There are cops near the door, there are always cops in
donut places. Nothing ever changes, everything stays the same here. this is why she came to new
York city, to stare at the people in nypd uniforms devouring donuts. She has 92 008 here, so it is
all ok, all ok here.
46.
Iceland and its coffee. Apparently there is more to Iceland than the neighbourhood coffee
place, there are hot springs and flimmery night lights. But at this time, the coffee place is all
there is for the writer far away from her home. It is the sparse bedroom in the hotel, the very
sparse one, Spartan. Which is the bomb for a writer, no frills at all. But somebody is making the
bed and changing the towels, like magic here. there is no tv which is kind of weird and strange.
Maybe it is good for writing though author here is the kind of writer who is addicted to the
background music of the telly. Her writing is a tad more focussed now that there is no telly
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propelling the words forward here. she thinks about what she puts down, there is a certain
reflectiveness or maybe it is just the whiff of overthinking here. she writes a lot in the lobby of
the hotel which is more like the lobby of a hostel. Maybe because there are some mere three
flights of stairs here. no big boxy chain hotel feel here. it is more like an inn meeting a hostel
here. the people who come here are mostly people from the states who are here for one or two
nights before their national lampoon European vacay. They are fatter than the inhabitants of this
island. They have a certain Midwestern aura, even if they are from Brooklyn. That is how it is
how it is here.
a.
92 274 words here.
b.
too many tv-dinners, three in a row. This is way too much of ginger stew and noodles in
curly forms. Kraft dinners that are frozen and then warmed up here. on the telly, the two girls
from Williamsburg here. author feels like getting a cupcake from the mall. To hell with what is
left from dieting here. she will never be a skinny minny, never a twiggy here. never walking the
runways of milan or paris here. skinniness is over, it is for the young. Not for people who are
sixty-one here.
c.
92 373. It is all about the right kind of donut. If you bite into that one, you are a poet
here. you can pen the great American easy-peasy. No biggy here. it is all about the right donut. If
cops can do them, so can writers here. author takes the L-train to sixth av. And then walks all the
way to 23rd. that is her favourite donut digs, on the side where david barton used to be. Author
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here scoffs at the overpriced designer donuts places, mainly because they cost too much. Others
do not share her opinions, she walked behind this pair where the woman said, prepare to be
amazed. That was in front of the donut place in Chelsea. Author ponders, maybe she should write
a treatise about donuts. She had donuts in midtown and in hells kitchen and next to the sva
continuing ed. It seems that all she does these days is going from donut shop to donut shop here.
there is a timmys somwewhere near penn station but you cannot really have timmys far away
from Kingston. Everything has to be eaten in its natural habitat here.
d.
her night night cocoa cup in the place on bankastrati. All with whip and everything here.
e.
92 585.
f.
She is not quite sure if new buildings are there to be written about. Or old buildings for
that matter. All she knows is that she is making her way thru the new science and technology
building to get to the coffee place. This all inside of the community college on forty-ninth. She is
in the library and penning her thoughs, holding on to some of them and letting go of others, in art
it is all about choices, you highlight stuff, reiterate it, repeat it physically and forget conveniently
to mention other parts of what reality is. The main story, the overlying narrative is what will be
festered on to the paper in order to be told for generations to come. You can tell other stories but
only if you feel like it. Each story has millions of vantage points. Millions of points of interest. It
is like a city where you chose to go thru those particular streets and let go of others. Life as a city
of eight million with sights to be seen and others to be foregone.
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She will have her coffee now; it is morning after all. The gym will happen without her;
this school will happen without her. The words will fester somewhere online in order to bake into
the narrative that is one big whole, one entity here. And so it goes and so it goes here.
g.
THE WRONG
There is a right way to check in to the computer and there is a wrong way. If you type the
password wrong you cannot use this place here. It is actually kind of funny how they still let her
use this place but apparently the community college on forty-ninth keeps on letting you sign in
long after your classers are over. She is still a spring semester person and it is now September.
The computer person told her that her student id will be valid for one more year at least as
pertaining to the use of the computers in the library here. You still have to sign in though, it is not
like the computers in the art school which anybody can use here. So author can pen her great
American or otherwise novel, it is only elbow grease you need and nothing more. The sitting
here and the coming here. The staring at the keyboard and the tapping at the keys. More like
pushing down the keys, pretty forcefully here. This keyboard is a real keyboard, apparently they
roll it still old-skool here.
A woman listens to what is going on on her cellphone, the phone glitters shinyly. She
answers, she talks into the phone here. In a language that author does not understand here. This
place has usually a lot of persons talking loudly in Hindi Gujrat and Urdu. Something from India
maybe. The language salad of Vancouver, we r all immigrants here.
She could take a class instead of her writing, she wanted to take a class in animation in
nyc, but that is way too expensive, mainly because of the accommodation costs over there. The
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life of a student ah the life of a student. So she stays put, does her writing from here. No
bankastrati, no fourteenth street, no place near the bahnhof in itzehoe. She is staying put,
stagnates. Wishes for all of those exotic places to pen her treatise, her master piece. Nobody
knows for sure if you can pen a just as good treatise while your car is parked at the Y. bankastrati
has to do without her, it remains a fictional bankastrati existence here. The hot cocoa, the uneven
peaks of whipped cream here, all fictional all fictional. You can look at the whip on yelp or
Instagram, but it is not the real thing here. It is an oversized coffee mug on a flat screen, three
times as big as the real thing here. But it still is only pixels, you cannot touch it, feel it drink it
here. The donuts with jelly therein, they exist only in her mind, only in her imagination. Well,
words are abstract anyways, literature describes what you cannot see cannot feel. It evokes a
reality that is ah so unreal, apparently apparently and apparently here. The train thru the rain has
to go without her down to itzehoe while she is sitting in this place on forty-ninth, while she is left
here on a day in September, left to grapple with what reality is and what it is not. While using the
words of the foreign strange language here, for moments and moments and moments here.
h.
the walk by the writing studio. New York fashion week is over or maybe it still is in its
last gulps. Tomorrow London fashion week will start up, then it is on to Milan and Toronto after
that. You can follow all the action online, livestreamishy. There was this one so very young
designer, hardly twenty, nope not even out of his twenties, he can hardly drive in 48 states here.
and he had a line, people clapped, apparently in fashion you have to start very very young here.
there now are two art book fairs in new York, one in moma psi, and one in greenpoint in
Brooklyn. Author wished she was in nyc, there is this class that will start up, it is until winter,
until December. Once per week every Wednesday, on 22nd or 23rd street, on the fifth floor, it is an
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animation course about how to shoot a film from start to finish, it is non-credit and it will be
filling her days in New York city here. it is pretty good, maybe she will do that here. instead of
working on a book that will not sell here. she makes her way to the donut place, where the jelly
oozes out from the middle, where nypd people are sitting and waiting, where America is
happening ah happening here. anything but typing up words, feeding them to the machine on the
third floor in the building on fourteenth, the one with the round shingle outside, the one with the
big three and Five here.
i.
the telly, the greenery. Dr. Oz and trump, ah, there is always something happening on the
telly here.
j.
93 637.
k.
itzehoe, the train, the rain. The apple cake with crumbles, the mint tea here. words on
paper, the waitress and her bored face here.
l.
on the telly, days of our lives. Author here is living it up in suburbia, the burbs here. she
had a chocolate croissant and a mint tea next to the sliding door of the market, this is what we
write about here write about here. the chocolate inside of the pastry is stone hard and it breaks
into pieces which is nice, nice enough. Better than chocolate that will break your teeth up. This
table here is new; they did not put the tables out here before. One can look out at the carts,
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people who come in and go out, the supermarket in action. Near noonish. Late morning. She will
write about that once she is back in the room where the telly sings its songs here.
m.
bankastrati, maybe it is better to write about that particular street, about the chocolate
drink and the whip with its uneven peaks here. while Iceland is happening outside, while
Reykjavik is doing its thing here.
n.
the train and its rain. Somehow one has to have the other. The rain and the train. She will
have apple crumbly cake once she reaches itzehoe, it is only a short walk from the station to the
coffee place. Some twenty steps or so. And after devouring the pastry it is back to the station and
back to the hotel in Hamburg. All these rituals, all of these routines. This is how writers live, how
they have to live. Her office in the coffee place on the other side of fashion-in and fashion-out
here. the commute in the rain. And we are writing and typing and typing here. some more words
and still some more words here. one so very long poetic piece, a poem in long form, a ballad or
something. The ballad of the author, the writer, the one who puts down word after word here.
until bitter exhaustion until the ultimate demise here. sixteen words, that is all we need here,
eight more, two, and we are there are there here. 94 002. And stop and spellcheck spellcheck
here.
47.
The bookwriter is back at the typer. After her morning coffee, after the gym it is now
back at the machine while the telly plays HOT IN CLEVELAND here.
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a.
outside the greenery, outside where life is happening here. inside, within these walls, the
most amazing novel will be penned, is penned. Her writings, ah her writings here. the ones that
will not pay the bills, the ones that totally miss the mark. As of yet that is here. some editing
might help, some marketing might. The main thing is to keep working at it, the main thing is
showing up in the morn. The typer waits for her words here.
b.
the hot cocoa in Iceland. The coffee shop where everyone knows your name. actually,
nobody knows her name, she is the quiet foreigner who comes in here and has cocoa. They know
that she will have chocolate milk and whip, she is the woman who does not speak the language
and that has cocoa. No questions asked. She is one of the diaspora, a person from the far beyond.
Author ponders if she uses the far beyond in the right way, probably not. Far beyond usually
means something otherworldly, in this case though it means a place that is not Iceland. The nonIcelandic parts of this world here, of this planet here. her writing is pretty pedantic, pretty weird
and illogical here. but the cocoa is hot and the whip is sweet but not too sweet and that is all that
matters and all that matters here.
b.
94281.
c.
playing around with the pics that were taken with the smartphone. Apparently you can
make movies, upload them and download them, everybody is named Spielberg all of a sudden
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here. author likes this, though her cell phone plan will expire at midnight, the one that she
purchased in nyc and that was prepaid for exactly one month. If push comes to shove, they
actually seem to have this for a 31-day-long period instead of a 30-day-long period, obviously a
marketing trick, they want you to purchase some more cell phone time. Or maybe not a
marketing trick, maybe it is actually a thirty-day period here. author is not that good with
numbers or maybe she is. She is definitely not that good with words here or her words would be
bound and prepared standing on shelves the world over. At this point they only exist online next
to all the other online documents that content providers share for free with the world here. today
should be the day that the new Bridget jones movie is out, there are fringe thingies happening all
over town, she could venture out into the world and watch all of them. It is better than sitting
here cooped up, you have to go out and join the living here. we have some 94 500 words here,
actually we have exactly 94 500 words. Which is a pretty nice round number, so it seems ah so it
seems here.
d.
quite the rain. Rain and rain and rain here. writing while the rain is coming down. It is all
difficult, in short. Rainy, wet, wet, wet. Not much to say but to complain bout the weather. And
complaining about that is a national pastime in these parts of the world here. on the telly, a man
who talks and a woman who listens, though she listens while looking around. She is much taller
than him, statuesque. He is round and wears glasses. Carlo ponti and Sofia. She is the journalist;
she asks him questions. Btw, the he is a she. Ahem, who would have thought that?
e.
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the hot chocolate drink. Very soothing. Not much to say about a hot chocolatey beverage.
Just the same as all chocolate milks the world over. Sweet, non-bitter. What makes this one
different is that it is devoured in Iceland. That is what sets it apart from the other cocoa drinks.
Location, ah, location, location. The exotic locale, the region so far away from authors natural
digs here.
f.
94 702.
g.
the smell of the train, the upholstery of the train. she should book a flight to Hamburg and
then take the train, this all so that the facts are without any fault. How does the train smell in the
rain. How does the apple crumble cake taste and is there even something like an apple crumble
cake? Yup, this is what we should do while the rain is coming down on Vancouver in September
of 2016, on September 17 to be precise here. she could venture out down to the market, have a
majestic jade tea while looking out at the customers going into the market and coming out of the
market. It is a Saturday afternoon so there will be strong foot traffic here. the greenery is
glistening, all the drops from the horrid rain all day here. actually, the greenery is all bla, sans hilights and lo-lights here, with a tinge, a strand of orange, more yellow than orange, yep, that is
how the greenery is working today here.
h.
94 877 words, oh my, ah my here. the New York art book fair is in full session, author
ponders if this text here is an artist book, she is an artist, this is her book yep ergo artist book
here. maybe tea near the door of the market is the right choice at this point in time here.
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i.
the songs on the telly, the news, not good one. The news is never good, what makes the
ten oclock news is misery. Outside the greenery, with different colorings. Shadows lite. Author
here went out, ventured out, roamed the world only to hang out at the computer here trying to
write up the rest of the novel, homestretch ah homestretch. One could of course argue that this is
not a novel, it never was, it never will be. It is all about which category you pump a text into,
anyhoo, we have 95 029 words here. mostly about three different coffee houses here, one in
Germany, one down in the states and one in iceland here. the coffee place in new York is not
really the main locale, though, it is more about the writing studio, the place where words are put
to paper or should be eventually. The potential words that might or might not be realized. This is
all about the places in between, in between writing spurts. The train that chuggers thru the rain in
order to deliver the writer to the place where she does her writings. The writing can be anything,
nobody cares about that. It is irrelevant what is written, what is important for this story here is
the person who is just before the start line. Like a sprinter who catches herself to start up, at the
point between sitting down and getting ready, just before the starter pistol is throwing the bullet
into the air. The moment before the sprint. Where there is coffee and cocoa or peppermint tea,
maybe chamomile. Yup, that seems to be the subject matter here, though, if push comes to shove,
the subject matter seems to look for the writer here, is finding the writer here. it is a strange and
weird process, on the telly it is the governor of New York, Anthony Cuomo, Andrew Cuomo, the
one who inherited his job from his dad, well, not really, but still but still here.
j.
bankastrati so silently so pensively. Author has her drink, the whip melts, she will go for
a brisk walk, it is good for her body, exercise and the like here. walking by people who speak a
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language different from hers, walking maybe jogging in a place far away from what is home
these days. Or maybe this is her place now, Reykjavik and to be specific this place here near
Bankastrati. The short passage between coffee place and hotel, where the people who live here
permanently never venture. Well, they do, but only for a trip downtown, they then go back to
their residential neighbourhoods. Her life as a tourist, a non-tourist is different. Nomadic and
non-nomadic at the same time. She is here now for thirty days already, she asked for a discount
that applies to people who stay for longer times in the hotel, they are pretty accommodating, they
do not want to lose their customer here. her writings ah her writings. kind of so-so, not that good,
not that bad either. She will try to sell her words at a later point in time, when this text is
finished, rewritten, polished to a nice steady sparkle here. if this will not sell, she will just
selfpublish and call it an artist book, yup, that seems to be as good a plan as any here. bankastrati
is happening as it should, the peaks of whip swim around in the cup silently like little icebergs in
muddy water here. mmmhh.
k.
the train, the rain. The silent chuggering down to the city with the place where they have
crumbs on their apple cake here. 95 549 here, write on and write on and write on here.
l.
union square, the writing studio, she walks just straight by it. There are better places to be
in here in this city. One has to rest in between writingish spurts here. there are fashion shows to
be catched, to be caught, most of them are for industry but there are general public events too
here. she will go online and figure out how to get there. she is getting pretty good at using her
new phone, she gets by without a computer, the phone is her computer, the screen is pretty small
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but one can get by can get by here. she makes her way up fourteenth, she will catch the new
show at the new Whitney here. or maybe just hang in the lobby of the whitney, after all the price
is pretty steep here. all the entrance fees are, after all you can go to a museum if you only do
your planning right. Go on free Fridays or something, or go to a museum that is free anyways.
The one at the fashion institute or the museum of the American Indian. Go to the museum of
natural history or the moma, go when they do not want you to pay. Anyhoo, do something that is
far away from the laptop, have a donut in a donut shoppe here. there is this place near the meat
packing, on jane street, that place where you feel as if you sit in a flowery house here. 53 808, 53
808 here.
m.
a lazy Sunday, still remnances of summer here. she will go down to the market, have a
tea, a soothing one. There is not much pressure in her tire, the low tire pressure light is on. But
you still can use it. Or go down to the chevron station and contort yourself in order to pump the
tire. Which is never that easy here, especially when you are rocking it by ear. There are
calibrators that show you exactly how much pressure is in the tire so that you do not overinflate
nor underinflate here. author does not have one of those and the gas station attendants are not
really helpful here. anyhoo, the telly is singing its songs, it is way too chilly in here, outside it
seems to be warmer warmer here. 95 949 here, 95 949.
n.
the chocolatedrink, sharp sweetness, slow sweetness. Ah how to write poetry about a mug
of cocoa. Seems, that a chocolatedrink is the antithesis to poetry, it is so primal, so clearly
lustfull, happiness inducing. You do not need words to describe it. And you cant. poetic waxing
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is more for describing complicated stuff, not simple pleasures like a hot cup pf cocoa with whip.
And anyways, we have 96 023 here, so time to wrap this up and wrap this up here. for now and
for now and for now and for now here.
48.
Not many pages left to write here. this is coming to an end here. outside, the sun is
shining, this is September 17, maybe 18 here in Vancouver. Her writing spurt is coming to an
end, now it is all about trying to sell the unsellable. Better to clarify this an artist book, an art
book. Something that can be sold at the New York art fair, the one that is held at psi moma or the
one that is new, inaugural and that is just wrapping up in greenpoint. The Brooklyn art fair. There
are other ones, one in LA and one right here in Vancouver. She actually was part of the one in
Vancouver, mainly because they asked alumni to participate. Give us your books, we will put
them on the table with the rest of em, with the rest of the unsellables here. author ponders, if
push comes to shove, she actually has her book standing on a shelf in this place on main street.
This place that has coffee maybe. Where you can read while sipping your cuppa joe. Though
people that read do not sip and they do not drink cuppa joes. you either chug a cuppa joe or you
sip something with a long Italian name that has something lactose-free in it. The categories of
people are very defined and refined. There is no middle ground here. you are either-or. Which
might as well, writers like author here can make it in many worlds. Or in no world for that
matter. Ah, what is your brand, what is your brand here. ehem, it changes by the minute. Not a
good answer. F.
a.
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the day slumbers even though it is hot and humid. Not in Vancouver but in some other
town on this planet here. Vancouver is sleepy as always, at least in her adobes. Sleepy as in
anywhere usa. Suburbia that is part of the city. Quasi burbs meet quasi city. She types up her last
words here, maybe she can finish this up by the end of the day. If you do something in a very
condensed way, then it must be great. Complex ideas come if you do not have enough time to
brood. It is obviously a fallacy, Rome was not built in seven days. Apparently there is a platitude
for everything and anything under the sun here. you can make the case for everything and
anything here. she will go and see SNOWDEN, though it is quite a ride out to the boonies where
the movie is playing. Snowden in a Cineplex, talk about juxtaposition. Hollywood meets dissent,
where did we see that before? Ah, all the presidents men, yup here.
b.
on that note, maybe it is true that Americans are not very nuanced people, they are mainly
either-or people. Noncomplex straight shooters. On the other hand, Canadians, , and this is not
a compliment. Say what you think, goddammit.
c.
as a writer you have to layer your thoughts. After all, you have to fill 300 pages at the
very least here. ah, the trees will cry, cry, I tell yer.
d.
ten and twenty-seven in the morn. After a stint in the coffee place down on arbutus. There
is lots to write about. One should take pictures, videos. Document the coffee place experience so
that you can spit it out on the paper once you are back home. Once it is over. There are green
shoes on a person in dark blue, not grell-green, more like a pastel affair here. grassy green. Easter
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bunny green. On a guy to boot. A burly one with pastel shoes. Pastel coloured ones, dainty ones.
There are other things to describe. The full red beard of the barista, the tattoos. The woman with
glasses who always smiles, who is genuinely friendly here. the coffee place on arbutus, where
everyone knows your name. It is quite a tight-knit community, strung together by coffee. This is
the place in between, where people rush in on the way to somewhere more important. Or where
they linger the whole damn day. And the rain surfs it all together. There are other places like this,
the stations in the mall, the station in the market. Other places where people hang out. the woman
with two small children. She is the only one who has coffee. The children watch. All these
people who have nowhere to be. Retirees, young moms, young dads too. The coffee place at ten
on a Monday, a rainy one in late September. There are stories waiting to be told about this,
intricacies, stories that reflect the culture of this place tucked away in the pacific north west. Her
writing ah her writing. While matlock is all over the telly, the background music for a Monday
morn writer is all intact, all intact here. the words the words the words here. Regional stories.
That reflect on Vancouver. Coming-of-age stories, death stories. There are two hospitals for old
people just in the street nearby. Where people assist you to live. Author still can push the buttons
on her machine, the car moves, though it is about to mow down a biker in yellow who is exactly
the same age as author here, though fitter, what with bicycle and all. She is suddenly there all
grey here and fitness, authors peripheral vision did seize to catch her in time here. and mike
Lindell wants yer to buy my pillow here. 96960.
e.
the everyday, the everyday of writing. In between you have got to hover around
bookstores, there is this one Barnes and nobles which has a second storey where you have your
coffee and look around. Where there is a man who is not wearing his false teeth, you do not see
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that anymore nowadays. Once she saw a woman near Chinatown on the subway, same crumpled
up lower part of the face. Nowadays it is implants or maybe even bridges. Nobody lets all of
their teeth be removed anymore. Well, except for the man in the corner in the bookshop and the
woman near Chinatown here. but this is not what is important, what is is the fact that you sit in
the bookstore. Which is basically the same as the one back in Burnaby. The crowd is different
though, more new yorky. Definitely new yorky. Upper east side, upper west side. Near to Harlem
new yorky. Time stands still new yorky. Author takes out her book, a treatise about finance. By
Tim Geithner. It is more an autobio, about the childhood of the writer far away from the US. He
is a good writer, a fluent one. An easy to read writer here. the coffee house tucked inside the
bookstore is silently happening here. this place has readings by published authors that nobody
has heard of except for the relatives of the authors. There are hip authors, Brooklyn based ones.
People with the whiff of hipsterdom, Williamsburg mavens that kind of frown at these digs that
are more old money more new money. Author has all these classifications straight out of her
American lit class, they are not her categorizations, they are the antiquated thoughts of her so
very vocal prof. but the reality is ah so different here, she was in the Bronx, in a place where
everybody spoke merely Spanish, in a loud laundromat, where a man talked into his cellphone
and laughed. Nobody shooed her away, even though she did not do laundry, she merely was there
to get shelter from the heat, the stinking brooding heat of an august in New York, high humidity
here. this is why one comes to New York, not to see the statue of liberty, nah, it is all about
laundromats around town, the ones that you throw laundry into the machines and the ones that
you just watch other peoples laundry swirl around. The New York of laundromats. Where poets
are born, where writings will be done here. and now the bookstore, storage place for finished
tomes here.
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she will go down to union square, check in at the writing stud. But her writing is done all
over town, on the treks around this city. On the place opposite the Brazilian gelato place near
Elizabeth street, on the bench where the tourists rush by and ask for directions to the millennium
place while programmers work in the internet place and construction workers hammer on boards
inside the room in front of her. Writing in New York is done like that, in the open. You do not
need a writing studio, everywhere is a writing studio. She will take the ferry down to Staten
island, of all the five boroughs that is the one she has never been in. the new Jerusalem, dolly
Parton somewhere in the corner. She finds the vid on her cellphone, Carly something singing in
front of the ferry here.
there are so many bookstores still in this city, the one in SoHo, strand, you can move
from bookstore to bookstore here. you can do readings or you can just start reading loudly in the
corner of the street, not advisable, they will hush you away but then you do not need to fork over
300 bucks for a night in a hotel here.
the bookstore crowd, all fomo, all waiting for something to happen or never ever happen.
New York has its pockets of silence; they are all over all over here. her hotel is in times square,
opposite of the Aladdin place. In the night, the main singer does the autograph thingie, smiles
with all her makeup and scratches her signature onto books in the hands of total strangers here.
there are pink benches now on times square, they are new and comfy, they are over hyped
Hershey kisses in the vitrine at the flagship store here. every store is a flagship store in New York
city, the hype is deafening and deafening here. there is this place named Schwartz on the forth or
fifth floor in a street outside of Penn station, they look after your luggage and they charge ten
bucks per day here. this is New York too, the New York of weary tourists who are overheated and
underpaid here. once that she will sit back in her own place, in front of a telly that sings about
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matlock and perry mason, it will be typing about her summer in the city, her excruciatingish
treks, her ventures into Bronx and Brooklyn, her papaya dog where you only can pay cash, in the
new place near jay street station, where it is either kraut or relish, and where the ketchup bottle
has a so very smiley face, where the man behind the counter has a Brooklyn accent that you can
cut into with knives, so thick it is so thick it is here. she will write about that, about the woman in
a short skirt on an office break, in the triangly papaya dog place here. there are smart-alek
writings all over the place on the walls, just as there are in rice to riches here. t-shirt inscriptions
everywhere.
On the telly, still matlock or some other whodunit here.
The raininess, the greenery.
She can weave memories of her New York summer into this, the springing from place to
place is so illogical, so illogical here.
Maybe she should go back to describing the hot cocoa on bankastrati, now there is a
constant, nothing ever changes in a cocoa drink here.
f.
the rain, the train. There will be apple crumble cake, so we heard here. twenty more
words and this writing spurt here is over, in September, while the rain is coming down on the
city. Ah, the train, the train and the raindrops against the window, slightly diagonal, forcefully
diagonal here. 98 018, ah well oh well here.
49.
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The crumbly cake in the coffee house in the small city in northern Germany. The fork
inside the crumbles. What to make out of this, how to stretch the words, the sentences in
describing this. A writer should be able to do this. It is still morning, maybe later morning. Ten
ten to be precise. She had her daily trek already, one-way. Later it will be back to Hamburg, she
then feels like going to the meister drogerie which is now called meister perfumerie. The city she
used to live in, when she was much smaller, a child. Everything looked different, everything was
bigger. The people still have the same intonations, the same grub in talking. You can hear that
they never ever ventured away, hardly out of the boundaries of their own part of the city. They
sound like the city is supposed to sound. Sailor city. Stadt Hamburg an der elbe auen, the like.
Author digs the silvery fork deeper into the crumbly part of the cake, the one that is above the
apple slices, that are slightly brownish from being inside of the oven, inside of all that heat here.
the fashion woman outside on the other side of the street, she belongs on the runways of Milan or
New York, she should jet set from fashion week to fashion week. Instead she does the small biz
project in this godforsaken place. While tugging at her pillbox hat and fixing the small veil that
covers the upper part of her forehead. Itzehoe is just as Milan as can be, it is these parts Milan.
Who cares that there are no people clapping when she walks around her store, she knows that she
is fashionable and that is more than enough here. she is as much a fashion maven as author here
is a literary power house. It is not about the reads, not about the clicks on her link. It is about
having the right amount of words. The fashion woman looks up for a split-second, then goes
back to fixing the shingle in front of the store. It has to be just right. Her stare up is exactly like
any other model cum designer, you look into the distance, mysteriously and nobody can really
touch your soul. You hold yourself extremely straight, which is actually the antithesis, the total
opposite of the posture of a writer who is hunched in the corner all over a laptop, kind of
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disappearing into the laptop, dissolving into it. A fashion model puts out her body, recks her
neck, holds straight while walking funnily over a runway, walking to who knows where. Author
watches people on runways on her laptop, in nyc fashion week, in London fashion week. There is
always livestream, and the fashion weeks morph into each other seamlessly, there is just one jet
hop over the pond in between September 15, end of new York and September 16, start of London
here. the fashion woman knows all this while tugging at the dresses that are there to be purchased
by the matrons of itzehoe who never fit into those tiny sizes anyways, they will all be squeezed
somehow in. or altered. The idea is to sell small sizes, so that there are jobs for seamstresses to
alter here. fashion ah fashion fashion here.
a.
98598.
b.
a cappuccino instead of the cocoa. Gotta switch it up. The milky coffee, the strong
bitterness of the mocha. Not sweetness of chocolate, bitterness. It tastes more grown up.
Sweetness versus bitterness. Like beer versus wine. Bitter is manly, sweet is dainty. These are
mere things that you swallow. She is no foodie, can hardly distinguish between nuances of
flavour. Not that good an idea for a writer. Writers have to describe layers. That is why they
move to Iceland. The country where there are more writers per capita than anywhere else on the
planet here. that are the stats. Then again, how many persons even speak Icelandic. 300 thou
tops. You have to translate the words into other languages. Into mandarin? Author sips her cap
while pondering in circles. She sits at the window, with the view onto the passers-by on
bankastrati here. people in their summery attires. Young women talking to each other, students.
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School should be out for the summer here. author does not know how that works, she reserves
her google searches for more pressing things. She only has her smartphone up and running, the
laptop is merely a typing machine. A type writer, yup. Life in Reykjavik, you have to be
inventive when you live out of a suitcase here. everything is different. She types up a lot. Words.
She takes pictures and somehow sends them to people. Others who are interested in Iceland. Or
should be here.
c.
the book is coming to an end. On the telly, there is some western. Outside the rain has
come to an end. It is the end of September in this rainy city here. one end of September of many.
Later on, she will walk down to the market or take the car with the flat tire down there. it is not
really flat, just without much air on one side. One cannot feel it, it is the internal machine that
announces it. Makes funny ding ding noises to alert the driver. Has a picture of a half filled
something, a vertical one on the dashboard. And then there is the script announcing low tire
pressure. You cant really miss it. But you can still go down to the market, nothing will happen.
You cannot make it out to Abbotsford or to horseshoe bay, but you can still go down to the
parking lot of the market. Or to the park on the other side of arbutus. To butter, the dainty shoppe
on Mackenzie. Near the dentist. This city is small and big at the same time. There is the villagey
feel, all the lil places next to authors place. Where you can walk to. In order to get away from
the sounds of the telly, get away from the typing machine that has to be constantly fed here. 99
051, wow, a thousand words and this is over. The 100 000 words long treatise, the one that will
be sent out to agents the world over only to be rejected. We dont like it but somebody else will.
No worries. They are always nice and polite, nice and polite rejection people. Professionals.
They will make or break her career as a literary maven. Ah, who wants to be remembered for
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eternity anyways. There is always social media, there is scribd. Put it online, anybody can read it.
The greenery outside is wet and full of shadows. Not detailed ones, but there are differences in
lighting this up. Different shadings of green. Thoughts in greenery here.
some man on the telly is huffing and puffing, a gunshot wound here. suspenseful music.
There are soaps on the telly, but the remote is way too remote from where she is sitting here. 99
2201 here. she will edit this and then go down to the copy-place on Broadway and print it out.
Let them bind it. Online, agent, Xeroxing. There are ways to document her writings, to make it
stick in the world here. her neck starts acting up, this is what happens to writers on a Monday
morn in September. It is actually 12:55, we did a lot of writing here. friends is on, another rerun
here. watch it before mike and molly. The sun is coming out, a change in lighting here. the
brighter greenery.
d.
union square, the walk up fourteenth to the writing studio here. 99 307, not much words
left to be penned. She will walk all the way up to tenth, will then turn towards Chelsea. This is a
walkers city, all you do is walk. Or write. The city for writers and walkers. The united nations
have their general assembly, so lots of places are shut down. Dignitaries have to pass thru.
A woman in white, a man in red. Passers-by. Some with little dogs here. a man in glasses,
a little kid in glasses. She has a jellydonut because this is how we roll. Cops and their donuts,
writers and their donuts. Authors. A day in late September and lots of donuts. And some words
here. she is basically a poet, a poet who stretches her poems into novels. A novelpoem, that is
how all her texts roll here. union square is loud and bustling and people play chess like they
always do. People ask you to join their religions, they are mainluy the three big ones. The sun is
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shining down on union square. The walk up fourteenth is trying, maybe she will just stay here
and soak in the sun. she can always take the l-train. She used to work inside the tunnels of the ltrain, giving out images to strangers. It was an art project with this group out of Brooklyn. She
was with art in odd places. They did not want her this year, their theme is race. Kind of a touchy
subject here. when she did this, the theme was model. She handed out drawings, fashion ones. It
was a lot of fun, very amusing. Interesting. Sometimes even sad. She talked to a woman with a
sick child. There is nothing you can do. Wish for the best. Give her a drawing. There was this
young student who said he did not have space for a drawing in his place. A very space conscious
person, he looked reflective. He just puts stuff in his place that he needs. An engineer maybe, a
budding one here.
yup, the tunnels of the l-train. The ones in Manhattan that is, she did not go down to
Williamsburg for that art project. She went merely to have an uneven waffle at the Swedish
konditori near Bedford station and then went straight back to join the mole people in Manhattan
in all the stations. She never gave out drawings in the moving train. It was a strange art project,
and it was going on for eleven days here. some two or three years ago.
She is still sitting on a fence in union square, the sun is shining, she should have
something in whole foods. Or go to the writingish place. Her words are coming to an end, they
will be bound and sold in strands down the street. Yup, the right kind of marketing will do that.
You just have to peddle your wares here. just like the people, the vendors at the corners of spring
and Crosby. Down in SoHo. They are there everyday, in sunshine in rain. While models are
lining up for a casting call for New York fashion week in front of the Michael kors here. all this
and young and tall and very beautiful. All of them much better than the regular mortals, us
regular joes. Some more words and this story is over. Some more ah some more here. every
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writing spurt has to come to an end, even stories on nyc Vancouver Reykjavik and some place
named itzehoe. A ballad about coffee cocoa and cake here. 99 901, let us stop this ah stop this
here.
e.
eighty words or so and this will silently peeter out. Here on the green couch, while mike
and molly is on. The writings over for months or so. One season in a year. Which means
technically that anyone can produce 4 books per year. If you do that, the writing will get better or
get worse. Or just peeter out here. carl and mike in the diner. Talking about food here. The
Somali waiter, or the one from Senegal. He is in distress and the fat police man says ah that is
tough but could you grab me some cinnamon to sprinkle on the oatmeal here.
f.
100 018 here.
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