Michal refuses to study the practicality of amplifying his jumbo-sized Fiction Corpus with a treatise on blank calendars; cites fatigue
Posted:
I regard highly the feasibility of legislating English as the world's second language. I do reject the prosaic blueprint with which the English tongue is presented for study.
Enhancing one's handiness with a language isn't like pioneering a smoother paper. A language - a living language - isn't just a tool that you can teach yourself to use with a greater amount of precision. A living language can't be segmented from the professed knowledge of a society 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.
Teaching pupils to recite English is to rob them of its cultural context. A capable teacher must find a method of introducing it; the insightful pupil ventures out to seek it.
A dictionary - properly used - can become an influential tool. The best dictionaries describe words based on a specific corpus, a set of written works of varying scope and consistency. Such a corpus might include everything from a book about literature to a whole collection of top fiction novels. I watched many moons pass creating my "terrific" Fiction Corpus in order to form a different genre 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 constructed a million words and I have tabulated them, reshaping them - not just to teach the English tongue but to defend 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...
My plane touched down in Poland on June 20th. A month later I was in Austria. Two days later, Slovenia. The next day, Croatia. A week later, Italy. The next day, Switzerland. The next day, France. The next day, Germany. The next day, Belgium. The next day, Holland. All with a woman I had met my first weekend on the Continent.
I had come to Europe to experience European naturism, a movement whose philosophy matched my aesthetic of body acceptance and whose organizational structure and leadership I had thought almost exclusively restricted to the western half of the continent. I was shocked to learn that naturism had an official home in Poland, a country not especially known for its liberal culture. I was less shocked to discover that the home was owned by a Dutchman, but even more shocked to learn that it had been largely built by Margo.
Though I was born in Europe, I had been brought up from a young age in America, living in states as diverse as Nebraska, Ohio and Connecticut. I was taught American values and saw reality from an American perspective. She was born and raised in a village in Poland. She went to work in the nearest town. The nearest city seemed like the center of the world. The American perspective was not something she was ever planning to see.
There were times during our trip when I thought there might not be a happy ending. There were times when disaster was close and I wondered whether I hadn't made a mistake. I wondered whether fear, anger or sadness might triumph and one of us would have to finished the journey alone. Though I dangled from the cliffs of Normady I was saved. Though the lights went out I rode on. Though I ran the tires down to the wire I was okay. We drove home in one piece. We came home happy. We had started the process of learning how to listen and the sound of it was beautiful. We could be sure that we were ready to conquer the devils that abuse us no matter how long it would take.
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: Understanding the word Neck
A word can represent many things. First and foremost it represents a type of gesture. A specific way of speaking. A specific way of inscribing a mark. A specific way of moving your hand. To know one of these kinds of gestures is to know how to pronounce the word neck in some kind of way.
If you want to communicate an idea using the word neck, you will need to know what other people are made to think when you make the gesture. You will never have complete awareness of or control over the associations or identities that are invoked by a set of words, but you can know what was and what is a single word's jointly accepted definition, at least for a given place, thereby tracing a direction which will help you to understand what kinds of associations and identities are driving its use.
By using the word yourself, you enter into a long-standing albeit oftentimes unconscious debate over its definition, forever entangling yourself into the history of its use. The way you use it, and which other words you use it with carries weight.
The more you know about where the word neck is located in the fabric of a language, the better you will be at exploiting its cultural power.
Pronunciation of Neck
I have yet to publish a pronunciation for the word neck.
Video of me pronouncing "neck."
Definition of Neck
I have yet to publish the definition of neck.
I'm sure it won't take too long.
Common use of neck in illustrative example sentences
I have yet to come up with a third sentence using the word neck.
Audio of me saying the sentence:
I have yet to come up with a fourth sentence using the word neck.
Audio of me saying the sentence:
I have yet to come up with a fifth sentence using the word neck.
Audio of me saying the sentence:
I have yet to come up with a sixth sentence using the word neck.
Audio of me saying the sentence:
I have yet to come up with a seventh sentence using the word neck.
Audio of me saying the sentence:
Usage of Neck in Michal's Fiction 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.
I have yet to make a morphological analysis of the word neck.
That doesn't mean it's not high on my list.
Table of Frequency for the Word "Neck."
This table lists in descending order the total number of times that the word neckand any of its morphological derivations appears in the Fiction Corpus, along with a breakdown of frequency by title, the respective rank of each word in the complete list of all words in the Corpus, as calculated both densely and competitively, as well as the percent increase in frequency of the word over the frequency of the next lowest rank in the complete list.
Percent Increase over next rank
RANK
WORD
Frequency
TOTAL # of occurences
MCDONALDS
JESUS
SEX
TSIGA
JACKSON
DINGBATS
dense
competitive
modern/sloppy
biblical/terse
poetic/high-brow
hard/fast
talky
mixed salad
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
I have yet to publish the table of frequency for the word neck, but I will get to it shortly. -Michal
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 #281
a mans coming down the hall. i think hes the owner. hes got a gold necklace and a hairy chest.
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.
Jesus jumped. Like the wolf, he leaped onto the man's chest, embracing his arms, and, leaning his head down into his neck, as if to kiss him, he grabbed a hold of his tender flesh; his teeth squeezed muscle and vein (the sternocleidomastoid to be exact, and the jugular) which Jesus ripped from the man's neck. Blood was everywhere. Flesh hung from your father's teeth. The man dropped in screeching cries of anguish. Jesus leaned over and took the gun. The door to the Accountant's room flew open. Jesus fired. The man who had taken his letters fell down. The light in the Accountant's room went out. Jesus picked up the lamp (the one he had dropped before he leaped). He threw it into the Accountant's room. He turned around and crouched. The doorman appeared from around the corner with a flashlight. Jesus fired. The flashlight fell down. Jesus got up and turned back. The lamp was still lit inside the room. Jesus approached obliquely. Someone's leg was trying to reach the lamp from behind a desk. Jesus put the rifle's butt by his shoulder and shot the leg. Somebody cried. Then, someone shot, but to no avail. There were two people inside that room at least. Jesus slowly crabbed among the tied-up soldiers. There was a man inside: behind the desk, aiming a pistol through the doorway. Jesus smiled: the man couldn't see a goddamn thing. So Jesus shot him in the head. The other man lifted himself up from behind the desk, swinging his arm around and ready to shoot anything. Jesus shot him in the heart. That was it: five men dead: four guards and one Accountant. Jesus carefully checked every corner with the flashlight. That was it. Everybody else must be robbing the bank, Jesus thought. The real terrorists had no idea. Jesus smiled; he chuckled: there was no one else - just him, and a platoon. Perfect.
"They traffic heroin," I said. "They hide the drugs in bags full of silk stockings. One of your fiancé's relatives left behind a bag that fell from his pocket. My sister found it, she sniffed it, and she fell from a third-story window and broke her neck."
Was he really going to do it? he thought to himself. Was he really going to rob a Krupnik? Jesus was out of breath - he was really out of breath: his lungs hurt. What about his future brother-in-law? Jesus thought. Was he really going to attack two people at once with his bare hands? Impossible: Jesus shook his head. There was no way he was going to do it. He was going to watch them walk by with impunity and let them go home to their many-storied mansions, their glass palaces, their filtered paradises - he was a miserable human being! He was weak and defenseless! He was a bad person! Jesus sank to his haunches and rubbed his face. Mother was dead! A little girl was buried! Her neck was broken! A beautiful face bloodied! She fell from a third-story window onto concrete! Jesus rubbed his face and got up. He turned around. He rubbed his face against red brick. He beat his head. He beat the brick wall with his hands. Then he rubbed his face again: in the red brick: he tried to smush his face into the wall. It helped. Jesus was quiet. He wondered where they were. What was taking so long? Maybe they had left. Maybe they were gone. Maybe Jesus had missed them. O God! he prayed. Make it so I've missed them! Make it so I don't have to choose. Then he heard them. There were footsteps. He turned around. He put his back against the wall again. He sidestepped his way into a more complete darkness. There they were! crossing the street! This was it. Jesus didn't move. He thought about it: for a split-second, he almost moved a leg - but no: there was nothing. He was going to let them walk by with impunity. Go ahead, he said to himself. Go back to your filtered paradises - leave me the fuck alone.
Truly, your grandfather is merciful. After your mother's head was taken, I carried you in my arms. I brought you to your grandfather. I offered him my neck, but when he saw your beautiful head, he spared my life.
Now, in those days, there was a great passion among the elite for all things nineteenth century. In the realm of men's fashion, the tailcoat was preferred for all formal occasions, accompanied by a waistcoat, elaborate neckcloths, and close-fitting trousers (the top hat was discountenanced). Color was encouraged.
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.
Her left arm was across her waist; her right arm was resting against her breast, her right hand clutching, clutching her heart! climbing her neck! wrapping around and squeezing passionately. O Indiana! Why have you possessed me? Why have you seduced me into this maddening dream? I want to love you quietly and peacefully and safely: I want peace - I want to love you: o lullaby, sweet lullaby, bring me to sleep, sweet lullaby. Sing away my fears, put aside my tears - please, the Lord and I need to rest a while. O lullaby, bring a dream to me, let me see a dream, and regarding dreams, let me guard my dreams, let me live my dreams, let me, lullaby...oh, why must my dreams come to such terrifying ends: the first chord breaks.
– Title 3, Regarding a Dream, Chapter 3, The Third Day, Part 2, Prayer & The Reformation, Section 13, The Role of Music, Paragraph 7
Mary for evening Mass. And so, with a 'Hey, ho!' and 'How resourceful!' off we went skipping across the square. My energy did not last however, and began to fail me sometime around the profession of faith, which I have enough trouble stumbling through without the lightness of head, or the German language for that matter. As you can imagine, when I wasn't sitting I was swaying, and by the prayers of the faithful my mind, still being rather airy, was having trouble reconciling the heaviness of my skull; my neck too had trouble coping, so that for every prayer I was, quite appropriately, hanging my head, but had to muster all my strength for the action of lifting it, which would send it catapulting back, not straight above my shoulders but quite behind them, at which point I would begin mouthing what I believed was the proper response, which, having gratefully ended, would promptly send my head bouncing back to its original position of blissful rest.
Turning back to the contents of the closet, I noticed how many suits Albert had. He had black ones and gray ones, pinstriped and plaid ones, white, blue and purple, and even some red ones - simply wonderful, I thought. How marvelous! How I wouldn't mind having a collection like this: hats and suspenders, neckties galore, socks of all colors and cufflinks and collars, bowties and buckles worth hundreds of dollars - and shoelaces! by color and length and fabric and thickness, all had been laid in their separate places. It was magnificent. The shirts too were arranged by color and fabric: synthetics on one side and natural fabrics on the other. It seemed like that closet contained almost everything a gentleman could ever need. The only thing I couldn't find was a tailcoat. And of course, the shoes must have been somewhere else.
– Title 3, Regarding a Dream, Chapter 1, The First Day, Part 1, Victory & Calendar Reform, Section 9, Intoxication, Paragraph 4
I followed Indiana up the stairs. I followed her shiny hair bouncing. I followed, following the line that gently came down her neck, rolling along and rounding her shoulder, curving its way down the side of her back and around her hip, rounding into a gentle mound, a sturdy mound, a mound of flesh next to another formed by another line, which I followed back around another hip and up the same sinuous path to another rounded shoulder.
– Title 3, Regarding a Dream, Chapter 1, The First Day, Part 1, Victory & Calendar Reform, Section 9, Intoxication, Paragraph 1, Clauses 1-3
He didn't stop: he kept driving as quickly as he could scan the face of every woman walking by - not an easy task (even for Nike) - one which soon left both his neck and his eyes very tired. Then he'd find himself trailing just one woman, perhaps someone who resembled his prey, but, usually, just someone who caught his fancy. Then he'd have to shake his head and curse: he was looking for someone very specific, and, even if some other women were attracting him, they were distracting him, since he thought he knew exactly what it was he wanted.
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.
They went to slice the beast's belly. They realized it had already been done. It was sown back together. A knife emerged from the cow. It tore apart the stitches. A man burst out. The handmaidens gasped. Magog was taken by the arm. The knife pointed at her throat. The women screamed. The knife dug into Magog's neck. She told the women to be quiet. Guards yelled from outside. They wanted to know if everything were alright. Magog assured them there was no call for alarm. Divinities, she said, had to be respected.
Patsy asked Juanita if he could test out his theory on her. She agreed. Dressed in a skirt for what seemed, at least to Patsy, to be the very first time, and only to approximate the circumstances of the victim, Juanita placed around her neck a breakaway collar through which Patsy had looped a rope. Having her lie on a long conference table, Patsy attached the rope to the legs of the table on the side above her head. Similarly, he attached another rope to the D-rings on either side of the safety buckle. This uncomfortably pressed against the ranger's face.
Gog walked up the river Danu. He was greatly troubled. "How am I to find the holy mountain?" he asked himself. "The Haoma [i.e. a caste of priests] say the stars revolve around it. The sun hides behind it at night. Water descending its slopes forms the great sea upon which the earth rests. What then should I take for a guide: that which drowns, that which burns, or those which, when one stares at them for long enough, gives one a sore neck?"
Gog smirked. "What I might have done in one stroke," he explained, "I do in two for lack of a brace." He turned the buckle around. He addressed the uncut bar. He slowly lifted the sword. He addressed the bar again. He slowly lifted the sword. He swung. The bar broke-as did the woman-towards her horse. Gog ran behind her. She knew she had no time to mount. She reached into her saddle. She pulled out a dagger. Gog froze. The woman stepped backwards. She drew the dagger close to herself. Reaching the horse's neck, she jabbed the blade into its throat. The horse collapsed.
The final bloom was tremendous. Forged into a curved sword, it was longer than the rest. It represented Voruna, the god of thunder and lightning. It was meant for slashing one's enemies from atop the highest horse. Like a hammer, it crushed their skulls. Like an axe, it split apart their bodies. It evened out their necks.
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.
(LESBIAN and MS. JACKSON exit. ALICE feels a pain in her neck and begins to rub it.)
FLETCHER: I didn't want any. It was considerate of you to ask. My mother is so kind and thoughtful. What's wrong?
ALICE: I strained my neck swimming.
FLETCHER: Let me take a look.
ALICE: It's alright.
FLETCHER: Are you sure?
ALICE: I'll manage.
FLETCHER: I happen to be a professional masseuse.
ALICE: I thought you were a carpenter's apprentice.
FLETCHER: On an island like this, there's no such thing as strict specialization of labor.
– ACT I, lines 439-447
FLETCHER: You thought Norfolk had a checkered past. Being a former prison colony's prison colony is nothing next to Pitcairn.
ALICE: I would never have imagined it was like that. I thought it was a paradise.
FLETCHER: I'm writing a play about it - specifically about the woman who chopped off that man's head. She's an ancestor of mine. Maybe later we can go over a few scenes.
ALICE: I'd love to.
FLETCHER: If your neck doesn't still hurt.
ALICE: I'm feeling much better now, thank you.
FLETCHER: If you strained it, you strained it. I have to say, you have surprisingly little tension.
ALICE: It's my honeymoon. I've been having lots of sex.
FLETCHER: You shouldn't have reminded me.
ALICE: Why not?
– ACT I, lines 626-635
(ALICE grimaces and rubs her neck again.)
FLETCHER: You really did strain it.
ALICE: It's fine.
FLETCHER: It's not. Come on. Kokomo has a bunch of differently scented oils. You can have your pick.
ALICE: It seems you've got me at your mercy.
FLETCHER: You won't regret it - neither will your neck.
ALICE: We'll see.
FLETCHER: You're welcome. It's too bad Kokomo's not here. She's the expert.
ALICE: Where is she?
FLETCHER: Who knows?
– ACT I, lines 487-495
FLETCHER: Trouble. The Tahitians were already upset. They hadn't been given any land when the island was divided, not to mention the fact that some of them were being beaten. Naturally, they started plotting. What they didn't take into account was the fact that To-ofa-iti, the blacksmith's new wife, was not complaining. The blacksmith was important. That made her important. She started singing a song, the words of which went, "Why does black man sharpen axe? To kill white man." When Fletcher Christian heard that song, he grabbed his musket, ran to the Tahitians, charged them with their crime, and pulled the trigger. The gun misfired. Two of the men ran; the rest protested their innocence. They begged for a chance to take care of it. They decided they should try to poison To-ofa-iti's husband. He didn't fall for it. He was too smart. Ultimately, one of the Tahitian men pulled a pistol on him in the presence of his wife. Again, the gun misfired. The two of them started grappling on the ground. Who knows who would've won? To-ofa-iti, however, was not about to take chances. She picked up the pistol with her own two hands and bopped her husband squarely on the head.
ALICE: She killed him?
FLETCHER: Eventually. Things were deceptively quiet for a few weeks. It didn't take long for judgment to fall upon the poor blacksmith. The Tahitians shot him down like a pig. Ironically, that's what the other mutineers thought they were doing. Being scattered all over the island, each man heard the shots and naturally assumed that somebody was hunting. Most of them found out too late that they were the prey.
ALICE: How many of them were killed?
FLETCHER: On that day, now known as Massacre Day, five of the original nine mutineers were fatally shot. Fletcher Christian was next. He was standing in his garden. Both of his hands were on his spade. He looked up at the sky and smiled. He never saw it coming. They shot him right through the heart.
ALICE: How did the others survive?
FLETCHER: Jackson was shot through the neck but he lived.
ALICE: Incredible.
FLETCHER: It's a miracle. Ned Young slept through the whole thing. The women didn't want to wake him. They all liked him and they didn't want to see him get hurt, so they stood around his hut and guarded him. Eventually, though, even he had to get his hands dirty. The women wanted revenge on the Tahitians for killing their husbands. After Ned's consort chopped off the ringleader's head with an axe, he was made to go and shoot the last remaining rebel. That was the end of the bloodshed - not counting when he and Jackson got Quintal drunk and murdered him.
ALICE: It's so barbaric.
– ACT I, lines 616-625
LESBIAN: I was in Goroka - in the highlands of New Guinea - in September, I believe - for the cultural show. There I saw the Mudmen.
MS. JACKSON: Who are the Mudmen?
LESBIAN: The Mudmen make these clay masks - some big, some small -all of them hideously grotesque with giant noses and sharp, pointy teeth.
MS. JACKSON: They dance around with these masks?
LESBIAN: With mud caked over their entire bodies: from neck to toe.
ALICE: Are they naked?
LESBIAN: Of course not: they're wearing masks. In Rabaul - on the island of New Britain - I saw the famous Baining fire dance. There they wear masks that are made from bamboo, which they cover with tapa, a kind of bark cloth. That makes these masks very light. Naturally, they're even bigger.
A story book full of short fiction stories. An interesting bedtime mystery. A fairy tale. Science fiction romance. Adult life. Uninspiring gay fiction. Horror.
"Your necklace spells Indiana with two 'n's. Only the English and the Hungarian spell it like that."
"You should be a detective."
"Only a Hungarian would call András by his Hungarian name."
Indiana laughed. "I'm so silly. I forgot I gave it away. Do you know where I was born? It wasn't Hungary."
Mark and Bill meanwhile were flipping through their respective letters. Mark looked up and caught sight of the old man bending over again and looking through his viewfinder. Mark sped up. He was going to get a glimpse of the eagle before it flew off. He floored the gas. Oblivious to the dangers beyond, he was rushing past the hedgerow. He craned his neck and saw a giant blue and white eagle on the side of Bill's truck. The professor hit the shutter button. Mark frantically swerved. The camera's continuous drive clicked and clicked. Mark hit the brakes. The truck slid heading straight for the professor. Its wheels locked. It surfed on the unswept gravel of the westbound lane of Profile Road and thankfully stopped before crossing the center line. Just as a UPS truck headed east. The driver saw the mass of white coming from his left and instinctively swerved away. Right into the professor. The old man was launched into the sky. Mark watched in horror as the body sailed a good 60 feet before flailing onto the ground. Mark looked at the UPS truck. The driver was paralyzed. Mark looked back at the body. He drove the 60 feet between them. There was no time to run. Reaching the remains of the professor, Mark curbed the wheels. He put the gear in park. He pulled the hand brake. He shut the engine and took out the keys. He didn't want anybody accusing him of not following proper dismounting procedures. He hopped down to the body and saw there was little to be done. He called for an ambulance.
Shovels fall. The soldiers are done. My comrade should be dead. Like me. Yet something is heaving. Did the soldiers fail to shoot her? Does the soil not cover her mouth? Will she yet rise from the pillow of my twisted neck? There is no way I can turn my head to see. Death is helpless.
Indiana lay her head on the crook of my neck. I slid my fingers beneath her underwear. I lifted her onto my hands. I held her by the skin of her bottom. I rocked her. I kept pace with her lilting chest. Our shoulders rose and fell. We were like a mother and child.
She told me Albert was sick. He was going to die. I cooed. I kissed her on the cheek. I told her I would put her to bed.
Bob smiled. He pointed to the neck. "Carotid," he said. "The guy bled out. You can't see it cause of the twist in the neck. It's a thing of beauty, isn't it?" The man was smiling like a whore on Tuesday. Proctor couldn't share the enthusiasm. He watched the body being lowered.
This table lists in descending order of frequency a selection of word pairs that appear in the Fiction Corpus and groups them according to the morphological derivation of the word neck that appears in the pair.
Type
WORD
Frequency
TOTAL # of occurences
MCDONALDS
JESUS
SEX
TSIGA
JACKSON
DINGBATS
modern/sloppy
biblical/terse
poetic/high-brow
hard/fast
talky
mixed salad
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
I have yet to perform a collocation analysis of "neck." I hope I can get it done sometime soon. -Michal
To promote democracy, the strong must empty themselves of their strength. The weak must be granted the opportunity to grow strong. We cannot force the end of patriarchy. To do so simply perpetuates feudalism under a different name.
Your purchases keep the "Neck" page up and running...
If you love women and art...
Michal's exporting art...is he meshugah?
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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