Soft mountain report.

NeoCitran cocktails for one at Casa Madge this evening.

Someone called me a bachelorette the other day and I laughed aloud and agreed. I suppose I am.

Today while carting spent dishes from the desk to the kitchen sink (inconveniently located in the bathroom), I sighed and said "I am alone. I am entirely alone" aloud. My heart said it, my head did not. My head was too busy being full of haze and that weighty garbage feeling that comes along with sickness. So I am alone. I have been alone for quite some time now, but today, maybe because it was spoken directly from the heart, it felt really official.

In the waking hours between waves of T3 induced sleep, my eyes blinked open under the million blankets to negotiate the time of day based on the amount of light in my home while my body skillfully sweat out toxins by the bucketload. I poked my head out and looked around. Jessica was leaning against the wall in her usual spot (spots of light blinked off her shiny new pedals, she rides like a dream these days), The Surly was hanging precariously from the ceiling and things were in their usual places, and my body was terribly out of sorts but I still felt okay.

Eventually, I rose from beneath my soft mountain to make eggs and toast and to drink a tall glass of milk (something I rarely do) and again I said "I am alone" aloud, as if stating the obvious would make a difference. I am indifferent of the difference. But happily indifferent.

My mum turned and looked at me the other day after I shared some good news with her and she said "you are coming into yourself" and if I had feathers, they would have chosen that moment to puff up from the plume. It is amazing how normal my mother is able to make me feel sometimes. I think it is one of her special talents, normalizing her children.

There is no point to this entry, I just felt like announcing that I am alone (as if announcing it aloud to myself three times in the quiet of my quarantined home was not enough). I have been printing my face off and am very pleased with the new direction of my work. For months this summer, I quietly grieved the fact that I was not making anything beautiful or taking any photographs but this extended Autumn season seems to have done wonders for my art scope.

Thank you El Niño. You rule. Speaking of wacky temperatures, back to the soft mountain I go hi ho. I have a malady to sweat out.

Here is a small sample of new work that I have been busy preparing for a few upcoming art sales. Sleeping and eating, two things that I can do just fine on my own thankyouverymuch.

Spraycation pt.2

I never thought I would say it, but I miss Spray. My pal Lindsay just posted a bunch of photos from our summer in the bush and I had no idea how badly I needed to see said photos until I laid eyes upon them. It is not necessarily the act of the job (the work itself was terrible), but it is the land, the air, wearing the same garbage clothes and boots everyday, the plain weathered skin, the frustration and the learning, the quiet, the wind that I miss. Everyday I miss it. I am not sure why, but it feels important and relevant. It is almost as if posting these images ensures that they will not be shaken loose from memory. I am unsure. Regardless, it was an important season and these people were a part of it. For that, I am grateful.

L, thank you for these and for the reminder itself. I miss you as well. I will write very soon dear woman.

Prettiest girl in all the land.

This is Olive. She is so gorgeous it is almost sinful. If I could eat any baby, I would choose to eat her. Olive, meet everyone. Everyone, meet Olive DuPlooy. Good grief. Her parents Gareth and Dayna are obviously babes too.

I love babies. And I love this one in particular.

Side project.

Oh, another thing, I now write for Martha Street Studio's post. Click here if you would like to see a glimpse of the place that I have fallen in love in the past year. I really do love Martha Street. It is ridiculous. Whenever I smell anything that sort of smells like the solvent room, I always say "mmm mmmm" aloud. I can never help myself. It is a brilliant place and I am proud to work alongside the printers there. More photos to come (on the Martha Street blog).

Fresh Prints.

I can barely feel my arms. I have never printed so fast and so hard in my life. I am happy to report that after a seven month hiatus in the studio, I am back in the saddle. The people from 'This ain't your Grandma's Craftsale' approached me as to whether or not I would be interested/available to silkscreen their annual poster. By hand. 120 of them. Oh my. With no job and a wild desire to back back in the studio, naturally I said yes. It was a lot of work. The third layer was a complete bastard. The first, second and fourth layers were complete dreams.

I'm back. I'm back.

Next on the roster, posters for The Mix, an art sale/craftsale that I will be a part of in a few weeks. Stay tuned.

Mama Gander's wise words.

For every evil under the sun,
There is a remedy, or there is none.
If there be one, seek till you find it;
If there be none, never mind it.

- an excerpt, Mother Goose

(I read this last night while curled up in bed with a tattered copy of Alice Hoffman's Practical Magic. Whoa, good first page. I cannot help myself; I always weigh the potential of the book in hand based on the fluidity and charm of the first page. Hoffman nailed it).

Helloween.

The above photo is a During picture. Below that is an After picture. The photos below are Before pictures. This morning was not one of my finest. Wilted bunny. Halloween was one for the books. I wrote this last night while waiting for my guests to arrive:

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A priest smokes outside, pacing on the sidewalk. His cross swings with each step. A French bunny sits inside, drinking wine, and typing precariously so her freshly painted nails won’t bugger up. Devendra sings in his mother tongue on the north side of the red house. Yellow curtains are swished to one side of the window impatiently and the traffic blurs past, unabated by the rabbit girl standing in the giant window frame.

I am waiting for my guests.

There is bread and oil and vinegar, there is chocolate, cheese, carrots and wine aplenty. Trick or treat.

I am wearing a rabbit hood from the Forties (it is nearly crumbling it is so old), a fakey fur jacket the perfect shade of winter white, the heavy rimmed glasses (I only wear the black frames when I want to feel like a spy), a satin pin up body suit from the Fifties the color of lapis lazuli. Grey pantyhose expose more thigh than ever before and the sky-high patent tuxedo heels do not help. To finish, there is an oversized pink raw hemmed silk bowtie with white polka dots.

It is Halloween.

Better yet, it is my first Halloween in this amazing neighborhood.

I just looked out the window while surveying my neighborhood from above. After spotting the smoking priest, I saw a leopard being zipped up in a tight, tight bodysuit behind the till at Ragpickers. My eyes shifted and I saw Trainor walking to the corner wearing nothing but a black bra, a black tutu, black polka dot tights, unbelievable shoes, and a million black feathers encasing her giant hair. Instantly I snapped my fingers and said, “crow” to myself. She knocked on my door on her way up to the sixth floor (I am on the first floor) and said she was a crow. After Trainor, I saw the boys from Royal Canoe drive up and pull away. After they drove away, some fair lady from My Fair Lady swept down the stairs leading up to the second level of Ragpickers (my favorite vintage store) and poked her gigantic-hatted head out the door. Our eyes met (I was still standing in the window) and I curtsied and she did too in her giant frock. Her hat fell off and I felt bad.

After my guests come and the wine is gone and the food consumed, we will walk one block (in our tallest shoes) to Ace Art where Sula’s party is unfolding as I type.

I love Halloween. BYOTC.

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Now I am sitting at the coffeeshop, poaching internet and listening to Andrew Bird. Everything hurts. My head hurts. Good party. I woke up naked and holding a brick of cheese. Oh to be young. As good as this year was, I couldn't help but wish a certain Ursula and the Sun himself were at my thigh high side last night. Next year.

I need to go drink a liter of water.