At A Glance Author Nyx Contact Nyx@bme.anon IAM nyx When It just happened Artist Self Studio Exotics/Computer room Location Alberta, Canada I attempted to retrieve some modification today; I felt in the need of constructive pain instead of the endless knot I was travelling in grief, of false abandonment and a liar's linear perception of reality. My familiar is dead, a week before this, and her ashes had arrived today in a silken blue bag.
Unfortunately, the local tattoo shop was closed, and the local piercing place said they just didn't have time to do what I wanted [a surface star] today; I went home dejected, and even my stretch to 2g didn't work out, as I'd lost the 2g taper and was attempting to partially use a 0g to compensate.
Feeling sorry for myself, full of pity, full of churning order and quiescent chaos - did it make sense? No. Then I remembered that there was something I could do for myself.
I've cut my skin in the past to alleviate pain - little tiny wounds, barely scratches in the skin, and more recently a thirteen-barred symbol which at least carried some meaning, and was done more as a ritual scarification than an expression of suffering. This time, I wanted it to be something. I wanted a ritual, meaning, life in me - I wanted a symbol pulsing out of my blood and flesh, a reminder that I am not diminished by pain, but instead grow out of it.
Therein enters the lotus-symbol. For a while, I'd been planning my next tattoo as a lotus - somewhere - on my chest, as a pectoral - on my hip - on my thigh - on the base of my spine. Lacking a tattoo machine, needing reaffirmation of my resilience, I decided to bring the lotus into myself through scarification; I didn't have the right tools, but I had a strong need.
My right thigh is unmarked, and so I chose it there, the dominant side of my body, and the thigh for the base of my fleshy reality - the column of the temple gates, a reminder that the foundation, like the lotus, is based in the sticky mud of the world - and if I cannot shake it off, I can ascend from it.
Before I continue, I'd like to point out that this was utterly non-sterile and dangerous; I risked contamination at every step, and this is definitely not how a scarification should be undertaken if you choose to create one.
After turning on a playlist of appropriate music, I found a suitable piece of line art online and hooked up the printer for it; duly printed it out, and began to prepare a template for use by using a razor-blade chipped out of a disposable razor to cut out the outline of the lotus. After a few trips and errors, I finally finished the outline, placed it on my leg, and began tracing. Of course, the pen I was using wasn't working...and the next...and finally the third managed a decent blue streak. The lotus was sketchily outlined in blue - upside down to me, but right-side-up when I was standing - and I sketched it in more darkly, filling in gaps where the stencil had failed.
I inhaled deeply and swabbed off the skin with alcohol wipes, and began cutting with the razor-blade. As usual, there were a few false starts before I got the feel of the blade in my skin, and then I began cutting in earnest, attempting to keep to the long, sweeping curves of the lotus blossom, which I more or less achieved. I did need to stop here and there to wipe off blood with the alcohol wipes; I stopped to admire the beautiful red seething out of the thin wounds, cleaned it away [or tried], and continued. I went over each petal once, and then again, and again, inspecting each line to ensure it was deep and true, making sure none were too light or had 'skips' where my pressure had varied. By the last few rounds, I was singing, throwing my head back every now and again in triumph; the pain had melted off like snow, and I could feel myself at the centre again, still and calm and renewed.
I decided, finally, that it was as good as it would get with the razor, and put everything away - the razors and used wipes into a garbage bag, the blanket I had been using back onto its chair, and I gently kissed the bag that held the ashes of my familiar; I could almost feel her against my face again.
I got into the shower briefly and washed the caked blood off with antibacterial soap, then got out and swabbed it roughly with alcohol to irritate the wound and promote scarring. Ten minutes later, you find me here, writing this; my thigh aches wonderfully, and my heart hurts, but without poison.
I believe I will go over this once again with a one-use scalpel to ensure that it scars properly; I want it to form a keloid, white scar, and become permanent. Saving that, I may tattoo over it.
Of the thousand lotuses that make up being, I believe one more is open in me today.
Namaste.