Note to self 1

Private Eye.

Today at work Robert showed me a sign on the back door to the shop that I had never noticed, even though I had seen it a million times. It is for William J. Burns International Detective Agency. William J Burns was the Director of the Bureau of Investigation, which came before the FBI during the 1920's. He was a former Secret Service agent. Here's the shop door:

The best part is, the metal gromet looking thing to the right of the red sign IS A PEEPHOLE! MYSTERIES!

Nation Run 2008!

So Ken Stannard, (my long time summer camp friend and the only person I have ever known that I can actually visualize being a superbly content cruise director) is running across America. He's doing it right now, and it's amazing!

Check out their progress on http://www.nationrun.com and see if they are coming to a town near you! Let them sleep on your floor!


"San Diego, I am coming for you, and I'm going to dance in your ocean."

Brilliant.

Life.

Sunday morning, 2/17

Hunter gatherers.

Introducing the finished product of the first design/print collaboration between Taylor and myself, the 2008 Collectors Night invitations for the Visual Arts Center of Richmond. 1,000 of these were mailed out last week, and frankly I feel proud and rosy cheeked:


Illustration and design: Me
Printing, Cutting, folding, rounding, being awesome: Taylor

Oh, Vicious Viscosity.

Also, what if the viscosity of water changed, and it no longer was able to flow through our taps? I had a dream about this, and am now completely pre-occupied. Things change their properties all of the time, WATER DOES. What if this whole system of underground life delivery tubes we had was CLOGGED UP?

I'm sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I've been looking at my father's art lately:

When hormones ATTACK!

I'm really interested in pheromones.

There's this recurring thing that happens, during the time of the month where I absolutely feel the most disgusting, the least attractive, the grossest ever, when my brain chants:
"how-can-I-go-out-in-public-everything-fits-me-like-a-burlap-sack..."

It's during that time that I get the most brazen attempts by men. For example, just now, when I was sitting at the front desk and a man walks out of his class and we have this exchange:

Him: Hey girl.
Me: *looking up from google reader* Oh, hi!
Him: You don't need a jacket? You're not cold?
Me: I have a secret space heater back here, I'm fine.
Him: Oh, hah! I was gonna say it was because you were so HOT, because DAMN!
Me: *Choking and exclamatory* OH! Well!
Him: I know, corny.
Me: *Throwing hands up* Whatever works!

In the past, this usually only happens at gas station, so I thought that maybe my scent mixed well with diesel or something. I'm going to have to re-examine this issue. I'll keep you posted.

the jolly postman

Almost 80 letters are off in the mail, and hopefully one is on it's way to YOU.

Here's hoping you participate.

xo.

Submission request.

Friends.

I require your assistance for a project.

For further information, please email me at Jackie@prettysillythings.com with the best address to send a letter to.

You won't regret it.

I wish I believed.

When I was little and catholic, my mother and I used to go to Ash Wednesday mass together. I don't remember anything about what it meant, or why it was so important.

I remember her pulling down the visor mirror in our mint green 1984 Honda though, touching up the ash mark on her face, wiping away the smudge.

I am trying so hard not to draw a conclusion from everything I think.

From sunflower Sutra.

...Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a

flower? when did you look at your skin and

decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?

the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and

shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?

You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a

sunflower!

And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me

not!

So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck

it at my side like a scepter,

and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul

too, and anyone who'll listen,

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread

bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all

beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed

by our own seed & golden hairy naked

accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black

formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our

eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive

riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening

sitdown vision.

Allen Ginsberg

Who wants to drive to Savannah with me in April?

I'm taking a vacation.

frizzy susie.

Every morning I sit in front of the window that faces the alley and blow dry in a towel.
This means that about once a week, someone sees me and thinks that I am sitting there, naked.

That's alright.

I always spell it moustache.

Handlebar mustaches are no laughing matter.

This morning I rode three miles on my scooter in the frozen air, and when I was almost to where I was going I thought my skin would ignite, it was burning so fiercly where exposes to the wind. A lot of things feel that way, lately. Close to ignition.

At the drugstore as I was being rung up, I watched an old lady get caught shoplifting. This is a strangely bitter day, so far.

On the plus side, i'm wearing a fake nose ring and every person who stares at it and doesn't say a WORD makes me laugh SO HARD when they walk away.

For liam.

It is strange, how tragedy can rearrange the days.

I had a brother, in secret.
No one knew that he had a name, but us. We were sworn to hold the name
Behind our tongues, to tread water, keep my mother afloat.

It was the kind of secret that is like holding your breath,
a burning, expanding monster that gnaws away at your throat.
That takes your words.

We found out on a Friday afternoon, and the weekend passed,
With no sign of daylight, and no sleep,
There was no way to pretend.
And so it all feels like one long day, and the only moment I can seem to remember
is when my father collapsed in the door frame, under the weight of all that nighttime that was all around us.
I watched him there, in a heap on the floor, and I realized that it was Monday,
And that I should be in school, and he at work.
As if someone had flung up the shades, I saw us there
in the mottled sunlight the screen door let in.

There we were, and we were never the same.

Someone is clearly asleep at the wheel, here.

Wait, seriously?

THIS IS MY STUDIO?

Growing pains

Michael is moving up and moving out and I am feeling sad and nostalgic. I am enamored by our quick close friendship, and I'm glad that it's not ending and he's not moving away.

I am also realizing that when people ask me what I make and what sort of artist I am, i stutter and fumble and end up sounding like I don't know what I'm talking about, rather than just being straight up and opinionated. I know exactly what i'm talking about.

I sold 35 necklaces at Bizarre Market in three weeks, and two days ago I moved into my Visarts studio.

Most things are coming up roses.

7:15

I just came over here to blogspot avenue to type a one sentence entry that went like this: "I get so psyched whenever I am in a SAMETIME picture!"

Then it occurred to me, that maybe I should tell you what it is, and spread the word!

SAMETIME 7:15 collaborative photography project that my friend Michael is 1/6 in, they take a picture at 7:15 every day, and it's deliciously addicting, especially if you like to know all of the facts, like I do. It's interesting how boiled down it makes everything seem, when you are forced to pinpoint only one moment of each day as a representation.

Check it out at: http://www.sametime715.com

There's a picture of me while talking about my hatred for Napoleon Dynamite, and I just look so satisfied with myself. Michael just looks delighted.

She gets her own entry.

Chinatown, San Francisco.

San Francisco, Part One!

Back on the east coast!

Hello friends!

I've been out of touch for the past four days because I was in the middle of a canyon in Monterey County, California, where the mountains meet the shore, and we had no electricity or cell reception. I came back dirty, sleepy and in love with California. I also met a man named Bamboo Harry who was a dream come true. I can explain that in person, if you like.

Also, I ate seafood.

More later!

Alcatraz is awesome.

I'd love to post some pictures of San Francisco, but I can't find my USB cord.

California is so pretty, and the weather is perfect. Being with someone elses' family for more than a day is really hard and I am exhausted. Currently I feel homesick and a little bit sad. I miss lots of Richmond things and people.

I am in a very small hotel room with two boys, one of which sprays axe body spray on himself as if he is trying to apply an even coat of spray paint. In one way I am grateful that this person is not my boyfriend, but the fact that he is not also makes it an unapproachable topic.

I am such a baby.

I saw Juno tonight, it made my heart feel warm and at the end I was un-chatty, a phenomenon rarely experienced by those who know me.

Merry Christmas, friends, I love you very much. I'm thinking of you, amongst palm trees and trolley cars with santa hats on them.

Infinite.

Last night was so fun, I am love with everything, and I think it shows too much, but who cares, right? I am giddy. Heres to more nights where I have to walk my around town, rather than ride.

This lady at 1708 tried on my helmet and told me that she "loved that i waltzed in to the gallery with a helmet." Oh shush. She was wearing a fur, I bet she would be embarrassed if she saw this:



I am not applying to grad school.
Visarts gave me and Abby the Artist in Residence studio until, most likely, the fall.
I am making things all of the time, and I love it.

Things are good good good.

Cold seat, warm heart.

Silly frost, you won't keep me away.

(Right after I took this picture I put a huge crack in the plastic front of my scooter when I accidentally turned the throttle while pushing my scooter through the yard. Awesome start to the morning. Not.)

Scoot scoot.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Tweet tweet!

Grace Street Overlook, Church Hill

Last night while doing a video scavenger hunt with Michael, I realized that this is my favorite place in Richmond, and if you want to go there with me sometime at sunset, I will show you why.

Also, we will hopefully have some video clips in the showing tonight at Gallery 5, including such money shots as:
1. My Mariah Carey impersonation, while driving
2. Michael's favorite alley in Richmond
3. My favorite person in Richmond (Hint: He's black and he swats at children with a tennis racket)
4. Loud and badly sung christmas carols with majestic river views
5. The most awesomely decorated christmas house we have ever seen.

In addition, the Liz King artist talk is tonight at the Visual Arts Center. Come, let's be friends!

teeny tiny light

I spent last night making a macro light studio out of:
a cardboard box (free)
3 sheets of tracing paper (@ 26 cents each)
masking tape (free)
white posterboard (free)

Then I played with it, and:

Fun fun.

All Beings Becoming

Dear hypothetical reader,

I am sorry for the severe lack of actual content, but preparing for the re:open! weekend at The Visual Arts Center of Richmond had, for a little while, taken my brain away.

After two fancypants galas (both of which I got too silly drunk and laughed too loud but felt good so who cares, maybe?), and almost 9 hours of teaching a workshop to over 200 people, I spent Saturday night and all of Sunday massaging my high heel injured calves and buying a pretty blue dress because "I'm allowed."

I walked Ruby through Randolph yesterday afternoon, and paused my ipod to talk to every old lady I saw; the warm weather pulled them out of their houses and onto their decorated porches. On the way home I walked down to Byrd Park to let Ruby sniff around by the lake and I watched three kids get attacked by 200 or so seagulls for their bags of bread, and I know it's not nice to laugh, but I did. So hard.

I have been thinking a lot about places, and I feel conflicted, pulled by both the familiarity of the North and by how Southern I have become. I miss my family and my best friends and a handful of tangible things like bagels and beaches and blizzards and maybe some other B words, but to think about leaving Richmond gnaws at my gut. I love this house, I love the life we're able to have, I love the dirty art community that's building all around it, drawing on the walls of the city with thick, flat paint, claiming parts. I love giving our dogs a good life with a big space to run around in while still being in the middle of the city and having some change leftover in my pocket.

I don't know what I want, really, except to spend more days with the back of my knees touching the top of his legs and laughing.

Music to take a walk to.

They're tearing up streets again.
They're building a new hotel.
The Mayor's out killing kids to keep taxes down,
and me and my anger sit folding a paper bird,
letting the curtains turn to beating wings.
Wish I had a socket-set to dismantle this morning.
And just one pair of clean socks.
And a photo of you.
When you get off work tonight,
meet me at the construction site,
and we'll write some notes to tape to the heavy machines,
like "We hope they treat you well. Hope you don't work too hard.
We hope you get to be happy sometimes."
Bring your swiss-army knife, and a bottle of something,
and I'll bring some spray paint and a new deck of cards.
Hey I found the safest place to keep all our tenderness.
Keep all those bad ideas. Keep all our hope.
It's here in the smallest bones, the feet and the inner-ear.
It's such an enormous thing to walk and to listen.
I'd like to fall asleep to the beat of you breathing
in a room near a truck stop on a highway somewhere.
You are a radio. You are an open door.
I am a faulty string of blue Christmas lights.
You swim through frequencies.
You let that stranger in, as I'm blinking off and on and off again.
We've got a lot of time.
Or maybe we don't, but I'd like to think so, so let me pretend.
These are my favorite chords.
I know you like them too.
When I get a new guitar, you can have this one and sing me a lullaby.
Sing me the alphabet.
Sing me a story I haven't heard yet.

creepy necklace that I made.

They are called Jerboas, and they have the most unfortunate looking little bodies.

oh my gosh!

I didn't even notice!

On Sunday it was three months since I quit smoking!

Things are happening! Pretty, silly things!

My grandma is much better.

In celebration, some fun with gender roles:
Oh! Also! I am in the Bizarre Market Handmade Holiday show, which opens on December 1st from 6-9 at Chop Suey books! You should come! I am selling jewelery in pretty little boxes, I'm really proud of them! I'll post more about them later, right now I am busy with these post-it moustaches, I don't want to take on too much at once.

Yesterday at work, Michael peed in his pants a little, true or false?

Check it out: http://prettysillythings.etsy.com

Yucko.

I just don't have anything to say. I've been sitting here trying.

I'm going home tonight, my grandma is sick. I'll be in NY for a week, through thanksgiving.

Mostly I'm just trying not to start sobbing while sitting at my fucking desk.

Soldering on.

Yesterday during work I snuck into the glass studio and Mary taught me how to solder copper foil onto glass nuggets, and I figured out the step by step process of how to make the pendants I want to make.

I am so stoked, and feel like now I have been saving all of these tiny bits of old paper for a reason...

This one was just a demo, so we didn't smooth it out, but check out the image that I sealed inside of the glass, and imagine that the metal around it was smoothed out, as it will be, and that there's a little hook to hang it from a ribbon:

I can feel it in my fingers and feet!

Cowboy kick.

Sometimes I feel like an alien who doesn't really belong, even now at 24 years old with supposed "wisdom" and maybe even a little bit of "real world experience."

However sometimes, sometimes I am proud of just how ridiculous I have become, preparing to go to work on a scooter in cowboy boots and bright blue tights.



Sometimes theres not a bit of shame, and in those moments, I miss Mary and the saturated grandeur of Hunter Street and our third floor studio.



Ink in our mouths, grinning.

Call em creepy, I think they're endearing.

She's like the wind

I am working from home today, and I'm supposed to be designing an invitation for the Craft and Design show, but I hit a little road block, got distracted, and ended up drawing this:

My drawing tablet finally works!

Hookulele.

Chippy chippy.

What I look like with too many corn chips in my mouth:

What I look like when I look at pictures of myself with too many corn chips in my mouth:

I smell an adventure on the horizon, don't you?

kind old things.

As fragile and inconstant humans, as soon as we find fault in things that we loved, we classify them as "not as good as they used to be." Bands, restaurants, people...They all avalanche down around us as we grow, and nothing stays as good as it used to be.

I defy, I defy.

Maybe it's us that grow to be less? Let's not, okay?

So don't you worry about the atmosphere.

Wanna hear about my weekend?

The State Fair was out of control. SO many fried things. This entire ride was encased in fried dough.

This is embarrassed me waiting on line for a fried Oreo.

Pretty.

Silly.

...Things...?

Andrew Bird was fantastic, alive and dizzying.

Oh life.