Ink.

I have, since I was about 12 or 13, been fascinated with ink. I draw, occasionally paint, and since I was in middle school frequently used my body as a canvas for sharpie marker and stick-on tattoo.

I toyed with the idea of real ink for years, shying away because of the needles involved, holding back because I couldn’t get it all to come together. I’d know what I wanted, but not be sure where–or think I knew where but couldn’t get everything I wanted worked in.

For whatever reason, everything came together recently. A design I’d worked out, a friend who got a particular placement I’d never considered–a little public, a little private. Visible but not quite obvious. A good tattoo artist who just opened his own shop.

So with surprisingly little trepidation, I made the appointment, got the art together, and had it done. A Saturday afternoon, lunch with some girlfriends, and a quick trip to Southern Swank, and it was finished.

About the process of the tattoo: Fabulous. Not at all what I was expecting. Slightly painful, but nothing not completely overwhelmed by the odd sensation of intentionally inflicting it. Euphoric and oddly tingly. I see–easily–why the idea of more ink will always now be more appealing.

About the tattoo: Beautiful, one on the inside of each wrist, matching spirals with particular meaning. Black. Unfilled (I may decide to go back and have them filled, in part for completion, in part for fun. ;) ).

Buzzed along for many hours, out with friends, party-hopping a bit even if I did look like I’d been salvaged from the local mental ward. Still on a bit of a high, so much later.

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