Seagulls circled overhead as I dug my toes into the cold sand. The chill in the November air didn’t deter me. I made my way closer to the water, eyes fixed on the red sun setting on the horizon. Still seething from my meeting the day before with Captain Doyle and the director of the Boston FBI field office, I needed a distraction… something to cool me off. The icy cold water numbed my toes. I jumped into the ocean and the dark water enveloped me. I came up for air, rolling onto my back and floating in the glacial freeze, letting the waves lap my body and wash away the humiliation.
continued....
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/legacy_xi
Friday, August 24, 2007
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Faces of death, funeral photos?
Sitting around the kitchen in my apartment somehow or another, I don’t recall the start of the conversation, but my sister in law and I got to talking about funerals and final arrangements. A rather morbid conversation for a sunny Saturday morning I know, but hell I was hung over and the thought of eternal peace had nice ring to it.
Either way, we delved into the discussion; and for many people who already know me they know exactly what kind of blow out I want, obnoxious insane and over the top. A final hurrah before I become worm food. The conversation itself was a pretty gruesome one, but tinged with humor until we touched upon the issue of whether or not it is polite to take pictures at funeral. I informed her that it would her job to keep the paparazzi at bay at my funeral, and she quipped that it shouldn’t bother me as I wasn’t going to get the final say in what was shown anyway. We bickered back and forth for a few moments and actually realized we had a difference of opinion on the subject. I must admit, my personal vanity aside, I really do have a problem with cameras at funerals.
I mean seriously, I did not actually believe people did this! I personally find it rather morbid; I'd rather remember the deceased alive, but there were a few mourners at my father’s services who “politely” asked if they could take pictures. I politely refused they’re request and “politely” told them that if I saw so much as one flash or heard a zoom lens or click then said camera would be buried along with my father. I didn’t yell, I didn’t scream, I didn’t even swear, I believe my direct quote was “I will break it, it will not be replaced, please keep that in mind.” They were incredulous that I would not grant this request but respected my wishes at the funeral home.
Unfortunately that respect did not extend to the funeral mass or the graveside service. Despite my direct order that there be no cameras or recording devices present; some asshole showed up at the church with a damned camcorder! His only saving grace was the fact that I had to keep my composure so as not to upset my mother or he would have gotten an extreme close-up of my fist and then the casket, after making sure my mother was okay I made my way over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “I can arrange for a close up of the body if you like.” He heard my furious whisper and immediately turned the camera off apologizing profusely.
I was too stressed and in shock at the time to reflect on his behavior and just chalked it up to downright creepiness and rudeness. But over the years, and in the funerals I have attended (too many, always too many) I have noticed an increase in shutterbugs hovering over a casket snapping away as if the deceased is suddenly going to snap out of it and give us “blue steel” or some other such modeling nonsense. Then there are those who walk around the funeral parlor with a video camera in tow, zooming in on the grieving faces of family and friends, making like Martin-frikken-Scorcese! It's down right obscene! I’ve always associated cameras, video recorders, and photos as a way to capture and relive happy memories. Funerals are somber and mournful occasions, not a place to mingle and ask people to pose for shots or say a little something to the camera.
Who really wants to remember such a heart-breaking event in such vivid detail? Are there people out there who pop in the video of Grandma’s funeral and sit down with a big bowl of popcorn to relive the experience? Do you gather the family around at family reunions and watch slide shows of uncle Bob’s corpse and the close up of aunt Bridget tearfully falling to her knees at the graveside? What kind of memories are preserved when you open up the family photo albums and see pictures of corpses, coffins and grief? I don’t get it, I really don’t. It just seems creepy to me have a picture of someone in a casket in your photo album, or in your video collection.
Also it seems rather rude to be snapping pictures of the deceased especially in front of the family, is there some sort of etiquette for this? I won’t sit here and deny that the mourning process and grieving is painful, but to have constant reminder of such a tragic event, to be able tangibly record it for posterity has got to be detrimental to those that remain behind. Maybe I’m wrong…who knows. It is my opinion that if you truly want to remember the deceased you celebrate their life as you knew them; through pictures of them during happy times, during periods of growth and development, milestones. They should live on in our hearts and minds through stories, anecdotes, funny memories and sharing these experiences with the loved ones that remain.
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/live_fast__die_young__and_leave_a_good_looking_corpse
Either way, we delved into the discussion; and for many people who already know me they know exactly what kind of blow out I want, obnoxious insane and over the top. A final hurrah before I become worm food. The conversation itself was a pretty gruesome one, but tinged with humor until we touched upon the issue of whether or not it is polite to take pictures at funeral. I informed her that it would her job to keep the paparazzi at bay at my funeral, and she quipped that it shouldn’t bother me as I wasn’t going to get the final say in what was shown anyway. We bickered back and forth for a few moments and actually realized we had a difference of opinion on the subject. I must admit, my personal vanity aside, I really do have a problem with cameras at funerals.
I mean seriously, I did not actually believe people did this! I personally find it rather morbid; I'd rather remember the deceased alive, but there were a few mourners at my father’s services who “politely” asked if they could take pictures. I politely refused they’re request and “politely” told them that if I saw so much as one flash or heard a zoom lens or click then said camera would be buried along with my father. I didn’t yell, I didn’t scream, I didn’t even swear, I believe my direct quote was “I will break it, it will not be replaced, please keep that in mind.” They were incredulous that I would not grant this request but respected my wishes at the funeral home.
Unfortunately that respect did not extend to the funeral mass or the graveside service. Despite my direct order that there be no cameras or recording devices present; some asshole showed up at the church with a damned camcorder! His only saving grace was the fact that I had to keep my composure so as not to upset my mother or he would have gotten an extreme close-up of my fist and then the casket, after making sure my mother was okay I made my way over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “I can arrange for a close up of the body if you like.” He heard my furious whisper and immediately turned the camera off apologizing profusely.
I was too stressed and in shock at the time to reflect on his behavior and just chalked it up to downright creepiness and rudeness. But over the years, and in the funerals I have attended (too many, always too many) I have noticed an increase in shutterbugs hovering over a casket snapping away as if the deceased is suddenly going to snap out of it and give us “blue steel” or some other such modeling nonsense. Then there are those who walk around the funeral parlor with a video camera in tow, zooming in on the grieving faces of family and friends, making like Martin-frikken-Scorcese! It's down right obscene! I’ve always associated cameras, video recorders, and photos as a way to capture and relive happy memories. Funerals are somber and mournful occasions, not a place to mingle and ask people to pose for shots or say a little something to the camera.
Who really wants to remember such a heart-breaking event in such vivid detail? Are there people out there who pop in the video of Grandma’s funeral and sit down with a big bowl of popcorn to relive the experience? Do you gather the family around at family reunions and watch slide shows of uncle Bob’s corpse and the close up of aunt Bridget tearfully falling to her knees at the graveside? What kind of memories are preserved when you open up the family photo albums and see pictures of corpses, coffins and grief? I don’t get it, I really don’t. It just seems creepy to me have a picture of someone in a casket in your photo album, or in your video collection.
Also it seems rather rude to be snapping pictures of the deceased especially in front of the family, is there some sort of etiquette for this? I won’t sit here and deny that the mourning process and grieving is painful, but to have constant reminder of such a tragic event, to be able tangibly record it for posterity has got to be detrimental to those that remain behind. Maybe I’m wrong…who knows. It is my opinion that if you truly want to remember the deceased you celebrate their life as you knew them; through pictures of them during happy times, during periods of growth and development, milestones. They should live on in our hearts and minds through stories, anecdotes, funny memories and sharing these experiences with the loved ones that remain.
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/live_fast__die_young__and_leave_a_good_looking_corpse
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Sing me a smile
There is no color in this place; only shadow and mist. The faint light that is cast by the thin sliver of moonlight deepened the shadows and made them longer. If only there were more light, then maybe it would be easier to find. Walking along this cold alley I felt the damp brick against my hand as I feel along the wall to better guide myself. I hadn’t been here in so long, and yet…I can’t remember exactly where here is. I’ve been in this alley before, I know where it leads. But do I really want to go there? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking for, but I have this deep seated feeling that I need to find it, because I know that it is precious. I just know, but I don’t know why. I move on, in the darkness towards the end of the alley and find myself in my elementary school playground. Years had passed since I last saw this place. The silence was so heavy, not a noise to be heard but the breath escaping my lips and the squeak of the merry go round as it spun slowly, slowly but not empty. There amidst the silvery mist, pushing off the sand with a sneaker clad foot was a little girl. She couldn’t be more than 7 or 8 years old. It is too dark for her to be out alone, where were her parents? I make my way to the merry-go-round, cautiously. I didn’t want to scare her. Previous concerns about what I had been searching for were replaced with concern for this child. Maybe she was lost, maybe she lived around the corner and was about to head home or something. Either way I was going to make sure she got home safely. I shudder, wrap my arms around myself and head towards her. “Hi sweetie…what are you doing out here so late?” I tried to sound as motherly and reassuring as possible. No small feat for me, I didn’t have any children of my own and never really was comfortable around them. She doesn’t answer me…but she does stop pushing off the sand. She lands facing the opposite direction of where I had been walking to, the red hooded sweat shirt she had on seems so markedly bright among the dimness. “Honey…? Where is your mommy?” She pushes off again and continued spinning. I wasn’t sure if she hadn’t heard me, or was too scared to answer. This time she landed right in front of me. She was beautiful, soft rosy cheeks, plump little red lips; long black braid peeking out of her hoodie. But it was her eyes that caught my attention. Big beautiful doe eyes, liquid brown and shiny with tears, haunted and afraid. The poor thing was crying, so I did the only thing I could think of. I knelt before her and held open my arms. “It’s okay honey, I’ll help you find your mommy. Just come here and we’ll go look for her.” She doesn’t budge, her tiny little fists grab the bar of the merry-go-round tighter and she just keeps staring at me. ““I’m not supposed to talk to anyone…”Her voice is shaky, and light. It carried on the air like a melody, her question lilted the tone.
part 2: click the link
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/sing_me_a_smile
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
40 Days and 40 Nights...aaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!
Oh god what I wouldn’t give for piece!
...of steak, or a Big Mac, you pervert. I gave up McDonald's and red meat, and sex (with males) for lent. There's approximately 7 1/2 weeks left, and I think it's safe to say I'm gonna make it! I suppose I could have given up drinking (sure) or possibly women (who are we kidding), but why punish society for my religion. Regardless, looking back on it now, I probably wouldn't have made it past the first week if i decided to go with the latter.
Now, before you get all high and mighty at me about being a good Catholic lets take a closer more discriminating look at this archaic custom of self deprivation. Let us ponder the meaning of lent, shall we? Hmmm despite my catholic upbringing I still had to look this up. Lets see, here ok, according to various sources Lent is a time of penance, prayer, preparation. Well let's see, why don't we start with the first part of that definition.
Penance: the desire to be forgiven, or contrition.
Well boys and girls one cannot receive penance or atone for ones sins until one has confessed said sins. Now really, when was the last time any of you all went to confession? Tell the truth.
Silence....(crickets)
Yeah, I though so. I hadn't been in a few years either, so I decided that it'd be a good idea to go before Ash Wednesday. Being the good little catholic that I am, I decided that it would be a better idea if I went to parish other than my own to confess my depravities. I don't need my local priest knowing the kind of debauched lifestyle I lead. I do have to show my face at Sunday Mass and the confessional booths at my church might as well be made of plexi-glass for all the privacy they offer. I figured I'd go confess at the local monastery. I mean it's not like the monks get out much, do they? How bad could it be right? I couldn't have been more wrong.
Me: Forgive me father for I have sinned. The time of my last confession was about 3 years ago
Priest: Why so long my child?
Me: Well, you see father....
Cut to me being given my penance. I don't think he was being totally forgiving. I had to do 50 Our Fathers, 75 Hail Mary's, say a novena and light a candle for all the sins I had confessed to (thank god I hadn't confessed to everything, we might have needed the fire dept there to put out all the flames). I don't even want to talk about the $50 donation I had to make to the charity box! I vaguely remember hearing something about eternal damnation and some such nonsense, but I was too busy swearing under my breath about having pay-out cold hard cash for my so-called sins. He obviously didn't care that that $50 was coming out of my weekend drinking budget...how rude! Having to recite all those rosaries should be enough of a punishment. But I digress. The penance I was given, leads us directly into our next subject.
Prayer: A reverent petition made to God, a god, or another object of worship
Reverent petition my ass! When was the last time you weren't praying when you're head wasn't dangling off the side of the toilet bowl? I can't count how many times I swore on everything holy that I was never going to touch another drop of alcohol again, never mind the furious orations that exited my being upon being caught doing something illegal (which by the way I NEVER do...yeah, uh-huh). I can almost bet you get super religious when you've gotten pulled over by the boys in blue too. How many times have you caught yourself praying for something completely inappropriate, like for that wave of nausea to stop, or for the asshole/bitch you've been doing relentlessly (who by the way is taking forever to cum) to just hurry up and finish so you can go make a sandwich? I'll bet quite a few. No one ever admits to it. So I'm calling you guys out. If you didn't need some divine intervention during these trying times then you my friend are not human.
Don't get me wrong, I know that people pray for completely innocent reasons too. Some pray for family, some for health, some for luck. But isn't that getting a little selfish? I mean if you think about it, Jesus was a pretty cool guy, sacrificing himself for your soul. I mean, would YOU do that? I think not, hell I'm pretty sure some of you wouldn't even sacrifice your parking spot or your place in line never mind your life and immortal soul. My point is that during this holiest of seasons I tend to find that a lot of people, myself included tend to find themselves relying on powers higher than their own to get shit done. As if any other time of year isn't good enough. I mean people really. Lent is not a like the Annual Blowout Sale at Macy's. You do not get discount on Miracles, and no one's punching your prayer card so you get your free gift at the pearly gates. But once again, I digress. It just so happens that during this time of reflection and spiritualism we are getting ready for a greater scheme. Which brings me to the final part of lent.
Preparation.
And what are we preparing for? Well my friends. We are preparing to break the fast after having deprived yourself of a cherished habit or possession, payment to atone for our sins. Some of us have not sinned as much as others. I can attest to the fact I'm pretty much going to hell in flaming hand-basket. The only reason I even find myself being even remotely observant is so I can earn some brownie points and possibly avoid the whole burning lake of fire. I figure if I do two good deeds for every one sin I should be able to get a nice room in or around the 4th level of hell (no pineapples, please). Wishful thinking, I know, but a girl's got to have faith right?
Ponder this: (Luke 7:34) "The Son of Man has come eating and drinking, and you say, 'Look at him,119 a glutton and a drunk, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!'120.
Which leads me to believe that although He may have given up his soul and body for the betterment of mankind, I'm pretty much convinced that he wasn't exactly uptight. I mean seriously folks, walking across water, bringing back the dead, and let's not forget the ultimate party trick. I mean Jesus would have been the most awesome Brita filter, he could have cleaned the water, but no he turned it to wine! People called Jesus a glutton and a drunk, and quite possibly an accountant. A man who can get me drunk, save my soul, and do my taxes, I'd give up meat for 40 days and 40 nights for that.
But not sex....nah!
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/40_days_and_40_nights
...of steak, or a Big Mac, you pervert. I gave up McDonald's and red meat, and sex (with males) for lent. There's approximately 7 1/2 weeks left, and I think it's safe to say I'm gonna make it! I suppose I could have given up drinking (sure) or possibly women (who are we kidding), but why punish society for my religion. Regardless, looking back on it now, I probably wouldn't have made it past the first week if i decided to go with the latter.
Now, before you get all high and mighty at me about being a good Catholic lets take a closer more discriminating look at this archaic custom of self deprivation. Let us ponder the meaning of lent, shall we? Hmmm despite my catholic upbringing I still had to look this up. Lets see, here ok, according to various sources Lent is a time of penance, prayer, preparation. Well let's see, why don't we start with the first part of that definition.
Penance: the desire to be forgiven, or contrition.
Well boys and girls one cannot receive penance or atone for ones sins until one has confessed said sins. Now really, when was the last time any of you all went to confession? Tell the truth.
Silence....(crickets)
Yeah, I though so. I hadn't been in a few years either, so I decided that it'd be a good idea to go before Ash Wednesday. Being the good little catholic that I am, I decided that it would be a better idea if I went to parish other than my own to confess my depravities. I don't need my local priest knowing the kind of debauched lifestyle I lead. I do have to show my face at Sunday Mass and the confessional booths at my church might as well be made of plexi-glass for all the privacy they offer. I figured I'd go confess at the local monastery. I mean it's not like the monks get out much, do they? How bad could it be right? I couldn't have been more wrong.
Me: Forgive me father for I have sinned. The time of my last confession was about 3 years ago
Priest: Why so long my child?
Me: Well, you see father....
Cut to me being given my penance. I don't think he was being totally forgiving. I had to do 50 Our Fathers, 75 Hail Mary's, say a novena and light a candle for all the sins I had confessed to (thank god I hadn't confessed to everything, we might have needed the fire dept there to put out all the flames). I don't even want to talk about the $50 donation I had to make to the charity box! I vaguely remember hearing something about eternal damnation and some such nonsense, but I was too busy swearing under my breath about having pay-out cold hard cash for my so-called sins. He obviously didn't care that that $50 was coming out of my weekend drinking budget...how rude! Having to recite all those rosaries should be enough of a punishment. But I digress. The penance I was given, leads us directly into our next subject.
Prayer: A reverent petition made to God, a god, or another object of worship
Reverent petition my ass! When was the last time you weren't praying when you're head wasn't dangling off the side of the toilet bowl? I can't count how many times I swore on everything holy that I was never going to touch another drop of alcohol again, never mind the furious orations that exited my being upon being caught doing something illegal (which by the way I NEVER do...yeah, uh-huh). I can almost bet you get super religious when you've gotten pulled over by the boys in blue too. How many times have you caught yourself praying for something completely inappropriate, like for that wave of nausea to stop, or for the asshole/bitch you've been doing relentlessly (who by the way is taking forever to cum) to just hurry up and finish so you can go make a sandwich? I'll bet quite a few. No one ever admits to it. So I'm calling you guys out. If you didn't need some divine intervention during these trying times then you my friend are not human.
Don't get me wrong, I know that people pray for completely innocent reasons too. Some pray for family, some for health, some for luck. But isn't that getting a little selfish? I mean if you think about it, Jesus was a pretty cool guy, sacrificing himself for your soul. I mean, would YOU do that? I think not, hell I'm pretty sure some of you wouldn't even sacrifice your parking spot or your place in line never mind your life and immortal soul. My point is that during this holiest of seasons I tend to find that a lot of people, myself included tend to find themselves relying on powers higher than their own to get shit done. As if any other time of year isn't good enough. I mean people really. Lent is not a like the Annual Blowout Sale at Macy's. You do not get discount on Miracles, and no one's punching your prayer card so you get your free gift at the pearly gates. But once again, I digress. It just so happens that during this time of reflection and spiritualism we are getting ready for a greater scheme. Which brings me to the final part of lent.
Preparation.
And what are we preparing for? Well my friends. We are preparing to break the fast after having deprived yourself of a cherished habit or possession, payment to atone for our sins. Some of us have not sinned as much as others. I can attest to the fact I'm pretty much going to hell in flaming hand-basket. The only reason I even find myself being even remotely observant is so I can earn some brownie points and possibly avoid the whole burning lake of fire. I figure if I do two good deeds for every one sin I should be able to get a nice room in or around the 4th level of hell (no pineapples, please). Wishful thinking, I know, but a girl's got to have faith right?
Ponder this: (Luke 7:34) "The Son of Man has come eating and drinking, and you say, 'Look at him,119 a glutton and a drunk, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!'120.
Which leads me to believe that although He may have given up his soul and body for the betterment of mankind, I'm pretty much convinced that he wasn't exactly uptight. I mean seriously folks, walking across water, bringing back the dead, and let's not forget the ultimate party trick. I mean Jesus would have been the most awesome Brita filter, he could have cleaned the water, but no he turned it to wine! People called Jesus a glutton and a drunk, and quite possibly an accountant. A man who can get me drunk, save my soul, and do my taxes, I'd give up meat for 40 days and 40 nights for that.
But not sex....nah!
http://www.thisisby.us/index.php/content/40_days_and_40_nights
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Got Ink?
Hell Yeah! This past President’s Day I flung caution to the wind and got screwed, blued, and tattooed!
Actually that’s not quite how it happened. I slipped on major block of ice on Friday morning and was laid up in the house for three days with a severe sprain and torn ligaments. Being confined to the first floor of the house was excruciating, but alas my kindly landlady supplied me with vodka, markers, and coloring books so I wouldn’t go completely insane. I suspect it was more her peace offering so I wouldn’t talk lawsuit because I slipped on the ice in front her house, but hey I wouldn’t do that. Well...(nah I wouldn’t, I’m not that evil).
My friend Mike ( genuinely cool guy that I met during the Valentines day snow storm), was over Friday night with his son to keep me company in my gimpy misery and we got to talking about tattoos. I was impressed with exorbitant amount of ink that he had. I’ve always had a thing for a guy with tattoos. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the image of the perpetual bad boy, or tough guy that appeals to me. I see a big burly dude with ink and generally start salivating. It means they aren’t afraid of a little pain. Which to me means they wouldn’t exactly mind a little pain in the sack either. But I digress…
Normally I am a complete wuss when it comes to pain, and I still remember the experience of getting my first tattoo the day I turned 18. I was rebelling against a strict catholic background (stupid reason I know), but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Yeah…no more plaid skirts and knee socks. Sister Theresa could go directly to….well you know, and from there on in I was gonna be one bad biker bitch!
YEAH!
I remember sitting in the parlor of the man who was going to permanently disfigure me, sweating like a whore during confession, and thinking… Maaaaaybeee this isn’t such a good idea. I didn’t have long to think because about thirty seconds later I had my pants around the tops of my thighs and the artist having just finished applying the stencil onto my skin got the gun whirring. I flinched once; it stung like a hot match. But after the first minute or two the pain subsided, well at least I think it did, I don’t remember much because from what I was told I passed out and was oblivious to the rest of the procedure. I do recall that the friend that went with me had some very deep nail marks embedded into his palm, but he assured me that I only drew a modicum of blood. Some bad ass tough chick I was! I don’t think I even got to look at it until a day later, when I was sure I wasn’t gong to faint or become nauseaous at the site of my own blood. Did I mention I was a wuss?
There it was…a tiny little snake, black and white striped right on my left hip; easily hidden and just for me. I don’t know why I chose a snake, maybe I thought it was cool at the time, dangerous…edgy. Whatever…over the years though through recent weight gain and loss it now looks more like a squiggly worm. What a fucking idiot I was. Luckily it’s in a place where it’s not easily viewed by the public. Thankfully I don’t have to explain it to anyone.
Fast forward 10 years. I still dont have a motorcycle, even though I have dated a few bikers. The only leather I sport is either on my feet or coat. I do have a few riskier pieces but those are only for the bedroom. I'm your typical late 20's female, working day in and out in a regular job, making regular pay, not rebelling against anything or anyone. Well at least not a lot.
Now don’t get me wrong…I don’t regret getting the tattoo. I regret not getting something that had any real meaning for me. I hear it all the time from people, ink-regret. I’ve heard time and again that surest way to end a relationship is to get the persons name tattooed somewhere on your person as a sign of undying love. That lovely image of Tweety Bird on your left breast, or the fact that one of these days you are going to have to explain just who exactly Big Bubba is, and why Grandma was at one point his bitch. Me…I went the inconspicuous route the first time, this time around though I had been thinking for quite a while about my next piece.
I’d been wanting to get a tribute to my father, something in memory of him and what he meant to me. I admit I could have gone the trite route and gotten his name in heart or rose or something equally as cheesy but that just didn’t appeal to me. My father was more to me that just a piece of generic flash. My father was my protector; he was the first person to instill faith in me, and the one person in my life that I knew would go the gates of hell and back for me. He was the closest thing to god in my eyes for the longest time, and even when he fell from grace, when his demons sought to overtake him he still shone in my eyes. His fire, although sometimes dimmed was ever present. I wanted something to represent that, and I found it. It’s kind of cheesy in own way I admit it, but I got the inspiration from watching the movie Michael (John Travolta), and the right after that the stupid Demi Moore movie the seventh sign came on. The idea clicked in my head, I’d seen the symbol before, but I couldn’t remember when. I researched angelic script and old biblical seals and found the ancient Aramaic symbol for the Archangel Michael. I knew instantly, the minute that I saw it that it was the one. Simple, clean and beautiful. This was a few years ago. It was just what I wanted. But I didn’t have the balls to get it. The recollection of how much the first had hurt had been stopping me for months.
But last Friday something that Mike said kind of got to me. He said that physical pain is just that, physical, and it goes away. I shouldn’t let temporary discomfort stop me from what I want. I mulled it over and decided that he had a point. We made plans to go on Monday morning. And so we did. I was nervous, and the pain in my ankle made me walk a lot slower but I was determined to get it done. Armed with conviction and a couple of Vicodin, I limped into the tattoo parlor and proceeded for the second time in my life to get permanently marked up. But this time it wasn’t to be cool, it wasn’t to be edgy. This time it was because I wanted to pay tribute to a good man, I wanted to have him with me in the only physical way I knew how for the rest of my life.
I sat down in that chair and joked around with the artist for a few minutes before we got down to business. He explained what was going to happen, opened up all the tools fresh from the packaging in front of me so I could see that it was all sterile, and proceeded to ask me where I wanted it. After a few minutes of snickering I told him, and he continued on business as usual. I sat in that chair, my head cradled in my folded arms, and this time I didn’t wince. I thought about the pain for a minute, hot and itchy at first, but then it subsided. I focused on a different kind of pain, the memory of the phone call that I got the morning I found out my father was dead. The searing agony of watching my mother crumple in front of me. The screaming torture that erupted from my lungs when I watched his casket lowered into the ground. Then the needle cutting into my flesh didn’t seem so bad, it didn’t hurt at all actually. I was in different place, so far away even that I didn’t realize that it was done until I felt the cooling salve on my back and heard the whirring of the machine stop. The whole experience was almost painless…well at least physically.
When the artist handed me the mirror so I could view the work, I didn’t know what my reaction would be. Would I cry; would I be weirded out? No…I looked and smiled softly. There it was…right between my shoulder blades, the blood red symbol of all that meant the world to me. My father’s symbol, the sigil of the angel who would always watch over me. Most people when they see my new tattoo will never know what it means.
When I finish it, when all is said and done, most people will look at me funny, will wonder what the phrase below it means. I won’t mind explaining, in fact I’ll be proud. No regrets this time…just a loving memory, and physical reminder of the man “Who is like God”.
http://thisisby.us/index.php/content/got_ink_
Actually that’s not quite how it happened. I slipped on major block of ice on Friday morning and was laid up in the house for three days with a severe sprain and torn ligaments. Being confined to the first floor of the house was excruciating, but alas my kindly landlady supplied me with vodka, markers, and coloring books so I wouldn’t go completely insane. I suspect it was more her peace offering so I wouldn’t talk lawsuit because I slipped on the ice in front her house, but hey I wouldn’t do that. Well...(nah I wouldn’t, I’m not that evil).
My friend Mike ( genuinely cool guy that I met during the Valentines day snow storm), was over Friday night with his son to keep me company in my gimpy misery and we got to talking about tattoos. I was impressed with exorbitant amount of ink that he had. I’ve always had a thing for a guy with tattoos. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the image of the perpetual bad boy, or tough guy that appeals to me. I see a big burly dude with ink and generally start salivating. It means they aren’t afraid of a little pain. Which to me means they wouldn’t exactly mind a little pain in the sack either. But I digress…
Normally I am a complete wuss when it comes to pain, and I still remember the experience of getting my first tattoo the day I turned 18. I was rebelling against a strict catholic background (stupid reason I know), but at the time it seemed like a good idea. Yeah…no more plaid skirts and knee socks. Sister Theresa could go directly to….well you know, and from there on in I was gonna be one bad biker bitch!
YEAH!
I remember sitting in the parlor of the man who was going to permanently disfigure me, sweating like a whore during confession, and thinking… Maaaaaybeee this isn’t such a good idea. I didn’t have long to think because about thirty seconds later I had my pants around the tops of my thighs and the artist having just finished applying the stencil onto my skin got the gun whirring. I flinched once; it stung like a hot match. But after the first minute or two the pain subsided, well at least I think it did, I don’t remember much because from what I was told I passed out and was oblivious to the rest of the procedure. I do recall that the friend that went with me had some very deep nail marks embedded into his palm, but he assured me that I only drew a modicum of blood. Some bad ass tough chick I was! I don’t think I even got to look at it until a day later, when I was sure I wasn’t gong to faint or become nauseaous at the site of my own blood. Did I mention I was a wuss?
There it was…a tiny little snake, black and white striped right on my left hip; easily hidden and just for me. I don’t know why I chose a snake, maybe I thought it was cool at the time, dangerous…edgy. Whatever…over the years though through recent weight gain and loss it now looks more like a squiggly worm. What a fucking idiot I was. Luckily it’s in a place where it’s not easily viewed by the public. Thankfully I don’t have to explain it to anyone.
Fast forward 10 years. I still dont have a motorcycle, even though I have dated a few bikers. The only leather I sport is either on my feet or coat. I do have a few riskier pieces but those are only for the bedroom. I'm your typical late 20's female, working day in and out in a regular job, making regular pay, not rebelling against anything or anyone. Well at least not a lot.
Now don’t get me wrong…I don’t regret getting the tattoo. I regret not getting something that had any real meaning for me. I hear it all the time from people, ink-regret. I’ve heard time and again that surest way to end a relationship is to get the persons name tattooed somewhere on your person as a sign of undying love. That lovely image of Tweety Bird on your left breast, or the fact that one of these days you are going to have to explain just who exactly Big Bubba is, and why Grandma was at one point his bitch. Me…I went the inconspicuous route the first time, this time around though I had been thinking for quite a while about my next piece.
I’d been wanting to get a tribute to my father, something in memory of him and what he meant to me. I admit I could have gone the trite route and gotten his name in heart or rose or something equally as cheesy but that just didn’t appeal to me. My father was more to me that just a piece of generic flash. My father was my protector; he was the first person to instill faith in me, and the one person in my life that I knew would go the gates of hell and back for me. He was the closest thing to god in my eyes for the longest time, and even when he fell from grace, when his demons sought to overtake him he still shone in my eyes. His fire, although sometimes dimmed was ever present. I wanted something to represent that, and I found it. It’s kind of cheesy in own way I admit it, but I got the inspiration from watching the movie Michael (John Travolta), and the right after that the stupid Demi Moore movie the seventh sign came on. The idea clicked in my head, I’d seen the symbol before, but I couldn’t remember when. I researched angelic script and old biblical seals and found the ancient Aramaic symbol for the Archangel Michael. I knew instantly, the minute that I saw it that it was the one. Simple, clean and beautiful. This was a few years ago. It was just what I wanted. But I didn’t have the balls to get it. The recollection of how much the first had hurt had been stopping me for months.
But last Friday something that Mike said kind of got to me. He said that physical pain is just that, physical, and it goes away. I shouldn’t let temporary discomfort stop me from what I want. I mulled it over and decided that he had a point. We made plans to go on Monday morning. And so we did. I was nervous, and the pain in my ankle made me walk a lot slower but I was determined to get it done. Armed with conviction and a couple of Vicodin, I limped into the tattoo parlor and proceeded for the second time in my life to get permanently marked up. But this time it wasn’t to be cool, it wasn’t to be edgy. This time it was because I wanted to pay tribute to a good man, I wanted to have him with me in the only physical way I knew how for the rest of my life.
I sat down in that chair and joked around with the artist for a few minutes before we got down to business. He explained what was going to happen, opened up all the tools fresh from the packaging in front of me so I could see that it was all sterile, and proceeded to ask me where I wanted it. After a few minutes of snickering I told him, and he continued on business as usual. I sat in that chair, my head cradled in my folded arms, and this time I didn’t wince. I thought about the pain for a minute, hot and itchy at first, but then it subsided. I focused on a different kind of pain, the memory of the phone call that I got the morning I found out my father was dead. The searing agony of watching my mother crumple in front of me. The screaming torture that erupted from my lungs when I watched his casket lowered into the ground. Then the needle cutting into my flesh didn’t seem so bad, it didn’t hurt at all actually. I was in different place, so far away even that I didn’t realize that it was done until I felt the cooling salve on my back and heard the whirring of the machine stop. The whole experience was almost painless…well at least physically.
When the artist handed me the mirror so I could view the work, I didn’t know what my reaction would be. Would I cry; would I be weirded out? No…I looked and smiled softly. There it was…right between my shoulder blades, the blood red symbol of all that meant the world to me. My father’s symbol, the sigil of the angel who would always watch over me. Most people when they see my new tattoo will never know what it means.
When I finish it, when all is said and done, most people will look at me funny, will wonder what the phrase below it means. I won’t mind explaining, in fact I’ll be proud. No regrets this time…just a loving memory, and physical reminder of the man “Who is like God”.
http://thisisby.us/index.php/content/got_ink_
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