A New Tattoo!

Almost two years ago, in 2006, I got my first tattoo. After the battle that was art school and my year in Europe, I wanted a symbol to commemorate the strength of will that got me through those trials, a reminder of all I had to hang on to in times of despair. So I got a tattoo of a modified infinity symbol on the inside of my right wrist, my writing hand, a knot on the end of my rope to keep from slipping off.

The actual experience of getting the tattoo was another story. My tattoo artist at Euphoria was very arrogant and condescending, questioning my readiness to get a tattoo at all simply because I didn’t like the design he drew. I ended up going with my own design, and I still love it, but the experience left a questionable taste in the back of my mind—a feeling that I had not been entirely validated, that yet another thing in my life had been subtly undermined. No regrets, you understand…just a slightly different learning experience than I’d intended.

This is a photo of my left ankle, seated on a bench in Capital City Tattooz on Tennessee Street. They’d been recommended to me by a friend; so, after getting yet more arrogant attitude from some of the other shops in town, I paid them a visit. The tattoo artist, Jason, understood immediately what I wanted when I gave him the design, and took the time to help me adjust it to perfection. Whenever I expressed doubt, he made sure to remind me that it was my body, and that I had the right to tweak anything as long as I needed to.

I visited Friday night, but took the evening to think it over before going in Saturday afternoon. I’d chosen this design around New Year’s as my next tat, but various things had prevented me from taking the step. After a particularly intense Ostara ceremony, I understood inside myself that it was time. Body modifications are for me not just commemorations and symbols, but real, living anchors in the physical of energies and intentions that I’d like to ground in my life. I find that the positive, laid-back atmosphere of Capital City was a great place to acknowledge and anchor in a tattoo, the feelings of pride in my accomplishments and optimism in my future that I’ve been feeling lately—as anyone who knows me realizes, those emotions were hard fought for and won.

Two years ago, I set my face against despair and activated a willpower that I only had faith in possessing. Two years later, I get to celebrate the accuracy of that faith.

My tattoo was of the constellation Orion, worked in brown dots to resemble little beauty spots. I have plenty of those naturally, and I like to think of myself as an inverse night sky. The constellation Orion has been one of the few things in my life that has stayed constant—no matter where I move, whether I am a success or a failure there, whether my heart is filled with agony or wicked excitement—I know that for half of the year, I can look up and spot that man in the sky. Always there. Silent. Luminous. Mine.

If we are our own constellations, collections of points and void, and if we make our own meanings out of ourselves and truly do construct our own narratives, then mine has less to do with the dark space between than with the light shining eternally out. So what if there’s more darkness than light sometimes? What matters is not quantity, but constancy. The permanence of a tattoo is a balm to one who’s experienced an excess of change. As I grow into adulthood, the ability to create stability for myself has been a lifesaving blessing.

Both of my tats so far have been simple to the point of invisibility, and I like it that way. I’ve always wanted my body art to seem like it rose up naturally from within me, to be seen only by those who are looking closely. An unexpected bit of meaning, floating on my surface. Here is a photo taken Saturday afternoon, immediately after removing the bandage.

Out of the seven marks that I chose to comprise the tattoo, one is an eight-pointed star, blue and red. This star, however tiny, also holds various meanings for me—which is another blog entry entirely.

It takes multiple inner steps for me to confront and act on the desire to mark my own body. I don’t do it lightly…but I do try to show a sense of humor in what I choose to do with myself. The only thing stronger than being able to turn one’s back on despair, is to be able to stare it in the eye, and laugh.

Thank you, last two years.

What’s in my bag?

Dead Fetuses, Anyone?

Let me begin by saying that, as an English major, I’ve slung my fair share of bullshit.

Learning how to manipulate others’ perceptions using words is the unspoken agenda. You have a great opportunity to learn how to spin things and influence people’s ideas. And if you go to a good program, you learn a bit about the ethics of this process, as well.

I have also been to art school. I won’t say much about the ethics of the people I met there, but I was certainly introduced to the idea of effective visuals, and the concept of a line of appropriateness and good taste, even in shocking art.

The visitors to my school today apparently didn’t have that education.

Not that they aren’t well-versed in the concept of bullshit-slinging. The “Center for Bio-Ethic Reform”? A right-wing anti-abortion group. And they know what college kids want to see while walking half-asleep to a 9 a.m. algebra class. That’s right: giant pictures of aborted, mangled fetuses, and signs comparing family planning to the massacre in Darfur. Tell me—if your protest actually had any rational legitimacy, would you need to euphemistically title it the “Genocide Awareness Project”? I’ve heard language molested before, but those words are screaming for mercy a lot louder than any embryo ever did.

Our local newspaper, the Tallahassee Democrat, added their own layer of spin: the headline “Genocide project draws shock value for FSU community”. A “genocide project” assumes that the organizers of the project even know the correct definition of “genocide”.  And “shock value” assumes that the event had any value at all.

The body of the article, while shorter than Karl Rove’s willy, was more true to the spirit of the commotion. In its entirety:

“Graphic, larger-than-life photos of fetal body parts drew gasps and stares from passers-by at Florida State University’s Oglesby Union, Monday.

“The free-standing, 6-foot, multi-picture display was part of a project which tours universities as part of the Genocide Awareness Project sponsored by Ohio-based Center for Bio-Ethical Reform.”

Good gracious, you’d almost think it was some sort of educational event, instead of fundamentalist-Christian disruption of a college campus.

My two cents, on the Democrat’s website forum:

Genocide project”? C’mon, Democrat, just because that organization tries to spin this obnoxiousness into legitimacy, doesn’t mean you have to toe the line. Call it for what it is–an undignified, entirely inappropriate aesthetic and moral attack on the students of Florida State.

While I am 100% behind their right to free speech, presenting young people with pictures of dismembered bodies as they try to walk to class should be condemned for what it is–an act of psychological terrorism.

This organization showed no class, won no support for their cause, and inspired nothing but disgust and a pro-choice counter-demonstration to take place Tuesday. There is a way to present your stance on abortion without resorting to death-porn and debasing your organization.

One woman’s personal family-planning choices cannot, with any rationality at all, be compared to the genocide of Darfur. These fruitcakes need to stop demonstrating on campuses, and instead enroll in some classes in logic and critical thinking.

I have had an abortion, and I will never be sorry. It is what enabled me to have a second chance at college. I do not appreciate being compared to a perpetrator of genocide, while I try to get this education. For shame.

Are You a Bad Teacher?

It’s more likely than you think!

• can’t handle students making comments that are ahead of the lesson schedule.
• keeps students’ attention by moving around constantly and making sweeping gestures, rather than with interesting lectures or insightful remarks.
• reads PowerPoint slides verbatim, adding very little.
• embarrasses students by lecturing thinly, engaging in long pauses, losing train of thought, and otherwise breaking the attention-spell.
• lets people whisper, text, or sleep.
• relies too heavily on students to carry the lecture by repeatedly asking, and waiting for answers to, rhetorical questions, when the teacher already knows what answer they really want to hear.
• engages in stupid, time-consuming activities and demonstrations that seem poorly rehearsed and have a weak link to the lecture.
• depends too heavily on students’ participation in online discussion boards, when unable to inspire useful discussion in class.
• loses control of class discussions: can’t stand up to the bigot, bring the rambler back to focus, defuse personal attacks, or shut the motormouth up.
• handholds: constant quizzes, worksheets, strict attendance policy, daily in-class work, nightly homework, nagging, overabundance of extra credit, easy grader…it makes people lazy.
• makes students feel stupid or like they don’t get it, because the teacher didn’t understand their question or comment, or it didn’t fit with that day’s lesson plan.
• has a bad voice: screechy, warbly, breaking, monotone, impenetrable accent, rushed or slurred speech, very long pauses mid-sentence.
• spends an entire 50-minute class basically summarizing the book for those too slow to get it, or too lazy to read.

YOU ARE A WASTE OF MY TIME AND MONEY. Thanks for reading.

Hope Is Free

It’s been a long year. True progress has been made, from the smallest aspect of my own life, to the larger steps our culture is taking back in the direction of sanity. I’m not afraid of the distance still left to cover. I’ve always been a quick traveller.

Here’s hoping everyone on this planet has a better year in 2008 than they’ve had in a long time. Peace and naughty kisses to you all.

Shoutout to all former NYE buddies:
Amanda H.
Neil S.
B.J. H.
Heather C.
Danny F.
Michelle M.
Dave W.
the True
J.H.
Re
D.L.

KMB
mom & dad
Rance McK.
Bree M.
Chad & Chanda P.
Paul & Alice S.
Maven!

Love and hugs to you all, wherever you are this New Year’s!

“This day does not belong to one man, but to all. Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace.”

–Aragorn, “Return of the King”

What my father wrote in my Christmas card

by Walt Whitman, “Leaves Of Grass”:

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines.
Going where I list, my own master total and absolute
Listening to others, considering well what they say
Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating
Gently, but with undeniable will, divesting myself of the holds that would hold me

I inhale great draughts of space
The east and the west are mine, and the north and the south are mine.

I am larger, better than I thought.
I did not know I held so much goodness.

“When I read this, I thought of you–love, Dad.”

Merry Holidaymas, everyone, and have a thrice-blessed 2008!

My version of Christmas cheer…

In honor of my recent (mercifully brief) relationship with a misogynist, allow me to present Slymenstra Hymen, the fire-dancing, blood-spraying woman of GWAR.

When I was sixteen, this was what I wanted to do when I grew up. People usually regretted asking.

Happy birthday, baby Jesus!