Getting Under My Skin

I'm a marked man

I’m writing this as the tattoo artist is peeling the skin off my back a million times while inking my seventh and biggest tattoo. Urgency - nothing says right here right now quite like this. The songs in the excellent playlist on at the tattoo studio are out-voiced by the shattering loudness of my silent screams at times during this three hour exercise. I’m writing to get my mind off the excruciating signals of protest my back is sending my brain.

“Pain is so close to pleasure” - from a song by Queen.

Pain is pain, so tattoo you, Freddie Mercury.

Getting a tattoo? Here’s a prep exercise for you. Peel your skin deliberately and slowly. Do it at least 10 times. You’ll still be only barely scratching the surface of pain.

I tend to get my tattoos in places where the pain sensitivity is among the highest on the body. Four on my ankles at a single sitting; those were my first. In comparison numbers 5 and 6 were mere tickles. This latest greatest now is right along my spine from the neck down to...well, right down. While this is going on, I’m thinking of the next two, oh now three, tattoos that I want. I’m sick, I am a creep. Maybe.

Beauty is skin deep. Cool. I’ll have some of that under my skin.

My wife is fascinated by tattoos but doesn’t want one. She doesn’t like the idea of her body being voluntarily marked. Doctors care a lot about the body, as they should. I’m not a doctor; I belong firmly on the other side of the table. I cannot say why people get tattoos. I’m not sure I can articulate entirely the reasons even for my own choice of being a marked man. It’s not exhibition. If it’s laying the body open as a canvas for art, then mine is for very, very private viewing. Most of my tattoos are not visible to others. Heck, this latest one is something even I can’t see without at least two mirrors! But eventually there will be those that will be easily seen; real estate is hard to come by.

Symbols, affirmative symbols; I think that’s what they are for me. The wings on my ankles are of upliftment and in the last few years, I’ve looked at and to them to haul myself up, to remind me of my self-belief when I’ve felt it shimmering away to oblivion. The two wild felines on the sides of my calf (calfs or calves? 🤔) have little reason to be there other than that they seemed like good ideas at the time. I think I’ll just add a couple of deer on the other sides just to make it interesting. I did say a sickness lies upon me.

This seventh is very symbolic for me. I’ve dealt with recurring back spasms and pain for over 22 years. The sword is meant to be a bolster to strengthen my back. Yes, yes, I know exercise and care are what will actually do that but this is for the mind. Symbol for healing. I also collect knives or daggers from many of the places I travel to (not from Iceland though; the place is too fucking expensive). Symbol for wanderlust and exploration. I’m immersed in the works of Tolkien (I’m both critical and appreciative of them). Symbol for a delusional mind. Bilbo and Frodo’s dagger, ‘Sting’ does not boast of the glory and fame of an Anduril or a Glamdring but it does the job quietly which for the most part reflects how I go about my business. Boring with the occasional explosion of flamboyance. Symbol for a vital aspect of me.

With the sword, I have symbolically acquired edginess now; well, double-edginess. And I just get this feeling that from now on every time I have to deal with our corrupt and incompetent government officials, I’ll reach for my back. Symbol for hopeless insipidity.

P.s.:

“But why do you need four wings, Ram?”

“To lift my considerable weight, stupid!”