So Green
Somewhere—probably not in a hair salon—I picked up a magazine featuring people with pierced bodies. These folks, studded, strung, lanced and bejeweled through every conceivable body fold, were cheerfully flaunting parts ordinarily kept tidy and tucked away. Seeing folks, naked as peeled eggs and raw as oysters was surprisingly stimulating, which seemed more appropriate for me in the 60s than me in my 60s.
During this heated page flipping I actually thought about a visit to a piercing parlor. However, like so many flash enthusiasms, the urgency faded. I cooled down, then plummeted to sub-zero regarding any redecoration below the neck. Now, it seemed like a better idea to pierce the cartilage at the top edge of my ear and stick an emerald in that. Does all desire eventually evaporate upwards?
The only jewel I’ve ever wanted is the emerald. More than all the gems in Solomon’s mine, it has the luster of true treasure to me. No jewel could be more surprising, suddenly struck upon in the split of a black rock; tempered by licks of lava and cool passages of water, it finishes as pellucid and transparent as air. I don’t know what piece of time it takes for this to happen, but it’s a big one.
However, I’m not an experienced judge of emeralds and wouldn’t know a good one from a bad one. Also, not being the kind of woman who is given gems, and having only dead female relatives who were similarly ignored, I knew I’d have to shop one for myself.
There are synthetic emeralds--hot-house gems grown in laboratories. Minerally speaking, they’re supposed to be identical to mined stones, but the only instant rocks I ever cared for were the ones you could order from the back of comic books, which could grow to chalky maturity in special, gooey water. My emerald turned up at a gem show. After peering at trays of beautiful and impossibly costly stones, it became clear to the sexy and subtly flirtatious Brazilian seller that I didn’t have any real money to spend. But he finally produced a single ear stud set with a pretty, bluegrass green stone. It was simply faceted, triangular, flat on top, and tapering down through the mounting to a point. I bought it—it was very small and I was satisfied more than delighted, as though I’d stolen something owed to me.
Somewhere—probably not in a hair salon—I picked up a magazine featuring people with pierced bodies. These folks, studded, strung, lanced and bejeweled through every conceivable body fold, were cheerfully flaunting parts ordinarily kept tidy and tucked away. Seeing folks, naked as peeled eggs and raw as oysters was surprisingly stimulating, which seemed more appropriate for me in the 60s than me in my 60s.
During this heated page flipping I actually thought about a visit to a piercing parlor. However, like so many flash enthusiasms, the urgency faded. I cooled down, then plummeted to sub-zero regarding any redecoration below the neck. Now, it seemed like a better idea to pierce the cartilage at the top edge of my ear and stick an emerald in that. Does all desire eventually evaporate upwards?
The only jewel I’ve ever wanted is the emerald. More than all the gems in Solomon’s mine, it has the luster of true treasure to me. No jewel could be more surprising, suddenly struck upon in the split of a black rock; tempered by licks of lava and cool passages of water, it finishes as pellucid and transparent as air. I don’t know what piece of time it takes for this to happen, but it’s a big one.
However, I’m not an experienced judge of emeralds and wouldn’t know a good one from a bad one. Also, not being the kind of woman who is given gems, and having only dead female relatives who were similarly ignored, I knew I’d have to shop one for myself.
There are synthetic emeralds--hot-house gems grown in laboratories. Minerally speaking, they’re supposed to be identical to mined stones, but the only instant rocks I ever cared for were the ones you could order from the back of comic books, which could grow to chalky maturity in special, gooey water. My emerald turned up at a gem show. After peering at trays of beautiful and impossibly costly stones, it became clear to the sexy and subtly flirtatious Brazilian seller that I didn’t have any real money to spend. But he finally produced a single ear stud set with a pretty, bluegrass green stone. It was simply faceted, triangular, flat on top, and tapering down through the mounting to a point. I bought it—it was very small and I was satisfied more than delighted, as though I’d stolen something owed to me.
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