“I'm not sure ink fits into my lifestyle,” I said to a friend via instant message, last night. We were talking about tattoos, an idea I've flirted with on and off for years, but never moved forward with. As I've said on other occasions, I can't even commit to a blog template or a hair style, so putting permanent art on my body seems a bit unwise.
And yet, I like the idea of tattoos, this indelible outward symbol of creativity, freedom, a slight streak of wildness. It's somehow the antithesis of suburbia, and yet, certainly suburbanites sport such art.
If I were to get one, it'd be small, subtle, and imbued with a meaning personal to me, beyond the outward image. (This is, I think, the case with everyone.) I think my right ankle would be the location. Or near there. But there isn't a design I've ever seen that has grabbed me. I like suns and moons, I like seahorses (dolphins are over-done), and sunflowers. And geckos. A gecko could be fun. An inkpot and quill would be equally appropriate.
Of course, my friend commented on the irony of the original statement about ink, considering that I'd just been babbling about not having written anything this week. I did give myself the end of August as a sort of holiday, to recharge the batteries.
Somehow I think the tattoo would serve as a sort of outward committment to writing. “You put ink on your skin, now ink must also flow from your pen.”
It's an inky dilemma.