Pancake Layers

Standing on the back porch, I heard the door behind me slam shut and felt my sister come up beside me.  I held a red-headed doll in a fancy dress in my hands.  It was brand new and for my birthday. She admired it for a while and I could feel her wanting to hold it.  Then she asked me if she if she could hold it.  I didn’t want her to!  It was my birthday and this was my doll.  But then I remembered - since it was my birthday I could do anything I wanted.  I said sure and handed it to her. Then I bite her.  Then I got a spanking – on my birthday.

Getting my own jar of peanut butter, one I didn’t have to share, always made me excited.  Jumping down off the bus and running inside was always so much more exciting when you knew that you could scoop up creamy peanut butter and lick it from the spoon.  The jar would last as long or as little as you could stand.  You didn’t have to share unless you wanted to be nice.  The thick butter would stay on the spoon and you'd insert the whole spoonful into your mouth.  Then you withdraw int slowly, skimming the first layer off and feeling it change shapes in your mouth.  One spoon could last a very long time if it was eaten right.

The red dishes were being laid out on the table cloth when I got home.  I had been looking forward to this all day.  Mom had made ravioli special – just because it was my birthday and that’s what I wanted to eat.  There would be a salad and Cherries in the Snow later for dessert.  I felt a thrill watching the fancy dishes, deep cherry cut glass red, sparkling as they were being placed on the table.  The light seemed to dance in time with my tummy.  All this just for me because today I was special.

I got a doll that was the size of real baby, just the thing I had been really really wanting. My neighbor had a baby doll that was the exact size of a real baby and I wanted my own life size doll.  Those small dumbed-down versions weren’t for real girls.  I got her and carried her around, pretending she was real.  My sister made her a couple dresses that had her name on them and she became a real comfort to me.  Her body continued to fit mine as I grew and she remained a child.  I talked to her in college and cried on her shoulder when I got a divorce. 

The wrapping paper came off and there it was.  There was a soft leather bound, blue bible.  My name was printed in gold letters just like I’d seen on other bibles at church.  The sides were gold and the corners of the pages rounded, allowing my fingers to slide over them gracefully.  There is nothing more perfect than a book that lays just perfectly in your hands, whose pages stroke your fingers back with the same softness you stroke them with.  Years later that book sported more highlight colors and pen marks than I would have imagined possible.

The box did indeed hold the alarm clock that was advertised on the outside of the box.  I guess I was old enough to get myself up now.  The small radio alarm clock would snooze for 9 minutes and then wake me up again.  The pattern is ingrained in my sleep patterns now.  In high school, it woke me with classic rock and John Boy and Billy.  In college, it spat me out of bed with a annoyingly pitched alarm that bleated instantly at my head.  During its last days, 15 years later, it edged me awake and out into the world with NPR voices.  

Tossing the towel over the rack, I reach for the hairdryer and freeze.  Cocking my head to one side, I concentrate certain that I’m hearing things.  Who would be calling me this early in the morning on a work day?  Picking it up, my heart starts beating just a bit quicker – it’s my parents – I wonder what’s wrong.  “Happy Birthday” mom says cheerfully.  “OH!  Thank you!”  The worry dissipates and I smile.  I had forgotten I was a year older today – leave it up to a mom to let me know there’s one more year passed in my life.  I leave the house that day with a smile.

Soon, there will be another layer in my stack of birthday pancakes.  They aren’t all steamy and delicious, or soaked in comforting butter.  But the layers that arrived cold have been warmed over the years.  The butter and syrup have soaked in delicious spots and I take a bite and savor each layer.  So many different, complicated flavors, simple flavors -  spicy, sweet and bitter.  Most importantly, they all blend together to make something delicious – my life.

Ink

I stare at the character - wondering if this is the correct thing to do.  Asking it to exist forever in my skin seems like a big step.  Would the two of us get along as we both aged?  Were we compatible enough to coexist in the same body.  Was I sure I wanted to explain it over and over again?

The bite of the needle keeps me focused, unforgiving in it's insistence that you pay attention; the buzz keeps my nerves jangling.  The sudden stillness of the air shocks me; the artist pauses long enough to gather more ink, wipe the blood from my hip and grease the needle. The soft sting of my raw skin comforts me and I feel an immediate relaxation through every single muscle.  Then, I feel his hand touch my hip, the buzzing starts up again - bringing my nerves with it, and I tense immediately, preparing for the return of the bite.

When it's over, I stand up - feeling slightly smug and a tad victorious.  I've got a new badge - a new addition to my body.  There, on my hip, is a new piece of jewelry - but one that won't snag on my cloths or break when accidentally jerked.  I don't have to worry about it ever matching my outfit or display it for others.  I'm content to know it's just there - decorating my skin, dancing when I move.

For me, tattooing about making a concept a living part of you.  It's about taking a thought into yourself so deeply with it that you can no longer feel the difference between you and it - so that it moves when you moves, grows as you grow and changes as you change.  The concept has now changed you visibly as much as it has changed your soul.