Mariposa

I have never really been a fan of tattoos, but I have always been a fan of people’s stories.  I don’t think I really have a negative view of permanently marking your body, per say, which is a work of art unto itself, but I have an incredibly negative view of the reasoning behind most cases which I encounter.  I have seen one too many tattoos that were excused by such asinine statements as “I liked the design.”  Sure, ok, it’s a cool design, but what does this permanent ink on your body mean?  Did you think that out? or were you just drunk and had a friend who drew up a cool design and had a decent grasp on the process? which is a story in and of itself, but most don’t realize that. 

 Things can also be reinterpreted later as you learn a meaning, or the meaning can also be so personal that you don’t feel the need to tell anyone about it.  It only really matters to you, because it’s your fucking body that you just potentially disfigured with something that means nothing.  Personally, I have two Chinese symbols on my forearms, and when someone asks me what they mean I usually respond with, “something in Chinese,” and walk away, because I got them for me, 22 years ago, and they mean something to me.

 Not only do I have to translate the words to people who ask, but I have to define those words based on the Zen Taoist philosophy that I live by, and I usually leave out an important part of the story, in which I pulled the symbols directly out of a Taoist meditation text that Ive been reading for 15 years, and even less hear about how I acquired the text or why I started reading it.  
I have also seen plenty of cliché “spiritual” or “social” tattoos, like peace signs, or ohm symbols, or the traditional tribal tramp stamp, et cetera.  Things like that will likely be obsolete or embarrassing in a very short amount of time, unless you, again, quickly give it some deeper meaning that will last a lifetime.

 I don’t mean to pick on my last relationship, but she had an ohm symbol on her hip, because she was fed some sub eastern religion, easily translatable as a cultish scam, by her high school boyfriend’s mother.  She connects the symbol with her connection to the woman, so it means something to her, but, while she can define the term, like children can recite a bible verse, she had little to no grasp on the deeper meaning and significance of ohm, or eastern religion for that matter.  Regurgitation is not understanding, but I’m talking about tattoos.

 This is also personal and mildly embarrassing.  When I was 17, searching for meaning in my life and the world around me, I fumbled across a t-shirt on a clearance rack at a store in my little mountain town.  On the back was an artistic rendering of the Fibonacci spiral, and across the front read “Sacred Geometry,” with the company logo and name in the center, Präna, still alive and well (www.prana.com).  I hadn’t been exposed to any of these terms in my half-assed, primarily ignorant education, and after some investigation, well, my life and philosophy were pretty much changed forever, so when I turned 18 I got prana tattooed between my shoulder blades.  Not just the word, mind you, but an exact rendering of the company logo, not even thinking about it.  That’s like a fat kid getting the McDonald’s arches tattooed on their back.  While the average person seeing the tattoo wouldn’t know that it’s a company logo, I know, so it is forever ruined by my knowing that it is accidental advertisement for a company that I respect, but also can’t afford to purchase products from.  Maybe I should talk to them about some kick backs.  Honestly, I would give my left lung to have that shirt again.  Anywoo, I too am a victim to stupid decisions in my ignorant youth, but the actual meaning behind it is beyond significant for me, so what do you do?

 I really didn’t mean to rant so much about tattoos, but I wanted to relay how I really feel about them.  Ultimately, I’m a purist and a naturist: your body was exactly what it was supposed to be before you started changing it, whether it be tattoos or plastic surgery, to name two different extremes.  I do, like I said, love people’s stories, and anytime someone has chosen to map out their story through art, on self or not, is a beautiful thing.  You could really blame Ray Bradbury for how I feel about it.  I hated reading in my youth, despised it, but there were certain books that, in my being forced to read them, left an impression.  The Illustrated Man was one of those books.  Engrained in my creative philosophy is the belief that, not just tattoos, but each scar and stretch mark and freckle and whatever, carries with it not only a story, but a life, potentially documented and lived out by the only soul on the planet who knows it: you, the silent author; you are all dormant authors of your own realities, living in a kind of perpetual writer’s block, maintained by a system that is fighting tooth and nail to keep you from realizing your potential.

 So few realize what it means to evolve past what is expected of you, to venture into your very own creative reality, and the infinite possibilities that lie there.  Some people simply don’t have a creative drive, which completely baffles me.  I honestly don’t know if it’s something that certain people just aren’t born with, or if it’s conditioned out of their minds?  I want to believe that our collective unconscious exists to perpetuate these beautiful things that help us identify who we are and why we exist, but most people are just happy with a blank canvas, scribbled on by someone else.

 Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about this dilemma, and in this morning’s reading, after Ayn completely destroys pretty much everything modern (including photography) as being art, she wrapped up a painfully long chapter with something that really hit home: 

“There is no place for whim in any human activity—if it is to be regarded as human.  There is no place for the unknowable, the unintelligible, the undefinable, the non-objective in any human product.  This side of an insane asylum, the actions of a human being are motivated by a conscious purpose; when they are not, they are of no interest to anyone outside a psychotherapist’s office.  And when the practitioners of modern art declare that they don’t know what they are doing or what makes them do it, we should take their word for it and give them no further consideration.” - 70

 That kind of applies to a lot of things, not just art.  Well, when art is life and life is art, the choices you make are your paintbrush, and the repercussions are what ends up on your canvas.  Too many of us live by whim because it’s easy, then we find that we’ve wasted our lives.  “Not all who wander are lost,” to those who find purpose in it.  Whether you wander or not, those who find comfort in their temporal, meaningless whims, are so lost that they will never be found, and, sadly, will never even realize that such a thing exists, but will live a lifetime feeling like something’s missing.

Most times I feel almost victimized by needing to write.  I keeps me up late, and it isolates me from my family.  My need to read, to make up for lost information and inspiration does the same.  I love my life and I love my family.  My current conundrum: loving where I am, but wanting to disappear with a typewriter, my camera, and my piano.