Gibberings
Dad told me never to use XTREE when he wasn’t in the room.
July 18, 2008 ~ 10:01:42 PM * -07:00ST
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Log # 330
Street Vamp Chosen for “Noir” Treasury on Etsy
http://www.etsy.com/treasury_list.php?room_id=30887
by
Eliza Gauger on February 26th, 2008 ~ 01:37:53 PM
Slotted into Artwork, Etsy, Unhallowed Metropolis |
No Comments »
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Log # 329
Gertrude Groan
sketch
by
Eliza Gauger on February 26th, 2008 ~ 07:29:55 AM
Slotted into Artwork |
No Comments »
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Log # 328
test
test
by
on February 24th, 2008 ~ 11:49:45 PM
Slotted into Twitter |
No Comments »
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Log # 327
The Hellmadam
tags; hell, sketch, pencil, demons, wasps
by
Eliza Gauger on February 24th, 2008 ~ 04:30:20 AM
Slotted into Artwork, Bees, Demons, Sketches |
No Comments »
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Log # 326
Young Pirate
by
Eliza Gauger on February 24th, 2008 ~ 04:16:23 AM
Slotted into Artwork, Pirates, Sketches |
No Comments »
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Log # 325
Gertrude Groan - Sketch
by
Eliza Gauger on February 24th, 2008 ~ 04:01:14 AM
Slotted into Artwork, Sketches |
No Comments »
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Log # 324
Nothing to Say But It’s Okay
power lines
by
Eliza Gauger on February 23rd, 2008 ~ 08:30:00 AM
Slotted into Photography |
No Comments »
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Log # 323
Downs
Florian
4:23:26 AM
No. There is no universe where having downs is an asset.
4:23:35 AM
Except, maybe, XBox Live.
Me
4:23:45 AM
OH SNAP
Florian
4:23:51 AM
Well, I’m pretty pleased with how that one turned out.
by
Eliza Gauger on February 23rd, 2008 ~ 05:25:44 AM
Slotted into Games |
No Comments »
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Log # 322
I’m Selling These Fine Cotton Pillowcases
eBay auction for Jack Sparrow pillowcase. Sorry, mom. It had to go.
by
Eliza Gauger on February 23rd, 2008 ~ 02:09:16 AM
Slotted into Pirates |
No Comments »
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Log # 321
How Things Continue
You know I’ve been making necklaces. Or necklace, literally. I
stumbled onto that, not really thinking of much. A friend snapped it
up instantly and I’m hearing whispers for more, more, MORE. You
crave my chains and droplets, droogs. It’s okay. I understand.
This photograph encompasses my life. It was taken at the Pub in
Berkeley, a delightfully old-fashioned, wood-tabled, saggy-chaired,
ye olde publick houfe, compleat with imported beer, pipe tobacco, and
even tea (pictured here). Being the youngest person in a room by a
standard deviation is immensely relaxing to me, as is the background
murmur, sometimes roar, of Yahtzee, philosophy, and chess (Andrei
talks shit in a Boris accent while he pushes his pieces; I love it;
when he met me he touched my wrist to his mouth and inhaled deeply,
coy and filthy and politely rapacious as only those ruski wolfmen can
be [I am looking at you, Poul]), and the soft heats from baseboard
and gas fireplace, and a sparkling baristakeep, and the old Berkeley
men in John Lennons and beards and berets, talking abstracts and
grinning. All while I crank open these jumprings and glue and pry
and clamp and fumble: making things.
