Branded

Out of respect for my parents, I decided to save this news until I got home. Who wants to find out their kid got a tattoo through a blog? Anyway, the rumors are true. That I'm home, and also that I got a tattoo.

Philosophy of the tattoo
I realize that it's not exactly culturally acceptable for girls to get tattoos in the States. I mean, it is... but I've known a number of guys who have said they would never date a girl with a tattoo... and a number of employers who would not hire someone with a visible tattoo. Almost as though "pure"/"untampered" skin... is preferred and praised...

Nevertheless (alwaysthemore), mine's out in the open for everyone to judge. And it's even crooked. So not only will the upper-class judge me for branding my "pure" body with something that symbolizes a marginal part of my life, but even the tattoo-elitists will look down on me because it's crooked!

To me, this tattoo does symbolize a part of my life that I don't want marginalized. My experience with the South Pacific was just a small period of my life as far as time goes, but I don't want the things I've learned to become just a part of the "me" I left in Samoa.

I like my tattoo. I like that it's visible. And visibly crooked. And I like telling the story around it.

Samoan Tattoo (Tatau) 411
Polynesians invented the Tattoo. "ta" means to strike something... hence the tapping noise when they give the tattoo. The traditional tattoo is given with razor-thin pieces of a boars tusk that are dipped in ink and then tapped into the skin of the recipient.

There's typically 4-6 people working at a time. In our situation, one person was giving the tattoo, one spreading out the skin, one wiping away the blood and excess ink, one was fanning away the flies. Traditionally, the design of the tattoo would be entirely up to the artist. As described of Queequeg's tattoos in Moby Dick,

"this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that Queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read" -Queequeg and his Coffin

The Story
After an hour-long car, ride, we finally pulled up to Sulu Ape's house. He is the best tattoo artist in all of Samoa, but as he was in American Samoa, we agreed to be tattooed by his son Peter. We entered the fale and talked for a while (not about the tattoos). Finally, we got to business, and Andrea went first. She got a big one on her outer thigh. Then was Michelle with one on her wrist... here's some footage:

(At the end he said "where you going?" to which I replied "faleuila" which literally translates to house of lightning but means the restroom.)

Then I had my turn. It's a fish. And if you ask me what it means, you probably won't get a straight-forward answer. First, because I don't know that I can even articulate it. Second, because I don't know that I'd want to.


And here's me playing it safe with my tattoo... you're supposed to keep from submerging tattoos in water immediately after getting them...


But who am I kidding, fish can't be out of water for too long...


After I had my tattoo done, I felt like a new person. I really do meditate on it everyday, and will continue to.

Interesting note: in "A Bower in the Arsacides", Ishmael has the dimensions of a whale tattooed to his arm...

What the white whale was to Ahab, has been hinted; what, at times, he was to me, as yet remains unsaid...- The Whiteness of the Whale

Call Me Ishmael...

I like walking. A lot. If the day is short, I will just go through some familiar scenery, but my favorite kind of walk is the kind where I have to wake up early on a Saturday morning so that I can make it back before the sun sets.

I commonly hear "I saw a girl that looked just like you walking behind discount tires on I-35" Or better yet, "when I was home over the summer in Las Cruces New Mexico, I saw this girl walking down the street with her luggage-- in 107 degree weather-- that looked just like you!" (I will explain that one in another post...)

I'm frequently asked "where are you going?" To which I just shrug. Dissatisfied, they'll ask "well, where are you coming from?" and I'll just say "I'm on a walk." To me, that seems like that would be a sufficient answer.

Why walk? For health? Sure. Because it's more environmentally responsible than driving and saves gasoline money? Absolutely. But there's something else...

When I go on walks, I never really plan out where I'm going to go. I usually just follow my curiosity. I understand the old saying-- "curiosity kills the cat"--but at the same time, I also like to believe that people of this nature have 9 lives. I've got at least 5 of mine left. Okay, maybe 4. The point is, I like to explore new territory. This means I'm constantly forced to re-orient myself. I walk for the thrill of this.

Here are some other people who are talking about walking too, but prettier...

"It is a surprising and memorable, as well as valuable experience, to be lost in the woods at any time [...] In our most trivial walks, we are constantly, though unconsciously, steering like pilots by certain well-known beacons and headlands, and if we go beyond our usual course we still carry in our minds the bearing of some neighboring cape; and not till we are completely lost, or turned round-- for [s]he needs only to be turned round once with eyes shut in this world to be lost-- do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature. Every person has to learn the points of compass again as often as [s]he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction. Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations"
-Henry David Thoreau, Walden
"Call me Ishmael. Some years ago... having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all [wo]men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. [...] Stand a person on their legs, set their feet a-going, and they will infallibly lead you to water[...] Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever."
-Herman Melville, Moby Dick
So, here is an introduction to my studies in the South Pacific.