Walking to work seemed more like walking to a mass funeral. Every time I'd go in, there'd be another multitude of souls waiting to die and be reborn again. Sometimes brighter, sometimes just more in tune with the person the soul was being carried in. Every time I'd take that needle in my hand and place it in the gun, I wouldn't think of the pain that it was going to inflict, but the life that it was going to change.
Smog rolled into the crimson sunset sky. It appeared to choke out the only signs of life left. Just another place in time, another city with big brick walls to drown in. Just another neon sign and just another silver gun blaring into the night. Sometimes the sound of screaming sounded the same as the ring of the telephone, and sometimes I wished I could answer it. But what would I say? "Yes, I feel your pain and I know what you must be saying. There are no angels here, and there is no grace left to lift you up. You were born in solitude, but you still needed someone all the time, and now you're alone. You could make it, but you still need someone. So do I." My shoulders ached in the cold that drew nearer, and I wrapped my black coat around myself and whispered to the angry red sky, "Its just another night." Lighting a cigarette, I began to walk again. My leather high-strung boots hit the pavement one in front of the other, splashing just a little in the cracks of the cobblestones where rain had begun to collect. The rain began to fall gently, like my tears. "Its just another night," I whispered to myself again, almost like I was trying to convince myself that I could take all of the things that I was about to face. I did this every night when I went into work, but somehow tonight it was different.
I wondered what change I had suffered, or what the metamorphosis had been this time. There was once a time when I could never understand anything at all. When people said that they were hurt, I would offer them a Band-Aid. When people said that their heart had broken, I would think, "That sounds serious," and shrug it off as just another one of the many conditions that modern medicine could cure. But now that I dealt on a nightly basis with people who were searching out all of those hurts in life, scrutinizing them until there was hardly anything left, and turning it into a scar upon their skin to remember for all time, I could not only understand, but feel those things through the people that I dealt with. My hands prepared their skin for the mark that they would receive. My mind prepared itself for the journeys yet to unfold with the stories that they'd tell me. My heart opened itself to all of the things that the human soul can really be.
Walking into the studio felt like being a celebrity and entering the place where I'd perform for the night. I would "lock eyes" with some of the people who sat in waiting, those that were conscious enough to know that I'd entered, those that weren't too busily engrossed in the flash books, deciding what they'd want for a tattoo. Sighing, I slipped out of my coat and placed it on the nail next to the poster of Robert Smith, his hands folded like he was waiting for me to realize something. Looking in his eyes, I remembered the lyrics of one of his songs: "See your head, In the fading light/And through the dark, Your eyes shine bright." Somehow remembering those words built my courage back up, even if only for an instant. "Through the dark, your eyes shine bright." I turned around to face the waiting hoards.
Whistles came from all directions, and then I remembered that I was wearing my fishnets, leather mini, and laced bodice, looking like I'd just come away from a Sisters of Mercy concert. I decided then that I should keep my jacket on. It was sort of chilly in the parlor anyway, so I grabbed it off of the nail again, and slipped it back on. "Who's next?" I asked to the air, knowing that I'd be followed. Sure enough, as I stepped into the 3rd block, there he was. He was a thin man, about 5'9", and painfully pale. What caught me the most about his appearance was his eyes. The kind of eyes that you could get lost in, if you let your guard down for only a second, the kind of eyes that could draw you in and bleed you dry of all of your joy. Looking into them, I knew that this one would be another real searcher, and that I would be the one, in a moment, to help him with another part of his journey.
I firmly believe that that is why people come to get tattoos. Because all of life is a journey. We are born into this world with no sense of direction or purpose, and, as sad as it seems, most of us go through a good portion of our lives that way. Even though it may seem a pointless, wandering path to nowhere, life is still a journey. We symbolize things in life as we pass through them, as though they were signposts to guide us should we ever come back. So when we finally come across one of those symbols that could signify our purpose here, where we want to go in life, or how we want to be recognized, what better way for it to guide us than to keep it forever on our skin?
"Hi," I said, turning to face the man, "what can I do for you?" Timidly, the man entered my cubicle, and took a seat in the roll-away chair in the center of the room. I began my basic preparations, washing my hands and putting on the rubber gloves. "My name is Genesis," came the soft reply, "and I'd like a tattoo." "Generally that's why people come here," I answered, carefully. "I'm Sara. I'll be inflicting your torture today," I said. That was my usual way of introducing myself to the clients, but with Genesis seeming so timid, almost fragile, I wondered if I had scared him. His entire aura was one of tenseness and fear. "What did you have in mind?" I asked softly.
He looked through me just then. This man, who I'd never met before, looked directly into my soul with those burning, lonely eyes. I saw more than just his eyes this time, and I began to focus some on his voice. It was so incredibly soft, sort of soothing. I think about 3 minutes passed before he answered me.
"A spiral," Genesis replied, finally.
"Ok. Where at?"
"On my head. Right on top."
His head was completely shaved bald, and it shined in the florescent light in the room, creating a sort of haze all around him. This was sort of an odd request, because I'd never worked on someone's head before. I'd done just about everything from feet to neck, and I couldn't help but think that this was a step up, sort of finishing work on a human ladder. We talked out his design ideas for a while, working out the details of the piece. Next, I prepared the tools. "Black?" I asked him again. "Yes please," he replied, and I could still feel the timidity in his voice.
The next few hours passed without me really knowing that the time had changed at all. Genesis loosened up little by little, and he talked to me nearly from start to finish of the whole process. But it wasn't the kind of recondite babble that I'd heard almost every day. Seriously, it was as if he knew me. I knew that something tonight would be different. I noticed my mind wandering as I worked, my thoughts fighting not to be drowned out in the monotonous droning buzz of the tattoo gun. I watched Genesis as he flicked his cigarettes into the ashtray, and I couldn't help but think of the glowing embers as beacons along the pathway of the web of tales he wove for me. I'll never forget the things he said that night.
"I wanted a spiral because to me it signifies life. You start out all curled up, that's the center. You grow, little by little, and then take off on your path. It seems like you've gone really far, if you stop and look back sometimes, but, somehow, if you wait, you can feel that you really haven't. Its like, you learn your lessons at the beginning, and then all of life, you go back to them, and just use them again and again. Nothing ever really and truly changes. You just keep on moving. You move on and on through your life, forever. No one ever really dies, you know?"
"We just keep on moving," I replied. Could this be? This man who I did not even know existed until this night was sitting here saying all of the things that I'd so often thought. He looked into my soul with those beautiful, searching, haunting eyes.
My job is to decorate people's skin. To mark them in whatever way they want to be marked. Usually the ones that I work on come in and search the books, pick something that looks "tough" or "cool," and then sit there and complain the entire time while I mark them. Sometimes I get someone with some meaning behind their choice. "Dad and I were really close. He used to take me fishing all the time up on Lake Michigan. That's why I wanted the bass." "My sign is Libra. It suits me, because I'm constantly deliberating over every little thing. That's why I wanted the scales on my shoulder." Things like that. But tonight, it was totally different to me.
Finally, after several hours, I switched the gun off. "You're done, Genesis. How do you feel?" He told me he felt like he'd been reborn. That was when I showed him my angel wings, my first set of tattoos, on my shoulder blades. I felt like he could understand, and he did. "Your soul wants to fly away from here," he whispered. His words penetrated my deepest darkest pocket of emotion, causing an eruption up to my eyes, and I burst into tears. "Yes," I choked, "I can't believe someone finally understands. It's almost like, I know you from a former life or something."
That night, I had met a truly beautiful human being. This is what I'd entered this profession for, to meet people. To gain an understanding of the human condition, and what finding oneself is all about. I looked up at Genesis's head just then, and remembered that he had yet to see his new work. Quickly I recovered from my near meltdown, and handed him a mirror. He backed up to the large mirror in the front of the room, and held the other one in front of him. A smile crept across his face just then, and I knew that my job tonight was done. I had helped him on his journey, and he had helped me, too. Through our understanding of each other, we had managed to make it another step onward in our existences.
"Thank you," Genesis said, still smiling.
It was then that I noticed the song that had been playing on the radio. Genesis began to walk away as the haunting melody filled the air. "See your head, in the fading light/And through the dark, your eyes shine bright."
"Thank you," I replied.
Smog rolled into the crimson sunset sky. It appeared to choke out the only signs of life left. Just another place in time, another city with big brick walls to drown in. Just another neon sign and just another silver gun blaring into the night. Sometimes the sound of screaming sounded the same as the ring of the telephone, and sometimes I wished I could answer it. But what would I say? "Yes, I feel your pain and I know what you must be saying. There are no angels here, and there is no grace left to lift you up. You were born in solitude, but you still needed someone all the time, and now you're alone. You could make it, but you still need someone. So do I." My shoulders ached in the cold that drew nearer, and I wrapped my black coat around myself and whispered to the angry red sky, "Its just another night." Lighting a cigarette, I began to walk again. My leather high-strung boots hit the pavement one in front of the other, splashing just a little in the cracks of the cobblestones where rain had begun to collect. The rain began to fall gently, like my tears. "Its just another night," I whispered to myself again, almost like I was trying to convince myself that I could take all of the things that I was about to face. I did this every night when I went into work, but somehow tonight it was different.
I wondered what change I had suffered, or what the metamorphosis had been this time. There was once a time when I could never understand anything at all. When people said that they were hurt, I would offer them a Band-Aid. When people said that their heart had broken, I would think, "That sounds serious," and shrug it off as just another one of the many conditions that modern medicine could cure. But now that I dealt on a nightly basis with people who were searching out all of those hurts in life, scrutinizing them until there was hardly anything left, and turning it into a scar upon their skin to remember for all time, I could not only understand, but feel those things through the people that I dealt with. My hands prepared their skin for the mark that they would receive. My mind prepared itself for the journeys yet to unfold with the stories that they'd tell me. My heart opened itself to all of the things that the human soul can really be.
Walking into the studio felt like being a celebrity and entering the place where I'd perform for the night. I would "lock eyes" with some of the people who sat in waiting, those that were conscious enough to know that I'd entered, those that weren't too busily engrossed in the flash books, deciding what they'd want for a tattoo. Sighing, I slipped out of my coat and placed it on the nail next to the poster of Robert Smith, his hands folded like he was waiting for me to realize something. Looking in his eyes, I remembered the lyrics of one of his songs: "See your head, In the fading light/And through the dark, Your eyes shine bright." Somehow remembering those words built my courage back up, even if only for an instant. "Through the dark, your eyes shine bright." I turned around to face the waiting hoards.
Whistles came from all directions, and then I remembered that I was wearing my fishnets, leather mini, and laced bodice, looking like I'd just come away from a Sisters of Mercy concert. I decided then that I should keep my jacket on. It was sort of chilly in the parlor anyway, so I grabbed it off of the nail again, and slipped it back on. "Who's next?" I asked to the air, knowing that I'd be followed. Sure enough, as I stepped into the 3rd block, there he was. He was a thin man, about 5'9", and painfully pale. What caught me the most about his appearance was his eyes. The kind of eyes that you could get lost in, if you let your guard down for only a second, the kind of eyes that could draw you in and bleed you dry of all of your joy. Looking into them, I knew that this one would be another real searcher, and that I would be the one, in a moment, to help him with another part of his journey.
I firmly believe that that is why people come to get tattoos. Because all of life is a journey. We are born into this world with no sense of direction or purpose, and, as sad as it seems, most of us go through a good portion of our lives that way. Even though it may seem a pointless, wandering path to nowhere, life is still a journey. We symbolize things in life as we pass through them, as though they were signposts to guide us should we ever come back. So when we finally come across one of those symbols that could signify our purpose here, where we want to go in life, or how we want to be recognized, what better way for it to guide us than to keep it forever on our skin?
"Hi," I said, turning to face the man, "what can I do for you?" Timidly, the man entered my cubicle, and took a seat in the roll-away chair in the center of the room. I began my basic preparations, washing my hands and putting on the rubber gloves. "My name is Genesis," came the soft reply, "and I'd like a tattoo." "Generally that's why people come here," I answered, carefully. "I'm Sara. I'll be inflicting your torture today," I said. That was my usual way of introducing myself to the clients, but with Genesis seeming so timid, almost fragile, I wondered if I had scared him. His entire aura was one of tenseness and fear. "What did you have in mind?" I asked softly.
He looked through me just then. This man, who I'd never met before, looked directly into my soul with those burning, lonely eyes. I saw more than just his eyes this time, and I began to focus some on his voice. It was so incredibly soft, sort of soothing. I think about 3 minutes passed before he answered me.
"A spiral," Genesis replied, finally.
"Ok. Where at?"
"On my head. Right on top."
His head was completely shaved bald, and it shined in the florescent light in the room, creating a sort of haze all around him. This was sort of an odd request, because I'd never worked on someone's head before. I'd done just about everything from feet to neck, and I couldn't help but think that this was a step up, sort of finishing work on a human ladder. We talked out his design ideas for a while, working out the details of the piece. Next, I prepared the tools. "Black?" I asked him again. "Yes please," he replied, and I could still feel the timidity in his voice.
The next few hours passed without me really knowing that the time had changed at all. Genesis loosened up little by little, and he talked to me nearly from start to finish of the whole process. But it wasn't the kind of recondite babble that I'd heard almost every day. Seriously, it was as if he knew me. I knew that something tonight would be different. I noticed my mind wandering as I worked, my thoughts fighting not to be drowned out in the monotonous droning buzz of the tattoo gun. I watched Genesis as he flicked his cigarettes into the ashtray, and I couldn't help but think of the glowing embers as beacons along the pathway of the web of tales he wove for me. I'll never forget the things he said that night.
"I wanted a spiral because to me it signifies life. You start out all curled up, that's the center. You grow, little by little, and then take off on your path. It seems like you've gone really far, if you stop and look back sometimes, but, somehow, if you wait, you can feel that you really haven't. Its like, you learn your lessons at the beginning, and then all of life, you go back to them, and just use them again and again. Nothing ever really and truly changes. You just keep on moving. You move on and on through your life, forever. No one ever really dies, you know?"
"We just keep on moving," I replied. Could this be? This man who I did not even know existed until this night was sitting here saying all of the things that I'd so often thought. He looked into my soul with those beautiful, searching, haunting eyes.
My job is to decorate people's skin. To mark them in whatever way they want to be marked. Usually the ones that I work on come in and search the books, pick something that looks "tough" or "cool," and then sit there and complain the entire time while I mark them. Sometimes I get someone with some meaning behind their choice. "Dad and I were really close. He used to take me fishing all the time up on Lake Michigan. That's why I wanted the bass." "My sign is Libra. It suits me, because I'm constantly deliberating over every little thing. That's why I wanted the scales on my shoulder." Things like that. But tonight, it was totally different to me.
Finally, after several hours, I switched the gun off. "You're done, Genesis. How do you feel?" He told me he felt like he'd been reborn. That was when I showed him my angel wings, my first set of tattoos, on my shoulder blades. I felt like he could understand, and he did. "Your soul wants to fly away from here," he whispered. His words penetrated my deepest darkest pocket of emotion, causing an eruption up to my eyes, and I burst into tears. "Yes," I choked, "I can't believe someone finally understands. It's almost like, I know you from a former life or something."
That night, I had met a truly beautiful human being. This is what I'd entered this profession for, to meet people. To gain an understanding of the human condition, and what finding oneself is all about. I looked up at Genesis's head just then, and remembered that he had yet to see his new work. Quickly I recovered from my near meltdown, and handed him a mirror. He backed up to the large mirror in the front of the room, and held the other one in front of him. A smile crept across his face just then, and I knew that my job tonight was done. I had helped him on his journey, and he had helped me, too. Through our understanding of each other, we had managed to make it another step onward in our existences.
"Thank you," Genesis said, still smiling.
It was then that I noticed the song that had been playing on the radio. Genesis began to walk away as the haunting melody filled the air. "See your head, in the fading light/And through the dark, your eyes shine bright."
"Thank you," I replied.