Alex Patrick Dyck is a multimedia poet, splosh artist and medicine maker. They are a romantic hoarder of sentimental trash and trampled roses, attaching tinier things to their body and books and walls. They live in Upstate NY on unceded Mahican land.

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I originally opened this shop to sell my jewelry, and now I have expanded the items I make available to y'all online: special & intentional handmade items for adorning and supporting your bod and spirit.

The origin story is below:

In the Fall of 2012 I fled the impending cold of New York City; we drove as fast as we could to the opposite coast, beating our hands against the wind. I took a photo of a harvest moon in full bloom and stole a nugget of goldstone from a truck stop, it was nearly a perfect cube.

When I got to California,

First, I took off my stockings
Second, I shoved my face into a rosebush

I slept on floors, couches, mountains
In tents on the grass and on the dirt and the sand
In many a persons bed after they had left for work, creeping into the warm spot they left behind.

Soon we bought a bus. A short white bus. It was loving at first sighting.
We called her The Big Galoot. And we built a nest of aphgans in her womb.

We drank dirty martinis wherever we went. Or sometimes we drank whatever we could find. We were cold most of the time and always wanted to bathe.

I spent all of my money at a bead shop that was going out of business.
There I fell in love with a moon rock. A chunk of meteorite. An offering from some space witch wizard bitch. It was chalcedony. Raw unpolished natural. Agate. Peach aventurine. Hematite and tourmaline. Master - healer - clear - quartz - crystal. Rosy, smokey and rutilated.

After that we never went anywhere without stones in our pockets and in our pouches. I strung em up on strings and chains. Anointed them in woody oils. For your wrist and earlobes, dangling. Charged them in the full moon light. And let 'em ring around ya neck.


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