I am uncontrollable especially when it comes to shoe lust, manic reactions, tactlessness (I have another story for you soon about this; you won’t be proud of me.), and getting tattoos. The girlfriend knows this and so injects logic into me especially with tats. But last night, she said she won’t mind my getting another tat (the third and last!).
La la la la. I swear I skipped and “wheeled with the stars”.
This tat must surely count. Of course, the usual no-nos are to be observed: no colorful butterflies, no happy images, no perky colours, no faces, no names, no “factory-produced” pictures. I love words and women for tats. I want to have Margaret Atwood’s You Fit into Me poem on my skin. In terms of technique, restraint, and metaphor, this is one such poem that overwhelmingly succeeds. I want a line from Sylvia Plath’s poetry etched on my skin, too.
I have a tat journal, and it contains my fantasy tats: my version of Neverland, a Filipino translation of a quote by Nerissa Guevara, another quote from Timothy Montes, and my version of a lady perched on the moon.
Or I can do a Ramon Bautista and have a mundane object stenciled on my skin—a plate or a table, a pen or a dog collar. Or shoes. Or spines of books.
This must count, this must count. Sama ka, Upper? Not anytime soon, maybe next April, birthday month. La la la la.