Portraits

Here we are, marching on through March, spring so fresh in the sky and in the warmth of the sun. Dammit, how Hallmark of me. But I'm in this amazing mood drifting slow like tulle into this picturesque weekend containing friends, food and fun. See above, my new tattoo! I don't know where to begin with this post because I landed at 240 E. 21st last night around 5 am and am purely exhausted, so my thoughts may run rampant - do forgive.

This is a tattoo I've longed to get for quite some time. Years ago in Brooklyn, in Sharon's kitchen while she and I sat sipping wine tinged with bitters poring over my scribbled poems in one of my notebooks, it somehow tumbled from my mouth that the number 4 is my lucky one. She informed me that the Japanese Kanji character for the number 4 is pronounced "shi" ("she") which is the same pronunciation for the word "poem" in Kanji. This happened so long ago, yet it lingered in my thoughts and I finally decided to go for it - I'm on the brink of 35, which is young, young, young and so fruitful but it's closing me in on the last half of my 30's which, frankly, doesn't scare me anymore (frankly, I'm doubtful that it ever did to begin with.) Still, numerology is not sacred to me yet does mean something, and I now have the permanence of the word "poem" inked to my skin as my 4th (and last) tattoo, pronounced "shi," or also 4. (The character is radically different visually but we're not concerning ourselves with that minutia.)

How it went down: I had texted both Dario and the Bass Player that I would like someone meaningful in my life to be with me, by me, to get this. Both obliged willingly only when I took the train to 14th Street (the 2/3 from Bergen Street Station in Brooklyn) and emerged into the glory of spring, time read somewhere around 5.30, and texts were rolling in from both commenting to times they'd be available. I'm craving sushi probably on average 6 times a week these days (don't ask, not sure) so I decided I'd go dine and wine myself and await Dario because he had to stay at work until 7. Meanwhile, the Bass Player had figured on me arriving at the tattoo parlor (Rising Dragon on 14th between 5th and 6th Aves) closer to 6. I relieved him via text of his company because he had something else happening, finished my dine and wine and headed to Rising Dragon around 6:45. Caveat to this: YES, one is not to drink alcohol prior to being inked because it thins the blood. But I sipped a little wine, absorbed the relaxation of it and that's all to say on that.

At Rising Dragon, an artist named Omar was available to ink me. Dario had not yet arrived so I settled into the chair and briefed Omar on the reasoning behind the tattoo and we proceeded, rather, he proceeded with his work, and tattoos...just aren't painful. I have yet to have been dealt one that has hurt in any way. And I just love them. I think they're beautiful skin statements for things one might hold close in their hearts yet want to have visually represented.

During the inking process I heard my phone's text alert in my purse on the table. My back was to the waiting room but I gathered it was Dario. At the completion of the tattoo, I stood to view the art in the mirror, then turned, and there in the waiting area sat Dario and I waved. These precious moments...

After tattoo payment and thanks and goodbyes, Dario (with coat in hand thrown over his shoulder in handsome fashion) and I headed back into the spring air, and walked, and laughed, and laughed. I'm convinced that there are only approximately a roomful of people who bring out the genuinely happy KB. I hesitate to list these people because unfairly and inadvertently I'd leave off some (I love you all, you who bring my self to the surface! and I thank you.) But Dario is definitely in the room. His laughter is so contagious and his accent is purely beautiful and his smile is warm. We walked and told each other stupid jokes - he told me one of "one balloon to another balloon...look out, a cactus...sssssss..." (we laughed how horrible that joke is) and we arrived at a bar and he bought me glasses of wine and it was just so nice. Of course, as always the gentleman, he walked me home and we milled about my stoop for a while.*

*Boys and my stoop would make for great stories, seriously. But not now.

And that's how it went, my 4th and final tattoo, March 22, 2012 (2+2=4. Yes.)

Yesterday I left work around 4.30 and took the 2/3 at Bergen where I transferred to the 4/5 at Nevins to Union Square where I transferred to the Brooklyn-bound L. Pangs, yes. I really just still quite neurotically can't shake what happened 2 years ago. I'm such a happier person in so many ways and I'm exploring a newly revised ever-evolving self, as I'm sure is he, but I'm confident that the residue should remain eternally and it's just mine to scrape at as I can. But, he's been on vacation the past couple of days and I'm pretty certain he didn't stay in New York for it so traveling to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where he lives, only delivered the smallest of pangs. Little chance of emerging at Bedford in Brooklyn and slamming into him. And plus what, does he OWN Williamsburg? I'm just as permitted to step foot there as he, or as anyone. Obviously since I own no internal compass, my immediate reaction to emergence at Bedford Ave is, where the F am I? Having been a number of times before, but not in a really long time, I had to get my bearings about me but I felt completely convinced that in that moment, watching the Brooklyn hipsters trickle past me, stabilizing the pangs, that I'd be just fine. And I was. I headed in the direction of Metropolitan Ave and Havemeyer Street...

Ok, well. The remainder of this post just completely got lost in The Internet and I can't and won't try to recapture it.

Just...life is seductive. I had an amazing night.

Maybe I can find those words somewhere again sometime to say it all but if not, not all is lost because I will obviously have more words. They're with me always.

Loves.