A Smattering of Stars

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That is the thematic behind my next tattoo.  Yup.  I pulled the trigger tonight and asked an artist I have not worked with before to do a new piece for me.

Baranaby is in Paris until May.

Not going to wait until May.

This is a timely piece.  Seven stars. A time line of sorts if you will.

My appointment is with Mister Ross K. Jones at noon on Saturday.  I am quite excited.  Mister Jones and I exchanged information earlier this evening and it is all set.

It won’t be a large piece, just a small commemorative piece.  Seven small stars vary in size and color on the left side of my neck.

Yes, that is correct.  I am getting a neck tattoo.

Get your freak out on.  Personally I don’t think it’s a big deal, I already have a neck tattoo.  But it is a neck tattoo that one does not often see as it sits at the lowest point of my neck and is easily covered by my shirt collar.  This tattoo will not be.  It will be out and proud and resplendent.

And before you go and try to talk me out of it, save your breath.  I don’t ever plan on working a job where I will need to hide my ink.

Happy tingle, just got a confirmation text from Ross that all is a go.  Yay!  I love getting tattoos.

You may already know that, however.

A new bike.  A new room.  A new tattoo.  A new bag being designed for me at Rickshaw bag works (Lisa, one of the reps at Rickshaw, offered me a free bag when I was at the bike expo and I chatted with her yesterday at the shop–I am getting the Zero Messenger bag in tweed–Orchid tweed–lined in Midnight blue and bordered with Iris purple.  One might say it will, match, I mean, ahem, complement my new bike pretty damn well).  A new year.  A new outlook.

This all just boils down to a change in perspective.  Of course it literally took being beaten down–car doored, bike crash, stumbling on sidewalk, smashed elbows, bruised knees–to get me to the point where I could slow down enough to appreciate what was actually happening.

Last night, admitting this may lead me to never be able to go on a date again (if any one should be reading my blog that would ask me on a date, not that I’m fishing), but fuck it, I watched Dirty Dancing.  Shh…the internet was down, I don’t have any books with me, as they are all in storage and I don’t want to buy new ones until I move, I did not have anything downloaded on the computer to watch.  And the special edition version of the movie was just flirting outrageously with me from the shelves.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Sometimes I put Carmen in a corner.  And then I wonder why the world is revolving and I am not out on the dance floor having the, ahem, time of my life.  Because I put myself in the corner and I spell bind myself with tales of woe and misery and the nobody loves me crap that my head just has an unbelievable capacity to manufacture, and I get sad and stupid.

Woebegotten.

I was sorrowful on my birthday.  Christmas was glum.  Even New Years was depressing.  Although, as I wrote earlier today in my morning pages, I could not have asked for a better little urban retreat than Robyn’s studio.  I think I needed that quiet space to let myself have all those moody little feelings.

Then I got smacked back into my body.  Painfully so.  Which leads me in some directions that I don’t often go, but here’s my intuitive thought, not my self-improvement thought, just a gut feeling really.  Perhaps I need to channel some of that pain into something less, um painful.

What do I mean?

Well, if getting into my body is going to help me stay present and focused on reality, the wonderful thing that is happening right now, then maybe I need to get into my body more often.  But instead of having to do it by inflicting pain on myself by rushing about, I can slow down and choose some different options.

Maybe it’s time to start that yoga practice I constantly flirt with.  Or I could get into the pool and swim laps.  Or I could take some dance classes.  Maybe all of them.  When I move to Folsom Street I am going to be in the heart of a lot of those things.  There’s Mission Dance Theater on Mission and 24th.

There’s Yoga Tree and Laughing Lotus.  There’s the Garfield Pool.  I feel like it’s time to devote some energy into being within this beautiful body that I have been given to walk around in.

And I will not be getting in quite the same kind of bicycling exercise that I have been getting, not at all.  Exercise, despite my brain yelling at me, no way, is really good for me.

I have been off antidepressants for eight months now and one thing that my psychiatrist recommended, hammered it into my brain, really, while I was on them in the beginning waiting for the effect to kick in and especially coming off them, was to exercise.  My bike commute is going to be teeny tiny.  Five minutes, tops.  Versus the twenty-five I have been doing.  I will need to implement something else in there.

And the time that I spent bike commuting can be put into good use with another kind of exercise.  Whatever that turns out to be.

Huh.

A tattoo is painful and brings me into the present moment unlike any other way I have experienced.  I wonder if that is part of the allure?  I bet it is.

Regardless, it is also a thing of beauty and my ink tells a story.

My story.

My history.

My little time line in this vast rushing universe of stars that I get to be a part of today.

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