thoughts on a sunday

If we really do have souls, that is to say that if a soul is something that physically exists in this world (rather than merely as an idea) and as such has a more or less definite space within which it exists, then I think it would have to reside just underneath our skin, in the fraction of a micrometer between our outer layer and all the internal stuff that pumps the blood and digests the food and generally keeps us alive and well.

I mention this because last night, as we were all collected in the basement of honey chicken to celebrate a friend's birthday over beer and fried foods, the topic turned to tattoos. It should be noted that some of our friends have really, really impressive ones. I confessed that I didn't have any, and Matt's (somewhat playful) response was, "but you want one, right?" I thought, really thought, about his question. In a way you don't often give thought to questions posed to you at a party.

What stopped me was that I don't actually have any desire to get a tattoo. This may be a bit odd for someone of my age, but is not in and of itself particularly shocking. Having, at one time or another, toyed with the notion (like I said, some of my friends have really cool ink) I was surprised to find myself with zero plans, or desire, for future tattoos.

Now of course, there have always been downsides to tattoos, but none of these had ever turned me off the idea of tattoos entirely. So why my sudden contentment? Where was that little voice saying, well maybe just a small one. something subtle?

I finally realized that there is simply nothing left for me to tattoo on myself.

I once had a phrase that was particularly meaningful to me carved into a ring. It says "you, too, were once a stranger in a strange land". To elaborate all the ways that this sentiment is important to me would require more time and more focus than I can give it right this minute. Suffice to say that I still have, and treasure, this particular ring.

I think, if you could see through my skin, or somehow turn me inside out, you would find I am covered with similar engravings. My soul is tattooed, from fingertips to toenails, with words that I have loved, places that I have seen, homes that I have lost, people I treasure and experiences that I may never be able to put into words. Underneath, I could give Ray Bradbury's Illustrated Man a run for his money. When I die I am certain that my soul (if it exists) will be the most beautiful tattoo I could ever imagine. What on earth could I put on the outside, could I ask someone to draw with hands and ink and tools, that could compare to that?

So, I am content to remain tattoo-less. I continue to enjoy the tattoos of others, however. And even more, the stories that always come with them.

[this turned out to be more of a journal entry than a blog post. apologies if that was a bit heavy. also, apologies to my medically trained parents for so abusing human anatomy in the name of poetry. and for referring to internal organs as "stuff". ;p]