Posts Tagged ‘Three Kings Tattoo’

No More Tattoos

February 20, 2017

There.

I mean.

I don’t know that I can say no more tattoos, tattoos I think will continue to happen, but.

No more tattoos there.

Specifically on my collar-bone.

Whoooee getting my touch up today was not intolerable, but I had some dread going back in, which is fairly unusual for me in getting work done.

Especially with something so small, but the location and the thinness of the skin over the collar-bone, really was, well not excruciating, but challenging for sure.

I have an idea for a tattoo I’d like to get next year but aside from that I have no other tattoo plans in sight.

In fact.

I was thinking that the one I get next year may be it for a good while.

Then again.

A lady can change her mind.

It’s just that I am not feeling the need for more ink.

Granted.

I’ll probably get to Paris in May and go to Abraxas and want a tattoo.

I do like me a tattoo as a souvenir of my travels.

I have two from Paris and one I got in New York.

The rest of my work has been gotten here in San Francisco.

I have had one primary artist.

Barnaby Williams.

He is currently at Tiger’s Blood in Alameda.

I first went to Barnaby when he was the owner of Mom’s in the Haight.

I had made an appointment to get a dragon tattoo from Barnaby.

I walked into the shop into a huge bear hug from the man and big mournful eyes.

“Hey,” he said quietly, “how ya doin’?”

I teared up.

“I’m ok, but um, I don’t want to do the dragon tattoo anymore,” I said, eyes blurred and starting to sniffle, “I want to get a memorial instead.”

He nodded.

Sat down and drew out the tattoo for me.

Two white French Tulips.

(Shadrach’s favorite flowers)

And the last line of the elegy that Dylan Thomas wrote for his father.

Until I die/He will not leave my side.

It was written in beautiful calligraphic script.

The flowers he outlined and used white ink on, white does not traditionally stick very well, but it seems to have weathered the test of time.

I have had the tattoo for 9.5 years and it still looks bright and fresh.

It was the biggest piece I had gotten up until that point.

The other two were small, a cover up on my left shoulder of my name in flames, a cover up that Barnaby later covered  up with a dragon, classic little known tattoo–the cover up of the cover up.

In the end, so far.

Barnaby has done two dragons on me, both left arm and right arm, and a beautiful pink Jackalope surrounded by French Marguerite daisies, my favorite flowers.

I have had work done as well.

By Ross K. Jones out of Idle Hand on Haight Street.

Although when I got tattooed by Ross he was out of a warehouse space in the SOMA before warehouse spaces in the SOMA were at a premium.

Ross tattooed my first set of stars.

Seven stars for seven years of sobriety.

To this day I can say that Ross has one of the gentlest approaches and best bedside manner of any tattoo artist I have had.

I have one tattoo from a guest Chinese tattoo artist at Abraxas in Paris when I was there last year at Christmas, his name was Bin and we “talked” via Google translator.

He did the Reve (pop a circumflex over the “e” in reve and you get “dream” in French) piece on my chest plate.

Despite the area being a thinner place of skin, he was fast, smooth, efficient, gentle, it was quite a bit less painful than I thought it was going to be.

Barnaby has done one star as well–he did number 10, which was a bit bigger than my other ones and I had him do an homage to Van Gough’s Starry Night painting, but I asked him to use yellow and pink in the tattoo (thereby balancing the pink of the other stars that I had and complementing the sky blue ones I have as well).

Danny Boy Smith, at Let it Bleed on Polk Street, has done two of my stars.

Number 11, which I had him do as a black star to homage David Bowie’s passing last year and also my 11th year in recovery.

And.

This current new star, star number 12.

Which is a soft pastel blue with black outline.

I like my tattoos.

They tell me a story.

They are beautiful art pieces.

I am connected to each in memorable ways and each has meaning to me.

They needn’t tell anyone’s story but my own.

I often forget I have them and will be startled occasionally when someone references them.

In Paris it was challenging, albeit not so much the last time I was there since it was winter, when I have shown off a lot of tattoos.

There are plenty of shops and plenty of people with tattoos in Paris, it’s become quite a bit more acceptable, but I have gotten some stares, tell you what.

Especially at the swimming pool or just walking the streets or going through the Metro stations.

I forget about them too, living in San Francisco.

It seems like everyone has one.

But some, well, some are better than others and I can tell the jail tats from the gang tats from the home-made gun tats and the sleeves of suddenly wealthy dot-com kids who made it big in the 90s to the hipster tattoos and throw back retro vintage Sailor Jerry tattoo art that is so popular today with the Millennials.

I was getting tattooed and pierced long before it was popular.

I don’t care about the time line on it, it’s just an observation.

I am grateful though, that I have had such great artists in my tattoo history.

I am proud of my ink.

Sometimes it is a mask to hide behind.

Sometimes it is a shield.

You cannot hurt me I have done the hurting already.

Sometimes it is art.

It is beauty.

The narrative of my recovery and the sheltering sky storms brewed up in my psyche.

Just another indelible way I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I’m serious.

Courtesy of Mat Moreno out of Three Kings Tattoo in Brooklyn.

I have a heart tattoo with cherry blossoms on my left inner arm.

Heh.

 

 

What A Day

May 21, 2016

What a day.

A fucking awesome, amazing, meandering, sweet, full, very caffeinated day.

Yeah.

That’s sort of my go to when I’m on vacation.

Coffee.

And  a lot of it.

I may regret that come bed time, especially as a friend pointed out to me via text, “and you’re still on West Coast time.”

Fuck me.

I totally am.

But I was up super early this morning.

I mean.

Really early.

I had not planned that, it was just what happened, I got up to go to the bathroom, tiny bladder yo, and the animals were on me like the second coming of Christ.

“Feed me!” They were scampering about as I made my way to the loo.

I pet them both and went back to bed, actually shutting the door this time, last night I left it open and both the dog and the cat slept with me!

“You must be one of those people that give off that vibe,” my host said this morning as he served me my first cup of coffee today, “they always sleep with me.”

He’s got a lovely little Cuisinart espresso maker and he pulled me a fine shot and then topped it with some hot, steamed, unsweetened vanilla almond milk.

OH my goodness.

So delicious.

So.

Yeah.

Um.

Ha.

I had another.

Yeah.

I know.

Addict.

But better a hit off the caffeine then a hit off a pipe.

I got back into bed intending to sleep, but as I lay there thinking about all the things I just decided to get up and get the day started.

And I am so glad I did.

It was such a lovely meander of a day.

I decided to walk to the Brooklyn Museum.

Google mapped me out for a 38 minute walk, 1.76 miles from the place I’m staying at in Clinton Park, Brooklyn.

It took me nearly three hours to get there.

Bahahahaha.

I made a few stops on the way.

Ahem.

Ha.

I went to a wig shop.

I hella love wig shops.

I’m not in need of any hair, in case you are wondering, but I always can find a great fabric flower clip for my hair and I had recently broke one, and there it was in the store on Dekalb and I had to pop in.

Yeah.

My first stop in Brooklyn was not a museum, but the wig shop, I don’t even want to know what that means.

I will say, however, that all along the way, all day long, I was constantly being complimented for my look, my style, my hair.

From middle schoolers in the bathroom at the Brooklyn museum–three eighth grade girls on field trip hiding in the bathroom braiding each others hair–“you got great hair,” one girl said.

I thank them, smiled, played it forward, complimented their braids and walked out, as they were chatting to themselves–“she got style,” one girl said.  “It’s her hair,” another girl said.  The other girl replied, “it’s her dress,” the third chimed in, “no, it’s all of it, she got style,” she finished, “that’s right.”

Hella flattered.

Flattered to be stopped on the streets, literally, by gay men and black women and construction guys, and not creepy construction guys, and the security guard at the Brooklyn museum, Jules, oh my god, such a Brooklyn accent and the conversation about tattoos we had and the Marilyn Monroe bag I was carrying and whoa.

I mean from the minute I ambled down the ramp of the warehouse loft where I’m staying to the minute I got back, I was pretty much complimented on my look, hair, smile, tattoos.

Seriously, if I need a boyfriend bad like, I could consider moving here.

Nah.

I like where I’m at.

I also like not having a cold ass winter.

I don’t know that I could tough out a New York winter.

But today was lovely, 75, sunny, got lots of warmth on my skin.

Weather tomorrow calls for rain, but that’s ok, I felt like I got my summer moment in, in my polka dot dress with my crinoline on and daisies in my hair.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I just can’t stop staring, you, you’re outfit, the marguerite in your hair and they match the ones by your bunny tattoo!” This sweet young gay man at the table next to me at dinner tonight.

It turns out he’s from Denmark, and the queens name is Marguerite and they all love the Marguerite daisy, which is my favorite flower, and next thing you know we are having this great conversation and I meet his husband and their dog Dolly.

Is it me?

Or is New York just friendlier than San Francisco?

Or is it having grown up in the Midwest, where you smile and talk to people and wave?

Maybe all of it.

I did really talk to a lot of people today, 95% of them I did not know, baristas, yeah, like I said I drank some coffee–Gorilla Coffee was amaze, and I bought some coffee there and the girl gave me a very coveted sticker after we chatted a bunch, and a great recommendation for breakfast where I had the most amazing porridge I have ever had, although for the small amount in the bowl and the huge price tag, $11, it needed to be extraordinary–so maybe my tongue was just unhinged.

But.

You know.

I think I am just someone that people feel they can approach.

I was asked for directions early this afternoon.

And I was actually able to tell the young woman where to go, I had just passed the place two blocks prior.

I’m not a local.

But I’m not a tourist either.

Just another woman of the world.

Out and about.

So grateful for this trip.

And!

That I got to see my good friend and his girlfriend, we met up and did the deal in Williamsburg.

I’ll be seeing him again for round two of said deal tomorrow by Union Square tomorrow and then off to the book store.

“Have you done any pleasure reading yet?” He asked after I down loaded about graduate school.

So a date for the Strand and then he’ll go his way and I’ll go mine, the MOMA, the Guggenheim, the Whitney, depending on where I am at and how I feel.

And of course.

Yes.

More coffee.

I mean.

I am on vacation.

Seriously.

Oh yeah, and lest I forget.

I got a tattoo.

Heh.

It really was quite a day.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Lucky.

Yes.

Damn straight.

Luckiest girl in the world.


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