Angelina Jolie was spotted catching a flight to the Middle East . She was going for another United Nations mission.
Image source from http://justjared.buzznet.com
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This tattoo is a montage over 20 or so years in the making. First work, Willie [at Willie's Island Tattoos] on Staten Island; Dan [Williams at the Bridgeport Tattoo Shop] in Bridgeport, CT; Bonnie Jean in Yachats, OR at [Tattoo by Design]; and a guy in Houston I never should have let reline it. Bonnie Jeanwasis old school and taught me that tattooing is like coloring in a book: anybody can do it if the lines are really thick.The tattoo’s a chronicle of a tumultuous time in my life. The wind/water symbol (my design) traversing the image was first. It felt like a spiritual emblem. The bird represents a goal of peace (brought it in from somewhere). The moliere/Celtic cross (graphic artist friend, Carla Januska designed) is modeled after the one on the chapel at my divinity school and doubles as a setting sun. It is my graduation ring, of sorts. The feathery flame shapes (Bonnie Jean’s freehand) within the wings and tail came last—my attempt to soften up the image when my life became more tranquil.I have a small tattoo on my ankle that precedes this one(s); a memorial to my best friend on my thigh; a reverse hurricane symbol on my thumb (post-Katrina); and a symbol of perichoresis (divine revolution) on my forearm. I’ve been told I look like a doodle pad. I get tattooed about every 5 years. If I ever become content with life, I’ll stop trying to achieve the ideal personal emblem. For now, I doodle.
TattooShe knows being chosen means to choose herselfand seals upon her breasts the Sacred Heart—a thorn-bound garnet against open lilies,a pink-and-white ink triptych on her chest.Every shadow, a creed professed by linesfrom votive needles to her deepest cells.Her body gives life to art, reflects the fadeof dying flesh, and honors God’s design.No second thoughts, she thinks that painis easily a choice we make ourselves,as is admiring her canvas skinas it ages. Affirmed with words spelledon a defiant ribbon across her chest,her blazón: Even the blackest sheep are blessed.[Appeared in Côte Blanche (New Issues, 2002)]
This tattoo was done by an artist named Shay Bredimus at Outer Limits Tattoo and Body Piercing in Long Beach, California, the city where I was raised and educated. I had always known I wanted a tattoo, but I could never settle on exactly what I wanted. When I went in to Outer Limits, I still didn’t know. I decided flowers were pretty and timeless and could mean whatever I wanted them to mean. I decided on a peony because I had just seen my first one and fallen in love with it. I didn’t know what peonies symbolized, and I didn’t want to know. I decided I had a lifetime to figure out what it meant to me.I was getting my MFA in fiction writing, and when I met Shay he told me he had his MFA in painting. For hours we talked about art and literature and grad school and our lives. It was the best tattooing experience I could have hoped for, and I fell in love with the finished product immediately. As I was leaving he invited me to his gallery. I went when he wasn’t there. His pieces were huge, each one taking up the better part of a wall, and they were exquisite and done in black tattoo ink only. I wrote him an email telling him how amazing I thought his art was, and he asked me to come back in for touch ups, and that’s when he added the cherry blossoms.
In addition to this tattoo, Alicia is sharing the following poem, "Red Room," which was originally published in The Mas Tequila Review:I buy cherry blossom shampoo now and cherry blossom soap. It’s a silly thing maybe, but it makes me feel pretty and reminds me that I am part of a work of art.
It was a Saturday afternoon in October, 1997. I was finally going to get a sexy rose bracelet tattooed above my right ankle. I’ve already had a referral from my hairdresser to do it at New York Adorned on Second Avenue. I recalled having a henna design painted on my right wrist by a street artist in SoHo earlier that summer – and loved it. I was tired of wearing ankle bracelets that would snap off without notice. Since I didn’t have a picture with me, I searched for possibilities in the tattoo parlor’s books. Not one rose drawing fit the image engraved in my head. A tattoo artist would have the honor of fulfilling my request. Unfortunately, it was Saturday and it was busy. I knew I would not be home until after eight, and supper would have to be much later. I had no choice, but to call home. I wanted to surprise my mother without dealing with her pre-ink drama. But that was not meant to be.“Oh… a rose-tattoo bracelet? Can lasers remove it?”“Yes, Mom, but I’m not going to do that. I’ll be home in a few hours. Bye…"My time arrived. I had coffee sweetened with sugar about an hour ago. Although I was warned that my body needed solid food and sugar to prevent passing out during the procedure, I still didn’t want to overeat because of supper. My artist drew on paper the bracelet that would be outlined above my ankle. I adored the rose-chain stencil on my body. I was ready for baptism by ink – peachy pink for the roses and yellow-green for the leaves.Once propped up on the cot, the needle pierced my skin and began its journey along the artist’s outline. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel any pain. As minutes passed, the needle worked along the design’s path. About halfway through, the needle must have sent some negative signals to my brain. A sudden feeling of dizziness overcame me. The needle immediately stopped. My slender tattooist and his colleague, who resembled a burly motorcyclist, carried me to another room where I was fed Halloween candy. An ice pack was placed in back of my head. I rested for approximately twenty minutes. I recovered and was ready for the needle and my rose bracelet’s completion. I apologized for what had happened, knowing that, with low blood pressure, I should have been more careful. The heavy-set tattooist told me not to feel bad. Even the toughest-looking customers pass out under the needle.Feeling better, I sat up on the cot and watched the needle complete the outline. Then came the application of the colors. My roses became part of my skin and self-expression.
Wrapped in Bacitracin and Saran Wrap, I got dressed. It was worth charging this bracelet on one of my plastic cards. I wish that I had saved the receipt. I think it probably cost me one-hundred-eighty dollars.Later that night, Mom made a comment when I undid the Saran Wrap.“Oh… you got a large tattoo. I thought you were going for one rose? Can lasers still remove it?”“Yes, Mom, but I’m not going to do that. I spent money on this tattoo and I’m keeping it for life.”What was a novelty back in the late ’90s is now the norm today. The roses above my right ankle, sadly, look faded after fourteen years. I wish I had the money to bring back their color. At least Mom stopped giving me prickly advice about getting laser treatment.Patricia Carragon February 2011
Cupcake Chronicles #9- Friday evening before midnight, February 13, 2009It was the end of the world. All the cupcakes disappeared overnight. All the bakeshops stopped making them. All the recipes became blank pages in cookbooks. All pictures, photographs, ceramics and artifacts depicting cupcakes vanished. All memories died, except for mine. I cried all night until I fell asleep.In the morning, I felt bloated as I rose from my bed. I passed the mirror and noticed how voluptuous my boobs looked. I headed for the fridge and invaded the pickle and peanut butter jars. I decided to add garlic and paprika on a scoop of vanilla ice cream. My appetite craved unusual combinations. My period was a month and a half late. It was time to call my gyn.The sonogram showed multiple fetuses. They had arms and legs, hands and feet, but the rest of the picture was too bizarre for the doctor to describe.She was quiet for a few seconds before getting up the courage to say, “Congratulations, you’re having a baker’s dozen.”