wednesday

it is wednesday, 12:50 PM, sometime late january, somewhere on granville island. the somewhere is actually the painting studio on the fourth floor of the south building. there is noise, there is sound, there is boredom, nothing worth to describe. on my right, on my left there is an exhibition, but i prefer to look @ the keyboard, which is ever so slightly filthy, with sprinkles of paint, there is the potential of a great text, a great stab @ painting, there is the wish, the want, the yearning 4 great art. everywhere here. She is more interested in the aesthetic value of this keyboard, of the coke bottle near the monitor, the city of glass poster outside of the glass door (glass/glass-how so very funny). the person walking by, the click-clack of the overhead, the voice of a saw screeching, someone walking. It is slightly silent, slightly loud, something clicks, some more sawing. maybe in the wood workshop, those canvas thingies are assembled. They have a name but who really cares. she is hogging this computer while looking @ the security phone. No one complains, though, the screech of the saw makes her nervous, screeches up and screeches down. She writes shitty poetry, but poetry nonetheless.