Mother day flowers traditional

Chicano money tattoo

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Available in five colors, I purchased Maya (chocolate brown) because I'm getting tired of the classic 'ole black liquid liners.
As you can see from the photos, this liquid liner has a fine felt-tip point which makes lining very precise.
So if you're still struggling with cat eyes and came to a conclusion that it could be your eyeliner and not your damn shaky hands, then yeah Kat Von D Tattoo Liner is worth a try! Arielle ThibodeauxJuly 23, 2013 at 4:26 AMI just reviewed a liner that I think makes cat eyes easier, too. To encode the past into one’s skin is both recursive and prophetic: recursive in that it makes the past a continual part of not just the present but the vehicle of the self in the present—the body—and prophetic in that it alters that present, forges it into a different future.
The sort of Romantic irreducibility that tattoos toy with has been of interest to poets and writers for some time now; a handful of projects in the literary community have been dedicated to investigating what these ever-spreading phenomena of chemicals scraped into flesh mean. And both can be the catalysts for discoveries and acquaintances, the lit filament between two metal prongs. If a sense of permanence as infinity is a lost cause, that doesn’t mean a sense of it as finite but immutable is, too; inscriptions in skin serve as rivets in fabric, hooks that bind their bearers into pulleys.
What one would never want erased: at least for the time being, as long as the blood beneath the skin and the ultraviolet light permit it to stay. To have the text one bears erased, or to the entity of the self erased—wholly gone, eradicated? Earlier I asked the open-ended question of whether or not the standard wearer-worn hierarchy was acceptable; I fear it’s not, or at best it’s insufficient.
But the infidelity of materials is superseded by the purposes those materials are bent toward, whether paper or flesh humming with pulse. Come follow moi, just click those social icons to your right and let's paint the town hot pink. In every tattoo is a bit of the Ouroboros, that snake that swallows its own tail; the line thought to be straight bends circular after a period of time and loops back onto itself. To use “mean” in terms of tattoos, though, is to both conflate and deflate the capabilities of tattoos. Whether public or private, tattoos disappear with finality only when their wearers do (if this subjugation is acceptable; if the person wears the tattoo and the tattoo doesn’t wear the person), only when the material of the body, however delayed, re-enters its cycle. What begins as materials, as an un-made thing, metamorphoses into a made thing—and not a thing created by a single Zeus-like stroke of lightning but a thing re-made, revised, and revisited. These are questions Doty ponders well into later collections, including Source (2001), which includes a handful of poems that engage them. This bears consequences for the poem, too, with its typical model of writer-written: the author forges the poem, and not the other way around. There’s a property to this gorgeous dichotomy that plays both bullet and fishhook: bullet in that it pierces something apparently universal—as made clear in the worldwide phenomena of injecting ink into subsurface layers of skin—and fishhook in that it snags, that there’s something about both the notion of the image and the sacrament of turning it into a living hieroglyph that is both barbaric and lyrical.
And it might be wrong to call the sailor’s swallow on a woman’s neck a living image; it might be more correct to say that it exists outside of the human constraints of life and death—a memorial to her, perhaps, but an thing unto itself that isn’t constricted by the parameters of the living.
In “The Illustrated Man,” a short story by the late Ray Bradbury, a carnival worker-cum-Tattooed Man visits a woman who covers his entire body with artwork; two of the areas, she claims, will show the future. Any tattoo, whether explicitly textual or not, can match any poem for its role in certain performances. The tattoo takes on a second life—its first being its existence as an aesthetic object—as an orchestrator of familiarity, the sort of familiarity so ineffable and mist-like it doesn’t require allegiance to sight or strict interpretation but creates its own language to be recognized by instead.
Both are efforts at speech between two people (Rukeyser’s ghost, echoing her poem titled with that phrase: “Speak to me.
The trajectory of books is much more varied; it can both outlast and fall short of the human timeline.

The tattoo can be representative or represented when viewed from the monocular of clinical aestheticism, but the motivations are doubtlessly more complicated for undergoing the hours-long (if not days-long) process of the alcohol swabs, the repeated poking with a sharp piece of metal, the beading blood and the towel that wipes it away. And the pun on “sleeves” (“jacket sleeves” working equally well for human arms and hardcover editions) only heightens the surreality these doppelgangers share. The wordplay Barot’s speaker exhibits in “design… on you” calls for the conceptualization of the tattoo as a physical manifestation of deterministic force, one whose wearer may or may not break free by acknowledging that force, by bringing it into some sort of agreement with his or her body. The ink that Doty’s speaker in this poem receives as an addendum to his body dies with it, but stays in those moments between death and the disposal of the body; the archetypes of the tattoos, though—sun, moon, sacred heart—continue to transmit uninterrupted. Color depth is relative but I had to go over the line twice to achieve a darker brown finish, but ya' know it's my preference.
Both can be explained teleologically: certain marks are gotten to commemorate births and deaths, weddings and comings-of-age, milestones and tragedies. For this weird midnight lexicon, as with the speaker in Addonizio’s poem, light is a triviality; it’s so much a triviality that its opposite is what’s desired for the speaker. Chapbooks and collections and broadsides appear and, if lucky, persist in existing decades after the author stops breathing—else, they’ll vanish before then, or be resigned to purgatorial existences in the backs of used bookstores.
In a poem from his 1998 collection Sweet Machine, Mark Doty’s speaker talks of the ritual of selecting that which will mark his skin, ostensibly, forever.
Skin, being a natural element of personhood for this species, hasn’t yet entered into its post-Eden phase for Doty’s speaker until it becomes “made”: until it is recast in the particulars of the speaker’s life.
A rough triangle is hewn between Doty’s speaker, Paul, and the tattoo artist; we’re left to speculate as to what other angles might be produced by the “freshly shadowed corazon” on the arm of the poem’s eponymous subject. In “Lace” by Michael Waters, the speaker doesn’t remember the individual whose torso he saw trailed with a tattoo of lace, but does recall the image.
At one point they, too, will disappear, will get lost in their own noise, but for now they wander on—carried by, and carrying, their bearers (because now “wearers” seems a failed descriptor), illustrated torches burning outside of the leash of temporality. When this happens, he’s accosted and thrashed by the other workers, who then uncover the second area: a precise depiction of the beating they’re carrying out. The lack of visibility is what’s desired precisely because the images etched into the skin of the lover don’t need to be seen to exist: like the dead they memorialize (or the endless incarnations of other tattoo embodiments), their existence—if they still have one—is detached from the physical world. What are you now?”) Both are attempts at dog-earing reality, at reinforcing neuronal pathways that, like the art the body carries on its surface, will one day fade. So the tattoo, like the poem, has a schizophrenic shelf-life, though the tattoo has no chance besides the case of photographic preservation of outlasting its “creator”—or the person who, at least, called it into existence—in its original form. But what else is full of particulars in this melding of anecdote and anecdote telling than the poem and the tattoo itself?
Here are endless permutations of duration-bound permanence: the lines drawn between individuals, which are erasable and resistant and as much prone to dissolution as they are to congealment. In Barot’s poem, the tattoo both interrupts the vector between the speaker and the “you” as well as preserves it. Like Bradbury’s fated carnival worker, they predicate and reveal as well as provide witness. I have a separate tutorial using a pencil eyeliner, promise I'll do one for liquid next time. Bradbury’s story disturbs because it conjures a world in which not all tattoos are memorials, and not all memorials are backwards-facing: the idea of being tethered to something—and pulling or being pulled by it, swallowing or being swallowed by it—no longer takes place on the ribbon of a unidirectional timeline. This isn’t to say that it’s not material; dead bodies are still bodies, and tattoos live on skin. And here note the colloquial import of “fade”: what’s faded isn’t dead, not exactly, but dying. But the sense of the tattoo, as with the poem that also marks materials and also carries something into that passageway between sender and recipient(s), as a communicator between people has not left contemporary consciousness—might not ever leave it.

The inked image is a-temporal, outside of time; it bears forth its own existence while standing at the portal to other universes of memory.
The tattoo can also be, as is the case with Bradbury, an act of predication: an oracle that can forsooth the future or manipulate its hues.
And so another kinship to map in addition to the poem and the tattoo: the memento mori—the reminder you will die—of a funeral. What’s fading takes as its residence that unspecified no-man’s-land between signifier and signified, tenor and vehicle; it is no longer either the carried or what’s being carried.
But what’s written on the body follows it through space and time from the point of attachment via needle to the grave or incinerator. The tattoo is a projection of sight, a foray into that world where images both describe and become the objects of their description.
It clings, but warps what it clings to—both the human body (vessel) and what the lines and colors call forth (what the vessel carries).
Or—even more terrifying—an inevitability, an already-connected part of the body that, in being drawn on, only becomes visible; it was always present. Like the body of the once-person, the poem and the tattoo are both portals into the not-now, into somewhere else.
The speaker in Addonizio’s poem knows this, and is thrilled by it—but more so by the temporary permanence of the tattoo while it lingers on the body, an oxymoron only inasmuch as we understand permanence to mean temporal infinity. The common critical penchant for ad hominem conflations of poem-speakers with their authors (a fallacy I’ve partaken of extensively in the past) prompts a consideration of Doty as both the speaker of the poem who wears the tattoo and the author of the poem, in which case the idea that the tattoo is applicable in both senses is made more interesting. Too often forgotten, though, is the role the vision (both as biological and imaginative apparatus) of the tattoo artist, which like a radio antenna both receives and irrevocably alters the wavelengths it taps into. The Virgins of Guadalupe that preach from between shoulder blades shed their rainbow glory. What’s fading is being lost, is committed to being lost—whether some cessation in this deterioration occurs now or at some point in the future, the fading-faded thing has taken irreversible steps toward self-obliteration. But permanence can have a duration: it can mean an indisputable existence for a set period of time. Here a differentiation must be made between flesh-tattoo and poem-tattoo for clarity’s sake, but at the end of the day each is the other.
Every tattoo paid for and gotten at a tattoo shop has another, more underground history besides that constitutes the linear story leading up to, and following, its acquisition. New poems are written not beside the old poems, but atop them—on paper that will likewise adopt, for a time, the hue of human complexion. There’s a paradox, too, in that what expedites the thing’s obliteration is also crucial for its preservation; light makes what’s faded visible, but also further erodes it into the jungle of the illegible and the foreign. If an argument had to be made, though, for one at the expense of alternative possibilities, it would be hard to dispense with the knowledge that the poem on paper, as brought to life in paper materials, is all we have to go off of: here is an epigraph (or epitaph), an engraving, an object and a voice that proclaim “My Tattoo” is the tattoo, the writing that stays until its materials necessitate its alteration. So far I've had good and smudge-free results with this, along with stila and Eddie funkhouser. Printed text fades, becomes moldy, and grows sunburnt until it reaches the point where it, too, begins that odd cycle of regurgitation. The materials for representation don’t come from any other world than that of the represented, and at one point, they loop together again into an absolutely necessary Mobius: soil to seed to sapling to fiber to ink-filled paper to mulch to soil.

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