nasrin khosrowshahi and dostojevsky

YALETOWN

Blue hat, blue stockings, the woman ducks behind the silent-white wedding cake, in the

little cake shop, it is a yaletown Saturday, Vancouver, so very post-olympic. The

February is not yet full-blown, just slight hints of a year to come.

She ponders, is pissed-off, her years have passed her by. Middle age, empty nest, the like,

the like. Hints of dislocation, it is time to reinvent yourself. Her films are rejected, her

queries ignored. Her paintings rot in the basement.

The woman looks at her foret noir cake, lots of whipped cream, the slight, so very petite,

so very thin woman behind the counter suggested a cup of water, the cake is too rich, too

rich. Lunchtime in Vancouver, grease, sugar, the day marches forward. Time to leave this

place, to pay, to catch the bus on seymour, to make one’s way to the other side of the

bridge.

GRANVILLE ISLAND

A lowly raven on top of the ocean factory, the painter looks up at the bus on the bridge,

he takes off his grey and pink checkered jacket, he has to go up to the studio on the fourth

floor, put some brush strokes on the small canvas, that hovers in his locker, he ponders if

he should change his major. Painting seems too slow, too slow.

RICHMOND

The woman in the white shirt types away, types away. Her words are pretty bad, she will

never make it in literature land. Dostojevsky she ain’t, that’s for sure. She looks at her

chamomile tea, near the black laptop, in the back corner of the starbucks on minoru road,

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nasrin khosrowshahi and dostojevsky

the one where suburbia is happening, heavily. She should drive down to tsawwassen, visit

a friend, but typing seems to be more fun, the possibility to be the next tai yin, the

possibility of reading in front of a crowd, appreciative or otherwise, a hiccup in a white

pickety existence, for moments, for moments.

YVR

The girl with the green and red leggings, in pink rain boots, the black touque, fashionably

on the back of the hair, falling down, but still holding onto the scalp, she whushels thru

the volumes, a red book, catches her eye, the writer is her age, but he has published seven

books already. Talk about prolific, the tale seems to be so very predictable though,

regurgitation of blue velvet, of mary chapin carpenter’s house of cards, the eternal story

of the chaos, disaster, catastrophe beneath the surface, it is the story of our existence,

death lingering under life, dark under light, sorrow after happiness. Or something like

that, the girl in the green and red leggings does not know that much about literary forms

and if push comes to shove, she doesn’t really give a shit.

NYC

He likes this room, very fashionable address, midtown manhattan not quite, more leaning

down to the east village, the right kind of address for a literary agency startup. He used to

be the darling of the bookworld, he had his own imprint, he was on Charlie Rose. Now,

well, e-books did him in. or maybe he did not run fast enough, who knows; he still has

what it takes, at forty-four he will find the next talent, how tough can it be, he knows the

right people, the right restaurants, the right addresses. He knows, who’s who, the only

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caveat being, that he used to be part of the who’s who. He used to be king, not

kingmaker.

YALETOWN

The woman in the blue hat is still struggling with the black forest cake, she likes it here,

she can look out the window, play around with the crumbs, this seems to be a nice shelter

from the rain, which started to drizzle down on the city, the city that is always awash in

rain, the blue hat-ed woman likes it here, the smallish coffeeshop, the slight and reluctant

day, the sleepiness that is not yet there. She might write a poem, why not, why not, why

not?

OAKRIDGE

Too much noise, the dragon dancers are a tad too loud, too many people, too many

people. Escape down onto the Canada Line, just drive around, just drive. Let the train

take you, go, wherever it takes you, you have a baby blue bus pass, a day on the city

train, why not, why not, why not?

THE TYPEWRITER

The author bangs the keys, she had enough of describing all these different scenes, all

these different persons, she knows, there is no narrative, no protagonist, no antagonist, no

forceful motioning forward, no gripping story, no cliffhanger, none, zip, zilch. Her words

are blah at best, they refuse to make it, refuse, refuse. Her story is a non-story, the

drizzles of paint on a canvas on the ground, in a garage somewhere in the Midwest, she

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nasrin khosrowshahi and dostojevsky

will be suffocated by her inability to choose the right words, the ones that will resonate

with a publishing culture that does not want her, she feels like barfing all over the white

keybard in the art school, she feels the force of the tears that wanna spurt out, she looks

up at the thick steam outta the ocean factory. And she types and types and types some

more. Slight incoherent words. Whimpering along, whimpering along.

@ THE LETTERBOX, ON LARCH

The woman in the blue hat is wearing a red hat today, her blue hat is tossed into a corner,

she slides the envelope thru the slit, maybe THEY will publish her poem. She stomps

back home, thru the pouring rain, dreams of fame, of fortune, she weeps slightly, her days

pass her by, time to go down to the coffee shop in yaletown, time to dig into the whipped

cream of the foret noir cake, somewhere in the back, ducking behind the wedding cakes,

while rain pours down, while rain pours down.

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