Black Lace and Hellfire Tamed

The deeper you stick it in your vein
The deeper the thoughts there's no more pain
I'm in heaven I'm a god
I'm everywhere I feel so hot

Everyone has an addiction point, a moment when something becomes so transfixing that it's an obsession to keep it up or repeat the action/feeling/event/whatever term you'd enjoy using most in that sentence. I've done my fair share of things, had my infatuations, but I'm not religious or spiritual mostly just odd and eccentric which leads into my own very expensive addiction: crack. Now if you at all took that seriously then I suggest you refrain from getting lead into things since you're probably far more gullible than you realize because while crack may be extremely expensive there are numerous other things that are just as or more so. Ink is one of these. More and more I have found my self entranced by writing and the black nk overtaking the purity of a page, or screen in this matter. It's creation at a base form, a corruption of values of modern life in exchange for an older form of power and prestige, etc, etc, etc. It is power, to create breeds form from chaos, order is control, have you seen the pattern yet. But it is not ink on paper that I desire or that sends me into threadbare status, it is the lackluster and oft frowned upon action of tatooing that I adore. I don't refer to the act of being some pubescent clod who goes downt the block to his local tatoo studio to get some overused and meaningless symbol embossed across the bicep or on a shoulder. Nor do I refer to the teenybopper freshmen girls at colleges around the world that rebel when first given the chance and attain a new slutty design on their lower backs so as to have reason to show off their thongs and love handles. (tangent: did I miss when it became "cool" to show off ones underwear, last I checked most people thought it was embarassing) Tatooing has become the closest thing to a religious experience that I may ever have. You take your time, and pick your designs as little as possible off the walls of wherever you may choose to be inked. Some are inevitably going to be there on the dingy smoke filled palisades, but the inspiration for those is not necessarily from the same source. Today will mark the 8th of 12 tatoos, the last 4 of which will be a single design scheme in tribal fashion (tribal indicating it is generally all black consisting of mostly scroll work, etc). All eight could have been done in one year, but I've accrued them slowly over the last almost 4 now, enjoying the entire transformation, because that indeed is what it is.
For far too many people their self-conceptions usually include some sort of popularity in which they are beloved by all (must discuss use of word love at later time) and have a multitude of friends, and while this is all well and good and as I have learned over recent years often very much fun I find it in many ways a bit excessive; for I've had few friends and fewer still that I can trust, but I am nonetheless more well-adjusted and in touch with reality than what seems to be an ever increasing population of pop-culture drones. My self concept has become simple as so many things do with age. I see myself as one thing, completely undefinable but with certain characteristics that outline every bit of my nature, and in this the tatoos have become hallmarks of sorts (fuck ambassador) marking or marring certain things that have occured or certain parts of my psyche that once were. The number of tatoos is no mistake either because while I do not believe in anything, I find patterns everywhere and numerology seems to embrace that in some ways as does astrology, though neither are very predictive they both are less random than institutionalized religion. The number three seems to be prevalent in things I do though usually not at first glance, but upon retrospect I see a lot of triples, sextets, and novets, which 9 in that sense is a perfect number: 3x3. So too is 12 according to old myth, and so I by chance ended up with that final number.
All in all I have thus far 7, another good number next to 5, consisting of 2 unique and never to be seen again designs both with meaning of their own and placed in certain positions to indicate their affect, 1 celtic design of druid origin, and 4 kanji, japanese characters, the fifth to be done this evening. And I must say, for some reason this is the thing I excite most over. Never am I so giddy with road trips, or flying to the UK, or meeting people or a mate, but to get inked, to have the needle wreak havoc across my skin and leave a mark that I ahve seen in my mind for since I was a child, that is absolutely wonderful, absolutely crucial to my self design. Imagine it as a fallen branch that everytime you pass you take a knife to it and embellish upon it, not to say that the branch as is with the human form is not perfect in ever way not matter how conceptually poor it is, but as the days or years wear on your hand lends a new perfection to it, a new ornate curve that catches the light differently changing perspective that others will have on that branch just as on yourself. Perhaps I am speaking to the wrong generation, too young or too old, or possibly too theologic or fundamentalistic. But change is inevitable, beauty is always present in a menagerie of form and shape and angular dimension and since I had no hand in designing this small pale form, then it will be in this way that I lend my own creative power for the world to see and marvel or jeer at.
Ink is a form of corruption of purity, just as the pen blackens pages preventing the brilliance from being seen, but then the purity itself serves the ostentatious words of authors who no more than have to whisper for the world to hear them. What then is purity without the shadows.


For those who've yet to see the 500 or so dollars worth of ink to be done.