Escolar Documentos
Profissional Documentos
Cultura Documentos
1.
The book writer and her book, shmeh, seems to be a good enough title. As good as any.
The day is dreary, grey in a happy way. Next to noon. The coffee house is desolate, maybe
because spring break has set in and the usual crowd from the high school is happily enjoying the
There are persons in the coffee house, the barista who is chipper than usually. The one with lots
The coffee house never ever moves, it stays the same. Once a truck demolished the front door, by
accident. Yelpies gave it good ratings, mostly because of its insignificance. A coffee house on the
way, where people respite on their way to important places. They will fill their important lives
with important stuff, in between they have a curry fajita or a blonde espresso latte. Soy, almond.
The bookwriter would love to buy dinner too in this place, curry fajita and blonde espresso latte.
Which is smooth, so the ad says in bold letters, the one that is plastered on the wall of this coffee
house. She will write one more book, the one that will land her on the bestseller list. The one that
will make her catch the red-eye to New York City, so that she can converse with Charlie. Charlie
Rose, that is, though he seems to be absent these days, sick, maybe.
It is a dreary day, one dreary day of many. She nurtures her cold, the remnants. Well, she nurtures
her getting better, the body that has to sleep it out. There is no fever and if there is, it is hardly
there. The cold that kind of passed her by but that has to be watched. She still feels sick, weird,
not quite there. A glass of wine would be fun, nice, grog, rum. Something with a shot of the Irish
whiskey in it, the fresh one in the fridge. She never drinks, because she does not want to smell
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like a lush. At ten in the morn. There are book writers who refuse to drink, their books suck.
Hard drinking is part of writing. If you cannot hold your liquor, then you are a lightweight in the
world of words.
She has done many NaNoWriMos, it is not November, but it seems to be time to write some 100
She does drawings in increments, one per day on the second floor of the north building of the art
school. In the communal studio that costs her 150 bucks per month.
She does exercise in increments, in order to lose thirty pounds until summer.
2.
Time for Friends, it is after all, thirty-five minutes after noon. The episode where Rachel is in the
coffee house in her brides-gown, she left Barry at the altar or something. Sweet and Low, she
asks the person who hands her a big yellow latte cup. Yup, we all know that she will work here in
Central Perk. All the friendsters are so young here. Daddy, Rachel on the phone.
3.
4.
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And Joey is so young, whereas now that he is a man with a plan, he is all old and grey. He used
5.
Too much TV. Too much coffee. this is how your life passes you by. She will name each chapter
with a number, 1 to 1000, nah, nobody will take her on, you have to do it more on the
conventional side. Writing books, such a weird profession. There are art book fairs, where she
6.
664 words. There is no story-line, there never is. No linear one, at least. She usually just
describes hapless authors the world over. There is a romanticism, a bohemian luster in utter
failure. The gutter of suburbia, where nothing ever happens. Where the new coffee flavor in the
coffee house is the news of the day. Where trash has to be taken out and dishes await to be
washed. Where life is just so, without ups and downs. Where you basically describe stagnation
and just sudden hiccups, short motions, short gallops. Writing is like producing a symphony, it is
7.
Nice, to be interviewed. Nope, this is not the big time as of yet, it is a New England campus in
the middle of nowhere, but it still is a notch on her list. Questions by an over-eager freshman, the
mic that does not work, not consistently that is. The questions are intelligent. She feels nauseous,
she should have had gin or vodka or bourbon in order to live thru the embarrassment. It is
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embarrassing to talk about a book that is not good enough. And no book is good enough.
Besides, she writes about the everyday, the mall, that kind of thing. Lite fair. Nothing deep. She
stays away from the deeper questions, existential stuffi-muffi is not her forte. Her writing is
about coffee and chocolate, about light escapist fare. It is the literary equivalent of a yelp post, a
8.
925 words.
9.
A fast walk thru the mall, she parked next to the department store. The walk by the sweaters in
blue, and then it is down to the purses and the mascara. The perfumes. Out into the mall and
straight to the grocery place. They have a coffee place in there but no sandwiches. She picks out
a sandwich in the deli place, it has beef and cheddar. About five bucks. It is one of those diagonal
ones, not a wrap, not a fajita, burrito, whatever. Diagonal sandwich. Cheese, meat, tomatoes and
a hint of lettuce. Hardly any mayo. Mustard. She had banana bread and coffee and cream in the
morn and now it is a sandwich for lunch. If she goes to bed early, she can skip dinner and thus
there will be a calorie deficiency that ultimately will result in a weight loss of thirty pounds. Give
10.
Story-lines are overrated. Story arcs, huh, that is not how real life happens.
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12.
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14.
1129 words.
15.
1132 words and counting. It is later in the day, after playing around with Instagram and after
buying one of those big sugar cookies from the Butter bakery, she might as well type some more.
It is still light outside what with daylight savings time. Yup, it is sunny longer here. She ponders
what she can read into this fact. Something philosophical maybe.
16.
Hawaii blocked Trumps travel ban. A judge there. The news is out of Boston, where it is now
eight. Not five as it is here on the west coast. Her writing, her writing.
17.
The life of a writer, maybe this is what this is all about. This is the way she will market this. Ah,
18.
Still some words and then she might go out once more. To the gym. She would love to have the
energy to move, to bike, to run on the treadmill. But she is kind of collapsing inside, you cannot
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really will a cold out of your system. She has to stay put, even though it is boring. The telly will
entertain her and that should suffice here. A hot coffee would be good, in the coffee place on
Arbutus. When she writes, all she wants is to go and sit around coffee houses. The story of coffee
19.
1367 words. During National Novel Writing Month, she usually feeds 1700 words to the
machine each and every day. That will produce 50 000 words in one month.
20.
I am once more writing a book. Yup, this is her declaration to the world. It is February Sixteen,
nope, wait, March Sixteen and I am once more writing a book. At least this is what she tells
herself. Today is her second day of book writing. She hovers at eight in the morn around the
coffee house, watches people come and go. The person in front of her left his credit card in the
machine and the barista calls him out for that. Now there is a whole story in that. The narrative of
The day is reluctantly rainy, there is a ballet student in the shop. The book writer soaks in the
goings-on, she will splash that into the machine at a later point here.
1531 words.
21.
Lots of days have passed her by since her last writing stint. But maybe today is a good enough
day for producing some words here. She feels sick, too much Nutella and too much cheesecake.
Or what passes off as cheesecake in the Chinese bakery in the mall in the other city. The
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renovated one. Not the mall, the bakery. It is part of a chain and their cakes are fluffy and not too
sweet. There is a bakery like that in each and every mall in the Lower Mainland. Author ponders,
eating this much is not good. You have to bring the volume of your food intake down in order to
lose weight. Or exercise more. There has to be a calorie deficit. All her life she ponders how to
construct the perfect figure. It never works, she wanders thru this world as an overly chubby
creature. There is always too much polstering between bone and skin. Sometimes, some blessed
very short moments she reaches perfection but than it is back to the land of the fat. Writing about
dieting or non-dieting, for that matter, that should be her subject matter. That will position her
next to John Cheever and Hemingway. Norman Mailer. George Orwell. Oscar Wilde. The
virtuosos of the English language. Men, for the most part. Fitness and exercise, she will not
succumb to talking about girly stuff. Nope, she is a writer and writer can write about anything
and everything, the words are splashed at whatever, gender specific or nongenderspecific.
Besides, there are mags like Mens Health, if anything, men are more worried about their
waistlines than women. Besides, it is a medical issue, not a cosmetic one. Health. You can be a
health nut whoever you are. It is an equal opportunity endeavor, the quest for the perfect figure.
The perfect number on the scale. The one that will guarantee optimum life span. MDs die too.
She ponders, her writings about weight are not very logical. There are holes in her
arguments. As a fat person, you should just shut up. Your views do not count because your figure
shows that you are a failure at food intake. There is a right way of doing things and a wrong way
of doing things.
22.
It is rainy outside, drizzly, grey. A day for writing. A coffee house would be better, you can write
better in a coffee house. The words flow better. Here inside there is 2 Broke Girls and laugh
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tracks. Alcohol is what makes the words fall in place. Beer, Schnapps. If you are non-drunk that
you are a lightweight in the world of literature. You are non-bohemian, non-romantic. You walk
in the mall before it opens up in order to lose weight. Mall walkers cannot be artistes. The
landscape of American literature is very well-defined, there are poets and non-poets. You cannot
be a chubby housewife that produces amazing word concoctions. You cannot mix words in the
right percentage. The right percentage, what does that even mean? The right amount of
prepositions per sentence. The good adverb. Oscar Wilde said that it took him one whole day to
put a comma in, only to use up another day to take the comma out. That is how art works. Yup,
23.
She lives in the wrong city for art. New York, New York, Sinatra had it right. You have to leave
Hoboken. And every field has its Hoboken. You cannot make it if you are far away from the big
city. The metropolis. It can be St. Petersburg or the next village behind the hill. You cannot write
in boonytown, in Hicksville. You need to leave your own four walls in order to peddle your
wares. Be they words, ideas or paint on canvas. Her philosophical mumbo-jumbo is poorly
written. She used to be good, eloquent. A man of words. Maybe a woman of words. Those days
are gone. Now she merely hiccups, she is a caricature of her former self. Everything is going
straight downhill. The words cluster around, clump, holper onto the monitor.
24.
2234 words.
25.
2237.
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26.
DEADLINESZ. That is where it is @. If you do not have deadlines than you are a mere hobbyist.
James Taylor said that those fascinated hobbyists are the best, the ones who are driven by their
passions. But that might not be true, they will never become professional. If there are no
deadlines, then there is no real input. You cannot do the work without deadlines. Instagram
accounts are beautiful, they are driven by passion, all 500 million users the world over.
27.
DEADLINES, at a later date she will explore that theme in depth. At this time, shed rather
28.
For some eerie reason both Seinfeld and Big Bang Theory have their oddball characters played
by lanky tall white guys with dark hair. Kramer and Sheldon. The world of sitcoms.
29.
She just partitions her words into little chunks and numbers the passages. Very impromptu
writings, this will not cut it, will not land her an agent in midtown. Her words will not be
published to the world, at least not in book form. Issuu and scribd will have to do and maybe that
30.
2445.
31.
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How to be a philosopher king while watching Penny and Sheldon and eating Nutella. Spooning
32.
So why is it not philosopher queen? Nietzsche lost his mind or did he? Well, you can google
33.
34.
She could walk to the elegant liquor store on 41st and buy red wine and make that yummy red
wine cake.
35.
Somehow, this day is suffocating her, she is slowly and steadily losing her mind. It is the
greyness of the day, the constant greyness, of this city, the April showers that will bring May
flowers, eventually. The question is, how do you survive April without jumping of the next
36.
Her writing is never up, it is there to bring the reader down. Writers sit in their lil chairs and
type, their fingers hurt, especially the knuckle of the right hand. And the majority of em is not
ambidextrous. This famous agent cum writer. Zuckerberg or something, posited that writing is
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37.
She quotes persons left and right and center, she is never right. The quotes are all skewed up.
38.
39.
2681.
40.
Aced it.
41.
2685.
42.
Back @ the computer to pen the masterpiece, her masterpiece. Outsides, still dreariness, the
dreariness that sets in on this day in April, the first third of April, the later half of the first. April
six, April seven. There is the thesis thingie at the art school, in the room on the second floor of
the north building. Young minds defending their projects, without legal counsel. My thesis, a
country 4 my thesis. They all have wonderful portfolios online, the right pics, not scattered stuff
all over the web. Everything housed nicely in one place, like an amazing portfolio in a black
case. The physical arranged virtually, brick and mortar digitally. Words are like that but they are
not. Hers will be a book, something between pages, 300 leaves of mulched trees, ready to take
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with you wherever you want. Her life in ten volumes, her notes, her observations. The journal,
She should go back to the world of the visual, what is she even doing in te world of words.
Performance, drama, writing. These are not her worlds, she puts down marks on surfaces. Mark
making, what a weird word, well, technically two works. De Kooning was a master marks man.
Art writing, yup, she could do that. Write lil ditties about the new masters, the old masters. Long
ago, she used to read those in the womans mag that was published back in her hometown. So
In the morn she was in the coffee house. It was brimming at its seams, it was ten. People gather
around 4 some warm drink at exactly ten. They have breakfast at six, at eight, and at ten they
come together. People behind her were talking about children, coaching little league and the like.
A man who looked more like a pedophile than a trustworthy adult was spouting off about
pedagogy. In a grey black woolen coat, his hair was combed back as if he was David Bowie
A woman in dark glasses was waving author into the wrong parking space. Author bought a
wrap, Thai-something.
The gas station and the coffee house, this is where it is all happening. People between gigs,
between youth and the grave. There are three old peoples homes next to here, two or maybe
three. The supermarket is under construction, the dance place is open. This is suburbia or
something so next to it. The city that has the burbs hovering and flapping around. The rain that is
coming down and that can be heard thru the fireplace that never ever works. Once there was a
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hapless squirrel caught in between chimney and the hole downstairs, its shrieks were frightening,
a man with a net came and rescued it. Happy endings here and we write, we type here.
43.
Later in the day but not late enough. The telly and its songs. The greenery outside and the little
dots of light against the slightly moving grasses. The poet and he laptop. How can you wax
poetically against the never-ending voice of Anderson Cooper? You need to watch ballet in order
to write beautiful word sequences. Author here reads thru yelp-reviews of pubs in her old
neighborhood, somewhere on the Eppendorfer Baum or the Eppendorfer Weg. You need a
kneipe, you need alcohol for fashioning the right amount of words, the right tone, the right tint.
Author read about books that explain the drunk writer as a myth, they write even though they are
drunks. But that is not how it is, you need the shakiness of a boozer to write well. If you are not
boozing then it follows that your writing is ah so subpar. She has now some 3000, some 4000
words here, she does not paint nor does she draw, hers is the writers studio, the writers lab. On
the telly, Rubio, little Rubio to quote Trump here. Degrading your opponents to get somewhere.
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The rain and how it is coming down. Storis to tell about that. The rain-ined coffee shop. Too
many people, too many cars. The bursting, the bustling coffee house. The woman, all blond, all
disapproving. Can you not churn your own damn cuppa joe? The drive back thru the rain, the
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greyness and the one lowly yellow poncho rushing thru the down pur, next to green bushes,
green alleys. The sitting back here in front of the typer, fashioning immortal words that school
children in third grade will recite. Maybe ninth grade. A journal that somehow will make it to
ttype-setting, to publishing. Everybody can write a journal. But the trick is how to market tose
words. In the nite, she read about this woman who teaches at Princeton and who wrote so many
many books. Google authors and there are all kinds of ballads about em. The artistes, the one
that the internet notices. I was noticed on the web. Promote yourself wit a click of the mouse. It
is not even a mouse anymore, it is this bumping down on the rectangle beneath the keyboard, the
keyboard that someone purchased at Costco. Writing while the water is coming down, but in here
tere is nothing, the world has stood still, outside it is all ewarter pusing down, cars rushing tru,
peopke running after ot cupa joes and cuppa teas. Iin here, silenzio, and the gurgle of the
teamachine every now and then. Outside, there are people in the malls and people in the gyms,
there are buses to be taken, trains to be boarded, downtowns just waiting to be explored, airports
for hanging out. People, in transit, rushing purposefully from place A tp place B. the day before,
she was at a symposium, so many many owerpoints, so much to see, so much to listen to, it will
take years to digest this. The art school is exactly how author here left it, same people, nobody
ever ever leaves. A cult that will move to its new destination in late summer. Once the new model
is up here.
Her words, her writings. The coffee was seemingly hot, disturbingly hot. Hotter than usual.
There are many words to describe that, paint with words, why dont ya. There could be a
question mark or there could be afull stop after ya. She listened to this editor who talked about
discussing the finl version of catch 22 with joseph heller. We were like surgeons discussing what
to do next what is good for the patient which was the text. Robert gottlieb and joseph heller. You
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do not need to write, you can just follow the great, that is what google is for. Handke, Nietzsche.
All men, always all men. And just in between, the woman in white on the third floor in Amherst.
Yup, she likes those stories, how is it that words are made. Who are those persons who write.
What do they have for coffee, which kind of blend. Favourite ice cream flavor. The people who
awrite. Ms oates chose to be a writer. Author here is no ms. Oates, writing chose her. Beckettt
used two languages, saadi did too. She knows a tad about writers but all the narratives mingle
together. Mish. In the middle of the nite she was all up and there was this repoptage about a
coffee shop that has thrirty kind of mish. You have mish while you wait for the train into the city.
46.
On the telly, a food show. A woman, a spoon, spices, music in the back and her talking while
turning the spoon against the sparkly pot. Who cleans those pots and makes them that shiny?
The Saturday marches forward, the water from the heavens has seized to prassel down, slight
lights in the distance. Maybe the clouds will eventually let the sunb thru.
Author made her way to the gym and to the mall, so many many people in the mall, young ones
old ones and the woman behind the pizza counter said you are usually here in the morn. Well,
ten, but not today. Butterchicken, nope, give me garlic, with mushrooms. They have the bestest
pizza in town, very saucy and mozzrellayi. Pizza heaven. Thre is pizza and then there is pizza.
By the cinnebon place, thinking of c.k.lewiss bit about the cinnamon rolls. So funny, haha laugh
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The movie plex, too full with humans, you need a tad less persons inside of the movie theater.
The woman talking about Punjabi cooking, some notes of cardamom, she is no nigella,
apparently. She is more a scholar, an anthropoigist and her voice does not have lows and highs. It
47.
languishing ly. Something with lang. there should be stuff one could do, go to the whiskeycorner,
whishkey pint, whiseyrow that the guy in the documentary about Chicago talked about. On the
telly, two and a half men, nope, two broke girls. Always something with two. Laughtracks here.
The sign of Williamsburg in the back. Verything next to Bedford station, get there on the L-train.
48.
Later in the day. No more rain outside. A reluctant weather, a tad bright, but more in a muffled
way.
49.
Maybe she should call this the weightloss diaries. A journal of her weight loss journey. Not that
she has lost weight as of yet. The scale stands at 193 pounds. She should stand at 125 pounds. A
long journey. She started by getting up first thing in the morn, jumping into her car, having a
coffee and a small baked-goods thingie and then it was to the Y on fortyninth and the jumping
50.
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After that it is up to the mall and mall walking. She schlepps herself around the place, she
manages eight times, though the goal was ten times. Her right knee is giving out, nope, make that
te left knee. She is not able to do it ten times. The knee hurts way too much. She has food too, a
sandwich, and icecream. Shee has had all the calories for the day, 1600, by ten in the morn. She
now can just type her stories and wait until it is the nesxt day, to once more do the exercise
thingie, to once more do the eating thingie. Portion control. That is fine, but is it really ok to have
all the portions in one sitting. Losing weight is weird and nobody really knows how it workds
here.
51.
A Sunday in front of the telly, cnn and gps, fareed Zakaria. The last seven minutes of it. Outside,
a tad more sunniness ten the day before. She has 4533 words, her amazingish master piece. This
will be up to 100 thou in no time hre. 100 000 words that she will send out to be published.
Nobody will publish it but that has nothing to do with the caliber of her writing here, the market
is just not yet ready for her amazing stuff. Her insights. Ahead by a century. That was the song
out of kinsgton.
52.
Lady gaga, the rolling stines, tere is some cdocumentary about people who sing into mics.
53.
The telly is ah so annoying here, somebody is listening to the message on the phone. Too many
sounds in here. Ashe has to go out into some coffee house, strangers with coffee make you write
amazingish texts. Your own four walls are not conducive to great stuff.
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54.
It is eleven ay em.
55.
4676.
56.
If she produces two pages per day, she will have a book of 300 pages in how many days? Writing
is all about math. How many words, the wordcount, ah. Somebody has to print thi put and bind it
and market it. She will just it in abookstore and sign her copies.
Publishing in the days of the digital. Publishing is dead, long live publishing. The big six are
alive and well, people still buy books. Books are still big biz. There are libraries everywhere,
universities. The knowledge industry. Author here definitely does not write knowledgeyish stuff,
this is not factbased rsearch. It is the accumulation of words, poeticish waxing. An amalgamation
of short utterings. Typed neatly from left to right. In English. Well, there is a market for this, a
competitive one. There are many many writers, so many many authors. Walk into any coffee
house in Chelsea, there are persons typing away. People with glsses and sans glasses. Four-eyes
and non-foureyes. Everybody who is anybody is penning a film script here. A play for broadway
or off-Broadway. Annefrank above o bowling alley. Author watched one too many big bang
episodes here. She overuses the word HERE. That happens always when she is out of stuff to
say.
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