Here I am en route back to the United States. Is it considered going "back" to the states when I've been traveling in the same direction since I "left" them? Perhaps I'm not really returning, but arriving anew. . .
Several times in the latter part of my journeys I felt as if I should return home with some outer manifestation of the effects of this trip. This trip was essentially about finding myself, and it just seems like I should be getting off the plane in Denver with this new "myself" tattooed somewhere, or hung through a newly pierced body part. . .
The end of last year was so tough and this trip so desperately needed that it just doesn't feel right to return to the life I left, exactly as I left it.
Well, I think by necessity and inevitable evolution, life in Boulder will not be exactly as I left it. As for me, I've never particularly liked jewelry on myself-no piercings for me. I've never had anything against tattoos and wouldn't be opposed to getting one if the right image came along. But I've never come up with an image that I'd want to display on my body for life.
Last night, perhaps, I made some progress toward it.
No, this isn't it, but I thought this stylized Zen rat in the Hong Kong Museum of Art was kinda cool.
I can be nostalgic, but generally don't need reminders of things
that happened in my life--well, nothing more than some photos, or the occasional
memory-infused trinket. Just touching Grandpa's 1933 World Scout Jamboree
patch again will remind me of that patio in Jaipur, India where I sat in
the late afternoon sun and wrote a letter telling Grandpa that his patch
had finally made it to India. While I'm not bringing home many tangible souvenirs
or gifts, I've got plenty of things like that patch, not to mention a sketch
book and six rolls of film, that should trigger the memories! And
yet some kind of lasting memento seemed in order.
Before I write about this tattoo concept, I've got to go over last night. (My apologies for my style: as serendipitous as Japanese essays, but like the rat image above, it all spirals in toward a central point... we hope!)
As midnight of my last night in Hong Kong approached, I finished the day's adventures, changed clothes, and left three grumbling and snoring roommates back in the hostel. I didn't hesitate during the 25-minute wait to get in Rick's Cafe and didn't blink at the $20 (US) cover charge. As soon as I was in, I guzzled a gin and tonic and watched the dance floor fill up.
My belly still wasn't quite right, but it was mild. I didn't think booze would help; but then again, I thought enough of it might cook out the little buggers in my belly.
[Potty break: nope, they're still swimin' around in there]
After 2 drinks and spectating for a few songs, I reasoned that it was high time to get jiggy. I'd also reasoned that I had nothing to lose by asking girls to dance. Hell, I'd be on a plane in 13 hours.
So about 8 or 10 girls turned me down. They were either: polite, dishonest, or--in a couple cases--downright rude. What did I expect, a white Vanilla Ice-looking goofball who appears alone in a bar? I had nothing to lose and lost it. Now it was time to get dancin'.
Over the next hour and a quarter I did my thing, getting increasingly amused looks all the while. One girl was particularly amused. She was with a few friends--but apparently she felt free to show amusement at whatever suited her. Everyone else in the bar seemed more restrained in their expression of mirth.
I didn't actually interact with anyone, except for the occasional eye-contact with the smiling girl. I didn't read her as coming-on or "interested"; just genuinely entertained by my antics.
At 1:30 AM I took a break to order my last gin and tonic. I ordered it less out of need than a sense of timing and the instinct that it was time to free up my patch of the dancefloor (which I hadn't relinquished since starting). I sipped very slowly, watching the dance floor continue on without me. It was delightful to see. And as odd as I was--a lone white goofball--I liked my place in the scene. I grinned and that's when it hit me. Dancing. That's my thing. That's my truest expression of me. My energy was absolutely bottomless that night, like it is so often when I dance. That's how I channel my ki. Dancing is my Tai Chi, my Aikido, my Tao.
So is it a great leap to considering having a dancing rat tattooed on my foot? The only intermediate thoughts were getting it on my ankle (I decided the foot was more unusual and more appropriate to dancing), and rejecting the only other dancing image that came to mind: Shiva. She just doesn't seem to have enough personal significance to me.
I'm imagining
this tattoo looking like the dancing rats on Sara's jar of queso in my bathroom
(right). I'd have to design and draw it myself. And I'd have to do
lots of homework on feet, tattoos, and maybe dancing, too (I'm comfortable
with my research on rats so far!). For instance: if, as some foot science
contends, each part of the foot corresponds to a part of the body, I'd want
it placed somewhere significant (the gut?). And, on a practical level, if
tattooing deadens the nerves or stands a chance of goofing up any of my other
functionings, I'd want to get it exactly right.
So I may not step off the plane in Denver with a new tattoo, but even if I never do get inked, I think this vision of mine has already tattooed itself inside me. This trip didn't exactly bring me earth-shaking revelations, but it really was the closure--and at the same time the opening--I needed at a pivotal time in my life.
This trip was about not looking back. And yet without looking back, I still found myself home in Boulder.
This trip was about discovering that all the joys found in travel are present wherever you are.
This trip was about renewing the vigor with which I live my life; about losing inhibitions, following my gut, and doing everything with gusto.
Does a dancing rat say that?
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