Tattoo Artist

There's a new store-front down the block, a tattoo parlor. Why is it a parlor? What does that mean? Parlor is an old and domestic word. So there's a new clientele between us and the bank, just beyond the bar next door. Bikers and over-weight women getting images on their ankles. Some athletic guys with every square inch covered, from their shoulders down to their wrists. Scarification. I almost understand the justification. 'Look at me', I underwent this painful procedure so that when you talk to me, you have to look at the virgin Mary on my arm. Some very precise women, bank people, have the names of various Lotharios stippled on the inside of their wrists. Maybe it's just counting coup, I don't know. I avoid certain trains of thought. The fact that I have skin cancer, or a hernia, hey, just life, is what I'm saying. I bow to very few conventions, but what I pay attention to is probably worthy of notice. That sounds like more than it is. Meaning comes from nowhere. It's not a predictable sum. The dogwoods are in bloom right now, they're beautiful. They don't mean anything, but they signify. Whoops. Maybe a mistake in reasoning, but maybe not. If something is merely beautiful does it mean anything? Is beauty its own reward? If that were true, should I pay more attention to cultural phenomena? Is society worthy of any attention at all? Probably not. But you have certain needs. The tree-tip pit you'll sleep in tomorrow. Not to put too fine a point. Power was out last night. Read by oil-lamp and have no idea when I went to bed, but got up at four and started this paragraph. Went in to the museum to have the Saturday morning burrito and conversation with D about the upcoming change-over. A beer at lunch, as I was officially not working. Talk with TR and D in the afternoon, watched an episode of "Endgame" on Hulu, and left an hour early. Stopped at Kroger and got the makings for a mixed-bean and lentil soup with ham. A crock pot meal I'll put on tonight and eat for the rest of the weekend. Got a huge Vidalia onion, almost a pound, that I'll caramelize, such that it'll disappear into the chicken stock. This should be good. I'll eat it with buttered saltines, which are one of my favorite things in the world. Unsalted butter. An email from a person in North Carolina today, and she started reading me last fall and had just yesterday gotten completely up to date. She complained that I was the only writer she had read for the last six months, but that now it would only take her five minutes a day, and she could get back to her normal habits. I'm going to ask my best readers to cull from the archives what will become the syllabus for the gig at Chautauqua. I'm a terrible editor. Or lazy, more like it. Like Janis sang, "worked all my lifetime...". A punctuation construct. Little structures. Now, with TR around, I find I'm listening to sound more closely. This is a good thing, but you can't have any type of electronic gizmo, as far as I'm concerned, which is my drift, right? toward just natural sound. Actual books that you open on your lap.The smell of sage in western Colorado. Almost a list. I'd grant myself the benefit of the doubt. Which three things? We all know about lists, right? which three things matter. Just kidding, I don't really care, he's jerking your chain, but that's not my problem.