tattoo early

I worked, therefore I was.

It was familiar to be in a healthcare facility. Even the designation of the setting takes work. I don't know that we care for health, but some seem to care. I wish I could just work at the coffee shop down the street, get some tattoos, live on less. That art can't come cheap, though. The thing about tattoos, for me, is the inability to change my mind, which I've never been able to prevent from changing. The things I thought I would always love when I was eighteen--acid-rainbows dripping through Peter Max-like clouds and stars-- would horrify me today had I strung them rib to rib like a permanent corset. Not to mention the probability of pregnancy and all of its attendant disfiguring. I love tribal art. What I really love are the celtic looking knots and armbands. But I've worked in nursing homes long enough to know that the crescent moon on the breast of youth is the banana hanging from the coathooks of old age. So there you have it. Nothing is static. Not belief. Not skin. And now that I'm on the topic of nursing home bodies, I wonder at the patients of the very near future: ninety-five year old women with perfect tits, tight thighs and flat bellies. There is just something disturbingly incongrous about it. In the final analysis, and fight it though I have and do, there is a certain symmetry to sag. "The organism will out," my physician used to tell me. "Gravity will out" is more like it. Gravity, like entropy, always wins.

I love entropy, atrophy, anomie. All forms of breakdown, from muscular to social to the resultant alienation and social instability. Its all good.

I gotta go.