hangin’ out in her ol’ diggz nasrin khosrowshahi

so she sits here, stalling in her old alma mater, not knowing what to do. Thus, she finds herself in

front of the computer in the art school library, might as well pen another master piece. 300 pages

of fall, double-spaced, times new romanish, an account, a journal, something, something. Outta

art school, spring, summer, fall and winter. She is getting very fluent @ querying nyc agents,

when her epic is penned she could easily query 50 agents simultaneously. Someone will take her

up, someone will, someone should. After all, she manages to start most sentences with a

capitalized word, put a small dot @ the end of a sentence, what more do you need, what, what?

She usually writes everything in English, which is good, you know, sticking to the same

language throughout a text, that might help, infusing the text with an illusion of coherence. She

ponders, is it more lucrative to write in English or in Icelandic, what with foreign rights and

stuff? Well, at least she has a quasi-exotic name, you know, the other, the other. Then again, you

might not have sat thru endless reiterations of what passes as cultural theory these days, a

biologist does not really know what the term “the other” means. Well, neither does the author,

but she has a BFA, a freshly minted one, the problem is, of course, that most ppl don’t know

what a BFA is. The author scratches her head, she stares down at her ruby red fingertips, the

ones with MAC nailpolish. The author ponders, does everyone know what MAC is? Make-up

artistry corporation maybe, the author ponders, if she is writing 4 posterity. Will her writing be in

the pantheon of writing, does she have the “je ne sais quoi” of an Oscar Wilde, a Tolstoy. She

ponders, the only difference between her and Homer is gender and breathing. Yep, that must be

it must be it must be it. So, writing, huh. No more drawing 4 her, the world has lost an illustrious

illustrator. Has gained an illustrious writer. The world the world the world. Her writing is pure

genius, no more self deprecation, only boosting and bragging. The writer in fall. Typing and

typing and typing. Someone might shoo her away from this computer, she is not a student here,

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hangin’ out in her ol’ diggz nasrin khosrowshahi

not anymore, not and not. An alma matrix, alma materian, who makes up these quasi-latin

phrases? Who and who and who.

The author ponders, she will send this off to the agent in brooklyn, who practices the mandolin

or to the one who changed companies in September. To the one with the authoritarian voice, to

the one who used 2 be an editor and on Charlie Rose. To the ones who started their own

publishing company, full of social justice books 4 the white guilt crowd. She ponders, yep, that

should do it, throw around terms like white guilt, left and right and center, make sure that you

manage to insult everyone, ah, everyone. You are no Seinfeld, lady, not yet, not yet. Ah. She

types, types, slithered off-course, maybe sticking to one theme would be better, betta. Women

peruse the art mags, ah, ladies, don’t waste your time in art skool, artists, they don’t make

money, don’t, don’t. they have rewarding careers, but no money, none, zilch. The author

ponders, how much of an advance do expiring authors get? Ok, it is aspiring, but expiring seems

to be anything but a Freudian slip. She types, types, types, one twenty in the art skool, her back

to the ocean factory, September the thirteenth, ah, 13, the big 13. Author ponders, is this too

much for stream of consciousness-writing, to the edge of unconsciousness? Her typing sucks, so

does her writing, whiffs of Kerouac and Capote, she should stop to read up on the gossip-

columns of dead writers. She should pen monstrous epics in Azeri, why English, ah, why, why?.

She feels dislocated, diasporic, ah, a happy fish outta water, gasping 4 air, gasping 4 air. She

ponders, she should play up the “fish-outta-water” aspect, it would have a big market share.

Everyone can relate, everyone, everyone. We have to target everyone. Everyone is a potential

customer. She types, types.

Put this on scribd, it is not just a vanity press, she types and types and types. A day in her old

alma mater, words that splash onto the monitor, coherence, a tad, a tad. She longs for paint

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hangin’ out in her ol’ diggz nasrin khosrowshahi

brushes and black stick figures that march over white monitors, feels like crying, ten years down

the drain, ah, art school, art school. Confusion is so very palpable, she is outta words, outta

words.

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