the ugly earring

the summertime of our youth meant black widow hunting with a can of aqua net and a lighter. rummaging behind junk boxes in the shed or in between the wooden slab entrance of our mother’s garden, we could spot her irregular spider web several feet away; the way it glistens in the afternoon shade.  my brother held the aqua net can and i ignited the fire; it created a firestorm, an instantaneous charred death.

the cruelest act was watching her cocoon of eggs burn; and her babies scattering for shelter.

it is a nightmare that returns, the phobia that remains in the forefront. Yes, i dream of  the dead mothers; their hour glass bellies resting against mine, their children crawling up and down my arms and legs is if i were their play gym.

it is a reoccurring sentence given for the crime of being a cruel child.

in our yard, they are free to take shelter in the cactus, in the aloe vera garden, inside the old wooden rocking chair that rests under the mesquite tree.  

inside me, turmoil brews when little bella races around the yard–curious and brave in extending her hand in areas where those shiny widows may rest. 

we watch her carefully.

we are told widows fear us more.

dearest reader, i must confess i am at odds with myself.

one half is deathly fearful of their poison and vengeance; but the other half believes in harmony, that all mothers must exist side by side. 

so, i show bella her glistening web, the beautiful black mother and her red hourglass crown. I tell her, “if you see her red belly you must not touch or get too close.”

i do believe she understands what i am saying.

 ***

inspired by the thought of wearing my cruelty like a scarlet letter or a necklace charm.

(a real black widow charm here )

i recently received an email from a woman who found a pair of my earrings featured here several years ago. She mentioned that she spent the last two years looking for where she could find my jewels. It was the most surprising, flattering email i’ve ever received, especially after bella’s arrival when i put the daydream of designing jewelry to rest. Much like the “everybody can make a scarf trend,” jewelry making has become a common craft and accessible hobby; and so many do it extremely well.

So, in a way, the fire smothered; and i was left to my own vices, creating gaudy pieces for myself and occassionally a gift for a friend or two. There’s something rewarding about creating jewelry, perhaps it’s the instant gratification of completing something, or maybe it’s just because one can never have too many ugly necklaces and earrings (hence, the birth of this blog).

She mentioned how she wanted a pair of earrings for her wedding day similar to the ones she had found in the magazine. Other than the big fat wedding ring and dress, the earrings would be the centerpiece. Of course, i agreed to make them for her.

While my own personal pieces and preferences are much more decadent and bold; i toned it down and worked with the parameters she gave me: silver, smokey quartz, similar in design to the ones she coveted, and she did not want the earrings to wear her (i.e. not too gaudy).

So here is what the inspiration well delivered:

(please excuse the bad photog skills; they’re really bedazzling in person)

on a different note, i shared the earrings with losing it who mentioned that they incited thoughts of this:

then she and i got to talking about how this film was the first time we experienced that tingling feeling in the loin purse. we both agreed seeing david bowie with long hair and man tights was the defining moment when we realized we were attracted to the opposite sex.

but then losing it upped the ante and won the pot when she confessed she still has a labyrinth poster framed on her bedroom wall.

in another life, i loved a taxidermist.
he stuffed a coyote and said
“the skin of the desert is
you.”  

***

if you haven’t met polly morgan, let me introduce you:

the last enemy

still life after death

***

if words run out of meaning, 
then stay tuned. you will find me at the road’s end
collecting carcasses and earth worms.

p.s. some music as you google the term taxidermy.

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival.  New statue.
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety.  We stand round blankly as walls.

I’m no more your mother
Than the cloud that distills a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind’s hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses.  I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat’s.  The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars.  And now you try
Your handful of notes;
The clear vowels rise like balloons

(morning song by sylvia plath)

***

rumors abound that sutro rises during the quarter moon when neptune awakens calling for his lady with the liquid feet.

a bath house for amphitrite and the two crabs that hang from her temples.

a fine-haired eagle perches on a limb thinking about ghosts in one piece bathing suits sitting on ruined planks.

apparently, sutro tells a pretty mean tale.

photos from here and here. and some more great info here.

“Oshima,” I finally say, “this is a pretty weird thing to ask, but do you think it’s possible for someone to become a ghost while they’re still alive?”

               “Kafka on the Shore” Haruki Murakami

the other woman keeps playing in my headphones.

which led to this post from the famous other, may pang.

an astonishing discovery: john wore women’s jeans.

this morning i ventured out of the black wardrobe closet with a stephen sprouse-esque skirt. it’s pretty bold but not as brave as these leopard hot pants.

baby steps, right?

anyhoo, the best part of this post is what she said:

Sonja (17)

“Flamboyance, variety and boldness make the style. The bag and the leopard print jumpsuit are self-made. The jacket and the shoes are my favourite clothes at the moment. I love different patterns and fabrics, colours and weird combinations. Helena Bonham-Carter and cats inspire me.”

(from here)

from here

(photos by man ray)

if there was one book that is most often pulled from the bookshelf it is plato’s symposium. Recently, royal quiet deluxe‘s ongoing pursuit of the soul mate theory inspired a skim through this masterpiece. There are so many great passages,  Diotima of Mantineia’s explanation of love, for example, is my new favorite:

No god is a philosopher. or seeker after wisdom, for he is wise already; nor does any man who is wise seek after wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek after Wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that he who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied with himself: he has no desire for that of which he feels no want.” “But-who then, Diotima,” I said, “are the lovers of wisdom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish?” “A child may answer that question,” she replied; “they are those who are in a mean between the two; Love is one of them. For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and Love is of the beautiful; and therefore Love is also a philosopher: or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. And of this too his birth is the cause; for his father is wealthy and wise, and his mother poor and foolish. Such, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. The error in your conception of him was very natural, and as I imagine from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of love and the beloved, which made you think that love was all beautiful. For the beloved is the truly beautiful, and delicate, and perfect, and blessed; but the principle of love is of another nature, and is such as I have described.”

But back on point, RQD’s posts reminded me of Aristophanes description of love–that the search for “a soul mate” is a longing to be reunited with our other half. According to Aristophanes, we once roamed as man, woman and the union of the two. The “androgynous” ones ironically were the most powerful and attempted to overthrow the gods:

Now the sexes were three, and such as I have described them; because the sun, moon, and earth are three;-and the man was originally the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun and earth, and they were all round and moved round and round: like their parents. Terrible was their might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts were great, and they made an attack upon the gods; of them is told the tale of Otys and Ephialtes who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would have laid hands upon the gods.

Zeus cut them in half. His reasoning:

“Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two and then they will be diminished in strength and increased in numbers; this will have the advantage of making them more profitable to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if they continue insolent and will not be quiet, I will split them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.” He spoke and cut men in two, like a sorb-apple which is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg with a hair…”

and so begins the search for our other half:

After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one…

…

And when one of them meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together; yet they could not explain what they desire of one another. For the intense yearning which each of them has towards the other does not appear to be the desire of lover’s intercourse, but of something else which the soul of either evidently desires and cannot tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful presentiment.