Monday, June 19, 2006 | by nathan

Every Scar Tells A Story

Last week I cut my finger open. I was up late with Laurie, we were talking and drinking, venting, and being exceptionally grateful for the men we have in our lives; she for her husband Jaye, and me for Brian. After she left I got pretty down on myself, feeling really, really unworthy of having a guy as wonderful as the one I have. I unwisely decided to make another drink, and while cutting a slice of lemon to put in it, I sliced my finger open instead. I left a trail of blood from the kitchen to the bathroom, which I cleaned up while sobbing because of what I loser I am. I have been bandaging it faithfully and keeping it clean, and now, it looks as if I will have a half-moon shaped scar near the tip of my right index finger.

When I was twenty-two and living in Connecticut, I fell through a window at a Wendy’s. The window was improperly installed, and I, in a lame attempt to say hi to some friends, put my hands on it and the whole thing collapsed in on itself. It gave me a fourteen-inch scar on my head from scalp to sideburns (if I had them). Also, it gave me a very ugly scar on my left ring finger - the one that will hold my wedding ring come September. When I went to the hospital that night, I was in a lot of pain, and I was very sad; I had never felt so completely alone in my entire life. The man I loved had broken up with me, I had no real friends to speak of, and I was 2,000 miles away from anyone gave a shit about me at all. I almost punched a paramedic, who had told me to tell him to stop if it hurt to much, and then didn’t stop when I asked him to. As I was leaving the hospital, my eye black, my face, clothes and hands covered in dried blood, looking like something out of a horror film, I felt a surge of pain go through my leg. I looked down and saw a tear in my pants. I put my fingers in there and opened it up wide, and saw two pieces of glass sticking out of my knee. I reached down and pulled them both out, barely wincing at the pain. I had gone totally numb. I have scars all over my body from that experience; the one on my head is why I wear my hair long on the sides and in front. It leads to awkward conversations with hairdressers, meaning that every time I get my hair cut I have to relive the whole experience a little bit.

I have other scars. When I was two I was mauled by a dog on my aunt’s farm in Arkansas; the scar from that makes my hair perpetually want to part in the middle. When I was six a girl in my first-grade class tripped me and I busted my head open on a metal door frame. When I was thirteen my brother loaded a steak knife blade-up in the dishwasher, and when I went to unload it, it slashed my wrist open; I got mad and we had a huge fight, which turned into a huge family blowout. When I was sixteen I stepped on a piece of glass, and I have a chevron-shaped scar on the bottom of my foot. The stories my scars tell are sad stories; every one of them brings up a memory of a time that I cried, and felt ashamed, and pretty much had every insecurity I have about myself confirmed.  

When you get a tattoo, basically what happens is that the artist makes miniscule little cuts in your body and inserts ink into them; the process of healing creates scar tissue that holds the ink in place, and as a result you are left with permanent ink in your body.

I am awaiting my next paycheck so that I can get my first tattoo. In the meantime I am effectively mind-fucking the whole business to death, trolling the web and sites like Rate My Ink and Sacred Ink, trying to figure out what it means, this whole tribe of tattooed people. I have always wanted a tattoo. Many of my friends have them, and started getting them in high school. I have waited; partially afraid, partially unsure what I wanted. I have had bad experiences with piercings, after all, and it was not until I pitched a story about tattooing to my editor that I have really thought, "It’s now or never."

So I started looking at other people’s tats. I have been obsessively scrolling through Rate My Ink, and I’m seeing some recurring themes: American flags. Big, ugly crosses. Stupid, trendy tribal bullcrap that means nothing. Barbed wire. And the worst of all are the big, ugly skulls.  

I would like to be an optimist and believe that all of this has some symbological meaning for the tattooed person. I know I want mine to have some. I want whatever art I get to tell the other side of the story that the scars on my body tell: I want it to tell something about how I came to be who I am, about who I came to find out something about grace, and love, and redemption in the world.

First up, I want a Celtic cross on the inside of my forearm.

A lot of people seem to have Celtic designs, and this is fine. I lived in Ireland for two months and it changed me profoundly. I cannot hear the Irish hymn "Be Thou My Vision" without getting teary; I cannot see a Celtic cross without thinking about the Irish Sea, or Waterford, or standing in St. Patrick’s Cathedral and being absolutely floored by awe in the face of the sacred.

However, I am deeply into balance. Aside from the fact that I am a journalist who is obsessed with formatting, I am also a person of extremes and would like to be reminded of my need for balance, for middle ground. So, to that end, I want another tat on the other forearm, in the same place. And here’s the rub: two choices remain, two symbols that have become incredibly meaningful to me in my life. One, the Celtic trinity:

Or the other, the Sanskrit symbol for Om:

Which, while not a Christian symbol, I think says something very important about my life and the journey I have taken so far.

Okay, so those are the forearms. Then I got to looking at the tattoos people have of passages of Scripture. I studied biblical Hebrew for two years in college, and every time I see the script I believe it is one of the most beautiful written languages on Earth. So, I have decided to get two lines of Scripture tattooed around my wrists. On the left, a line from the Old Testament: Micah 6.7b "Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God."

כִּי אִם-עֲשׂוֹת מִשְׁפָּט וְאַהֲבַת חֶסֶד וְהַצְנֵעַ לֶכֶת, עִם-אֱלֹהֶיךָ

On the right, a line in Greek. Matthew 5.7: "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy."

I like the idea of having those at the base of my hands, as I believe that the church is the body of Christ in a very real way in the world - to be his hands and feet, to show mercy and do justice in the world, to do so humbly, and with reverence. I like the idea of consecrating my hands in this way.

Two others. Several years ago I promised Erica that I would get the same tattoo that she has, the Kanji symbol for friendship, yuujou.

Okay, EVERYBODY has Kanji tats, and there is even a site dedicated to mocking people who use Kanji without knowing what it means or appreciating the culture from whence it has come. But I love Erica, and I want to fulfill my promise to her. Someone told me, "Oh, don’t do that. You won’t want it anymore if you guys ever stop being friends."

To which I replied, "If we are still friends after everything we’ve been through, we’re solid."

Her tat is on her right hip, and because of my obsession with balance, I would like to get another on my left hip. Like, for instance, Ái, the Kanji for Love:

Or Kazoku, the symbol for family:

Though it seems a bit weird to have the symbol for family on my hip. At any rate, I want balance, and I want them to mean something to me and not just be trendy-ass art. No barbed wire, or lame tribal designs, which will be out of style in ten years; I want stuff that tells the story of who I am, and how I came to be here, and where I am going.

Justice, mercy, peace, redemption, friendship, family, love - this is my story in a few words, a few symbols, and the idea of having it out there so that the world can see it - or in the case of the hip tats, not see it, makes me happy. Like I said, it tells the other side of the story my ugly scars tell; it tells of how I made it through the pain that gave me those scars. By gathering the people who love me around me, by looking for redemption and peace amidst all the pain, and by always trying to work for justice and show mercy, even when it is totally, completely against my nature to do any of these things.

That, to me, is what body art is all about. And I have a feeling that, while it will hurt like hell to get them, I will be insanely happy to have these symbols, this story, on my body. But as you can see, there is still some indecision; input would be helpful here, Intenet. Let’s have it.

Sunday, June 18, 2006 | by nathan

Cosmos of Blue and Super Mario Two

In addition to being the healthiest relationship I have ever had - with anyone - my relationship with Brian is also the most fun I have ever had. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that we were friends for a long time before we started officially dating, or maybe it’s just the fact that he is genuinely a fun person to be around.

Either way. Last night might be the most fun I’ve had in this relationship so far. Or at least, one of the most fun nights.

We spent yesterday just kind of lazing around, not doing much. It had rained, so we couldn’t mow the yard, and so we just kinda were lazy. By afternoon we were frustrated because we couldn’t think of anything to do.

So Bri got out the Diffords Guide and started looking up drinks. What did he find? The Blue Cosmopolitan.

It is Pride Month, y’all. So we went to the store and got all the requisite liquor, and made them:

We also made delicious pizzas, but they didn’t fuck us up nearly quickly enough. And then, since we were getting drunk anyway, we thought it time to bust out some Super Mario All-Stars. Since we were drinking gay-ass blue drinks, we figured we might as well go all out and play Super Mario Brothers 2, which turned many a Gen-Yer gay because you could play with the princess:

She kicked ass because she could float. Bri won a triple-seven on the slot machine game at the end of World 1-1, so we started off with 22 mans to play with. And at some point the blue cosmos began really kicking in, because we started taking pictures:

And I got this really, really, Nintendo Power-worthy shot:

Cool, no? We eventually got our asses handed to us by this dude:

And so we decided to take an inordinately long time to take a bath/clean up/get dressed and go out. We hit the Copa and now, Pride Week is officially kicked-off. So go out and hug your favorite gay person this week, because it’s PRIDE, motherfuckers!

I love my fiancee so much. We had a damn ball last night - dancing, drinking, listening to Private Dancer while we sat in a really hot bath and then got ready. He’s outside in the hot sun right now washing his car; I’m still the tiniest bit wonky from the hangover, but nothing a little Sonic didn’t help with. 

So to recap: The Princess rocks, and she can float, and she turns people gay. Pride Week is this week, which means a crazy amount of activism and partying - always two things that should go hand in hand. I imagine that, at the Parade a week from today, I’m going to look something like….this:

Saturday, June 17, 2006 | by nathan

Vista

You know how you can love an artist, how someone’s artistic work can change your entire life? David Wilcox did that for me. I first heard David Wilcox on a road trip to Chicago with my friend Tish during my sophomore year of college. After that trip she loaned me every David Wilcox CD she had, and I kept them for over a year; they came with me to Europe, and I more or less spent that whole four months in Venice obsessing over every strum, every lyric, every second of sound coming out of those CDs.

Okay, so I’m a bad fan; he’s had a new CD out for over a month and I am just now listening to it. In my defense, I didn’t know it existed until iTunes ran a banner advertising it.

His past couple CDs have been pretty experimental and a bit hard to get into; this one feels like old-school Wilcox.

Listen to it. My favorite song so far? "The Hard Part"

Saturday, June 17, 2006 | by nathan

Welcome To Hell, Bitches!

Well, I am fucked unto the Lord.

This MySpace shit is addictive, and fun. I’m finding myself adding as friends people I was honestly hoping to not think too much about anymore, not to mention people I just fell out of contact with, people I like okay but who are friends and/or dating unsavory people, people I went to high school with, exes - what is wrong with me?

I feel as though I have been assimilated by the Borg. The most merciful thing you can do for me now is just to kill me. 

Saturday, June 17, 2006 | by nathan

Garden Blog (subtitle: The One Where I Totally Scream Like A Girl)

I’m used to animals jumping out at me from the dark corners of my garden. There are several dense, leafy plants that are almost as tall as me, and they make wonderful hiding places for the hundreds of stray cats (and unspayed and unneutered "outdoor" cats that our neighbors allow to roam around) that pass through our backyard every day. Just the other day I made friends with a particularly cute black kitten who fell instantly in love with me and then got playful and scratched my arm; I probably have rabies now, as I have also spotted a wayward racoon roaming the neighborhood.

What I was not prepared to have jump out at me, however, was this guy:

See him? He startled the shit out of me while I was outside taking pictures for this very entry, and I leapt about three feet back, screaming like a girl. I don’t like being startled. But, once I got to watching him, he did a wonderful trick: he ate a bug for me. Well, it was really for him, but it was cool to watch.

Anyhow, between last night’s thunderstorm and my aggressive watering campaign every morning, the garden’s looking great.

The orange lilies are going nuts, which is lovely. But these are my favorite:

I don’t know - something about seeing them - the color, the size, makes me happy. Look in the back there and you’ll see a kind of peach-colored lily, who, up close, looks like this:

It’s beautiful, but low to the ground, and kind of hard to get on film. On the west side of the garden, which has gone far too long neglected, is this guy:

Which is where I found the frog. 

Also, the hydrangeas are doing great:

There is still a wide variety of color, which, I found out, is due to the pH of the soil. What is interesting to me about that is that the soil pH would vary so much within one bed of flowers. But then I got to thinking about it. The tall, tall ones on the west end, that is where the cats like to hide out, and their presence (and their pee) almost certainly changes the pH, which is why the flowers over there are purple, almost blue. These here, in the middle, are hot pink, but the plants they are under do not get nearly as much sun as the rest of the bed. Interesting how much the chemistry of the whole thing can change it so much.

Also, I think the hibiscus are up to something, because they all have these little jobbers poking out on top:

They’re planning something, I just know it; the overthrow of the world, perhaps? The long-overdue organization of the rebel forces? Perhaps just some really beautiful flowers. 

Saturday, June 17, 2006 | by nathan

It Rained Last Night

Paula’s show went fantastically. The Q&A part of the second act was my favorite, because the audience was incredibly un-shy about asking a transgendered woman all sorts of questions. My favorite, however, was the story about her kids. Paula has joint custody of her two kids, 15 and 8. Apparently her daughter once wandered off into the bathroom in a Wal-Mart, and Paula had to chase her down. There was a woman in there kind of keeping an eye on this random little girl, because she was sure the child’s mother would show up.

When Paula did show up, her daughter yelled, "Daddy!"

Anyway - the gallery looked fantastic and everybody seemed to really enjoy the show.

Afterward, Brian and I came home, exhausted. I poured a glass of Effen and club soda and just as we sat down, a thunderstorm started to rattle the house. We sat on the porch for awhile and watched it, then stood in the sunroom and watched the backyard get some much-needed rain. It looked exactly like the photo at the top of the page, which was taken from our front porch during another thunderstorm.

That’s a good way to end a night. A good way. 

Friday, June 16, 2006 | by nathan

Let’s Kick It Up A Notch With The Lameness

So I’m writing a story for my newspaper about the technological problems and issues of MySpace. I have long resisted becoming a member of this community for a myriad of reasons: the guys who founded it are skeezy, the code is awful, and it annoys me when I call up a page, it takes forever to load, and a song begins playing without my permission.

But I had to sign up for an account to help out with the music issue of the paper, and I got on the past few days to work on the story and people had started adding me as friends. This was weird, and odd, but it was people whom I like, or liked when we were around each other, as in the case of people I knew in college and haven’t seen in far too long.

And so. What did I do? I sure did just redo my profile and start adding new people. Because, I am lame. Not to say that all people with MySpace accounts are lame (though there are better social networking sites out there, and I will never understand why this one is so popular), but I am lame for letting myself get sucked into YET ANOTHER networking site when I have plenty of networking going on in other places. I always swore I would never give up this last little bit of my internet dignity. Ah, well. At least now I get to read the blogs of people I might not otherwise get to read, like the Ankenmans, or Dylan. I get to say that, in some capacity, Patty Griffin is my friend. So it can’t be all bad.

I freely state in my profile that the only reason I’m doing it is to direct more traffic to this site.

So, if you’re reading this because you followed the link from my MySpace, welcome. Bookmark this. Look here for updates. Email me. Leave comments. I don’t even check Facebook much anymore, so this really is the best place to contact me, or learn more about me. You can start… here.  

Thursday, June 15, 2006 | by nathan

She’s Twice The Man You’ll Ever Be

I have been helping my friend Paula this week put together a benefit show for the Soulforce Equality House, which is an offshoot of the Equality Ride which came through Oklahoma in March. Paula is a transgendered poet, and tomorrow night at IAO Gallery she will be performing selections from her poetry and telling the story of how she came to accept herself as transgendered and to transition from male to female.

I have seen the show in various incarnations three times this week. This is part of the joy of being tech/volunteer: you get to see the evolution of a show, to get to see the performers become comfortable with the material, and the space, and themselves. Paula is a badass. She’s a cop who walks the beat. She’s a Gulf War vet. She was in the army, ran a tae kwon do school, was air assault in the infantry. Also, she is a nurting woman, a fabulous poet, a minister of the Gospel, and a genius storyteller. She could kick your ass, or mine, but she never would unless she absolutely had to.  

All the proceeds go to the Equality House, so it is for a wortwhile cause, and I’m not kidding - the show will blow you out of the water. Paula pretty much rules, so if you are going to be in OKC tomorrow, come by and see. The whole second act is Q&A, and there’s no question that is too personal. It’s worth the price of admission just to hear a transgendered woman talk about bathrooms.  

Also, it is officially Pride season in Oklahoma; what a great way to kick it off!

Tuesday, June 13, 2006 | by nathan

Trepidation Needs Laughter

I start my new job today. GOD, I hope I don’t suck.

A snippet of conversation from last night’s birthday party:

Me: I want to get like 40 people together to go to the Mont and try all the shots.

Laurie: Do we even know 40 people?

Me: Oh, we totally do!

Chambers: But 40 people we like?

Me: We don’t have to like them; we’ll be doing shots.

Monday, June 12, 2006 | by nathan

Todd

I have a pretty strict policy against being friends with people I have dated. Mostly because, in most relationships I have been in, the break-up was an eye-opener: "Oh, wow. You’re a loser / drama queen / snob / manipulative asshole / moron / more shallow than a kiddie puddle."

There have been two notable exceptions to this policy. One was Jonathan, whom I dated right before hooking up with Brian. Another is my dear friend Todd.

Todd and I met in the same time and place that I met Jaye Flynn: the summer after I graduated from high school. I had a good friend, Eric, who was lifeguarding at a pool in one of the rich-ass suburban clone-house neighborhoods that make up the exurb where I spent my adolescence. Jaye was Eric’s boss, and now he is married to Laurie, with whom Eric and I (and Erica, and Chambers, and a host of others) graduated high school.

Okay - see the connections now? No? Don’t worry - I often forget them too.

Anyhow, Todd’s parents live in the subdivision where Jaye and Eric were lifeguarding, and he would come down to the pool whilst we were all there. He would smoke a cigar and we would talk about theology, or philosophy, or music, or - anything, really. I loved these conversations, and I found myself looking forward to them every time I would come home from North Carolina on a school holiday.

The summer between my junior and senior years of college, Todd and I found ourselves on Lake Texoma, coming out to each other. I had been mind-fucking my sexual orientation to death for months, first in Europe and then at home, and it was a welcome comfort to find someone who was going through what I was, more or less: Todd’s parents go to the same Church of Christ where I was raised, and he and I asked a lot of the same questions about religion and spirituality, though we often came to remarkably different answers.

Passion flared for awhile between Todd and me, because we were in similar places emotionally. The problem was, of course, that I was going back to North Carolina at the end of the summer, and who knows where after that. I did not want to get emotionally invested, have to leave, and ruin what had been three years of remarkable friendship. Also, I was still wrestling with everything and I was far too mentally ill to be dating someone. So, I put the brakes on any potential relationship, and we remained good friends. Later that summer Todd took me on my first trip to Angles for my 21st birthday.

He met Steve while I was living in New Haven, and they have been together pretty much ever since. I love Steve, and after almost four years I can scarcely imagine my life without him being around whenever Todd is. I have Brian now, and I think things turned out more or less like they were supposed to. 

Anyway. Yesterday was Todd’s birthday. Tonight, the "old gang" is going back to that pool for the first time since the summer of 1998 to celebrate. I went to the little international market around the corner from my house and bought hummus and pita bread, and to the liquor store for a couple six-packs. The Flynns are supposed to be trying to find a key lime pie. It might even be like old times.

Happy Birthday, Todd, my good friend.