A Tattoo: A Tale

Since getting my new tattoo (the picture will have to wait, since I seem to have the stupidest computer in the world) one week ago today, certain friends (Shari!) have requested I tell the tale behind it all. Some have also requested that I relay my mother's reaction (Paul!); however, I am still holding out the hope that if I play my cards right she may never find out at all.

Nevertheless, the tale deserves to be told. So, my dear Readers, gather around the campfire, build your s'mores in wee sticky fistfulls, and prepare to be entranced by not one but three tales; for the tale of my tattoo is a tale within a tale within a tale....

The Scar
First, I will take you back in time to the year 1994, the year of my first major car accident. We--that is, my former husband, my son, and I--were living in Hollister at the time. Hollister, as you may already know, is a little town way the hell away from everyplace else. This meant I spent a lot of time bundling up my 2-year-old into his car seat and racing back and forth along Highway 25 in my little Chevy Sprint. Honestly, I was up and down that road so many times I came to believe that I would meet myself coming or going along that route. Who knows? Maybe that's exactly what happened.

Here is what happened: On one of these many trips, I happened to look in my rearview mirror to check on my son, as I often did, and I discovered he had fallen asleep with a McDonald's milkshake in his hands. If that falls, that's going to make a really big mess, I thought to myself, little knowing how devastatingly ironic those words were about to turn. So I did what they tell you in driver's training courses never to do (here is the cautionary part of the tale): I reached into the back seat to obtain said milkshake. In the process, I drove off the road, then overcorrected back onto the road, and flipped my car. It flipped and flipped and flipped. I lost count. Eventually, it ended up on the driver's side, skidding down the highway.

Funny thing, car accidents. I mean, it really is like they say: time slows down or your brain speeds up or maybe both. Your mind has time to think of all sorts of things. So there I was, sliding sideways down the highway, and I was thinking about a story my dad had told me about when he was in a car accident when he was young, thrown from the driver's seat (pre-seatbelt days) and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling himself back in. So, I'm thinking to myself, in the thoughts that I think, Okay. Are all my arms and legs inside the car? And it was then I noticed that my shoulder was dragging along the highway right outside my window. There wasn't any pain--shock or adrenaline was preventing that--only a kind of hyper-awareness which made me go, Hmm. That's not good. Better move that. And I did.

The rest, as they say, is history. Once I slid to a stop, some kind motorists helped me and my son out of the wreckage and waited with me until the ambulance came.

My son, safe in his car seat, didn't have a scratch.

I received twenty-two stitches in my left shoulder.

I was washing glass and strawberry milkshake out of my hair for three days.

My car was totaled beyond repair.

My scar is a physical reminder of this. It reminds me that this was a single car accident on a dangerous two-lane highway: The accident could very easily have involved one or more other vehicles. If it had, especially if it had been one of those big rigs that are often out there on 25, I may not have survived at all.

My scar also reminds me that when my husband learned of the accident, he only asked after his son. He asked nothing of me. His response, I'm told, was something to the effect of "Only my son matters." Yeah. Nice guy, my ex.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do enjoy dramatic gestures, especially if they are loaded with symbolic or poetic meaning. Since that time I have fancied the notion that, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on that shoulder, and it would have to form some kind of circle to encircle that scar. I liked the idea of separating that space from the rest of my body, both isolating my brush with death and warding against future disasters. But for a long time, that's all it remained: an idea. Until....

The Ouroborus
For many years I've joked that I could never get a tattoo simply because I could never make up my mind what design to choose. I toyed briefly with the idea of a mermaid, because I love mermaids, but it just didn't feel right. There are other less specific designs I've seen on other people that I thought were really lovely--trailing ivy, tribal patterns, etc.--but those didn't carry the symbolic weight I was looking for either.

One day I was watching an episode of Red Dwarf (yes, I'm a fan) and the storyline centered on playing with the word "ouroborus." The word tugged at my memory. When I looked it up online, I discovered that this symbol--the serpent swallowing its tail--has been floating around in books and media I've been reading and watching for years. It's been on the X-Files and The Neverending Story and in numerous myths and legends.

One of my favorite stories involves a young man who is captured by a witch and made her servant. In the way of such tales, he is forbidden to eat the food hidden under a covered dish. One day while he is cleaning, he can't resist the urge to peek under the lid. He finds a baked serpent with its tail in its mouth. He decides to take a little pinch off of the tail. When he eats it, he discovers he can now understand the language of birds and overhears them talking of the witch's plans to kill him. He is then able to make his escape and earn his fortune with his new-found abilities.

The Ouroborus, depending on which story you read, can be a symbol for immortality, wisdom, and energy renewed, among other things. And it's a circle.

The Ormurin Langi
Now those of you who know me well are probably wondering why I didn't go for something a little more commonly recognizable, say, from The Lord of the Rings. Certainly, the ring is a circle. And the words that formed on the ring are often rendered in a circle. And certainly I am a fan of all things Tolkien. But. Think on this. Those words are a curse. Maybe I am superstitious, but I just don't fancy permanently inscribing a curse in the language of a malevolent entity into my skin. Not good karma. Or at least not good feng shui.

Plus, with the popularity of the movies, anything Tolkien has become... well... trendy, for lack of a better word. And I tend to shy away from following trends. What I wanted was something that captured the essence of Tolkien's poetry, that invoked a similar mythic power....

Copenhagen, 2007. Enter the boys from Faroe.

On my last night in Copenhagen, while finishing up an adventure in 2007, the summer I turned 40, I met these boys from the Faroe Islands. I call them boys, but, you know, they were in their early 20's. Anyway, I was coming back from a rather sedate night out with the girls, and there they were, sitting on the stoop outside the hostel. They asked where we were from, and we said America. And I asked where they were from, and they said Faroe. That stopped me in my tracks. I have always held a fascination for those little northern islands, and now here was my chance to learn about them first hand! The girls I was with didn't seem to find this nearly as exciting as I did, so they went on in. Nevermind them; I got to be entertained by half a dozen beautiful, beautiful boys as they told me all about their island home. And in the course of conversation, The Ormurin Langi came up.

The Ormurin Langi is a ballad of some 85+ verses that is sung while dancing in a circle. The ballad was written circa 1830, but it's based on an historical event that is far older. In the year 1000, Norwegian king Olaf Trygvason battled with the Swedish and Danish kings off the island of Svolder. When it became clear that he had lost the battle, he and his remaining men leapt overboard. Their ship was named the Ormurin Langi, the Long Serpent.

Copenhagen, 2:00am. Upon request, the boys from Faroe jumped up and formed a ring and danced and sang (in part) the Ormurin Langi for me. It's one of my best memories.

The Design
I can't tell you when all of this came together. I don't remember if I thought of the ouroborus first and the Ormurin Langi second, or vice versa. It just sort of came together in my head one day, the way such creative notions do.

I didn't like any of the ouroborus designs I found online, so I made up my own. I wanted something that looked like it had been lost at sea for 1000 years. I found a picture of a dragon masthead from a ship from the time of Beowulf, which is about right, give or take a couple hundred years.

The verses I have taken from The Ormurin Langi are from the chorus:

Glymur dansur í høll, dans sláði í ring
Glaðir ríða noregis menn til hildarting

Translation:
Glad sounds of song fill the hall as we dance and sing
Gladly ride the Northern men til Hildar rings (a famous bell)

Sufficiently joyous, I think. No curses here.

The Experience
I wanted to go someplace local, support local artists and all that. I checked online and El Toro Body Shop had the most impressive reviews. When I stepped inside, I felt right at home: The decor was made up of all manner of dragons and masks from around the world. The artist, Marty, did a brilliant job realizing my vision, piecing together my request from little more than my verbal description and the photo of the masthead. He was easy-going and friendly, and very accommodating when it came to scheduling my appointment. We had a great time talking about traveling: He lived in Norway and Holland for awhile and had all kinds of stories to share. I never even noticed the time passing.

I have always heard that getting a tattoo is painful, so I was expecting it to hurt. Nevertheless, I went into it with the devil-may-care attitude of, Hell, I've been through childbirth--I can handle anything! hahaha And you know, it wasn't that bad. I don't think it ever went past a medium level discomfort, if that. In fact, the experience was so pleasant overall that I might even consider doing it again....

And Now....
When I look at my shoulder now, I don't think about a car accident that nearly took my life, or an ex-husband who never truly understood or loved me. Instead, I think about a Norwegian King who would rather jump overboard than surrender. That's very me. Failure is just not an option. I must be the Captain of my ship; I will succeed because I must. And if I do not, then I'm going down with the ship.

But then I have the ouroborus to remind me that there is power in renewal, that there is a coming back from our lowest most destructive levels of existence. If I do fail, I will return and build again. This gives me hope.

And finally, I am reminded of those fair-haired, stormy-eyed boys from Faroe, who on a whim danced and sang for a stranger one Midsummer's night and stole my heart forever.

I've told my son that if he wants a tattoo, he'd better wait until he's 40 so that if he makes a mistake, he'll only have half his life to regret it. ;-)

But I do not regret it. No. Not one little bit.

Myths I Have Been

I have the oddest notion that if ever I were to visit a palm reader, he or she would have the hardest time finding my destiny in my palm because every story I've ever read or heard would come crowding to the surface, like a tattoo on the underside of my skin.

I have taken a fancy to the mythopoeic idea that we carry all our myths inside of us, and they rise to the surface and inform us in a very organic way about the trials and challenges we face in our daily lives. It's not fragmented and disorienting like a split personality; rather, I think it's empowering and enobling, allowing us to recognize that complicated being we know as "I."

Therefore:

I have been Nancy Drew...

I have been Princess Leia and Han Solo and Luke Skywalker...

I have been Guinevere and Morgana and Arthur...

I have been Odysseus and Penelope and Circe...

I have been Frodo and Boromir and Aragorn...

I have been Eowyn...

I have been Arkady Darrell...

I have been Moreta...

I have been Miranda...

I have been Rose Tyler and I have been the Doctor...

I have been the Little Mermaid...

I have been Captain Janeway...

I have been Pandora...


And I will be again.



Listening to: Portishead's Dummy

One for Sorrow, Two for Joy...

From the sea have I come

and to the sea my way I wend.

I shall meet my one true love

and be parted from my friend.

~from The Crow-Girl by Bodil Bredsdorff

I have a new favorite book. The Crow-Girl is a charming story that looks as unflinchingly at death as it does at life. (I am hereafter terrified of bogs--once a bog takes hold of you, it doesn't let go, like quicksand, only slower...) It is a quiet tale: there are no wars or evil henchman to vanquish. Instead, people are revealed in their kindness and cruelty and sorrow by the way they treat each other, how some are willing to share their last meal, while others are capable of much mischief in small, mean ways disguising it as kindness. Crow-Girl is intelligent and capable and her there-and-back-again journey is worthy of any adventurous hobbit's.

The story got me thinking of crow and raven references in music and literature. "The Raven" by Edgar Alan Poe is the most obvious. There is also "The Twa Corbies," an old English poem about a murder witnessed only by the crows. There is also the song "A Murder of One" by the Counting Crows. The lyrics have such a haunting quality to them that I wonder if Adam Duritz did not borrow from something far older. If he did not consciously, then certainly he tapped into something deeper.

I dreamt I saw you walking up a hillside in the snow
Casting shadows on the winter sky as you stood there
Counting crows
One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for girls and four for boys
Five for silver
Six for gold and
Seven for the secret never to be told...

And finally, a little known legend I came across while researching a term paper one semester: The Welsh have a superstition that it is bad luck to shoot a crow. For it is said that when nearing his death, King Arthur was transformed into a crow and has since wandered the world in that form until the time is right for his return. Therefore, one who shoots a crow may inadvertently prevent the return of the King.



14 Days til Lift-Off

The Uses of Enchantment

*****CAUTION: SPOILERS******

I saw Pan's Labyrinth (El Laberinto del fauno) and Bridge to Terabithia at the cinema when they came out, then bought Pan's Labyrinth on DVD when it was released. It didn't occur to me until today that these movies have a similar theme: The use of enchantment--or imaginary play--to transcend personal circumstances. In both stories, a young girl dies: The "magic" cannot stop that. But what it offers is a bridge, a means to transcend grief, fear, and horror, and recover our humanity.

Bridge to Terabithia is the more straightforward of the two. Two outsider tweens befriend each other and create an imaginary world out in the woods and have adventures. When the girl dies in an unexpected accident, the boy is bereft until he realizes he can keep the memory of his friend alive by opening up and sharing Terabithia with others. When he brings his sister into Terabithia for the first time, it's a powerful moment.

In spite of being a simple tale, I discovered there was tremendous controversy surrounding the book this movie was based on. It was actually banned by some extreme groups. Some parents object to death being dealt with so frankly in a "children's" book. Some object to the "magic." Some object to what they perceive as threatening anti-religious sentiments. (Actually, the story is very spiritual in places; it just makes it okay to question religion, or at least look at it from a very different angle. One of my favorite lines in the movie is when the girl says: "You have to believe and you think it (religion) is horrible; I don't have to believe and I think it's beautiful.") And one librarian even wrote online that she had a father return the book on the grounds that no boy and girl that age should be alone together, because "we know what they're really doing out in the woods." [!!!]

All that aside, though, there is never any question that Terabithia is an imaginary world. It cannot bring the girl back to life. But the boy can use it as a tool to overcome the grief, guilt, and helplessness he feels over his friend's death.

With Pan's Labyrinth the lines between fantasy and reality are blurrier. Set during the time of the brutal Franco revolution in Spain, a young girl travels with her mother to go live at a military outpost. The General, her mother's new husband, is in charge of tracking down and destroying the rebels in the surrounding countryside. The picture can be interpreted in either of two ways: The girl creates an imaginary world to escape the harsh realities of the war surrounding her, or she really is a lost princess who needs to find her way back to her underground kingdom. The director very cleverly gives nothing away right to the very end. It is left to the viewer's interpretation.

At first viewing, I was a little disappointed with the ending. It seemed just a little too happy an ending after such a grim tale to see the princess get home to her kingdom. But after watching it again, I'm not so sure. I think it is a fairy tale, after all, the director's fairy tale. It is his gift to us. We need the happy ending. For we know that in the real world, little girls die, and there's no magic kingdom to bring them back. We know the horrors of war are with us, and we're all going to have to work just a little harder in order to get home.

Spiderman 3

I know this has been out a week or so already, so I will try not to repeat what's already been said. But, you know, I have to put in my two cents.

I had gotten the heads up from various friends, and even conversations of complete strangers overheard, that this movie does not live up to its potential. But I had to see it anyway, because its Spiderman, and Spiderman is fun. And I have to agree: it does not live up to its potential. But it wasn't complete unwatchable trash either. (I did find the "jealousy" scenes between MaryJane and Peter, and then Peter and Harry, a bit tiresome). It was just... mildly disappointing.

What Worked
The special effects. Yes, we know going in this is going to be an F/X heavy movie, and it doesn't disappoint on that score. They do some amazing CGI sequences, especially with the creation of the Sandman.

The bad guys. Sandman/Flint Marco, Venom/Eddie Brock, and New Goblin/Harry Osborne are complex and sympathetic (okay, sometimes Harry gets a little pouty, but I'll pardon him). Thomas Hayden Church is brilliant as the Sandman. (Oh, and watch for Bruce Campbell as the snobby French waiter: delightful!)

What Didn't
For one thing, it desperately needed editing. It started 10 minutes too early (we don't need to see (and hear) MaryJane sing to know she's terrible-- cut to the bad review); and ended 10 minutes too late (Peter and MaryJane weeping over their fallen friend with a spectacular sunset in the background (or was it sunrise? Whatever)-- fade to black. We don't need to see them reconcile. We know they will); and, I'm sorry, but the whole John Travolta jig down the street was just goofy.

The good guys. Sappy. I've seen better acting from a damp dishrag.

The narrative. There are too many stories going on here. Whose story is this? Is it Peter's? MaryJane's? Harry's? Marco's or Eddie's? It was so diffused, I couldn't tell who I was rooting for. (Ultimately, I settled on the Sandman, which was a good choice).

But the thing that disappointed me most was the whole Dark Spiderman subplot. There is an entire mythopoeic precedent they could have drawn on for this, and they just let it fall flat. Where is Peter's dark side? We see him push a rival into a wall, break his girlfriend's heart, and go on a brief murderous rampage in revenge of his uncle (which turns out not to be so murderous in the end). Any person in crisis could manage this, and without the aid of an alien suit. Anakin's slaughter of the Sandpeople in Attack of the Clones had more potency. Where is the epic struggle of good vs. evil? Where is the ultimate epiphany that Spidey needs both these sides of himself to be the hero he wants to be? Star Trek did it before and did it better. What lesson did this alien suit teach him? How to flirt (badly) with the ladies and be a snappier dresser? Plus, he never embraces his dark side, he destroys it. According to the rules of myth (and Jungian psychology), this only means that his dark side will rise again, unexpectedly and more powerful than before. However, I doubt if they will address this in any of the future films.

Just another soldier on the road to nowhere...

I went for a walk tonight. After work, on my way home, I drove over to the bike path here in Morgan Hill. It's nice. Just remote enough to make you think you've escaped civilization, but enough traffic noise from the freeway to remind you that civilization's just around the corner. People go out there to jog, ride their bike or their horse, walk their dog or their kids, or whatever. I go to think.

Or... not exactly think. More like set my mind free from thinking. Let it wander as I wander. I love to do this on a beach as well--that's the best place--but that's a little farther away. Lacking an ocean and a sea strand, I take the path.

There is such a wondrous release of tension when I do this. Why don't I do this more often? Sheer laziness or the curse of modern existence? I walk until the sun slips behind the horizon, then turn and walk back in the gathering dusk. The air gets peculiar this time of the evening; I would swear that it turns a color all its own. The mosquitoes gather in a cloud above my head; they are as irritating as my thoughts.

Who am I in this moment? Am I Odysseus, traveling back from the wars in Troy these 20 years?... Troy is burning; Troy is always burning... Am I Penelope, tirelessly weaving and unweaving, endlessly waiting, eternally patient?... Am I Circe, or the Sirens, powerful, seductive, cruel?...

I am having a Skywalker moment. The sunset is setting the sky on fire, and the shadows are creeping in from the east, and I wonder why I do not have more sunrises and sunsets in my life. And I can hear Yoda's accusations in my mind: All your life you've looked away to the future, to the horizon. Never your mind on where you are, what you are doing. Adventure! Excitement! A Jedi craves not these things.

Do not let this calm exterior fool you. I crave these things. I am no Jedi.


Current mood: pensive
Current music: Damien Rice O

Irish Musings

I cannot recall where I pick these things up, these tales and stories from long ago. It bothers me that I cannot remember, and I go searching through the books that I have in order to find some stray bit of knowledge. It is not always a successful quest. Somehow I end up like Bilbo, asking, "What have I got in my pocket?" without knowing completely what I have found.

So. Leprechauns. I know that I read somewhere that the original Leprechaun was a hero, possibly a god. He was tall and powerful and strong and had many adventures. It was only after the coming of the Christians that he ended up being diminished and relegated to the fairy tale creature we know today. I wish I could remember where I read that. If you know, please tell me.

Most of these old tales were sung. Sometimes I think we would remember them better that way. We would remember a lot of things better that way. Haven't there been studies done on mnemonic memory? In Tori Amos' song "Ireland" she sings, "I remember Macha running faster than the horses." I looked up Macha's story and now I remember, too.

Macha's husband made a bet with the King of Ulster that she, although heavy with child, could outrun all the king's horses and all the king's men. The King took the bet and insisted that she run the race. She ran the race, and she won, but she cursed Ulster and all his men, saying that they would have to endure pain like that of childbirth whenever the kingdom was threatened. (And that happened alot in those days so I imagine they were feeling that curse quite a bit). Later she gave birth to twins. To this day, there is a castle in Ulster called "Macha's Twins." Interesting, eh?

There are lots of exciting tales of Irish heros, gods, queens, and goddesses: Cuchalann, Finn MacCool, Maebh, Morrigan, and others. There was one hero who had a silver hand, or sometimes it is an arm, depending on the story. I can't remember his name. The love story of Trystan and Iseult is another good one, but that is getting into Arthurian legend, so I'm not sure if it is entirely Irish.

Oh, yeah, and then there's that Saint Patrick guy. He's an interesting character. If you want to read a fascinating book about the human Patrick before he became a saint, find The Last Rainbow by Parke Godwin (I think it is out of print, unfortunately). Godwin is a master at bringing legends to life while retaining just enough glamour to make you understand why that person's story is still with us today.


Current mood: Sleepy
Current music (in my head): tori amos "Ireland"

Somewhere an ancient bard is turning in his grave...

Beowulf on Ice. Yes, you read that right. Beowulf on Ice. It's true. I'm not making it up.

http://www.dailynews.com/gossip/ci_5323571

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm all about freedom of expression, especially when it comes to art. And I will freely admit that my parents took me to Disney on Ice when I was five and I was completely enchanted. And I will freely admit that many an Olympic Winter of my mispent youth was spent watching the ice skaters. Because it's beautiful. I admit that.

But Beowulf on Ice???? What nimrod thought that up? Beowulf is an ancient medieval poem full of dignity and splendor, deeds of grotesque horror and noble heroism. It's meant to be uttered reverently, one bright candle held against the dark.

What's next? Star Wars Underwater Ballet? (Wait, that might actually work... )


Current mood: Bemused
Current music: Sarah McLachlan Afterglow