Recall That Feeling

So it goes--the age old argument as why not to get inked is merely regret.

Regret.
Regret.
Regret.


Yes, there is a high chance that one day you may wake up and think, Gosh, I don't want this on my body. But if you consider the image part of your soul, would you really want to reject it one day? Well, yes I suppose you might. People every day judge themselves, compare their bodies to others and hate some minute part of themselves. Akin to strongly disliking a freckle, regretting body art in which you have (hopefully) put much thought into, just wouldn't make sense. It's all about perspective. If you love your body & mind, then you should love the decisions, flaws, and mistakes  that you create. Maybe I'm being too new-agey, but I really think this life is too short to limit your desires to what you should do or worry how others perceive you--to an extent. I now consider tattoos a form of zen self-expression. As one of the earliest art forms, tattoos are simply apart of the human condition: the need to express and differentiate oneself. When tastefully done right, they can be quite lovely. Some friends of mine wear them beautifully. No, they are not for everyone. They are probably not for me. But I have come to appreciate the beauty, for it shares a deeper portal into the person bearing what they believe to be a symbol that represents some aspect of their soul--great or small.

They say humans change every seven years into an entirely new person. Though the tattoo you get will never change, your opinion of it could easily slip away. If you could only teleport your mind back to that mental space your once found yourself contemplating the California grizzly bear tattoo and recall that feeling--a particular moment in your life, in time--maybe then it would all be worth it.                                         

Here are some designs I appreciate on others:

                                                      

Memory & The City [Part One]

Maybe leaving suburban California was the start of it all. At age ten, I traveled to Holdingford, Minnesota for an extensive family reunion. It was an impressionable trip, being the first cross-country journey I'd ever taken. Memories of grassy fields, horse-back riding adventures and discovering open- plain antiquities such as carriage rides through town to church, will be forever bookmarked in my brain. Though, one memory I have associated with this vacation has nothing to do with Minnesota. In fact, it is a memory of something that never occurred in reality. Distinctly, I recall having my first vision of San Francisco. 


It was at the tail end of my stay in Minnesota. I had a ticket to return to California. My cousins planned to take their time by driving home. I was jealous that they were going to see most of the country through long-stretched roads. The travel bug ignited, I wanted to see everything with them too. When we were all back home together, in California, they told me of their detour to San Francisco. For some reason I believed (or imagined) they had reached the holy grail. I am sure they only mentioned typical things: clam chowder, Boudin bread, and trolly cars. But for some reason it looked like a mystic mountain amongst the fog, in my mind. Right then and there, my first distinct memory of San Francisco occurred. While dangling souvenir key chain's encapsulating the vision I began to build, my cousins described the cold summer chill the city breathed. And that, that was enough.