Michal refuses to consider the notion of augmenting his jumbo-sized Fiction Corpus with a story about printing a calendar with holidays; cites fatigue
Posted:
I regard highly the possibility of legislating English as an international language for the world. I do challenge the certifiably commonplace manner in which the English language is presented for study.
Fine-tuning a person's intimacy with a language isn't like promoting a safer gunpowder. A language - a living tongue - isn't merely an instrument that you can teach yourself to utilize with greater amounts of precision. A living tongue cannot be divided from the shared logic of a circle of people of which it is a description. A language isn't recited; it happens - and keeps happening as long as a circle of people keeps using it.
To make a person recite English is to rob him of its cultural context. A proper instructor has to develop a plan for introducing it; the insightful pupil goes out to seek it.
A dictionary can be an influential tool. The best dictionaries describe a language on the basis of a specific corpus, a set of written works of various scope and consistency. They might include everything from a book about literature to some truly brilliant fiction stories. I developed my "monumental" Fiction Corpus to form a different kind of dictionary based on the ability of one man to tell a story in many different forms. It is a labor of love and listening.
I have molded a million words and I have deconstructed them, reshaping them - not merely to teach an American tongue but to reveal the human spirit, and to goad that soul or spirit not just to recite but to happen.
Author's Note: I have been enjoined from sharing the details of my true romance adventure until such time that the other party is prepared to present her perspective on the affair arrangement...
One week after arriving in Europe, I met a woman in the sauna on the ground floor of the large villa she shared with her ex-husband. Four weeks later she was sharing a small rain-soaked tent with me in Vienna, our little gas-fired stove barely capable of boiling a cup of water. It wasn't until we reached Croatia that we decided to invest in a large electric kettle. It was quite the luxury and it made me very happy.
I had come to Europe to document people practicing naturism. Preliminary arrangements had been made to meet with an Egyptian nudist visiting the Continent and there was some kind of Pan-European gathering scheduled to take place in Croatia. I had arranged for an assistant to come along with me to help with anything I needed, but when her passport was stolen the night before we were supposed to leave, my plans went awry. I decided on something less ambitious. I would visit a naturist sauna in the city of Bielsko-Biala, Poland which I had just found on the internet. When I got there, I met Margo.
I had grown up in America. Land of opportunity. I came of age in the booming 90s when everything was possible. She had grown up in Poland. She had come of age at a time when the Soviets were making sure that there wasn't even anything to eat in the country. I couldn't even properly translate the word "opportunity" into Polish.
Do unto others as you would have done unto you. But how to judge what we would want done to us if we've never been in somebody else's shoes? If we've never been abandoned by our mother, how do we treat somebody who has? Somebody who seems to constantly suffer the repurcussions of it? Margo and I had 46 days and 6,000 miles to try on each other's shoes. We had one car and one tent in which to hear each other's words. We learned to cooperate. We started learning how to listen.
6,000 miles across Europe with a complete stranger
During our trip across Europe, Margo very bravely opened up to me and to the camera. It was a difficult thing to do considering the scars that she carries. I wanted to share with the world her often joyful, often sad, often angry but always liberating experience except that the Internet is full of pictures of naked women and men and full of trolls who abuse them.
I realized that what I really need to point out is not the openness that Margo and I cultivated between ourselves, but the darkness that continues to surround us. When I censor nudity, I do so in a way that does not compromise the integrity of the human body. In censoring the photographs that Margo and I took during our trip, I was quick to notice that in those pictures where Margo was at her most open, at her most unguarded and most relaxed, in a word, when she was herself and basking in the sun I was forced to blacken her completely.
Why does our society drive people into darkness? Why can we not accept ourselves as we are? Why can we not accept our bodies? Have we truly become eunuchs? Or are we capable of defying the sickness that pits us against each other? Together we could conquer the devils that abuse us.
Whether you enjoy being nude or not, whether you've been photographed nude or not, but especially if, for you, like for Margo, it's something you never thought you would do, consider submitting your own photograph to be published in a censored manner as a form of protest against the ubiquitous presence of the human body on the internet, naked or not, that is published and duplicated ad infinitum without context and without regard for the identity or the needs of the individual being depicted.
Michal's Dictionary: More Times
The way to understand a language is to categorize its elements. Each word belongs in a box and there only so many boxes.
You only need eight boxes or eight categories of words to understand English. At the highest level, you have what-words and who-words, how-words and why-words, where-words and when-words, whose-words and which-words.
What-words can be further categorized into the same eight boxes. Artifacts are the what-what-words. Persons and people are the who-what-words. Fuels are the how-what-words. Fetishes are the why-what-words. Places and times, the where and when-what-words respectively. Acts are whose-what-words and Kinds are the which-what-words.
These linguistic categories relate to the seven categories of culture, which in turn I organize according to day of the week.
Just as Sunday can both start the week and end the week, Sunday or Victory Day (a day for artists) is related to both which-words and whose-words, or kinds and acts.
Monday or Labor Day (a day for capitalism) represents the how, or a fuel.
Tuesday or Family Day or Prayers Day (a day for love) represents the what, an artifact.
Wednesday or Assembly Day or Constitution Day (a day for law and order) represents the where, or place.
Thursday or Greenery or Science or Earth Day (a day to study movement) represents the when, or time.
Friday or Children's Day (a day to educate) represents the the who, or people.
Saturday or Armed Forces of Democracy Day (a day for hope and strength) represents the why, or fetishes.
Pronunciation of More Times
I have yet to publish a pronunciation for the word more times.
Video of me pronouncing "more times."
Definition of More Times
More Times is a list of words that primarily answer the question "what time is it?"
An index for more times
I have yet to index the section More Times.
Samples of Fiction from Michal's Corpus
Michal's Fiction Corpus of Acceptance Literature (FiCAL) is presented under the Bare Bottom imprint. It is currently comprised of six bodies of work, each representing a different pillar of culture and incorporating a wide variety of writhing styles.
A story bible for a comic book series set in a post climate-change California narrated by eight characters who live through a natural disaster that sinks Los Angeles and triggers a war with an expansionist Mexican government covertly supported by China.
Frame #4216
all of a sudden im not sure i want to get on board the wells fargo. guns dont scream for help. sometimes women do. with bad consequences.
An experimental science fiction Christology that makes Jesus the hard boiled narrator of his own early years on a bizarro earth made dark by volcanic ash and informally ruled by a man from Mars who sells bottled air.
"It was good," said Sapper. "The priest came to the house, which he never does anymore - but he loved your mother, so he came. They dropped your mother over the doorsill three times; she said good-bye to her family home. Then we processed. Not all of us did: most people drove, but your grandmother insisted on processing from the house to the church, and then from the church to the cemetery, which the priest didn't want to do - but, that's how your mother wanted it, she said. The problem was: to get to the church, you have to take the highway, which somebody said you would have to get a permit for. But your grandmother said, 'Forget about it: I'm not getting any permit. Who needs a permit to walk my daughter's coffin to her grave?' So the priest said, 'Fine: do what you want.' When we left the house, he didn't walk: he hopped into his car. Those of us who did walk wailed; we sang death songs. Nothing would've been more beautiful except for the traffic. Those tractor-trailers were piling up behind us, not to mention all the other impatient people. Whenever anyone successfully passed us, you couldn't hear the next verse. Those tractor-trailers: whenever they shifted by, they drowned us out completely. Fumes were everywhere, blowing in our faces. We had trouble singing; it was difficult to breath."
In those days, when I was six, seven, eight, and nine, we would travel to Poland every summer. We would stay in a village in lower Silesia, close to the Carpathian mountains. It was your grandmother's village: your father's mother's village. Jesus's mother was beautiful. She was blond. Her own mother was old, but she was also beautiful; she was a peasant. Her father was a poet. Both her parents were very beautiful. Their daughter was beautiful. Their grandson was beautiful. Sometimes we went to Treblinka to visit your grandfather's family, but Jesus's father didn't like it. Jesus's father didn't like to waste his time; visiting his family was a waste of time. Besides, there was nothing to do in Treblinka. It was very dull.
The trick with cows, according to Jesus, was letting them lick salt off your bare shoulder. They loved salt, like candy. In fact, Jesus gave her candy too, but who knows how much she liked it. The salt: that was precious. They could lick salt till doomsday. Give a cow like Moochka salt, and you'll get twenty-four liters a day: three times eight. What a super yield: to the last month - since you can't milk on the last month. She was a good cow. If you said, "Moochka, we're going to sleep," she would lie down: you could sit on top of her. "Sit on top of a cow!" the people said. "Now that's a cow!" said your father, on top of the cow. But you had to treat her right. You had to warm her water in the winter - straight from the well was unacceptable.
A literature book narrated by a pair of siblings on either side of the Atlantic whose profoundly weird sexual experiences pose a serious challenge to their traditional understanding of mathematicians, marriage, gay young men and God.
The breakdown was unexpected; and yet, early on I caught the flavor of discontent. Her opening monologue at the door was conspicuous in that regard. Instead of her usual exasperation, her usual barrage of complaint, that unsolicited effort to inform, that continuous concern for speaking, that vocal plying, that very pressing aural nightmare that continues even after you've woken up to its acoustical tyranny, lurking underneath her sometimes musical stream of input, hiding behind her perpetual disquiet, there was something else, something hushed, purposely muted, something that was quietly whispering its presence, something like panic.
Such wonder I experience whenever I reflect on the origins of my relationship with Macy. It was so long ago, we were both so young then but I remember it vividly, and completely, unlike a great many other experiences that have distilled themselves into particular moments of feeling or have now decomposed into dark and cloudy snapshots of action. No, this memory is living. It accompanies me - you will enjoy this - whenever I pass a church drunk, and sometimes during general intercessions too.
ANDY: Yes! It must be soap in my eyes, Olympia. Give me a moment: I'll try to wash it out.
OLYMP: ...
ANDY: But, I was trying to say: I know you're sad, Olympia. Everybody has to be sad sometimes - even in heaven. Did you know that? Sometimes, people are sad in heaven.
OLYMP: Mama says that people in heaven are always happy.
These things may persist for many years, and they will spread under the surface - but do not worry: it is only a defect, an imperfection that sometimes disappears by itself. But, if it refuses to budge, it must be removed with a minimum of scarring.
– Title 2, Regarding the Romaniac, Part 1, Section 5, Warts, Paragraph 2, Clauses 5-7
A collection of stories featuring a sexy Parisian ghost, a spooky Moon base full of vagina-faced aliens, a policeman with an Irish name, a truck full of watermelons, a flautist, and a man who has to see another man about a diseased horse.
The game was disastrous. The vice-presidents kept ignoring their spindly point guard. When Junior passed him the ball, he would carefully dribble it. By the time it bounced back, it was already gone. Sometimes his own teammates took it.
"Way to call the fast break," they yelled. "Hey, Harry. What do you think? Should we try a pick and slip, a pick and pop, or a pick and roll?"
The anxiety of these times was nothing next to the true terror in Ferrari's life. His own father was most of time both drunk and delirious. "Who do you think you're dealing with?" he would ask. "I used to rob Venetian slave-traders for a living. I would cut their throats and rape their precious cargo." He was talking to his son.
"If you ever look side-ways at my wife again." He would hiss and snarl, wagging his finger in his son's face. Though his breath could have melted a mountain-top, he never dared finish the thought.
Tae was confused. Within a few weeks, he discovered the wisdom of Kwon's words. He realized he had been too hasty with Fu. He was growing tired of her square figure. Often he found himself staring in the direction of the desert. A tent stood across the way. It was Bo's tent. Tae would watch her in the mornings as she emerged from her abode, stretching, walking around-sometimes she would bend over to pick something up. Tae imagined what life was like on the sunny side.
Ferrari had to be careful. Sometimes Lorenzo was passing through the kitchen. Once, he almost jumped right on top of him. He had held himself up at the last moment, scratching up his back side. Dropping right behind the boy, he was afraid he would turn around. He didn't.
"I'll tell you where. In my opinion, the best place is a swinger bar. Paris has great ones. You need to be lucky. Sometimes you find an orgy. Sometimes there's a bunch of women in their sixties-which I don't mind, if they're hot."
A real play. With drama in it. Talk fast. It takes two hours. Set in a guest house. In a small community. After a murder. Lots of suspicion. The characters learn to listen to each other. It's funny.
FLETCHER: What?
ALICE: You wouldn't stick me up in one of your precious pine trees, would you?
FLETCHER: Not if you stop.
ALICE: What's the matter? Don't you like your native tongue?
FLETCHER: You have no idea how many times I've had to repeat stupid phrases for guests.
ALICE: I'm sorry. I keep forgetting that you're a-
FLETCHER: What? A native? That's alright. I'm white and I speak English.
ALICE: I wonder what Pitcairn was like when the mutineers got there with their wives.
– ACT I, lines 602-611
ALICE: (off) You gave them a three-thousand-dollar tip?
(FLETCHER exits with the music box. ALICE and LUKE enter carrying luggage.)
LUKE: What's wrong with that?
ALICE: Are you an idiot?
LUKE: I had a pretty nice stay.
ALICE: You said that in Bali after they bombed the restaurant.
LUKE: Honestly, fried rice never tasted better.
ALICE: And at that hotel where the hot plate was in the bathroom.
LUKE: I could make tea while I was on the john.
ALICE: And in Brisbane - where they didn't have a shower curtain and they didn't bring us one after I asked the maid about ten thousand times - I had to go and get one myself after I almost slipped and killed myself on the bathroom floor - what did you do then? You tipped that girl five hundred dollars.
– ACT II, line 551-559
ALICE: It's difficult. I like it. Sometimes I do wish he were more sensual.
MS. JACKSON: I know the feeling.
ALICE: When we have sex, it's all about the penetration. There is no foreplay.
LESBIAN: Nothing?
ALICE: Spread 'em and weep.
MS. JACKSON: Men are such animals - present company excepted, of course.
ALICE: Did you see that performance they put on?
LESBIAN: Absolutely dreadful.
ALICE: I thought it was sexy.
LESBIAN: It reminds me of a dance I saw in Fiji.
– ACT I, lines 394-403
(LESBIAN enters carrying the heirloom pincushion.)
LESBIAN: I still don't know how you could have mistaken me for your wife. It seems pretty strange.
LUKE: Let's just say that sometimes I'm in a wee bit of a rush. Do you know what I mean?
LESBIAN: Regrettably, I think I do.
LUKE: Life isn't always like playing football. I'm like Kokomo: I burned the money.
LESBIAN: What do you mean?
LUKE: After her problems on American Samoa.
LESBIAN: She was on American Samoa?
LUKE: You didn't know that?
LESBIAN: No.
– ACT II, lines 565-573
LUKE: (to ALICE)
I'll explain later.
MS. JACKSON: How dare you invade this house? You idiot! What were you trying to do? Rape my cook? Don't tell me she was expecting you. You weren't expecting him, were you?
KOKOMO: No.
MS. JACKSON: You were trying to seduce her. My God! With a sudden invasion of the sofa bed? Not even an imbecile would consider that an effective strategy. You've lost your wits completely, haven't you? Pathetic. If you're so desperate for sex, why don't you try buying some attention?
GREY GOOSE: I admit that there have been a few times in the past couple years when I thought my vow of fidelity to you had long since expired. There may even have been a few times when I looked after a nice bit of flesh. Despite that, I've never been unfaithful to you, Ms. Jackson, no matter what you might think. As for this, I won't deny what I was after - and have been after for too long now - which is, namely, to sleep in my own bed, whether or not your cook or your lover or anyone else is in it at the time - and that, my dear, is a matter of your own construction.
MS. JACKSON: You deserved to be expelled. Do you think I enjoyed getting looks in town? Complimenting my dress, were they? You promised me you had never fooled around and that you never would. Now I know every single word they ever uttered about you is true. How could you? After all we've been through? I loved you.
FLETCHER: Come on.
GREY GOOSE: Wait. I've got some more to say. I confess I earned somewhat of a reputation in my day - for reasons mostly beyond my control, like my virility and my instinctual desire to perform well.
A story book full of short fiction stories. An interesting bedtime mystery. A fairy tale. Science fiction romance. Adult life. Uninspiring gay fiction. Horror.
I guess we were fated, you know. Me and my brothers. We came out first though. Not those other guys. That's why we won. That's why I won. I always said I was the oldest. I never had any proof though, you know. I mean we were probably switched around ten times when we were babies. So who was to say. But I always believed I was the eldest. You know. Now nobody can argue with me.
"Why not," said Pfizer. "Haven't you heard? The odds of disappearing into oblivion are now twelve to one. A child could do it. Like that courier," said Pfizer in a mocking tone. "Captain Orbitz. He's passed between branes thirty times. That's not even the record." A klaxon suddenly blared overhead. Pfizer had just grown a potato. "By the time I get back," he cried, "it's going to be covered in sprouts." He had to leave it. He was grumbling all the way down the shaft.
The Amazon was called. He decided Orbitz's exchange with the shopkeeper was a kind of code. He ordered that they both be watched. It wasn't hard to do. Orbitz didn't move from his hotel room. The shopkeeper stayed in his shop. Customers came hawking antique ray guns. There were bidets customized for extinct species. A collection of hand-painted mechanical snakes was ruefully turned down. After a few days the members of the surveillance team noticed something strange. The shopkeeper never bargained. If he made an offer to buy something it was invariably albeit grudgingly accepted. The rest of the junk he dismissed even if he liked it. "What a shame," he would say. "I wish I could afford it." In the same hour he would sell something for ten times its cost. He was making piles of money.
A retired mathematician lived on Profile directly across from the hill. He specialized in probability theory. One day while sipping a cup of tea in his kitchen he realized that two mail trucks coming down the hill on two separate roads that met at the bottom and had to stop to service boxes at the exact same spot could potentially be rolling down the hill at the same time and if one carrier wasn't careful enough could be observed engaging in a significant but nevertheless comical collision. The professor happened to be, as Mark knew from his mail, an amateur photographer. He set about recording the times at which he observed the carriers proceeding up the hill and the times at which he observed them coming down. He noticed that if both regular carriers were on duty a collision would never occur. Both of them were too slow. But if one particularly fast substitute carrier, namely Mark, was coupled with the other regular carrier, namely Bill, he could calculate the probability of a collision based on the times at which he saw them climbing up the hill. This excited the professor immensely.
I drove all the way to the beach to find relief. It took hours to get there. I stumbled into the woman's bar by accident. I knew it was around. I heard girls talking about it. I never thought I'd go. I assumed it was a waste of time. I was right. I didn't hook up with anybody. I tried to make conversation a few times. It didn't work. On my way home I got lost. I was so angry. When I saw the sign for the camping ground I had no idea it was for queers. I stopped to ask for directions.
Life is a spinning sphere with Joy at one pole and Sadness at the other. Each continuously feeding its pair. Joy flanked by the emotions of Trust on one side, Surprise on the other. Trust leading to Anticipation; anticipation leading to Fear. Surprise leading to Disgust; disgust leading to Anger. Anger and Fear fueling our Sadness. Sadness giving way, in time, to Joy; through Hope, an orientation towards Love. Love, an openness towards Joy, Trust and Surprise; the sum of emotion; emotion amplified by others. Multiplied and divided, in equal parts. Such that to those from whom it has been subtracted, we must add. Until we are whole.
Your purchases keep the "More Times" page...
If you love women and art...
Michal is importing Polish art...is he brainsick?
Michal's Sales Pitch Lot 1: Silesian Handicrafts
T-shirt fundraiser for sale
Last T-Shirt with the logo that I designed.
From a set of, I believe, twenty produced by Margo and given out to a portion of the last 20 women to finish the 20th anniversary Fiat Road Race in Bielsko-Biała, cf. the movie. This is the last one left in it's original packaging and my supporters - like the poor women of Bielsko - are going to have to fight for it. Whoever invests the most money with me, and who lets me borrow it to invest in the next lot, will not only be rewarded with some beautiful piece of art, but will get this priceless t-shirt as a reward for being my top supporter. $1000.00 or best offer. Remember to authorize me to hold the sum as credit against a future purchase and to authorize me to borrow against it.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #1 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Felt handbag for sale
Felt bag by Dorota.
Entirely hand-sewn. Base: polyester felt, 100% PE. Motif: South American woolen yarn, dyed, 100% wool. Hand-worked with a needle. Unique and inimitable design. Inside: cotton fabric, closes with zipper, inside pocket. Available now for $220.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #2 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Decorative collar for sale
Decorative collar by Zuzanna.
Ethnic layered cloth jewelry constructed on a cotton base and adorned with ribbons, tassels, and a yellow fringe. Fastened on the side with 11 buttons, fitted entirely with a pleasant lining. The style is an Indo-Asian-African multinational color combination. The collar is very extravagant and an extraordinary addition to any clothing, guaranteed to attract attention. Just a simple dress and a unique image is ready. Dry-cleaning recommended. Available now for $200.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #3 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Seamless handbag for sale
Handbag by Sylwia.
Handmade from felted all-natural Australian and South American wool. Entirely felted, seamless. Finished with a white lining, inside is a small pocket. Lining is sewn and stitched in by hand. Available now for $180.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #4 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Patchwork quilt for sale
Patchwork quilt by Alicja.
Bedspread made of cotton and polyester material. Inserted with polyester lining. 90 by 70 cm. Available now for $120.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #5 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Nuno-felt shawl for sale
Shawl by Sylwia.
Scarf made with the nuno felting technique (wet felting fibre into a silk gauze) using South American wool. Two-sided scarf with latticework at the ends. Wholly in the colors red, black, green in an abstract pattern. Available now for $100.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #6 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Clara the doll for sale
Clara by Alicja.
Clara loves roses and greenery, adores tormenting spiders with long legs and sleeping soundly in the afternoon. Cuddly toy made of cotton and polyester, stuffed with polyester lining. Available now for $70.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #7 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Noah the doll for sale
Noah by Alicja.
Noah doesn't know what to like and what not to like but keeps wondering and thinking about it. Cuddly toy made of cotton and polyester, stuffed with polyester lining. Available now for $70.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #8 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Black suspenders for sale
Black suspenders by Zuzanna.
Two-sided suspenders from black material with a rose motif on one side and striped cotton on the other. Connected by a leather triangle. Adjustable length. Hand washing in cold water recommended. Available now for $50.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #9 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Orange suspenders for sale
Orange suspenders by Zuzanna.
Two-sided suspenders made of denim and orange material with a Polish floral folk design. Connected by a leather triangle. Adjustable length. Hand washing in cold water recommended. Available now for $50.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #10 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Green suspenders for sale
Green suspenders by Zuzanna.
Two-sided suspenders made of denim and green material with a mountain folk design. Connected by a leather triangle. Adjustable length. Hand washing in cold water recommended. Available now for $50.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #11 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Felt earrings for sale
Felt earrings by Dorota.
Material: South American woolen yarn, dyed, 100% wool. Hand-worked with a needle. Pendant of anti-allergenic metal. Available now for $40.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #12 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Round ceramic earrings for sale
Round ceramic earrings by Dorota.
Material: Glazed ceramics, hand-molded. Available now for $40.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #13 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
Oblong ceramic earrings for sale
Oblong ceramic earrings by Dorota.
Material: Glazed ceramics, hand-molded. Available now for $40.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #14 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
'Coral' necklace for sale
Corals by Sylwia.
Necklace made of cotton pieces with organdy and decorated with beads, suspended on cotton strings. Can be worn as a necklace, as a brooch or as a belt tied at the side. Available now for $40.00. Ships free of additional charge via USPS (uninsured) unless otherwise directed.
To purchase please mail a USPS money order in an envelope clearly marked Lot #1/Item #15 to M. Slaby at house number 201 on Ridge Road in the town of West Milford, in the state of New Jersey, one of the beautiful United States of America. The postal code is 07480-3112.
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