I've been led to believe that only six or seven people read this blog regularly, and if you're that interested in the shit I pull out of thin air, it seems safe to assume you already know that I got a tattoo on Wednesday.
Deeply unflattering photo of me, though great shot of Taka:
fresh and clean:
I'm on day two of healing, and can say confidently now that this experience has been nothing like what I imagined it would be. [And yes, I promise this is relevant to more important things, like fruit mongering and city knavery. I promise.] The artist who did it, the location of the tattoo shop, the pain involved, the immense support I've received, the overwhelming response. How I felt/feel before, during, and after. Nothing has entirely matched up to my preconceptions - which were many and detailed. I knew that I would get my tattoo done at Infinity Tattoo in North Portland, and that my friends from college would be there to hold my hand and take pictures, cooing words of encouragement and ready with a bottle of Tylenol. I would have saved up for it for six months, putting away $10 here and there in a coffee can marked "'TTOO." I'd return to San Francisco a few days later, at a very safe distance from my mother's inevitable rage and disgust. I might not tell her for a few months.
Luckily, my life unfurls itself differently than I predict it will. Though that scenario still sounds great to me, I think reality has been even better.
Let's back up.
Nearly three months ago, I boarded a train bound from Bordeaux St. Jean to Paris Montparnasse, wiping the tears from my eyes and the snot from my nose. I waved a heartbroken goodbye to both my friend Kate and the city and life I'd grown to love in the last two years. I spent most of the three hour train ride alternately sobbing and trying to memorize the view outside my window. I remember wishing I could open it and rip my hands up, trying to grab a hold of the trees and bushes we glided past. I wanted to hold on. I usually do.
As I've covered pretty solidly on this blog, coming home has been rough. Confronting that my life in Bordeaux is over - at least for now - has been frustrating and painful. Accepting that I am also unemployed and pretty clueless about how I should proceed, has been a bitch. I say with no exaggeration that I boarded my plane from Paris to Chicago, knowing that a part of me was dying in the process. It's not as though I hate the U.S. (that much) or adore France (that much.) More like I'd said a gradual and happy goodbye to the person I'd left here at home. And I wasn't keen to rediscover her insecurities and the boundaries within which she lived. Many of my relationships had changed with the distance I'd given them; I wondered how they would change again.
There is something impossibly liberating about surviving in a foreign place. My friend Guillaume (who's French in passport at least) announced to me yesterday that he will be leaving Moscow this coming December. He's been there for over a year now, and I know he's attached. When I asked him for his thought process regarding this major decision, he said:
guillaume: I need to finish grad school at some point
me: if it's a good place for you, why not stay?
guillaume: and if I don't do it this year, I will never do it...
me: so does that mean returning to Paris?
guillaume: yeah. and I'm not excited about that at all. I think the minute I'm done, first priority is to leave again
me: you really dislike it that much?
guillaume: I just don't like not living abroad. I figured that out lately. Really, like, my life sucks here sometimes, but it's still extraordinary because I'm in Moscow! And that is just extraordinary!
me: yeah. that's how I felt in Bordeaux. I felt like I at least owned my life there... I think part of why I got the tattoo was to remind myself that I'll always carry the person I was [there] with me, and that I'm still fucking alive!
I didn't realize until I said that to Guillaume just how true it feels. In the aforementioned tattoo dream of mine, I had my shit together. I had a great job and a settled life in San Francisco, a kitchen for my standing mixer. I probably also had my own apartment complete with window boxes, and a burgeoning gig on Etsy. But that's not where I am right now. It's just not what my life is at this moment.
My brother, despite telling me for years that a tattoo would "lower my property value," (I shit you not) not only took me to meet Taka but stood by me every step of the process. He drove me to my appointment, told Taka his sixth attempt at a transfer wasn't straight, confirmed the seventh. He sat with me for two hours while I had ink injected under my skin. He took me to get Thai food on the way home, and then he took off the bandage and cleaned my wound. He was there for me - completely. And though I certainly needed the help and moral support, what makes that so meaningful is that he was happy and proud to provide both. That beats any fake life I could cook up for myself. In the parallel universe that is reality, Emil and I took a step forward.
If you haven't gotten the spiel from me, the image I placed on my back (forever!) is a medieval labyrinth. Labyrinths have been around for millennia (Thesus + Minotaur), but in more recent times (like past 500/600 years?) have been used as a symbol of Christian pilgrimage. The idea of bettering oneself spiritually through a journey - purification through distance and challenge. Most labyrinths these days are found on the floors of churches, and the particular one I chose is what was drawn in the manuscripts used to build the cathedral in Chartres, just outside of Paris. Somewhere between paper and stone, the design was embellished with a flowery something at its center, so my labyrinth has never existed on an actual structure other than my own person. I love the clean severity of it - the near symmetry.
But even more than the aesthetics, I love what it means. And I'm not talking about St. Francis of Assisi hobbling across Europe to repent for his bad boy ways, talking to squirrels and petting dogs. (Though that is bad ass.) I'm talking about being lost, and knowing that being lost is important, and constructive, and okay. Choosing every step of the way, maybe blind to where you're headed, but heading forward nonetheless. Life is choice. I want to carry that lesson with me always. I want to always remember that my life is my own - Bordeaux or LA, these are my curving walls to navigate.
ALSO:
I am delighted to share this email I received from my great friend and former roommate Georgia. Best response to my tattoo yet:
Hey ya Labyrinth
SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I can't believe you. I am shocked to the core and impressed as shit.
Look, you made me swear!
Love,
Tattooless in Portland
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