Thursday, January 26, 2012


Today, someone found my blog by googleing "i seldom kill people."

This morning, within the space of five minutes, my scale weighed me at (in order):


Apparently it was a very eventful five minutes.  This is unusual, and worries me, because even though I know my scale is cheap and therefore not entirely accurate, I don't like to think about it making mistakes.  And this is so clearly a mistake.  (I decided, of course, to write down 208.6 pounds.)

I have a sketch for my tattoo.  It brings me joy.  The layout and a lot of the decisions were taken from old Navy tattoos (not to be confused with Old Navy tattoos), and the tattoo artist has worked on nearly everyone I know in Iowa City.  I feel like this is my grounding tattoo, my connection to other things.  To history, of sorts, because there are traditions I am referencing, to my home in Iowa City, to my body, because I feel as if I am claiming it.  I am decorating, therefore I am moving in, for real, and not just passing through. 

I have decided against the Ansay quote.  It resonates with me, but isn't something I want to focus on.  On the other hand, I am quite pleased by the poem.  I like that it's odd, and it even feels a bit irreverent, although I'm not sure I could explain why.  I like the idea of it, celebrating unexpected beauty, celebrating the now.  I've never thought "this is my favorite poem," but I've remembered it for the 13 or so years since I first read it, and I always enjoy it when I go back to it. When I first thought, "hey, let's think about text, what poems do I like?"  It was the first that came to mind.  I mean, I like Plath, I like her a lot.  I think she does amazing things with language.  But I am not going to get a Sylvia Plath tattoo.

I think that I would put each stanza on a leg, starting at the back of my thigh and moving down.  It means that one leg will have more than the other, and I like that.  I think that one should have an illustration, something with an oval border, a tree in a meadow.  Something like a John R. Neill illustration.  (Oz wouldn't be the same without him.)

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