first treatment, second day

tattoo2
Originally uploaded by kaitlynwhat.

the place where i am getting my tattoo removed is called homeboy industries. it is in east la on first street. daniel doesn't want me going there alone. i'm not sure its really that big a deal. it was in a nice looking building. i was the only white person there except for some college kids doing community service. everyone else was hispanic, and most had tattoos that were in the process of being removed. i saw a faded "eighteen" written in cursive on a girl's neck. there were guys who had tattoos on their foreheads. "who would get a tattoo on their forehead?" daniel asked. "maybe the gang forced them, or maybe it sounded good at the time." like mine. i felt uncomfortable but everyone there was nice and the process only took about two minutes. i'm glad it wasn't any longer because they were burning my flesh with a laser for those two minutes. it hurt. i started to sweat the minute the laser touched my skin. the goggles they forced me to wear got all fogged up. i said something about how it smelled like burning flesh and the technician guy said, "oh yeah, BBQ." i'm glad they have a sense of humor.

the tattoo should fade 30-50% with this first treatment. i have to go back in a month for my second one. the whole process could take six months. in the picture the tattoo looks the same, but the area is swollen a bit, and there are little red marks around the letters. the letter "n" in and, and part of the "d" are fading fast, as well as the "k" and "e" in like. the laser breaks up the pigment and then the ink is absorbed and broken up more by my immune system.

i have been re-reading my favorite judy blume books and i feel like i am writing like her. which wouldn't be bad, if this were a yound adult novel about girls getting their periods.

removal

tattoo
Originally uploaded by kaitlynwhat.

i got this tatto a month before my nineteenth birthday at art to the bone in sherman oaks. my friend paul came with me and held my hand. the guy giving me the tattoo almost wrote "see" instead of "sea". i could've killed him.

it really didn't hurt that bad. when it was done and i was allowed, i pulled on the paper towel covering it and on the paper towel there was my tattoo, written blood. at first it tripped me out to think about it, how permanent it was. and there were a number of time when i thought, what have you done? but after a while i forgot that it was there, and i was happy with it.

but while working at the theater a lot of customers would ask me about it, complete strangers grabbed my attempting to read it, then would get fed up and say, just read it to me. whatever meaning the words had to me quickly disappeared. when i would read it to people most would just look at me, and nod, or smile. the worst was when they would say things like, oh that is so beautiful, that is so true. it made me feel phony, because i didn't get the tattoo so strangers would read it and gape over it's profundity. i think i got it to remind me of lacy, and what we went through together. i think. that is a whole other blog though.

so after a while i decided that i wanted to get my tattoo removed. i couldn't take it anymore. so i started a fund, a tattoo removal fund. the way in which i raised money was whenever someone asked what it said, i told them i would tell them for a dollar. a lot of people thought it was very charming, and i raised $14 in one year. i realized this was going to be very slow going, too slow going, so one day when i didn't have any cash and billy, dane, and i wanted to go get hot dogs in the park i used the tattoo removal fund and i bought us all hot dogs and sunkist orange soda. it was a nice afternoon, but the tattoo removal fund was done.

after i transferred theaters from encino to santa monica customers stopped asking me about the tattoo, and i too forgot about it again. but a friend found me an agency that removed the tattoo for free if it was under your elbows. i called them and i was put on a year long waiting list. as the year went by i thought about whether or not i really wanted it gone. and usually i came up with the answer, yes. but i couldn't remember when exactly i called and i was starting to believe that they were never going to call back. but yesterday, while i was making a garden burger they called. and now, today, i have an appointment at 2:40pm, to get my tattoo removed.

i have though about this, and i don't want to get my tattoo removed because of other people. i want to get it removed for the same reasons i got it, for me. looking at it now, i don't dislike it, but i know i can remember these lyrics and they can still mean something, and they don't have to be permanently inked into my arm. i'm not getting rid of it because it was just a phrase or because when i am a mom i'll regret it (daniel actually said moms aren't supposed to have tattoos); i am getting it removed because i am different from the girl who got that tattoo, and maybe some of the differences i am not used to, or ready for, but i need to accept. the girl i am now wouldn't get a tattoo. anyway, i don't even like the handwriting it is in so here we go, so the lyrics can exist eternally on the world wide web instead of on my body:

all of us go down slow and then we rise again and just like a tide out at sea, we lower and rise again

birthquake

i have never gone bowling during the day. we went today. down to shatto 39 lane, they really have 39 lanes, only one was in use. the place wasn't completely deserted, there were people playing video games, one or two teenage, mexican guys, probably skipping school. it would have been cool to skip school and go bowling. too late now. i bowled worst game i have ever bowled, which is saying a lot because i've bowled some doozies. for part of the game two of the employees sat and watched us bowl. they laughed, i'm not sure if it was at our skills (lack of) or our jokes. our conversation was usually sparked by whatever song was on the radio, john mayer, wham, melissa etheridge. it was like we were their afternoon entertainment. instead of watching oprah, or ellen, or tony danza, they sat around and listened to the four of us go off in tangents inspired by the songs on coast 103. we tried to get a free game but they wouldn't give in. so we left. we threw our shoes on the table and were out. there was also an earthquake while we were bowling, but no one seemed to mind. i did blame my gutter ball on it though. the clouds had wrapped la in a muggy blanket for a week and as we walked down vermont sweat dripped down my back. we stopped on the corner to get bacon-wrapped hotdogs. daniel bought me mine, because after all, it was my birthday.

our lady of guadalupe

friday started like this:

i am sitting on the couch doing nothing. Its 12:15pm and i've just woken up. i wish i could say i can't remember the last time i slept so late,but it happened earlier this week. my dad calls me, "whatcha doin'?" he asks, and all i can say is nothing, because that is really what i am doing. "i just woke up," i have to tell him because he can't believe that i'm really doing nothing. no dad, this is what people without jobs do, drink too much and sleep til noon.

around 2:

it is t's wedding day. she is marrying a gay brazilian man. she needs witnesses so daniel and i went, as well as an old dance friend i hadn't seen in years. the chapel is downtown and out front, over the windows, there is a large picture of a bride and a groom, their eyes have been scratched out so there is just white orbs on smiling faces. i walk t down the aisle, and i walk to fast, and i can't stop laughing. "stop laughing," she says out of the side of her mouth. at the end i give her a hug and sit down. the service was more religious than we expected and the minister talked of love, and god, and how nothing is sacred anymore. i laughed a little. the chapel was called guadalupe chapel and each one had a figurine or wall hanging of the saint, our lady of guadalupe.

that night:

there is a dinner party to celebrate the nuptials. i don't know half the people there but while outside smoking two gay guys (groom's side), go ga-ga for my eyes. "they're so clear," one says. "it's like i can see...i can see--"

"tomorrow," says the other.

"you're different." they tell me. "you're different than those other people in there. you're mature. you're supposed to be an actress."

why do gay guys always think i should be an actress? i tell them maybe i'll pick it up as a hobby, like crocheting, or softball. the night ends with a speech from t's now husband. he thanks her, and his appreciation is deep. i worry that i've eaten too much, and wonder if it will be hard to get up tomorrow.

six feet under

i woke up at 5 am this morning and when i tried to go back to sleep all i could think about was dropping dead. it wasn't like when you sit there and you just tell yourself over and over again that you are going to die, but it was more like i imagined the scenerios. picking out apples at the grocery store, dancing, sleeping, you're really vulnerable at any moment. i think i have been watching too much six feet under. i put in my ear plugs because i thought maybe all the extra noise was bothering me, but once all the street noise was shut out all i could hear was my heart beating and i just kept on thinking what a fragile organ it is. its always breaking or giving out on us, at anytime, with no notice. you always hear stories about enlarged hearts, or heart attacks at the age of 25. while i was lying there i told myself i would quit smoking. but i only smoke when i drink, so i'll have to quit drinking too. sleep really wasn't an option so i got up and watched more six feet under until i fell back asleep at 8am. i slept until noon. i haven't slept until noon in a really long time.

i tried to write that damn story that tortures me every day but i couldn't. i don't have a starting point. i've started it five times. daniel and i took a walk down wilshire and i told him i felt bad about not having a job. he said to me, you'll have job someday. i think that's what i am afraid of.

june gloom

i don't eat all day so by the time i go out to lunch with billy and daniel i am starving and i sit and honk to make billy come out of his house, instead of going inside to get him like a polite person would. when he gets in the car he says he didn't know it was urgent and i say i'm starving.

we eat at le paz, or les paz, or la pez, regardless it is el salvadorian food. the restaraunt is authentic, daniel keeps saying so, "this place is authentic." it has a red tile floor, but not nice tiles, tiles like in a high school, or a grocery store. the tables are covered with red and white gingham table clothes and doilies, there is plastic over them as well. "its real authentic looking," he says, "i wonder if they have cervezas."

"its two o'clock," i say.

I order huevos rancheros and the guys get pupusas. their's come with sodas, and billy gets a sunkist orange and i am reminded of the soda machine at the kester place and how when you got a soda is would come out all hot.

the waitress is pregnant, but still small. she is beautiful. she looks healthy and glows, after she takes our order she sits by the counter and eats tortilla chips and drinks milk. billy agrees that she is beautiful and i can imagine billy and his latina wife, their relationship unfolds in front of me, the birthday parties at the park, billy always having beans to eat, him making her laugh as he tries to speak spanish.

my huevos come with sourcream that looks like it has been run through the wash with a new red towel, just a tinge of pink, and that mexican cheese that looks and crumbles like feta but doesn't smell that feet. it also come with a quarter of avacado and rice and beans. i eat it fast and take bites of daniels pupusas as well. we talk about going to double features.

two white guys come in while we are eating and while ordering they ask the waitress loudly,"what are frijoles? frijoles?" she lookes at them like she is sad, and i can see her searching for the word. "beans," she whispers.

i am still thinking about the sourcream and the avacado when i go out to the valley for a birthday party. it is a at a bar in studio city. the bar is so dark i trip over the japanese style tables. i sit there for an hour and no one i know shows up. i don't drink but i watch person after person come in off the bright street and stick there hands out into the dark, feeling there way into the crowded bar. i leave around nine thirty and drive around. i end up back at the old kester place. i go buy a bottle of wine at the liquor store down the street. the guy there remembers me, "you weren't just going to sneak in without saying hello?"

"i was going to say hello," i say. "i'm buying some wine."

he rings me up and i feel compelled to tell him i don't live here anymore. "i haven't been here in a while," i say. "i moved out of the valley."

"yeah, people do that and then they just disappear. we never see them again."

i smile and take the wine and walk out of the store. "nice seeing you," i say as i turn and push through the door. it chimes as i exit.

i go back to the kester place. i still have my keys and i open the gate. i go to the apartment and ring the door bell three times. i press my ear against the door. then i use my key. the place is empty, not yet cleaned. there are still the remnants of us on the carpet, the walls. little pieces of paper, our dirt, small pieces of food from our meals, they are all over the carpet. it hasn't been repainted or even vacuumed.

i go out to the balcony and sit down. the ground is dirty and the bars of the railing rise around me. i open the wine. i got a kind with a twist top knowing that i would be without a corkscrew. i go to light a cigarette but i can't find any matches. i look around the balcony and see a box in the corner. the mathes are nice, wooden and long, with white head from some restaurant in malibu and i wonder who they belong to, or belonged to.

next to me is a pot with a dead plant in it. the bulb is dry, like a rotten onion. i look at it and again wonder who i belongs to. i feel like such a stranger. why are there things in this apartment that i don't recognize? i drink the wine straight from the bottle and i smoke my cigarette and try to remember what it was like to know this place.