I chose to cover the tattoo I got for him with a poppy. A big, red, opium-producing poppy. Wikipedia told me that poppies were symbols of remembrance. I knew I could never forget. I saved up the $400 from my pay checks at the makeup store while I researched the best artist. When I made an appointment and came in for the consultation, he told me the cover-up would be difficult. The tattoo was all black and extremely well-done to boot. So, he would have to put it under a leaf. “No one else will be able to see it, but you will always know it was there,” he told me.
The artist was a big white man with full sleeves and gauged ear lobes. We smoked the same cigarettes and listened to the same, old-ish rock and roll. He printed photographs of poppies off of the internet and then free-handed an outline in highlighter onto my back. I gave him the go-ahead and he started to outline it in black. It would two more hours-long sessions to fill it in. It would take months for it to properly heal. But I would never forget— that underneath of that euphoria-producing poppy, underneath it’s thorns and bright green leaves, was his mark, his rings, his promises. When I look in the mirror, I can see them— dark and obscured, a turn of the light, but they are there nonetheless.
I find myself sitting down to write, much like I am now, and getting lost in the minutia of what I am trying to say. When there are so many tiny, beautiful things that I would prefer to write about, how do I put together a story?
In that way, I understand why I find poetry to be the vastly easier medium. It captures a moment so clearly and in a way that I could never do in prose. Although, I suppose my written voice may be getting a tad better.
Although I suppose that I did not do this consciously, I don’t think that it is a coincidence that I am beginning this creative adventure on the same evening that the full moon coalesces with a lunar eclipse and the appearance of a pale green comet in the late hours of Friday, February 10.
We are the product of our direct environment both physically and spiritually. I have long wanted to take the time to sit and weed through why I do what I do, why we do what we do and just what on earth we are doing here on our giant blue-green space ship.
So, fellow witches and wizards, time travelers, skeptics, politicians, blue collar, and white collar people, thank you for tuning in. I am going to be posting some of my own poetry, some serial fiction, and my own personal ramblings about life in general. I am currently working on Capitol Hill, so sometimes things will get political. I can’t apologize for that, unfortunately.
But for the most part, I will be using art to do what art does, examines the truth of our existence. Why do we love like we do? Why do we hate like we do? What is it about the banality of life that drives us to the little rushes. What is dark? What is light? Where does the spirit divorce itself from the body and do we even have a spirit at all?
I know about as much about the answers to those questions as you probably do. All I can promise is that, when I can, I will be thorough.
Feel free to use the “contact” section to send me readings and musings you find important. I am so excited for this project to begin.
I feel, as I also believe we should all, inextricably connected to the moon. Personally, I have always used the moon as a point of contact- the visible signal that there is something greater than me, be it the processes of the earth, the spirit, or the far reaches of space.
The moon reminds us each night that we are always in a phase of change, that transition is normal and ever present. For me, personally, I see the moon as a touchstone to remind me that even though I might feel like half of a person, out of touch with myself, underneath it all, I am always full.
So, do with that what you will. I am sure that the influence of the moon will be present throughout this whole endeavor. I urge you to connect with me and look for those little motifs in my writing.