Paris Tat *2nd installation* (Spring 2010)

(More of this epic-ness. If you follow me then you recognize that the poem was my first poem ever, included here as primary evidence of my emotional experience. This is a lot in scene, which is some of my favorite stuff to write on. Scenes are key to making the reader feel like you are really including them. Again, if you wanna see the tat, just ask...)

That winter in Paris I fell in love with the night. That was when I felt the most at home, when New York felt close, when the city felt familiar. I wrote only one poem there, a verse for the city I missed.

I can't quite adjust
to streets that I can't map out on grid paper,
and this city without liquid borders.
The streets zig zag and curve
in an unfamiliar sprawl
as I walk with my headphones to steady my pace.
Sometimes when I'm just setting foot on the sidewalk,
a breeze seems to brush my cheek, & through the music I can hear
my city, and feel my own streets underfoot as I set out into the dusk.
Like all breezes & moments that matter
this feeling is fleeting, and as I cross the street
I remember that this place doesn't sing to me.
We can't even speak except in halting sentences
fraught with disconnects & lost in translations.
At night though, if I un-focus my eyes, the lights seem familiar.
And if I listen, underneath the rhythm of a language not my own
I can hear the lap of the East River.
And with one focusing breath
I can trace the skyline onto my forearm
where it'll stay for me the whole night.

That space between rivers,
my island of abbreviations
& stumbles & imagined constellations,
is more patient that I.
I wrote the skyline a post card.
It said: Thanks for waiting

But this is just a part of the story. Because my enchantment with Paris was undeniable. I loved having wine with lunch and being surrounded by things that were ancient. I loved the Seine, and the walkway at its banks. I loved the language, the challenge of communicating. I loved the lingerie, the beautiful women, the stick shift taxicabs. And I loved collecting souvenirs, post cards to be sent (and kept), and shoes, and shot glasses. And of course my own piece of Parisian art: the tattoo.

His work was steady and light. He paced himself in the Parisian way. Maybe because they are surrounded by art, eternal and lasting art, they see no reason to rush their own for such a silly thing as schedules or dinnertime. It seems ingrained in them, this aversion to rushing. I used my breath, gathering the pain of each touch of the needle with an inhale, and breathing it out as he paused or re-inked. Every once in awhile another artist would step behind the screen to see his progress. They all forgot I spoke French, and so I eavesdropped on these conversations amusedly. They talked about getting take-out, about the absurdity of an all color tattoo. They talked about how American girls are usually screamers, about various clients that they’d serviced that past week. They talked about my breasts, about sharing wine with me, about how shocked they were that I was taking this all so quietly, so strongly. I smiled through this secret knowledge, too focused on controlling my breath to think about what it meant to be alone and foreign and exposed in this way. After all, these guys were professionals. My breasts were unremarkable, my body just another canvas. Possibly. Or maybe I was exotic and tempting. Maybe he took his time because he enjoyed touching my skin this way, this intimate act of creating me. It was absolutely intimate, sharing this cramped space of pain and creation and color, for no less than three hours.

* * * * *

I needed a break between colors, so while he cleaned the blue from his needle I slipped off the table and walked back into a narrow hallway towards the bathroom. As I peed I tried not to notice how tender my skin had become, or my slightly lightheaded feeling. I knew enough about tattoos to know that my body was in defensive mode, and I was cruising on adrenaline. I also knew we were halfway done, maybe more. So I hurried, eager to ride out that high till the end. By this point in my tattooing history, I had begun to understand my body differently. It was a place that I could change, recreate in a new way. This high I was feeling was a reaction to pain, the pain you have to go through to make something permanent. Tattoos were never just pretty things to me, though I think they are beautiful. They are statements and stories, and for me they are an assertion that I am a storyteller, and that I will make you hear my voice. Tattoos should be sexy, adding secrets and color to the naked body. Revealing secrets in this way makes me vulnerable and powerful at the same time, a balance women must deal with on a daily basis. They are both a reveal and a command. My tattoos assert my control over my body and my stories. They declare that both are valuable, that both are worthy and beautiful.

When I walked back out into the main room I had to squint, let my eyes readjust to the bright light, and when they had I saw that Olivier was smiling at me. I must have been a sight, squinting and naked to the waist, my ribcage stained and red with irritation. “Ready?” he asked. “Oui, je suis prêt.” I said. He raised his eyebrows and nodded. When I lay back on the table he was ready with the last and final color: red. I took a deep breath and listened for the buzz of the needle. ‘Home stretch’ became my mantra. This color, bright like lipstick and ladybugs, was not for a famous landmark, or any building for that matter. It was for a bird.