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November 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

Thanksgiving came and went while I toiled like one of Santa’s aging, non-union elves putting jewelry up on my Etsy site. Please delight your female loved ones—or your more-beloved self—with a gift of a handmade necklace or pair of earrings. You’ve been talking about buying American, buying local, shunning big corporations, haven’t you? I heard you. I know your sweetheart, sister or mother will sigh in disappointment if you give her another mass-produced, oil-dependent item, something that will wreck the climate, harm her immune system and breed lice.

My jewelry is more beautiful than the pictures show, really. Everyone tells me so. If I had the stamina for craft shows or the apartment for parties, it would be easier, but I don’t. Online is what I have. Etsy doesn’t allow pictures as big as I could put on Ebay, for those of you who remember those days. To remedy this I will put more pictures up here, but even so, nothing can prepare you for the glory of stones and hand-blown Venetian glass, unless of course you’ve seen stones and beautiful glass before. Think of the weight of stones in your hand (and not in the vulgar sense of the word), of the glow of glass in sunlight, of the ancient, patient history of rock.

Yes, mining and bead-making does involve fossil fuel. And the vulgar sense of the word “stones” may be more exciting to you, or even to me. I didn’t produce these pieces of jewelry out of my bodily essences and even if I had, they would still remain dependent on fossil fuel. So, never mind, ignore my labor. We’ll celebrate a “buy nothing” Christmas, and then all go live in caves.

Which reminds me, William Burroughs was buried with his gun. Hipster male writer, shot his wife dead in Mexico while playing a William Tell game, didn’t want us to forget that salient fact. You don’t want to be that kind of person, do you? Wouldn’t you prefer a tomb heaped with jasper and agate, fire-seasoned glass and pearls? I know—death doesn’t sell. But I’m not sure my necklaces will help you get anyone in bed; they might, but I make no promises. Besides, you don’t want to get in bed with your mother or sister, do you?

If you’re determined to buy those Twinkies for sale on Ebay, go ahead. If you think the lady on your list would prefer an ipad, remember that an ipad is useless when the power goes out (and it will go out). If the sweater is too small, she’ll feel fat and hate you. Theater tickets demand new earrings…I could go on and on, but we all have things to do.

If you’d prefer a used cat, get in touch. I have three.

The Way We Were Made

But you made every
delicate, elegant wrist
& glistening ankle.
But you made them
beautiful
in braided rope
& dime store gold.
But you made every
necklace clasp.
But you made them
caress the nape
like an errant wind
after a shower.
But you made every
eyelash erotic. Every
single strand of hair
soft.
But you made them
from dust & bone.
Made every glorious
singing thigh. Every
button nose.
But you made them
with holes—
wide open
to the faintest hints
of salt
in a sea breeze, salt
in the sweaty mouth
of a navel, salt
in the blood, sweet
in every wrong way.

Marcus Wicker

Mostly in the Afternoon