Ink

I have been more than slightly and completely shamelessly addicted to L.A. Ink lately. And by addicted, I mostly mean intensely sucked in by the incredible art of these great tattooists that literally makes me salivate right onto my pale unmarked skin.

I do have a small tattoo of a star on my foot. It is a tribute to my wistful college years where I dreamed big dreams about an important and bright future. I've always wanted to continue in this form of body modification, but was never able to commit to one design. All these ideas just linger in my head without a place to materialize. I should just go ahead and do it one of these days. That is, when I quit my job, sell all my belongs, and become a street bum.

Here are some of these designs. I wanted to write them down, more for my own reference. And hey, maybe one of these will appear on my skin sometime. Starting with the smallest, and therefore cheapest and easiest to get away with:

1. Vanitas

This one would go on the inside of my left arm, just below the wrist. A skull, much like the one in this picture -- realistic, not punk-rock -- facing to the right, with "Vanitas" written in old script on a scroll-like banner underneath.
Vanitas was a common theme for European paintings circa 1600s. The latin translates to "vanity" or "emptiness", and stands for the finality of life and the ultimate uselessness of worldly possessions. It is something I think about on a daily basis, and it would just be nice to have this reminder and manifestation with me always. Plus, what an interesting conversation starter?

2. Peace
A dove, the symbol of peace and the Holy Spirit, would be on my back, wings outstretched across my shoulder blades. It's hard for me to find a visual, but know this: it would be stylized, wings textured like those of the angels in medieval icons, carrying an olive branch. God, I've been wanting this one for so long.

3. Homage to G.P.
This one is a little bit more complicated and involved. It would be a culmination of various objects representing my grandparents all in one fluid composition, stretching from my right hip to my ribs. Three of my four grandparents are still alive, but even so, I'd love to commemorate their influence in my life. They have truly been instrumental in me feeling like I actually have a family in this mess of a life situation.
I imagine this tattoo to be a vibrant scene of an old, wise tree with thick bark and green windy branches, representing the overall wisdom I've received from my grandparents. Against this tree would lean an old bicycle, a symbol for my paternal grandpa, of course. He has been riding his bike since at least the 60s, which is pretty much as awesome as he is fit. Then, on one of the branches would sit an owl, for my maternal grandma. When we were little, she would tell my cousin and me tales of an owl who surely would come and snatch us at night if we didn't settle down. NOW. Owls also are symbols of wisdom, which would be a continued metaphor in this scene.

Now, here is where I struggle to come up with something for my paternal grandma. Not because I can't think of something, but because I can think of too many things. She has always been a great teacher and family member to me, and I treasure and miss her a lot. One way to bring her into the scene would be through music notes in the filigree of the branches, or through flowers around the tree. But these don't seem significant enough. What would really fit her though, would be a Pegasus. My grandma, she is the kind of wicked-smart person who talks in riddles and references Greek mythology in her everyday conversations. When I was about 5 years old, she gave me a little blue Pegasus toy, which is how I first learned about this legend. I can't even count the number of these subtle interactions and the mental trivia I now have because of her. But how to involve a mysterious mythical Pegasus in this down-to-earth serene scene?


3b. Despite, or perhaps because of my grandma's insane intellect, she definitely appears like a crazy cat/book/plant lady. She has the latter two in abundance strewn about her pre-Revolutionary apartment. She loves flowers and always reveres their delicate and lively nature, so another design idea would be a beautiful purple flower over the curve of my shoulder. Besides, a tattoo dedicated solely to her would only be appropriate.
P.S. I just found out that her favorite flower is a red rose. Which, coincidentally happens to be not only one of my favorite flowers, but also the flower of my wedding and bridal bouquet. Somehow this just makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.

So these are a few of my favorite things. Things that have had a permanent presence in my life. Enough so, that I would not be covering these up on my 80 year old withering body. I know you appreciated that image.

525,600

Someone put up the following quote on their personal website: Dream like Silverstein Love like Shakespeare Purge like Plath. And I thought how in my life, it would probably go something like: Dream like Lennon Love like Wilde Purge ... purge, really? as in, how exactly? ok, fine... Purge like Van Gogh.

It might change tomorrow though.

I keep getting hurt in sharp little ways by people all around me, and I just don't know how to deal with it. As of right now, I dwell and I dwell and I mentally go over the spoken comments, intentional or otherwise, and I come up with reasons and explanations and I play devil's advocate. And all this is giving me quite the headache. I feel like I should have some form of a shield, a defense mechanism, by now... but no. No luck. Why won't my being protect itself with some sort of a system? What's wrong with me? Where is Freud when I need him?

They say I need to just get over these petty things, to just not let it boggle my mind for so long. To not let it take a toll on my stress level and my mental and physical health. But how can I just disregard even the small attacks from those who hold a dear and vulnerable place in my life? These attacks, they feel so personal, so deeply rooted, and so offensive. And something that cannot be ignored.

So this is a real reason as to why I very well may become a hermit in the future. With enough books, Oreos, and Sauvignon Blanc, I just might be able to handle it. No joke.

One

I decided to take up the challenge of writing one poem in a different genre per month. For the whole year. These are the rosy dreams of mine, of course, and we'll see how this actually turns out.

The first one is January, a Limerick:



the sparks flew up to abyss
and people cheered in bliss

then midnight struck
with the chime of the clock

and they embraced in a kiss

"Lost" brought on too many Locke references

I promise, there will be no more of my crazy existential crap. For a little while, at least.

Now that I no longer bash my face against the keyboard nightly trying to pull valid career goals out of my ass, I have all this time after work to do anything, anything I want. I can actually catch up on all those re-runs of America's Next Top Model, or learn to make origami frogs that bounce! But seriously, I am really excited to read books again. Books with interesting plots, and character development, and imagery. Fancy that!

Jeremy has also been stepping up to the plate lately, which kind of makes me tingle inside. He is proactive about finding a less-crappy job; he lets me know of the things he needs to get done this weekend; he is excited about and involved with the wedding planning?! Oh, the little things that make silly girls proud, and maybe even a little horny.

My mom, on the other hand... God, are we the same blood? Do I hear we share some genes? No way! It makes me really uncomfortable to say this, but, I feel that most of my accomplishments in life I achieved in spite of her, and not because of her. Sure, she has done a sacrificial thing or two, what with bringing me to America and establishing a better quality of life for us. And for that I am truly thankful. But so many of the issues that linger in my head have her voice. I know this is not abnormal or uncommon, but it is yet another reason on my selfish-mid-20s mental list of Ethical Reasons Not To EVER Procreate.

One song

It is a constant struggle for me to maintain faith in humanity. Or rather, faith that despite humanity's utterly and undeniably fucked up nature, there is a reason to keep on. I am not depressed in a clinical, low self-esteem, down-for-no-reason sense, but I do often question the purpose of it all. I know this sounds silly and something that most people simply ignore in order to lead normal lives, but I just can't help it! Seriously! I am that person who lies awake at night, genuinely weighted by the world's problems, feeling like the joke's on her.

This Martin Luther King Day though is a good time for introspection. I am honestly so thankful for all his inspiration. His passion, willingness, and actions restore that drive in me to use my energy toward social change. Even if ever so slightly.

This weekend, Jeremy and I saw Adam Pascal in concert. And all I have to say is WOW. I first fell in love with his voice as Roger in Rent, but his solo career just reconfirmed that love for me. He brings charisma to the stage, and his voice is so rock-n-roll and serenading all at once. A good time was had by all.

P.S. Is anyone else distraught over the fact that Rent is ending on Broadway? I feel like a little part of me will die on June 1st, but that just means that I have to go see it a few more times before then!

Fridays

I am coming out of my hiatus, otherwise known as Graduate School Applications Hell, on an exhausted and grumpy Friday night. I think it must be all the stress, fatigue, and uneasiness from the entire work week rolled up in a ball now slowly exploding in my chest. On the drive home, I just kept spacing out into the dusking sky and fading in and out of sad songs on the radio. My sleep patterns have been off and when I am tired, I am short tempered and extremely sensitive. And I always end up spending these nights crying over stupid reality tv under my down comforter longing to be cuddled.

I really should be better at being alone. Humans are funny like that - we've created this whole interconnected society for ourselves, put all these expectations on finding partners and making families, and yet, ultimately, we spend most of the day alone, in ourselves, for ourselves. My mom once told me that over the course of our entire lives, there will probably only be one, maybe two people who will truly understand and accept us. Sadly, this seems like the bitter truth.

Today, maybe under the circumstances of my end-of-the-week blues, I am feeling a bit jealous of my friends' close-knit families. I mean, seriously. Jeremy's mom AND brother both call him to make sure he is doing alright on a sucky work night. His brother sends him a plane ticket to visit their baby niece. Ellen and her parents are all getting together for her nephew's first birthday many states away, and she creates a beautiful baby book with pictures from his every stage with corresponding touching stories. And here I am, a lonely flower. No siblings, no nephews or nieces. And I haven't even talked to the one relative I have in this country, my mom, in at least two weeks.

God, seriously shut me up! Or cuddle me!

I think I need to sleep this off. Tomorrow, tomorrow I will wake up rejuvenated, unkindered, and walk out that door to face life with that strength I know I have, and with all this patheticness behind me on a Friday night long past.