Charlotte to Logan

I love the unique social experiment of airport travel.

I love that wine bars open at 8:30AM and that the local tequilaria pours its first margaritas at 9... in the morning.  Tequila, afterall, makes the world go 'round.  And planes go up.

I love the lines at Starbucks; the women (guilty) who block bathroom mirrors at either end of their trips for the sole purpose of primping, pampering, and preparing.

I love the unusual dexterity and spectacular acrobatics born of dodging errant suitcases and overloaded carry-ons.

I love the Eastern European woman who cleans the bathroom and hawks compliments for tips- "Hello Pretty Lady," "So beautiful, Pretty Lady."

I love the inevitable mad dash from Gate X to Gate Y to make the connecting flight to Padukah, KY, and the Asian super-punk on the same flight (on every flight, really) for who-knows-what-reason.

I love the ideas of arrivals and departures- what better way to consider life?  Comings and goings.

I love the security agents- I always attempt to be inappropriately cordial to them.  They don't know what to make of unexpected niceness.

I love the people who drive the handicap trolley.  They are always so jolly.

I love that everyone watches everyone else and eavesdropping is proudly committed by all.

I love the anticipation.  And at the risk of sounding like a tag line from Love Actually, I love the anticipation most of all.

It is a triumphant thing- to see the giddiness on the faces of fellow travelers- the impatience to get where they are going to do what they will do and see who they will see.  What a beautiful image of fulfillment.

Everyone has a story.  And nowhere is that more obvious, nowhere are those stories more present, than in the airport.

A Living Canvas

Someone, today, posed the following question:

"While we're doing 'why's', why do you paint on your body."

And so I pondered.

Why do I get tattoos?

It began with a tiny red Sanskrit symbol on my foot- the symbol of OM, the universal vibration.  I wanted it for a specific reason.  I wanted a permanent reminder to myself that I am worth it.  That I am worth life, that I deserve to be amongst the living.  More than anything else, I wanted to see something profound on this body that I have (and had) so abused for so long.  OM, to me is grace.  I put the symbol on my foot so that I could be permanently grounded in grace.

Unfortunately that tattoo is an epic fail.  That's not to say that the theories behind it failed.  Or that I want to fall off the face of the earth without a trace left behind (albeit… sometimes these are both true).  It failed because I was about 89 pounds when I got it, frail and sick, and my body simply did not have the physical capacity to heal itself.  So now it looks like a brand or a scar more than anything else.  Which, I suppose, is fitting in its own way.

Here is what I wrote back to my someone with his question:

I paint on my body because it gives me pride in my body (in a very vain sense, it does make me feel a little beautiful, which is not to say that I think I am… but you know…).  It gives me a sense of wonder and love for this vessel- that it can be used as a canvas and it has such lovely potential to silently and beautifully project belief and art.  I have a flying witch and dancing witches.  Flight and dancing, movement and joy and REMEMBER KATE, YOU ARE STILL WORTH IT.  I feel like my tattoos are little celebrations of alive-ness.  I have the stag entwined on my ribs (that one… oh man, so beautiful and so much meaning behind it), runic text and symbols running down my forearms.  I see them and I feel present. And a part of something bigger than my own little self.
Does any of that make sense?

The Beginning of the Stag
Entwined. 

I guess the point that I tried to convey is that since beginning to get tattoos, my body has become something other than a body.  It is a living canvas, a breathing work of art.  Under the watchful eye and steady hand of Lee Greene, tattoo artist extraordinaire, I am a moveable gallery.  It is beautiful to behold these masterpieces on my self.

And I want people to know that I believe in grace.  That I am a witch, and an alchemical air symbol, and I love flight and dance and all things that are good.

Until Next Time, my Dearest Darlings.

Ps. I do have an upcoming consultation with Lee.  Little does he know...

A Long Overdue Obsessions

Currently (re)obsessed with travelogues… Now, I will not lie- I have always been compulsively compelled to follow other traveller's adventures.  Whether through blogs or proper books, or even over email, I adore reading about going.  Right now I am devouring Anatolian Days and Nights.  It is categorically NOT helping to assuage my wanderlust.  Not to mention that sitting on my bookshelf, looking equally as delicious, is a perfectly titled Serge Bastarde Ate My Baguette.

I feel a reading trend happening.

I cannot WAIT to see this!

Ellie Goulding is no Florence Welch.  And we all know how I feel about Florence.  But Ms. Goulding can belt it out like whoa, I will not deny her that.  I am digging on her album Halycon, the deluxe edition.  Mostly because it includes Burn.  And forget about this.

Yes, I do have a guilty pleasure in pop music.  Yes I do.

This man is Beautiful.

But so it this one.  And he's coming back in Sherlock wicked soon.  Which brings me to another obsession. Perhaps this qualifies as two- as it is an amazing series and produced by the BBC.

Okay, I know that I am late to the game on this one (a million apologies for the pun).  I have no idea how I missed the boat: Words With Friends.  It is evil and addictive and everything a good obsession should be, especially considering how much I adore Scrabble and Bananagrams and other word games of the genre.

Yum, obsessions.

I know it's a short list this time around.  But at least it's a list, eh?

'Till we next meet.

Self-Esteem, Hypocrisy, and the Canadian.

It is a cold, clear, crisp Friday night.  The ground has frost already enclosed around what little grass is left dying in it and what detritus lays atop it.  It is beautiful.

And yet, instead of being out and about like the other single twenty-somethings in my proposed socio-economic category, schmoozing and flirting and freezing my tail feathers off, I am at home.

I am in bed at 10:45, sipping tea and feeling judged by a Canadian financial blogger.  Yes, I am materialistic, hypocritical, and vain.  I like expensive shoes and I drive a gas-guzzling car.  I got a dog even though I have school debts.  I am this dude's worst nightmare.

And I'm a witch to boot.

I spend too much money on clothing, way too much money on travel and way way too much money on books.  I could probably have paid off my debt by now if it were not for the books.

I live irresponsibly and irrationally and with little regard to practicalities.  And I do a damned good enough job on my own making myself feel badly, guilty, and worthless.

So…

Suck it, Canadian dude.