Tattooing my corpse

Welp, I did it. I finally got a tattoo. I've been working on the concept for several years now, but I finalized my idea about 6 months ago. I wanted a tree to symbolize life, with a nymph-like form in it (female) to represent the spirit of nature/creation. I wanted the roots to jut below my sleeve line (the first sight of roots helps to preface the theme), and the tips of the branches to extend to the top arc of my shoulder. The ravens were a last minute addition.

I wanted a concept that would have a long shelf life in my belief system (something that I could still believe in in the next 50 years) and preferably something that wouldn't embarrass me as an old man with a tattoo. I hope you still like it.

The journey to actually get the tattoo...interesting. Believe me, I did my best not to hate myself later. I met with a tattoo artist who worked at Iron Age studio. We found out about him through some friends who got their tattoo with him. He was a nice guy and seemed to know what he was doing. I tried to correspond with Trevor about a mock-up of my concept before we actually drew it on my arm. I wanted some notion of his ability and ideas before I got 'stuck' with his art for a lifetime. He had told me at the consultation that he doesn't draw anything before the actual tattoo appointment, but I was hoping for something...anything to give me confidence. Didn't happen. He said he restricts his work to the morning of the appointment when he'll draw directly on my arm.

The morning of, after showing him my ideas again, he started the first sketch on my arm with a light marker, and asked me to look at it in the mirror to make sure I was happy with the basic outline. I was horrified by what looked like a short bush with extremely diffuse roots. I tried to redirect him, but after several returns to the drawing board, he literally had to stand there in front of the mirror with me as I told him which branches to keep, which ones to erase, and which ones to reform/redirect. It was so frightening to me. Several times he tried to persuade me to make do with a tattoo and plain text (for the quotation) that I was positively unhappy with, and it began to seem that Trevor wasn't as proficient as I had initially thought. Finally, however, he began to understand my direction, and with the building momentum of comprehending my vision, he was able to finish a draft of something, a synthesis of his idea and mine, that I was really happy with. Other than having to re-shade the breasts that seemed 3-d and bigger-than-life, making the branches more angular, and adding some definition to the face of the dryad, he pretty much finished the tattoo from this final draft. (see photos)

I am growing more pleased each day with the result. It's truly hard to say what people think about it. Mostly subdued reactions and a sympathetic "Do you like it?" here and there. Ha! I'm okay with it though. I've thought about my arm size diminishing, but I think it will be okay--even if the tips of the side branches end up touching ends one day! I'm 32...it was now or never. What better time to ornament my cadaver than at the moment when my body is at it's peak performance, a poignant a emblem to my immortal soul that has never been completely severed from the Nous that has given birth to and sustains it. "In him we move and live and have our being, for we are his offspring." This body print is a reminder that the flesh is a short-lived index to the organizing principle of my most inner being that didn't 'poof' into existence at conception. The roots of our material existence can be traced millennia back...can the spirit--the written program of this bodily seed--that orders, bonds, and holds our molecules in existence have any less a pedigree?

I can't think of a better way to laurel the body that my soul is 'caked in'? (Markus Zusak)

Love of Life

Chesterton is the author I hate to love. His words are a beautiful lure, and the worst part is, the parts I love the most are often contiguous with the parts I most hate. He snared me with these two lines most recently:

"We must have enough reverence for all things outside us to tread fearfully on the grass; but we must also have enough disdain for all things outside us to, on occasion, spit at the stars."

"[A courageous person] must seek his life in a spirit of furious indifference to it; he must desire life like water and yet drink death like wine."

He says that a person who is loyal to his world, his birth--thankful for his very breath--is more like a patriot to life than an optimist. He is ready to 'smash the world' for the sake of itself. He is a lover of life, but a reformer of life, helping his life (and all life) to make the most of itself and reach its fullest potential--its most true self. Sounds a lot like Nietzsche's idea that life is ever striving to surpass itself.

I love this principle of change because it fuels my hopes and idealism. I fear it because it reminds me that the present is always shifting below my feet. I love life, but I must despise it staying as it is now, in this moment; and I can only summon the courage to do that by fully cherishing the moment. To truly love the past, we must leave it so that we may find it's other end in the future. "It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it abandoned" (Nietzsche).

The only way to fully experience my youth is to grow old. "From the tomb of the womb, to the womb of the tomb" (Campbell). God help me to have the courage, the understanding, the hunger to save my life by losing it (Jesus). This may not make a whole lot of sense when I get old, and that's why I'm saying it now. The life I love, the world of magic and wonder is incomplete in the present. It is always reaching, stretching, longing, yearning. The past and the future are one if we keep moving. In this strife, we are never severed from one or the other. We are never lost. This is the paradox of every story we ever loved, every adventure, every minute of life: "Where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world" (Campbell).

Gentle life, gentle death

I didn't discover this poem until about 5 years ago, and it was in the most unlikely of places. I was talking to some guy at UPS (late night shift) about Thoreau's Walden. Now, for the life of me I can't imagine why we were discussing Thoreau...late night UPSers would rather discuss their next joint or the latest video game that sucked weeks from their lives. But nonetheless, I was quoting Thoreau to this dude, and he became still, thought for a moment, looked up into my eyes and responded with the most intelligent line he remembered from his late literature class: "Don't Go Gentle Into That Good Night." My face went numb (profundity does that to me). Uh...where did that come from? I totally got it. I felt like I tripped over a lump of gold jutting out of the spit-strewn floors in that dark place.

I looked it up, and discovered Dylan Thomas, the master of a poem of such probing depth and relentless challenge that now it hangs above my desk, constantly in my view. It stings even now when I read it ("Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way..."), but the sting of NOT remembering to savor, think, act "in accordance with the best thing in us" (Aristotle) would ultimately nick a spiritual artery. Let it be known, I want to know peace, but not peace at any cost. I want rest, but I don't want to be a sleepwalker. I want to die courageously, but some literal quietness wouldn't be all that bad. Figuratively, however, I want my death to be a roar. I don't want to 'stop' before I die. I want to love every moment of mortal life, be grateful for each breath and the beauty (or potential for beauty) all around me. I want to burn bright to the last--"rage against the dying of the light."

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas 1914–1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Starry, Starry Night-run

Tonight I ran the bloody hell out of my lungs...and it felt marvelous. I ran late, it was after dark, and Jen had sent me off with the usual "be careful", which received my normal response, "...but not too careful." My legs were rubber at the end of 30 minutes, with my left leg feeling extra noodle-y. When I finished and came back in the house, Jen asked how it went (I love how she cares how it went each and every time I run). I told her it was exhilarating, even though it took me 6 minutes longer to finish the route.

6 effing minutes!! On Thanksgiving Day I finished my first competitive 5 k at 24:30, fastest time ever, but lately I've been having back cramps, joint pain, and shortness of breath. What gives? I'm not quite ready to say in all seriousness that "I'm getting older", though it may be true. Fact is, I don't really care all that much what my running time is. I care about how my time is. And the quality of my time running tonight was absolutely electric. I had a five minute cool-down walk at the end--right down the middle of the dark street, under the stars that were breaking through the sky to reach down and poke my brain from a billion lightyears away. In that moment, I was the czar of the street, under the protection of those flickering legions. I was the center of the world, the eye of the night. I always want to feel that way--maximizing my little life in the middle of the road, feeling at my best for that moment, an easy target of cross-cosmos communiques.

It helped that my pulse was pumping a gallon a second, massaging my veins to a euphoric high. But mostly, I felt most 'myself'. I was there. No where else. No one else to beat. No one else to be but me.

Old man, don't ever forget that feeling you get when you've worked hard and there's nothing left to say or do. Through the breathtaking throbs, and burning sweat, and unyielding pavement...you can feel right. Rest in those moments of new birth in old time. You're where you're supposed to be.

Below is the first entry for a blog I'm starting with my friend at: www.not-rot.blogspot.com

Dear reader,

This is a blog about not dying. It's about not falling asleep midday, mid-stride, mid-yawn. It's about not letting your liver rot. It's about having new experiences, taking risks, and venturing out into the unknown. It's about searching out those untraveled corridors of the 'familiar', those places we think we know, but of which we haven't yet quite picked all the meat off the bones.

Matt and I (Chris) aim to become enlightened gurus of the furthest boundaries of our being via exploits that might be deemed by onlookers to be arbitrary, or foolish, or reckless, or undignified, or downright embarrassing...but which in nowise may be described as boring. Together we form the front lines against the onslaught of the rot of laziness and existential cruise control, and we will resist to the end. That is, unless we achieve an early, wealthy retirement--in which case all bets are off and we're going to sleep like everybody else. Just kidding. I think.

The image at the top of our home page of a dude 'sleeping' is actually an authentic Victorian post-mortem photograph! Pretty heinous, right??? I know, we loved it too. We believe in the Swashbuckler's Bible and in its One Commandment as old as Life itself, engraved upon our waiting headstones : "Thou Shalt Not Rot." Sadly, it is a principle unembodied in much of our contemporaries' most fervent creeds and philosophies. We. Will. Not. Rot.

To that end we dedicate this blog of our adventures, misdeeds, and otherwise capricious capers. May the next generation be inspired by our acts of valor, weirdness, and randomness; and may they learn from us how to avoid the dark fate of sniveling in the rusty fetters of a lazy, directionless life that sours the stomach, congeals the blood, and rots the brain before one's been properly embalmed and eulogized. Our message? --Just get out there and live people! Or be condemned to sit there and drink your margarita, enjoying the 'there-ness' of a spectator, being a scorekeeper, secretly wishing we would twist an ankle or crack a rib, wondering with masked jealousy where we get all our 'energy'. We just call that 'living'.

We are going to be attaching our calendar of events, and we will blog after those events take place. There will be pictures and testimonies about how we stretched, and what we learned.

Thus begins our noble attempt to put off rotting from the inside-out for just one more year.

A New Year Chat

Will I regret this later? Maybe. But there's no denying...it was fun.

A live chat between Chris ("you") and Jasmin (service rep) at Audible.com about an ad for a free book with trial subscription

Thank you for choosing Audible. A representative will be with you shortly.

You are now chatting with Jasmin.

Jasmin: Thank you for contacting Audible. My name is Jasmin, how can I help you today?

You: uh...hi

You: Is this really a chat?

Jasmin: Hello, yes, this is Audible's live chat.

Jasmin: How can I help? Was there any audiobook that you were interested in downloading today?

You: Oh...I get it. You're a computer. A robot. So, robot, what new book can I really get for free? Is this a gimmick?

Jasmin: I'm not a robot. I'm a real person. We do have a free trial that lets you choose and keep a book of your choice but although you will not be charged for this free trial membership, credit card information is required.

Jasmin: This is used to determine your geographic location and prevent abuse of the free trials we offer. Would you like a link to the free trial offer?

Jasmin: Sorry, are you still available or need further help?

You: Sure you're not. But man, you sound real. Blee, blah, blu...I-am-hear-to-help-you- blee, blah, blu. Wow, they really program you to sound human. Geez, that's wicked cool. Anyway, when can i cancel the subscription? Right after I order my free book? 'Cause that's what I'm planning on doing. But you don't care do you? You d*mn cyborgs are taking all the human jobs!!!

Jasmin: Due to your abuse of our chat service you are being blocked and investigated by our IT department. If you need further assistance with an issue about our service or site feel free to contact us at 1-888-283-5051 (USA & Canada) or 973-820-0400 (International)

Chat session has been terminated by the site operator.

Make me proud old man

I will never forget feeling jarred by the following words from Thoreau in his book "Walden" about our misplaced reverence for old people (not always unquestionably 'wise' people):

"It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof... What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new. Old people did not know enough once, perchance, to fetch fresh fuel to keep the fire a-going; new people put a little dry wood under a pot, and are whirled round the globe with the speed of birds, in a way to kill old people, as the phrase is. Age is no better, hardly so well qualified as an instructor as youth, for [old age] has not profited so much as it has lost. One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living. Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe; [though] it may be that they have some faith left which belies that experience, and they are only less young than they were. I have lived some thirty years on this planet, and I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable or even earnest advice from my seniors. They have told me nothing, and probably cannot tell me anything to the purpose. Here is life, an experiment to a great extent untried by me; but it does not avail me that they have tried it. If I have any experience which I think valuable, I am sure to reflect that this my Mentors said nothing about."

Pow. Please don't try to controvert that. You'll have a stroke old man. Yes, I'm talking to you, me. You're as old as hell now as you read this, and I'm sure you think you have a thing or two you'd like to teach an arrogant young prick like me. Let me guess, you want to laugh at me for being so cocky now but so afraid later at the least potent virus that wracks my body, or the accident that severs a limb, or the seemingly insignificant argument that separates me from all I love. No doubt you want to criticize my grammar, or the sophomoric level of my reasoning, or my love of pedantic words like ‘sophomoric’ and ‘pedantic’. Save it old man, I've heard it all before. You must've forgotten our little maxim contrived for those language-bullies who think what you say is not as important as how you say it. Remember? "I'd rather have a twisted tongue than a crooked heart." Hey, it worked.

Humor me for just a moment, will you? I could beat you in a body-throwing contest. I can out-think you, at least in speed if not in quality...but, seeing that you might have received a lobotomy by now, maybe in quality too. (Btw, in the event of my future lobotomy, please ignore the rest of this, slurp your pre-digested meal, and get some sleep.) I can still put up with tension of the worst kind—relational tension—and it only minimally fatigues me. I'm still fresh and raw enough to hope—and to hope great and beautiful things—not only for myself, but for the entire world and its sleepy denizens. I've built myself “rectangular in body and soul” to stand on this whirling planet and not topple, and I'm already conditioning myself for the next life. I've not only coped with the outer world, but I've begun the journey of internal discovery—of myself and the 'collective unconscious' I inherited. And I'm not all that bad either, but I won't stoop to enumerate my random and calculated acts of kindness. You already know.

Oh, don't kid yourself, I won't take any of this back. You take it back! Go ahead, regret my words. If it makes you feel better, shake your head and wish you had said it differently. Careful that head doesn't rock right off your play-doh neck as you wobble it from the present to the past, from the past to the present. I don't have time for it…too busy moving forward and doing stuff.

As you already know (you're me for goodness' sake!), I'm not trying to fix you back here. I've just been feeling at a peak lately, and I want some way to parlay my winnings--my health, wisdom, courage, and imagination--to obviate any discouragement from a sudden accident or infirmity that might have overtaken you. I don't want to grow old like the aged that Thoreau spoke of—like so many I see. I want to age with a lust for adventure. I won’t be driven to ‘an ever vaguer and vaguer stir’ like Frost’s leaves (see “Misgiving”), but I want to strive to always ‘go in quest of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life’. I know I’ll get tired at times. I already feel those eggs of inertia incubating in my bones; but I’ll spend my breathe to the last screaming molecule of oxygen, I’ll run my legs to rubber before the Old Man’s disease talks me into sleeping before my time. I tell myself now, “there’ll be time to sleep”, and so I keep running, and gnashing, and breaking my body against the tide of time and entropy.

Sorry if this has hurt you, but I’d rue more if this hasn’t hurt you enough. Jen tells the kids “Be safe” before they go outside; I follow with “Don’t be too safe!” I imagine my joints will start aching sooner than later with this mentality. But I will not grow old, spiritually that is, like the rest. (Don’t look so disappointed.)

So, my excuse for my behavior now is: I’m spending myself. My question to you, oh later Self, is: are you still spending yourself, or are you a premature self-burial? Are you just old, or is your “youth being daily renewed”? Are you ready for the next adventure? Do you still believe in the miracle of life and the meaning of your measure of life and energy? Spend it! Wake up! Think, dream, hope! Love! Live to the last breath! Bleed to the last drop!

Make me proud old man! I hope I’ve made you proud.

If this letter doesn’t reach you…