Archive for September, 2011
Explaining the tattoos
So, I’ve done a pretty sorry job of explaining some of my more recent tattoos, which really goes against everything I’ve meant to do here.
I’ll re-visit the ones that need it.
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I feel like
So, I feel like I can’t just quit writing and go have a nervous breakdown, I don’t think that’s acceptable. It might be okay to write the nervous breakdown, but to just quit, to just go someplace and die, intellectually, spiritually, physically, I don’t think that’s something I’m supposed to do. Giving up can’t be the story of me and my fifty-eight (so far) tattoos, there has to be more. I have to make more, because ultimately, we do write our own stories. We let other people mark up our pages, write in the margins, but the main narrative is only written by one person. You for yours, me for mine. My narrative has kind of gotten away from me, I know I’m a better writer than that.
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Dead inside
I feel dead inside, nothing feels good or beautiful. I want to feel like me again. I want to write again. I want things to feel warm and safe and pretty, nothing’s pretty. Nothing’s warm and safe.
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Tattoo #57 & #58
Tattoo by Fish, Doc Dog's Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City
Tattoo by John, Doc Dog's Las Vegas Tattoo, Ybor City
I really don’t give a shit about explaining these, it doesn’t matter. I just want to post them with the rest before I go away.
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So, just now…
So, just now I’m sitting in this coffee shop in Old Hyde Park, a trendier part of Tampa. It’s kind of overcast outside, it’ll probably rain sooner rather than later, and I’m trying to be creative. Trying to be creative. Failing to be creative. My head’s kind of a disaster, not that that’s anything new anymore. I’m surrounded by hip paintings of flowers and stylish shiny lamps, drinking a fuckin’ decaf soy almond latte, and none of it makes me feel anything good. Nothing feels good or beautiful, just hollow. Death Cab’s singing about following someone into the dark, and I’m – I don’t know.
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Oh, hi…
Oh, hi…
No, I haven’t forgotten about this blog. Honestly, it’s one of my favorite things, it’s stupidly important to me. I remember when it was really pretty good, I wrote with a sort of crazy darkly optimistic abandon. I really wanted my thoughts put into words, put into pixels, it felt right, and good. Even if I was sad, I’d write the Hell out of that, and it was so sharp, and real, and kind of beautiful. People said it was beautiful. I miss that place so much, I just want to go back. I’m really very scared I can’t go back.
I almost know I can’t.
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