The Island Journal

I usually have something to say, be it opinion or factual information correcting a misconception. I usually feel the need to share this information with those who don’t have it, need it, want it, and so on. If the person with whom I am sharing wishes to remain blind to the facts, that’s fine too… I say whatever it is I came to say regardless never really getting my point across. This is a failing on the part of communication in general. As an idea, something can be expressed in a myriad of ways but language is lacking as I am reminded constantly. I am, however,  a few things in order… If nothing else I am a son, a friend, an artist, a poet, and psychotherapist (unlicensed of course), a political analyst and about fifty other things… listing those gave me another idea for a blog post, but I’ll get to that later. Oh, yeah… and tangential, but that’s a character trait and not subject to doing without.

The point I’m trying to make is that I have come to know… no, that’s not it. I have always known but never realized that words are a medium in which one can loose the original thought that spawned them. The driving goal of the words is it illustrate the thought, but rarely does anyone see what is actually being illustrated. You could say, “I know somone who is a horrible person.” and I guarantee, at least three if not all of your friends would think you’re talking about them. People see what they want.

This leads me to the reason for this post. I have been trying to work up the inspiration to paint using a new medium (well, new-ish to me anyway) called Gouche (pronounced Gwash) which is a kind of watercolor. I have not been inspired in the least. I was looking around at some sites for ideas as to what I should paint and the works of a couple of these artists spawned a poem… not the inspiration I was looking for, but my muse is a whore and she’ll take it where she can get it. What was birthed from the need to create something, anything, is what follows:

The Road Home

The world does not cover me as well
as it once did
when I was a child looking outwards
never with internal vision.

The myopic nature of media madness
and typhoid flip-flopping
brings about the bastard generation of
ADHD and you tube attention spans.

The world does not blind me as well
as it once did
when I was a kid with dreams and
sleep was my only desire.

What are we creating when our
teens and twenty somethings can’t sign
their names in cursive letters and
our cultural goals include
still laughing at one another.

The world does not shine on me as well
as it once did.
When I was deep in the miasma
of my adolescence, reading eastern
philosophy and Kerouac.

I dreamed of the road.
I traveled it.
I am home.

Tags: art, poem, writing
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I hear quite a lot that travel, specifically the travel I do from coast to coast, is interesting and exotic. While I do get to do things others admire and go to places I have not been, the actual travel part of the gig is just a way to get from point A to point B. When I first started out, I complained under my breath each time the security checkpoint stopped me because of all of the gadgetry in my bag. I then progressed to a point where I was no longer annoyed and just moved through like one of the cattle. That’s what we become… cattle. We accept our lot and move through with no complaint.

Once the cattle phase was firmly in play, I started to take the energy that I had used to complain to myself about all manner of things and put it towards observation. It takes a fare amount of energy to notice little things about your environment and the other cattle around you. Looking and seeing are not the same as observing. Observing is a science… it can be a penetrative act or it can be a subtle and reverent affair. One of the things I noticed were all the laptop users of which, at first, I was not one. I did not see the point of whipping out a large and unwieldy hunk of tech just to check my email… that’s not what they were doing. These people… were blogging.

I am an intermittent blogger. When I blog, it’s usually from a dark room somewhere strange and away from the prying eyes of the world. It’s safer to unleash my usually frantic ravings from the privacy of somewhere a little dank and cave-like. It’s almost as though I am expecting someone to stop by and sell me some exotic drug or to purchase pirated software (I don’t do drugs and I don’t sell pirated software, just painting a picture). These people publicly pouring out their deepest thoughts, thoughts that could not wait to be shared, thoughts the world has to be made aware of, became something brave in my mind… something to aspire to. Then I read one of these blogs, the last bastions of free expressions. It was nothing I expected.

I was sitting at a counter by my gate and noticed over the shoulder of the woman in front of me the title of her blog… the name escapes me at present. I immediately produced my hunk of technology and connected. I eagerly anticipated reading of her trials, her overcoming adversity, her deeply personal and probably anonymous statements of truth that would touch my soul and induce tears to fall. It was a cookie recipe. Much like the hidden track on that Tool album that sounds like something from a Nazi youth rally, it was a simple cookie recipe that she wanted to share with her readership. Could that not have waited? Why was this worthy of the spektical that hyper observant people were being subjected to?

I wanted more. I began to wander around the terminal (I had a long layover) and I found more bloggers and more disappointment. “See the pictures of the car I bought?” and “I’m so sick of having to sit by fat people on planes…” and “I thought I might die if she bought the same scarf I was looking at.”. Drivel! Heresy! How very dare they? How dare I? I was the one spying and skulking around looking for… well, I don’t know what I was looking for. I felt guilty for judging people who were just doing nothing more than sharing… much as I did from my dark corners and mysterious hotel rooms. These people with their new cars, scarf purchases, and hatred for fatties (like myself I might add… not a small fella here) were simply taking it to the streets. Their drivel is revolutionary, I began to realize.

I decided, this time, to write in the open. This was written from an airport terminal in Saint Louis Missouri. I am now the douche who blogs from the airport. How do I feel about that? Do I feel like a revolutionary? Do I feel like I sharing something more important than usual? Do I feel my expression is vindicated? No. I’m just another terminal blogger. How dare I?

I’m going back to the cave.

Tags: airport, blog, travel
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I find it amusing that people get reiki symbol or kanji tattoos without understanding the meaning behind them. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against the culture. On the contrary, I tend to lean more towards an eastern philosophy in my own life and I have no genetic ties to the far east. I do not, however, adorn my body with the symbolism of these cultures because I am a white, middle class American. I have yet to meet a Japanese or Chinese person with the word “Water” tattooed anywhere on their body in times new roman or book hand.

I like tattoos for the artistic or meaningful inspiration they provide the wearer. I don’t have any ink myself, though some day in the future, maybe I will. I just believe people should carefully consider whether they are getting permanently marked for a good reason. My friend Andy has a tat on his left arm, a Celtic knot work band. To my knowledge, he’s not a Celt and as far as I know, he’s not entirely happy with it. It’s not meaningful to him in a symbolic way… it’s just his first tattoo. Recently, on his shoulder he’s had a paw print done that I designed for him. He was specific in his wishes about the content and structure of this tat. The paw print symbolizes his connection with the spirit of the wolf. Now, by the same token with the Celtic arm band, he’s no more a wolf than he is a Celt, but people in all cultures, including modern western civilization, animals factor into how people view themselves. I think that justifies his desire to have the paw print. It’s his mark.

I know others who have symbols of their own design or mythical creatures that encompass who they are or how they view themselves, or how they relate to others and these are the most important and informative marks they have on their bodies. Many are beautiful and delicate, others are forceful and proud but they are all personally meaningful and culturally, unbiased. Far be it from me to down someone for trying to express themselves. I am all about self expression in a multitude of forms. My primary point here is, try to express yourself within the bounds of your own culture.

What does that mean to a modern, melting pot society like the U.S.? Well, I know that I’m Scottish, French, German, Italian, and so on. I know what distinct relationships I have with the places of my ancestors births. I feel a distinct connection with those origins and so I could see having some Celtic knot work, a flur de lis (not in a million years), an iron cross (the Nazis ruined everything), or pretty much any Greco-Roman or Germanic symbol (ie Thor’s hammer, a Fenrir symbol). I could see heraldic blazon or a crest of some sort. I can not, however, justify in any way, shape, or form a kanji symbol on myself because I am not related to the far east, no matter how much I admire the culture.

All I ask is that if you get a kanji or reiki symbol on your body, have it placed correctly. Who’s to say what correct is? Well, the culture from whom you’ve taken the symbol. There are specific placements for reiki symbols on the body, most of which are in “hidden” areas. Kanji for specific forces, earth, air, water, metal, and so on placed on different parts of the body mean different things… it goes far beyond the simple “I’ll put a cool looking symbol on my coccyx to draw attention to my butt.” Which brings me to another point… A tramp stamp is placed on or no more than an inch above the coccyx. Higher than that and it’s just a lower back tattoo. I don’t make the rules.

In conclusion, get inked… by all means don’t let me stop you from displaying something meaningful to you on your body for all time. Please, consider the meaning before you usurp another’s culture for your the purposes of your own expression. Respect the culture from which you take “your” special symbol.

Tags: culture, tattoo
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