The Tattoo Story

I went into this being aware that to a noticeable degree I was condemning myself to a lifetime of repeated explanation. I already love answering "Did it hurt?" with a variety of barely offensive responses along the lines of "Actually, and this sounds bizarre, but it caused me to orgasm," "No," and of course the ever popular 'stare at them slowly raising an eyebrow until they feel like as much of an idiot as you'd like to make of them' option.

If I told you something like "See how it doesn't connect? That's so when I work out and get huge, it won't snap off" then I didn't really tell you what it's about.Obviously people who ask if it hurt are not idiots; the question is natural. The next natural question, the answer of which is my own personal raison d'explique, is of course, "What does it mean?"

I got this tattoo fully aware of the fact that an explanation would have to be rendered for it's existence hundreds possibly thousands of times in my life, depending on how many tank tops I wind up wearing, and that sort of thing relies on many factors, employment, lack thereof, etc. However, life has a funny way of not giving you enough time to accomplish something successfully, thoroughly or marginally. I can't explain what it means in a couple of sentences, so if I've said something to you along the lines of "See how it doesn't connect? That's for when I work out -- when I get all buff I don't want it to break," then I didn't have enough time. So for all of you, and my Mom, a brief digression on the nature of external representation of internal conviction.

First, read The Story of B or Ishmael: An Adventure of the Mind and Spirit. I read "B" first and found it more provocative.  Cam read "Ishmael" first and he found it more so;   so, do whatever.  Read "The Hero with 1,000 Faces."  Read the disgruntled beats, e.g. Ginsberg Kerouack et al.  Look around.  Read "Silent Spring."  Look around again.  Sit in traffic.  Listen to someone near you become irate about the most inconsequential thing imaginable.  Watch people avoid walking on the grass.  See the TV.  See the tv.  See...the...hmm?  What?  Oh I can't hear you, the tv is on.  Witness vast errors in interpersonal communication.  (Through, of course, the shiny prism of best intentions.)  

It is becoming normative for any attempt at thought relayance to be inaccurately interpreted.  Behold in horror and amazement as humans kill humans for killing humans in an attempt to...protect humans from killing humans...to ensure the propagation of a species that actively destroys its protective shell and nurturing cords, without malicious intent, oft times yes, but almost naturally destructive despite.  Remember 9/11: Operation Iraqi...*sigh* Freedom.  [youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiMWqM3-zT4[/youtube]  

Revulse slightly as you realize what kind of government confines today.  But I digress too far, the larger point being merely this:  humans have lost the capacity to understand what makes us so.  Our collective humanity has died.  More accurately humanity itself has been mortally wounded through it's double-edged adaptability and subsequent numeric effusiveness.  A calm stable harmonious existence on planet earth is not to be expected.

It is a band of mourning.

The loss I grieve is humanity's connection to nature;  I know the loss is not complete. It's not devoid of awareness.  There are people in the world who understand, people who fight to preserve their own humanity and others'.  Perhaps people like you dear reader.  People who understand my swaying sentimentalism about the way things used to and ought to be.  The future appears so hopeless for us all but the present yields such promise for everything.

Some time ago, either Josh, Cam, myself or some combination of the three came up with the phrase "Life is a process of becoming immaculately jaded."  To me that has always meant actively participating in the process of becoming callous.  It is unavoidable to grow cynical in all areas of life, but just how hard you want to get is subjective; one need not become so much so that one closes oneself off to the beauty inherent in all things.  The rough outer shell presents itself to ward off "Vacuum Salesmen" and incongruous personal associations.  One presents a layer of thick skin to the world that would penetrate it for its own benefit or amusement, a 'shields up' sort of attitude that saves one all manner of painful and time-wasting incursions.

It is an understanding.

It is not terminal.  It's not hopeless.  No matter the breadth and scope of one's forced and lacquered exterior, it remains of tantamount importance to be open on the inside, to be available and receptive when an experience of existence exposes itself to you however briefly.  In short, one most be open to beauty when the world presents you with it.  In Shorter; Live, love.

Accused of cynicism, I say thee nay.  I am not cynical.  I am a new word, called "I looked it up, and it's true." Pessimism?  Again implications of my own projections onto reality.  The death of ones naivete does not necessitate the killing of ones vulnerability.  Modern existence enforces a constant kind of disillusioned background pain.  Capacity to hurt implies capacity to love.  Still hurting?  Still hope.

Not trite enough for you?  We all do our best.  Except of course in the case of people who don't.  You know who you are.  This really never was going to have an ending.  Death will bring an end.  By "An End" I of course mean, "The New Thing."