Posted in Life

Getting Inked

Yeah, so I finally did it. I took me a while. About twelve years, I think. Tattoos are long considered a symbol of rebellion, or a wild lifestyle. But, they don’t have to be. I think it should be something to mark something, or to mean something. A mark upon the body to signify an indelible mark upon the soul.

I turned 33 this February. The final age of Jesus. I have yet turn water into wine, and try as I might, I can’t start an international world-changing movement around my persona. I’m just not that interesting.

But, I’ve had an amazing year. Among other things, I became a full-time writer. I’ve written for a magazine that was on my bucket list. I’ve written a poetry book and am learning how to self-publish. I’ve got a fully-written novel just waiting for a publisher. This has been a year of growth and defining. I am finally becoming who I am–an artist.

I was named after a classic rock song. The album art is a French painting called, “La Fille au Bouquet.” (The Girl in the Bouquet). I’ve used the painting to identity me in various places over the years, and long played with the idea of putting it in a tattoo.

I knew that this was the time. My original plan was to put in a place that would forever bar me from “business casual” jobs. I would be forced to make it as an artist and remove that back door of, “Well, I could always be a secretary.”

I ended up getting the tattoo on my left shoulder blade. But, it still means the same thing to me. A commitment to the artistic life.  A commitment to becoming who I was created to be.

I passed out once, and it hurt like hell. Ah, so is the artistic life. And now, it’s started the healing process which I’ve learned is flaking and peeling. WHA? Which, is why you’re not getting a picture of the finished product today. Maybe in a couple of weeks when it’s healed.

 

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