Gen.
4:15
Dad was a tattoo gypsy,
going town to town with his ink, his needles, his salves, and me. XXX
He knew
everything about the tradition, from tebori to flash. But the man who taught me
my traid XX XXXXXXXXXXXXX should not be held responsible for my calling.
LOVE
When I was a kid my
family was so poor we couldn’t afford paper. Dad would leave little memos all
over his body, but in the long run that practice proved impractical.
WASTE
NOT / WANT NOT
Even the roughest first
draft needs a great deal of preparation and preplanni
MOTHER
Dad told me that my
mother fell in love with his art long before she fell in love with him. The
needle against her skin aroused her passion, and the message that resulted made
it permanent. At last, the process was transferred to the producer himself. And
then I happened along.
“FIGHTING
FOR YOUR BUSINESS”
I remember Dad standing
at intersections, waving his needles and ink packs in the air, trying to sell
simple tattoos to motorists stopped at the red light. It was not a successful
business model.
PAT
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“A
Journey of 1,000 Miles”
All’s well that ends
well. But I know that an effective beginning is important, too. As long as I
have tablets to write on, I’m determined to keep at it until I get it right.
BORN
TO LOSE
What would you say to a
blue print you just met?
BOB
AND BUSTER
Closeted though I may
have been by my father’s craft, I always knew my true nature. And it relied
upon a writer’s, not a tattooist’s ink.
JOHNNY
LOVES VIOLET
I, a tattoo artist,
never uncover my body. Not even my face. I guess people find that a little odd.
SEMPER
FI
My father, the would-be
entrepreneur, once thought if he could stencil ink vaginas onto convicts; he
could make their imprisonment more bearable. Later, when I was older, he
chuckled when he told me his initial research and drafting had been inherently
interesting. But he found his clientele too set in their ways to be receptive
to innovation.
IF
YOU DON’T WANT TO GET FUCKED UP DON’T FUCK WITH ME
My father’s most
interesting tattoo idea involved an inchstick, a penis, and a...
OPPORNOCKITY
TUNES
Most of the work I get
paid for is for something elementary and quick. A name. A motto. A cross. A
heart is a staple (sometimes broken). A lightning bolt. But every so often I
get a request for something more elaborate – a butterfly, a dragon, mountains
and surf, maybe a flowery skull with snakes – and that’s the opportunity I live
for.
ADAM
Where does anything
actually begin? Isn’t there always something that comes before? Should an
autobiography begin with one’s first memory or one’s ambitions? Accomplishments
or intentions? Maybe it even starts before conception?
LUCKY
7
I was seven. The madman
my father brought home raved constantly about a “bastard’s birthright,” about
murder and betrayal, about risking his very life and sanity to acquire and hide
“the Devil’s Own Nest Egg.” And lots of other nonsense to boot.
FORMY
TREASURE BEYOND PRICE
The glint in the
stranger’s eyes was like lightning, his shout a thunderclap, as he screamed
about the fortune he’d hid out in the desert and how precariously it teetered
in his fevered brain. The memory of its location must somehow be preserved or
it would be lost forever. A map is what was needed!
MARK
+ ROSE
What marks my life
apart from all others is the collaboration between my father and a lunatic to
transform my body into a treasure map. Under the stranger’s instruction, Dad
would indelibly engrave every landmark, every direction, into the skin of his
only son.
MERCATOR
MANSON FOREVER
The night that I became
a cartographer’s dream is inked into my memory like a
FUCKING TATTOO OF
COURSE, YOU MORON! YOU HAVE TO WRITE BETTER THAN THAT IF YOU WANT TO SUCCEED AT
THIS GAME!
PATIENCE
AND PRUDENCE
The madman was nothing
if not incoherent and contradictory, but Father persevered. Every time the
crazy stranger would seem to forget some vital detail or recover old ground in
some different manner, Dad would have to retrace his own steps and modify his
growing design. Mistakes inevitably multiplied as the mapping got more confused
and maze-like.
999
My back filled with
lines and smudges, with scratched-in amendments and appendices, the manic
mosaic they created covered my back and chest. Eventually the manic mosaic
curved up and down and around my arms and legs. They were just about out of
parchment, so the final spot was marked on my face.
GRACE
HOPE
FRANK
NESS
The stranger and my
father fed each other’s insanity as they filled my skin with their mad designs.
We all collapsed into an exhausted coma just as the gray horizon began to
peach.
WOMEN
BEAR CHILDREN, MEN TATTOOS
As the sun was going
down, Dad woke me up. “Hurry, Son, we need to leave.” Our exit was accompanied
by the ragged snorts of the stranger, the designer of my fate.
Carpe
Diem
When my scarred skin
had nearly recovered, we braved the stranger’s desert sun. We had to stop periodically
whenever we were lost, and Dad would take off all my clothes, turn me around
like a naked lathe, examine my armpit for some hidden clue. We searched for a
week but never found any of the landmarks etched in my epidermis.
NO
PERFECT BEAUTY W/O STRANGENESS IN THE PROPORTION
After we’d abandoned
the desert that first time, Dad decided my secret was too valuable to keep on
display. He began wrapping me up like a mummy under my clothes. I began wearing
elaborate scarves around my head. I’m sure I would have been forced to wear a
burkha if Dad had ever known what a burkha was.
A
MAN CAN BE HONEST IN ANY SORT OF SKIN
What an odd pair we
were, Father and I. We’d come into a strange town, a tall burning prophet and
his midget bandaged up like a burn victim. No wonder business fell off, even –
especially, I guess – when we tried to sell tattoos door to door.
Galatians
6:17
The Devil’s Nest Egg
never faded from my father’s mind. It was more deeply etched than the deepest
pattern he’d ever applied. Itself unchangeable, it managed to blur my father
until I no longer recognized him. As I grew from a child to an adolescent into
a man, my father increasingly grew into a stranger. The stranger’s lightning
bolt would master his eyes, the old thunderclap would voice itself from his
lips, and the night of the bastard’s birthright would manifest itself again, as
poor Father forced me to undress and he’d study the chart he’d sired.
ONLY
DEATH CAN TAKE MY MOKO AWAY
I often imagined that
we were being followed. Eyes were everywhere, fevered, bloodshot, but patient.
TOM
I was returning late at
night from an acquisition of needed materials when I was confronted by the
nightmare of my youth.
“You know what I want,”
hissed the raspy voice from my past.
“But why?” I wailed, my heart like a drum. “Your map is worthless! It didn’t take us anywhere!”
“But why?” I wailed, my heart like a drum. “Your map is worthless! It didn’t take us anywhere!”
“You fool,” the
menacing stranger hissed. “I never intended to leave my secrets in the clear
for any idiots to read. The sun had fried my ability to remember. The details
were still fresh, but I knew they would fade. I needed a mnemonic device, so I
gave your father just enough topography to remind me, me! of the true
proportions, nothing more.”
“What are you going to
do with me? Kidnap me?” I knew pleading would be worthless, but I was trying to
buy some time to find an escape.
”Of course not. I have
no need for you at all.” His teeth flashed, like the long knife I glimpsed in
his hand. “I only need that treasure map
you’re wearing!”
NO
JUDGE BUT GOD
The sharp blade pierced
the sharp skin. The stranger screamed in pain as the tattoo needle I’d
purchased entered his hand, followed by a pounding blow on the head with the
heavy bag it came from and several more needle jabs into his body. I don’t know
how seriously he was hurt. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out.
Dad never got any
supplies that day. I got out of town as quickly as I could and never went back.
I suppose both of them,
father and stranger, search for me still.
I
SPEAK THE BODY ENGLISH
I’m constantly on the
move, even more than when I was with Dad. I earn my living from the mindless
tattoos that people buy on a whim, but I pursue my life’s work more furtively
according to happenstance. Someone gives me the time I need to create something
complicated on the canvas of his or her body, but unsuspecting, they actually
provide me with the parchment I need for the tattoo novel I write. When I am
through composing, I thoughtfully apply my protective gauze and my stern
admonishment not to remove it for a week. By which time I’m long gone.
LOVE
LASTS FOREVER, A TATTOO LONGER THAN THAT
I keep a careful record
of my work in progress, to be assembled and collated by some future scholar in
search of an adventurous dissertation.
TATTOOED
IN OUR CRADLES WITH THE BELIEFS OF OUR TRIBE
--Duane Vorhees
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