My Inner Ink

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Feb 9th, 2011
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The Tattoos On My Soul : Intro

I have no external tattoos. The “ink” I possess is etched in brilliant colors and complex patterns, within the deep recesses of my inner soul. The imprints of joy and sadness, ecstasy and pain, love and hatred, triumph and defeat.

A complex, colorful filigree of twists and turns, which curiously resemble the doodles in my grade school notebooks. Endless mazes, curly-q’s, vines of leaves and flowers, snail-like spirals, and colorful zig-zags, all penned in ink. Who really cared about Mrs. Ford’s endless rants about Iroquois Indians, or Mr. O’Connor’s chauvinistic bloviations? I know that I did not.

My inner ink represents the tattoos on my soul, the blood running through my veins, and the brilliant sparks of creative energy and wonderful fantasies that flash throughout my brain. It represents the many colors of my world, and the wonders they produce.

Oh, what amazing stories my inner ink longs to share……

The Tattoos On My Soul: Part 1: JOY

Lately, I have been attempting to have a more optimistic approach to life. Since meeting SJ and experiencing her unbridled enthusiasm, it occurred to me that since she was brave enough to have a 10th tattoo, that she should have the rights of exclusivity regarding that particular “ink” topic – at least until the “Archetype” is complete.

I write in a purple room. The shade of purple is superfluous to the leprous blisters that grow on the ceiling above my black writing desk. The blisters are back, despite my hours of scraping, patching, sanding, and painting. A leak in the roof, perhaps?

White, flaky bubbles, tinged with rust, mocking me, saying, “We’ve won, you’ve lost”.

Turning instead, to the rainbow surrounding  me, I am nothing more than a victim of my own love affair – with color. I confess, dear reader, my intense passion for all things colorful. Maybe it was all of those years working with ad agency writers and art directors, watching new packagings grace the video screen. Bright, colorful boxes, jars, and wrappers, all beckoning me to buy, eat, and smell.

My thoughts turn to the scene of a 12 -step meeting. I stand, a bit wobbly-kneed, and choke out the words, “Hi, my name is Mel, and I’m a….. sucker for packaging.”

Hands reach for foreheads, heads shake to and fro, tears of pity run down the faces of my peers. I call out in hysterical bursts of ….. JOY!

Yes, I’ve come clean, and it feels wonderful.

Truvia – great box – love it. Revlon Grape and Mango nail polishes – lovely, and scented, too? Perfect!  Special K “Chocolatey Delight”, with a blank oval on the back for one’s very own face? How novel! AND, what exactly is Level 2, Seattle’s Best Coffee, in the nifty silver and orange foil bag? Must try it and see.

That bright pink and green bottle of shampoo makes me want to shower, and creamy, golden Lemon Meringue Body Souffle silkens my skin, and soothes my nerves.  Emergen-C “pink” on my counter, complements colorful dark chocolate M&M’s. Almond Breeze or “SIlk” Almond? The blue carton wins.

Chobani Greek yogurt, clear-bottled Bio Tru for my eyes, a candy apple red Audi?( Well, maybe next year.) Icy blue mouthwash, Cubica wine, black lacey … oops, this site is rated PG-13.

Never mind.     (Thank you Emily Litella.)

You get the picture. I’m a hopeless case. Please do not judge me, it’s my birth right.

Blame Pop Culture, Peter Max, Andy Warhol, and paisley prints. Hippies and Caftans, everything Avant-Garde. I’m a child of the 70’s, with kaleidoscope eyes.

You shout, “STOP!” You ask, “How can an intelligent woman succumb to the covert ,manipulative evils of capitalistic consumerism?” Well, my new friend, the same way in which you were drawn to this blog.

Through my love affair with pretty colors. ❤   [Read Part 2]

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