Crystal Clear
Under a spellbound sky
Look, L.A. may be lacking in certain things (water, public transportation, decent live theater) but it makes up for it in other areas (concrete, cars, influencer events). One of its most abundant natural resources? Crystal stores. My sister recently needed to buy a crystal (it happens) so I accompanied her to one of five within a three-mile radius of my house, Spellbound Sky.
Spellbound Sky is sort of the goth crystal store—the music is loud and electronic. The color scheme is black and stark. The windows are blocked up by black plywood, creating a small foyer which houses a unicorn sculpture. The proprietors (geniuses) used to be in the fashion industry and according to a friend of mine had something to do with Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake’s all denim VMA’s look. I couldn’t confirm this with my lazy Internet research, but I feel like even if it’s not true it gives you an idea of what to expect.
If you’re unfamiliar with the power of crystals, I can fill you in on what I’ve absorbed in my time in this city. They are small rocks (but sometimes big rocks) that all have certain vibrations. These vibrations can ground you or they can activate you. Each crystal has special properties related to categories like finance, romance, creativity, manifestation, lucid dreaming, etc. According to my friend who first brought me to Spellbound Sky, you’re supposed to wander around and investigate the colors and shapes you’re drawn to. The larger the shape you’re drawn to, the more expensive the crystal. Once you bring them home, to keep them in good working order, you have to do things like sage them, charge them by the light of the full moon, arrange them in your home to face optimal directions for optimal results.
“This sounds insane,” you might be saying, and you would be right. But you know what else is insane? Contemporary life. We have to fill our gaping holes of uncertainty with something. Why not crystals?
On a previous visit, during an emotionally precarious time for me (the perfect time to visit the crystal store), one of the aforementioned proprietors, Martin, read my tarot cards. Though he’s always in black, the particulars of that look change from time to time, and on this particular day he was sporting an impossibly long high ponytail that he whipped about like punctuation every time he finished a thought. He told me lust was in my future and not to worry about the haters. That was one of the best days of my life.
Unfortunately for us, Martin and his husband have been spending more time in the desert, leaving the shop to be manned by deputy mystics. On the day we visited, it was a person with one long beautiful swoop of hair emerging from the top of an otherwise shaved head, tucked meticulously behind their ear. My toddler was with me and I could tell that this person was of the camp that assiduously avoids acknowledging the presence of children. Sort of like politely not commenting on a noxious smell at a friend’s house.
That was probably the best course of action, because my sister unclipped my daughter from her stroller and she then ran around the store trying to grab and / or eat as many crystals as possible. I followed her around like a harried personal assistant, undoing the damage of my entitled client. It reached a fever pitch when she grabbed a rose quartz (heart chakra, romance) in the shape of a half moon and toddled over to the mirror to stare at herself holding it.
Eventually my sister found what she was looking for, and the crystals escaped relatively unscathed. The only signs of anything amiss were probably a few sticky fingerprints, but my hope is Martin would say that’s on par with charging them by the light of the full moon. What energy is more activating and grounding than that of a toddler? Who else has more lust (for life) and worries less about the haters? Who taught us that colorful rocks are powerful if not tiny children?
So so funny and touching, as usual, Langan!!
My son (now a grown man with a toddler of his own) collected rocks from early on. Perhaps you’ve heard this story. When we went outdoors, he always came home with a rock in his hand. Then, when he was five or so, just learning to write, he categorized and labeled the rocks in a repurposed compartmentalized cardboard box that had originally held classroom crayons. The categories were, if I’m remembering correctly, as follows: lucky rocks; byoutifool rocks; intrestin rocks; and speshul rocks. Maybe there was a “colorful rocks” category, I don’t recall. In any case, there were so many “intrestin” rocks that they had to be stored in more than one of the compartments.
My guess is that they were ALL powerful rocks.
A fundamental truth: “What energy is more activating and grounding than that of a toddler? Who else has more lust (for life) and worries less about the haters? Who taught us that colorful rocks are powerful if not tiny children?” Bowie said the Starman said it: “Let all the children boogie.”