"when you're not wearing words"

I keep dreaming about tattoos, flotsam or jetsam depending on the day. I'm still struggling to find a way to write some bit of princess cat on me, I'm still hoping for the Henry V citation, I keep wanting to put oak leaves on my hands or feet, words on my arms. In one, I had some sort of roots covering my right leg, knee to ankle. And in the dream, the tattoo had always been there, I just had to find a way to make other people see it, and once again, my subconscious manifests my metaphors, because I do think of tattooing as a way to get closer to the person I'd like to be, some sort of true self that I can only approach slantwise, because there's too much cynicism muddying the waters to look direct at it.

And of course, the obligatory nipple-tattoo dreams, where they go horribly wrong, or somehow my breasts could get 'fixed' but I didn't wait long enough to get the tattoos, so I'm left with either unfixed breasts with nipples, or fixed breasts with nipples in the wrong place.

I'll take a heaping platter of the best of bad options still being a bad option, thanks.

My old bras almost fit, different in some way I can't put to words, and it seems to me that the inability to verbalize the differences means that i was just being histrionic, that I should have been, that I should be able to just shut up about the whole thing.

Getting the back tattoo helped a lot with the feeling that I just wasn't cool enough for my own tattoos, that they were all small and sort of insignificant (never mind that there were eight of them). It feels a little bit like a badge to me, something about stubbornness and strength and my willingness to hurt for the things I want, or maybe just my willingness to find something useful in pain. And, of course, it's hella pretty. (I still need a photographer who will take pictures of my back in exchange for money. Suggestions always welcome.)

Grumbly dogs, windows open to the sound of the commuter rail, Light's reading Grossman's The Magician and it is time for me to put the computer down. And I found the Joy Kills Sorrow's cover of Such Great Heights.

"when you're not wearing words"

I keep dreaming about tattoos, flotsam or jetsam depending on the day. I'm still struggling to find a way to write some bit of princess cat on me, I'm still hoping for the Henry V citation, I keep wanting to put oak leaves on my hands or feet, words on my arms. In one, I had some sort of roots covering my right leg, knee to ankle. And in the dream, the tattoo had always been there, I just had to find a way to make other people see it, and once again, my subconscious manifests my metaphors, because I do think of tattooing as a way to get closer to the person I'd like to be, some sort of true self that I can only approach slantwise, because there's too much cynicism muddying the waters to look direct at it.

And of course, the obligatory nipple-tattoo dreams, where they go horribly wrong, or somehow my breasts could get 'fixed' but I didn't wait long enough to get the tattoos, so I'm left with either unfixed breasts with nipples, or fixed breasts with nipples in the wrong place.

I'll take a heaping platter of the best of bad options still being a bad option, thanks.

My old bras almost fit, different in some way I can't put to words, and it seems to me that the inability to verbalize the differences means that i was just being histrionic, that I should have been, that I should be able to just shut up about the whole thing.

Getting the back tattoo helped a lot with the feeling that I just wasn't cool enough for my own tattoos, that they were all small and sort of insignificant (never mind that there were eight of them). It feels a little bit like a badge to me, something about stubbornness and strength and my willingness to hurt for the things I want, or maybe just my willingness to find something useful in pain. And, of course, it's hella pretty. (I still need a photographer who will take pictures of my back in exchange for money. Suggestions always welcome.)

Grumbly dogs, windows open to the sound of the commuter rail, Light's reading Grossman's The Magician and it is time for me to put the computer down. And I found the Joy Kills Sorrow's cover of Such Great Heights.