Click here to read about an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction .
***
A few days ago I thought to write the story of when I got my tattoo in the summer of 1977, the seagull on my right shoulder which I named Harmony. I had in mind to write of the event, of how I went to Florida with my folks. It seems my new friend at that time, Tammy, went with us. I'm sure she did. Yet in my memory she wasn't present when I serendipitously met up with Arlene on the crowded Daytona beach or when Bud, Arlene's husband, engraved the tattoo on my back. Bud and Arlene were friends with my ex-fiance, Frank, and had moved to Florida in the previous months. Nor could I recall Tammy being with me when I sat meditating on the beach. Yet she was present in my memory when she and I made the short trek from Daytona to Winter Park to a Charismatic church where some of her Floridian friends attended. I was actively on my God-quest at the time.
I thought of writing about the responses my mother and father had to my tattoo, my father turning red and my mother turning white. And how I scooted around the room with my back to the wall so that they couldn't see the bandage on my shoulder. They were already upset with me for not having their car back to the beach cottage in time for them to have gone out to supper. Without permission I had driven their car to New Smyrna, where Bud and Arlene lived, for my tat and didn't get back until around 8:30 pm. Upon their questioning I told them I had gotten the tattoo. They then turned their respective colors, my father at the brink of rage as I had seen before; and they promptly left the cottage in silence, returning a few hours later.
Daddy was such a passionate man. He had rages when I was little. I recall his face becoming red with fury and his veins popping out on his neck and his cussing loudly. I too had temper tantrums as a young child, tearing up some of my toys. On another octave of the emotional scale, I used to sit with Dad and watch the T.V. show "Little House on the Prairie;" a tear or three would often trickle down his cheeks. I too would have tears in response to the family prairie scenes.
Daddy used to take me downhill snow skiing; I liked that. He enjoyed nature and the mountains; I liked that. He took me sailing, I liked that. He could draw cartoon pictures; I liked that. He would even pen a poem or two; I liked that. Daddy would dance in the living room as he listened to music; I liked that. He enjoyed singing; I liked that. He would hit plastic golf balls in the house; my mother didn't like that at all.
I never saw my mother cry, at least that I recall. Never did she cry. I saw her laugh.
Mom used to let me drive before I ever had my driver's permit or license. We would go to Oakwood Cemetery and I'd get behind the driver's wheel on the narrow cemetery roads, the same cemetery where I would play Werewolf with friends. Werewolf was a nighttime tag game.
Mom was a good cook, especially her green beans and creamed corn. She used to make tasty homemade donuts and pancakes with faces designed out of raisins. Not that any of that was healthy, but it was happy. I felt little emotional connection with Mom. She laughed, but I never saw her cry and don't recall her expressing anger until after Dad had his wreck becoming stricken with quadriplegia and Mom becoming his main caretaker.
A few days ago as I was trying to write of that time in Florida when I got my seagull tattoo, as I was trying to write out events, I wasn't writing from depth; I was writing from surface. I did much better with my third attempt to write about that tattoo; I feel I wrote from depth as I tossed aside what I thought I should write. Yet the "tattoo" memoir piece, my third attempt in which I felt I had grasped more true writing, ended up not containing the event of getting the tattoo.
By "depth" I mean the stuff, the life, the emotions, the reality, the perceptions under the surface as well as from and above the surface. I find that if I write meandering in and out, higher and lower, bobbing up for air and diving again, back and forth - the writing is more real for me.
Life isn't two dimensional. Maybe tattoos are, but I tend to think they aren't......
***
Click here to view the memoir index: Journey through Memoir (an index).
****
No comments:
Post a Comment