Tattoos are scars we choose to keep-- words we want to carry, memories we fear losing; ink and needle are the self-inflicted stinging: the pain we choose to feel. art on our bodies-- out of our minds-- something real.
I have my father's name tattooed on my wrist not because I forgive him, but because I have forgiven myself and I choose to carry that with me.
The skin a canvas to life Stretchers pulling us in every direction Crossing the river into the lands of time Our craft steered by a soul reader
A needle crosses through my miasma Pierced our skin emits a homely light The way becomes clear Peacefulness, coolness and evanity comes out of pain
An echo of our selves now revealed Memorials nailed down Guardians now protecting A morphing eulogy
Each mark an initiation A symbol of me in a closed world My enamoured armour Beliefs for all to see
Traditional worries over tattoo and associations have changed. Why buy a Monet and hang it on a wall when you can carry it with you all day long? Or place a flower at the grave side when you can take the grave with you.
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.
In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.
This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments? Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .
Preserved tattoos mummified, status quo on skin applied. Scarifications by irritating the wound, raised scar as status claimed. Rites of passage and its devotion of, marks of fertility and pledge of love. Memorial, sentimental, artistic sculptor, identification in that refined culture. Crosses for Christians, numbers for prisoners . Tattoos for exported slaves, recognized beyond the graves. Sacred marker for storing one’s taboos, live to live confessions as muse. Medicinal and therapeutic purpose, from Deir el-Bahari site resurface. Deviant stigmata, identification image sonata. Dream doors of feeling soul, the story in the story as whole. Skill, beauty and rang, in harmony they sang. Making beliefs the reality, images of truth guarantee.
“Defacing your temple of Lord.” “Vandalizing your skin.” “Marking up your body.” “A mistake you’ll come to regret.” “It's ugly, it’s stupid, it makes no sense.”
God gave me a mind, filled with light and color and ideas and beauty. And he gave me a body, plain and simple like a blank canvas asking to be colorized. I stain my skin with ink because I think it is beautiful. My body is covered with marks from a needle, not a knife. This is the way I choose to feel, think and share with the world. You ought to be glad that my way is not another. And how could I regret painting my skin in a way that brings me such happiness? You look at these lines and squiggles and all you see is dirt. Maybe to you, there is no rhyme or reason to the pictures that I so carefully choose, but every mark has its story. Maybe if you’d ask, I’d share them with you? I color my flesh. Have fun, have a voice, Express my thoughts without using words. A permanent reminder of what I stand for, A protest of the things I do not. This is my body and I do as I please. Could it be you who is wrong For reprimanding me from wanting the world to see That I am not perfect, But in imperfection, beauty can still be found? Could it be you who needs to open your mind And your heart to new ideas So although you all treat my tattoos to be taboo If I wish to paint my skin, that is what I will do.