inque

My new ink is finished, I think. Me likes, and am already thinking about the next one. Thanks Ashley at 522 Tatoo.

maryguerite

So my gramma turned 91 last week. She's busy with her rental houses and oil-company dealings and news of various feuds being perpetuated around town. When I was visiting a few weeks ago she took a look at the ink on my left inner arm ("Dusty"). What about the other arm, she said, with the twinkly smile that I know means mischief.
I played dumb. What do you mean?
Marguerite, she said. I think it'd fit.
It was the first time she'd acknowledged the tattoo that reminds me every day of my grampa. And to tell the truth I'd thought about my other arm a few times, about gramma, about Marguerite.
I've been thinking about my mom, too: Mary.
Mary
Marguerite
Mary
Marge
It seems like somehow the two should be together, mom and daughter, and close to me, that somehow this should be possible. So much in my life seems impossible, knottier than Mideast peace and harder to sort than the plotline of a Chesterton novel, it's nice to think that this may be solvable.

ow

So deciding to have a sob-free day was probably a bad idea being that I got some new ink. Ha. On the other hand, pain can be centering. When a very talented and capable tattoo artist is running a needle into your skin, you can't think about much else.

It's been a painful week but not in entirely negative ways:
Some people I love are going through really tough times. We have no idea of the outcome and there's more ahead. It's a minute-by-minute battle not to freak out with worry. I've been going through my own, self-inflicted misery and it's minute-by-minute too, sometimes. But guess what, I've lived through it so far and I'm okay. Wow. Then there's the pain of getting a tattoo. The first few cuts hurt a lot. A LOT. Today, I lay there thinking "WTF was I thinking?" Then it becomes routine. It still hurts, but it's become less of a surprise. I concentrated on breathing. Un-clenching. Ash and I talked about how hard it is to keep life simple and not fuck things up. I thought about my other ink and the reasons I'd gotten it done. Then, it was over. The lack of pain feels enormous, like a big beautiful bubble. But I wouldn't have got there without the previous ninety minutes.

dusty

So much to talk about.
I got new ink on Friday, my grampa's nickname on the inside of my arm. The lovely Ash, just back from central America, designed and completed the tattoo. Every time I see my new ink I think about Gramp. I miss him so. If I can be half the champion human being he was...well, I'm going to try.
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I'll have a story link to share soon.
A poet/artist friend got a rather nasty rejection letter last week, larded with pseudo-intellectual MFA jibber jabber. Whatevs. He mixed up a fresh cocktail, heavy on vermouth, named it "too conventional," and we toasted the slush pile.
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I played tetherball this weekend! Yes, I said it. "!"
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Today's soundtrack is Julius Sylvest--don't miss the video, it's trippy cool:

Mah next ink

So I'm working out the details of my next tattoo. I need to dig up a Xanax (man did the first one hurt like a fiend) and make the appointment, for late April. I'm torn between two ideas:

• A Haida moon, like this one, or along the lines of this amazing Robert Davidson design.
  
• Or, a crow silhouette. I love the damn birds--they're cranky and vocal and ubiquitous and yet mostly go unremarked. This one's cool. And I love this image.

Anybody care to cast a vote?

Ink

I got my first ink the other day, something I've always wanted to do. My youngest sis and I had discussed getting it done together. She's got a couple of tattoos and was thinking about another. I thought about what image to get, and where.
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Something classic but not trite, I decided--which ruled out Chinese characters, roses, skulls, the Jolly Roger or the old paw print on the boobs--and also not something I'd see on my flapping middle-aged bicep a few years hence and wish I'd spent the money on a spa day or a nice dinner or a lifetime supply of temporary tats. A native moon, I thought, a Haida design. But I couldn't find one simple enough to translate onto skin.
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But this I liked, the fleur-de-lis, the elegant, classic symbol of New Orleans. So, $80 later it's mine forever, tattooed into my left ankle. I won't lie, getting it hurt like the dickens. But there is something cleansing in pain that penetrates to your bones. It focuses you, clarifies your thoughts. How much in life is permanent? the artist said, as she was setting up to get started. And when it was over: Welcome to the club.