America is on Fire, But I Can’t Bring Myself to Write About It
Instead: relinquishing day dreams for the beautiful here and now, compelling subway strangers and the rituals of new tattoos.
Listening to this song, laying in the flatbed of a white truck bumbling along the pockmarked road, looking up at the miles and miles of perfect purple jacaranda trees brushing the bluest sky in the sunshine city. That is the scene I fantasized on my morning commute for the length of the song and more.
Too often I misuse my eyes to look inside at the past, or spend far too much time remixing memories to make a perfect scene I can dip my toes into again and again, but I find it is most effective, creatively I mean, to use them in a straight forward manner by watching what’s happening in real time.
Across from me on the train this morning is a very young man — just passed adolescence would be my guess, 18? 19?— with a style I just adore.
His Adidas track pants are covered in white paint — the kind of chaos that comes from actually wiping your brush on your thigh while in the act rather than an effect of put-upon fashion — dirty Jordan’s, a big cross overlapping a thick gold chain (though not bling, both slightly, how to say it, burnished?) One of those cheap white tees that comes in cheap packs from Hanes with the sleeves rolled up.
Reminiscent of a much more delicate Adrian Brody I would say, that long face and big ol’ beautiful nose, but skin more sun-loved, his frizzy hair pulled back in a small bun at the nape of his neck.
Scrawny, I’d call him, all limbs, and sitting slumped and free like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything in the world. My intrigue is not one of romantic or sexual interest, not even a little bit. I just love the character of this kid and I want to construct a whole world around him.
“What do you feel?” Maya asked me this weekend on our birthday call, and I said, I don’t know, do I feel 38? Not necessarily. What are you supposed to feel in your late 30's? Maybe a little… bored? This has always been my problem according to Dad and I think he’s onto something.
“Transition,” Maya said, “I think you are in your chrysalis.”
So it goes. Meanwhile, we get up, read a book, drink too much coffee, get on the subway, use music to infuse a little excitement into the daily routine. Not everything needs to be exciting, I remind myself… again.
“If you can sit with and push through the feeling of boredom, the world is yours,” my therapist said.
“Maybe you should think of boredom as peace,” I say to myself.
“You are not unmotivated, you are recharging,” Nicole offers, and that one feels generous, but also, correct.
I lived a lot of life in the past year. Now, I compost the experiences.
Meanwhile, we get a tattoo on the throat chakra. I say we because it’s really a gesture to bring my ancestors’ guidance into my creative voice. I only get a tattoo once I cannot stop thinking about it for months and months and sometimes years, and then, it’s time.
It’s a butterfly, are you surprised? Turn me into a living flower, land on me, you beautiful thing!
Did it hurt? A very common question. Of course! It hurt like a motherfucker!
“Do you want the numbing spray now?” Danny kept asking me.
It cost $50 more, but that wasn’t the reason I said no. If you’re going to get a tattoo on your neck, you better sign up for the full-spectrum experience is my philosophy. Feel each little etch mark. The thick black wings are so gorgeous, and the price of the beauty is high.
Tattoos are a pretty intense ritual when you think about it — you have to see beyond their popularity and ubiquity with the younger generation. There is something quite profound about putting permanent ink on your body. It feels like a reclamation. And a dare.
“If I cry,” I said to Danny, “it’s not because of the physical pain. I got some shit to release. So don’t worry!”
A story I love about Danny (tattooists always feel like your bestie after being up in your face while you hand over the canvas of your public-facing body): when I first saw him, I was puzzled.
“So, you’re a tattoo artist without tattoos,” I said.
Danny lifted up the hem of his jeans.
“They go up to the hip,” he said.
The skin is so densely covered one could not determine the original shade if judging by the legs alone.
“Like pants,” I said!
“While my Grandmother is still here, that’s how it will stay.”
This endeared me to Danny. A tender soul. His touch was light. The illustration that will adorn me until I am ashes is healing very well.
I think part of my low energy is the fact that I haven’t ridden my bike since I got Covid. My lungs hurt.
But now they are improved. Today I hit the bike path on the way home. I have not gotten to spend nearly enough time outside so far this summer and what kind of a life is that?
The world is burning all around us and I feel disconnected from the flames. I know this points to my privileges, of course it does. I am not sure what to do with that fact at times. Something in me that’s been tired is changing.
At night the air is hot and alive. I want to live in it forever, under the quiet wing of darkness, especially at the hours when everyone else is asleep. I only want to hang out with the daytime on a beach somewhere, anywhere with my skin out. I only want to pump my legs to a perfect playlist and smell the river in the air.
Alas, I am 38. I think that makes me middle aged. A real adult!
