What I know about tattoos I learned from D___. His entire right leg was tattooed, and most of his left leg. Both shoulders, all around his neck, most of both arms. His tattoos were serpents and Japanese letters and blues and purples, some red, beautiful tattoos, and I would examine them, lifting his leg while he lay on his back.
I wanted to get tattoos, but the desire hit me late, after I knew my body was mine to adorn for my pleasure. I wanted Our Lady of Guadalupe on my bicep, like Catholic sailors, except my bicep wasn’t big enough to hold her holy glory, plus I worried that her golden rays would droop as I got old.
But when I wanted tattoos I was firm, late 30s, after I’d had Dee and Em and knew that I could do things like birth babies on the bathroom floor or crouching like a tiger in my bedroom.
Why then, no tattoos? Mid-life crisis-y, that’s what I told myself. How desperate, how too-little-too-late. If I got tattoos, I’d want to be like D___, 1/3 of my body covered (by now probably the images creep up around his ears and chin like ivy crawling up a tree).
I’d want to paint myself in excess, or like piercings, be one of those people who start with a second hole in each ear, then add a small gauge. Then my lip and the spot above my eyebrow. My nose, and believe me, I considered my nose but later worried that I might get ancient and be dotted with holes that would affect my breathing, or worse, sag like big drops.
I remember Carmen Chavez’s cat pulled her earring straight through her ear and her lobe hung like a cloven hoof, all floppy like fringe, and that image stayed with me forever so that the piercings went the way of the tattoos. Out of mind.
I did get one second piercing on my right ear, although the last time I wore a stud in it was when I was 19, I think, and had teeny-tiny diamonds that Corky gave me and that I almost immediately lost, or one anyway.
I wish I had been the kind of young adult that thought nothing of changing my body, nothing of the risks of dirty needles — Cousin R___ got Hepatitis for life on account of his tattoos. I wish I could have colored away, I wish I’d even gone for the parts of my body where the skin sits on bone, showed my tolerance for pain and gotten Saint Lucy’s eyeballs, one on the top of each hand.
Someone once told me my art would make good tattoos, but I might have gone for more traditional images, a skull and bones on my other bicep, no dainty stuff, just the fare of soldiers and men my father’s age, a ribbon floating across my back shoulder, I Love You Jim!, except it might have had some other man’s name on it, an earlier love, for I would have been younger and bolder when I got it.
I’ve always been most in awe of the teardrops falling from the outside corner of a person’s eye, one drop for each year in prison, or is it for every five years, I wonder.
-related to Topic post, WRITING TOPIC – TATTOOS
Crouching Tiger indeed? That is some visual 😉
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8)
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RECALL:
What I know about tattoos I learned from D___
serpents
Japanese letters
blues and purples
red, beautiful tattoos
lifting his leg while he lay on his back
desire hit me late, after I knew my body was mine to adorn
Our Lady of Guadalupe
Catholic sailors
my bicep wasn’t big enough to hold her holy glory
golden rays would droop as I got old
firm, late 30s, after I’d had Dee and Em
birth babies on the bathroom floor
crouching like a tiger in my bedroom
Why then, no tattoos?
desperate
too-little-too-late
images creep up around his ears and chin like ivy crawling up a tree
second hole in each ear
a small gauge
lip
spot above my eyebrow
nose
ancient
dotted with holes
Carmen Chavez’s cat pulled her earring straight through her ear
lobe hung like a cloven hoof
floppy like fringe
piercings went the way of the tattoos
last time I wore a stud
19
teeny-tiny diamonds
Corky
the risks of dirty needles
Cousin Rick got Hepatitis for life on account of his tattoos
I wish I could have colored away
parts of my body where the skin sits on bone
Saint Lucy’s eyeballs
one on the top of each hand
my art would make good tattoos
skull and bones
no dainty stuff
soldiers and men my father’s age
ribbon floating across my back shoulder, I Love You Jim!
some other man’s name
younger and bolder
teardrops falling from the outside corner of a person’s eye
one drop for each year in prison
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Amazing recall, QM. Before reading your comment, I was going to write about two “ah-ha” moments in this practice:
“lobe hung like a cloven hoof” (the middle line of a haiku, yb)
and “teardrops falling from the outside corner of a person’s eye.” I thought about clown faces with those tears.
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I left a comment on QM’s tattoo practice that pertained to your post here, also.
When I read them, I read them together, as one.
I observed that “you felt a sense of happy excitement upon completion” of this post.
(and that this writing is yummy!)
Your practice felt like a ‘confession’ that will protect you from the whole body tattoo. I heard a nervous giggle, like a teen ager anticipating something taboo.
Taboo Tattoo
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Thanks for that recall, QM. Really nice.
sharonimo, yes, I liked those riffs. Thanks for validating that they stood out.
leslie, I read your original comment on QM’s tattoo practice (LINK — see Comment #3), and then this one. Yes, I was kind of happy and kind of excited after I finished this practice. I did it at about 9:30 last night, in bed. Jim was in the family room watching TV, and I at last had a solid chunk of time to myself. I’ve been out of good fast-writing pens for weeks, but I stuck my hand into my old backpack and found a Uniball with lots of ink. I realized last night that a fast-writing pen *really* does make a difference.
The writing came quickly. I set the timer for 18 minutes, because I meant to do a 15-min writing practice yet give myself time to get comfortable in my bed first. I settled in quickly, though, and probably wrote for the entire 18 mins. I guess I should have indicated that in the title, but I rounded up to 20 for the sake of being consistent with QM’s post.
Re: the nervous teenager giggle — I feel I tapped into a younger self here, the voice of someone I might have been and perhaps am in certain moments.
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http://motherofshrek.blogspot.com/2008/03/extraordinary.html
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OK, I take back EVERY secret fantasy and wish that I might be the kind of bold person who goes for a full-body tattoo and/or elaborate piercings. I promise to never wish for those things again…
BTW, leslie, did you just stumble upon that blog recently? I mean, how do find these places????
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yb: This is a very strong and visual piece of writing. I’d always heard the teardrop tattoo was to mark someone you’d killed…which could land you in jail, too.
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Maybe that’s it. A tear for every person you kill in prison?
OK, I’m going to look this up. Will be back.
p.s., thanks 8)
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OK, I looked up a couple of sites, each stating a few things. Then I went to the Wikipedia page (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tear_tattoo), which said the tear can represent several:
The tear tattoo is a symbolic tattoo that is placed underneath one’s eye to create the impression that the individual is crying. This tattoo has multiple, regionally-variant meanings. In prison it is often used to signify that the wearer is a “sissie.” Generally the prisoner is forced to get the tattoo by their “sugar daddy.” However, its usage is known to have originated in the Chicano gangs of California.[citation needed] Often, it signifies that an individual has killed another person, particularly while in prison; at other times, it means that a family member, friend, or fellow gang member has died or been killed. Other times, it can stand for the number of years one has been in prison,[citation needed] or the serving of more than one prison term. In the UK a tear tattoo signifies being in borstal (young offenders prison).[1]
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Thanks, yb, for doing the research. I am not planning to get a tear tattoo anytime soon (or ever…)
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Hi ybonesy,
Casdok (mother of shrek) comments on a number of blogs I visit, and I did a bit of lurking today and came across that post. I had also seen that series of photos as an email being sent around. I thought it was apropos.
And it definitely gives one pause for reflection, doesn’t it?
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And do go visit Mother of Shrek blog. It is a wonderful peaceful blog that wishes acceptance of people’s differences. I linked to that one particular post, but clicking on the header will take you to a current page.
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Well, I find it extraordinarily interesting
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