I’m going to start pretending time isn’t a barrier to getting things done. I’m going to pretend that five minutes is an hour, an hour is a half day and a day is four months long. It’s time to retrain my brain, because, what is time, anyway? It’s a period of breathing air.
Since last we spoke, I got two tattoos. My first tattoo and then my second tattoo. Together, at the same time. They are microscopic. My skin barely knows they’re there, but that’s okay, because I know they’re there. The lady applied them with a fast-moving needle and ink. The needle stabs into your skin in a repetitive fashion. It’s some sort of handheld machine. It’s not something you can see with the naked eye, but you can hear the hum and feel the sting so you know it’s happening. And, it’s not really a sting. It’s more like a slicing. A clean feeling of sharp slicing with a tinge of caring. Like, if your mom was taking the purest knife blade to your infant skin, humming to you all the while. That’s what it was like for me, anyway.
A form of stigmata appeared on my left palm about two months ago. I haven’t mentioned this to anyone so you’re the first to know. It was blood-brown red and about the size of a fat grain of rice. It didn’t hurt. It couldn’t be fucked with; no matter how much I tried. It just appeared one day and didn’t leave. But today I noticed it’s gone. I thought for those weeks that perhaps something special was going to transform me or that I would begin hearing the voice of a deity, but nothing ever happened. Now I have a regular palm and no explanation.
That was the real reason I came here. I wanted to tell you about the blood mark on my left palm and how it left as it came; mysteriously and without explanation. Instead I guess I also told you about some other marks on my skin that were purposeful and permanent. Two very different things. Skin holds stories. I have some scars I could tell you about…