Over a couple of beers at a local club, a friend of mine and I were noticing the tattoos on the young wait people. It seems the rage. I didn’t ask to she hers and she didn’t ask if I had been under the ink.
Like clothing and hairstyles; people change their personal look through the years. What looked good on you in college may not be appropriate for your grandfather years. Then again you probably won’t be able to fit into anyway.
Now the first I saw tats were from the sailors and merchant marines. Hula ladies, anchors, flags and hearts in dull colors on weathered skin. It never looked very attractive to me, but the technology has gotten much better. As an artist, I appreciate some of the artwork as well. A walking canvas has always seemed interesting and can be proud to announce they are wearing a certain artist.
I’ve been tempted at times and even threatened others at times, but decided some time ago, I will go out the same as I came in. Of course that isn’t exactly true. I’ve got some scars I will take with me. I might even have a few more before I get there.
Then there are the emotional scares we all carry and the tales and stories and experiences that will go with us. All these can’t be seen but they are just as permanent as the tattoo.
So my plan, as I turn to dust or ashes, I will go out the way I came in.