Tat.

In lou of joining the bandwagon, here is some more ironic, intangible immaterial.

I recently, well, not so recently, was inked. I got my first tattoo. A needle and ink on skin, the soft, painful piercing of my ribs by an oversized man who laughed so deeply his entire body jiggled.

I go. The drive is nerve racking. The rain beats so hard on the windshield of my car it sounds like a drum line, lulling my music and adding a repetitive comfort to the grey blanketed city that is my temporary home. I park, touch my rib where I want the ink, realizing that it will never be the same, realizing that permanence is a serious idea when everything, I mean, everything is always perpetually in motion and changing. I realize that I’m being overdramatic. I step out of my car. I’m still in my business clothes, tight suit pants and a buttoned up blouse. I have no piercings, no signs of being of being one of ‘those’ who wants a tattoo. I look like a cog, a person that is nothing more than a part of the societal machine, the whole. I scoff for judging myself. I walk in.

The place is clean, well kept. I see what I want, I see how I want it, I set up an appointment, go home to eat with plans to arrive later that day.

Unlike many narratives, there is no symbolism in the time spent in between; the driving home, the eating, the drinking of Gatorade, the petting of my dog or the drive back. It’s all the same. It’s all redundant, it’s all predictable.

Fastfoward.

I lay in the chair, shirt off but still in my bra, while the tattoo artist tells me of his life story. When in awkward situations, I always ask people about their lives. It’s amazing what a stranger will tell you.

“I have been tattooing since I was fifteen. I grew up poor. I was a poor Mexican in America with a father who left us, two younger brothers and a mom who loved us, but was never home.”

There is a painful sensation stabling my ribs. I want to cry, to squeeze someone’s hand so hard it cuts off blow flow and turns white. I remind myself that pain is temporary and there is no one there to squeeze. Something permanent. Solitude.

“I mean, it started out as something I knew I just wanted to do. So I really just always knew.”

I nod.

He continues, “And then I started buying and owning tattoo shops. When I got poor, I sold them. It’s been 18 years since then.”

I ask him what he thinks about being the person to put something permanent on people’s changing bodies. He simply responds that the tattoo can always be changed. “I’ve had to alter some hideous tattoos, people who were dumb enough to put their fucking girlfriend’s name on their arm.” He points to an illustration of a heart with a ribbon running through it on the wall. “I’ve had to change that,” he points to the heart illustration, “A goddamn heart into a bird. People are just so fucking stupid sometimes.”

This wasn’t the answer I was looking for. I don't know what I was looking for, but it's a paradox that something permanent can be changed and an inverted half truth, defined by relying on the opposite for meaning. That fucks my mind as my ribs are being rubbed with a needle. It wasn't what I was looking for.

The pain is lessened, I’m sweating profusely, my palms are clammy and white from my fists being clutched together tightly. I keep staring at the blank yellow ceiling.

Finally, the piercing pain subsides and is replaced with a dull, but constant throbbing. He bandages me up, tells me to remove it in an hour and gives me the D.L. on after care. I get in my car and leave. My rib hurts but the tattoo looks great.

I drive to my friend’s house for beer and Tylenol. I wait an hour, take off the bandage and look at my tattoo.

I wanted a swallow (symbolizing freedom) with the image of C’est la Vie, (Such is Life) underneath. This can be a simple reminder, everyday. It states that life is what it is and you can’t really do much about it, so enjoy it while you can. I always need to be reminded of such things.

I look closer. Something doesn’t look quite right. I realize “C’est la Vie” is spelt “C’este la Vie” There’s an extra E. I immediately google the phrase and realize, that the permanent ink on my body has become exactly what it was written to mean. There was no “e” at the end of C’est! I panic, call the tattoo parlor and set up an appt. to repair it, fix it, cover it up. Now, the E, is now covered by soft clouds surround “C’est la vie” with a swallow flying forward located above. I am just thankful he didn't turn it into a heart. 'People are so fucking stupid sometimes."

But, for a week, I had “C’este la Vie” written on my body, a phrase put into action, becoming a symbol for the very meaning it was intended to express.

You and I have no control over anything. We eat, we sleep, we work, we write, we think, we love, we laugh, but at the end of the day, we are all at the greater mercy of life’s vices and permanence, well, permanence is only an idea.