okay, i promise, last post tonight.
my dad was an artist. he used oil pastels, and his pictures loocked as if they were painted with light. he drew mostly landscapes, serene, sometimes tubulent, depending on his life at the moment. one time, when he was in his prime, i believe, he painted a butterfly for me. i think because he knew i liked bugs. many years later, when i had begun to hate his life (he was an alcoholic, but that was a symptom of a deep depressive disorder, one i have inherited), the picture sat in my closet, dusty, the glass in the frame broken thanks to books pilled on top of it. when he died, this painting had new meaning for me. i had survived sexual assult, and could identify with the butterfly emerging from the husk of its cacoon.
one time, i drew this picture in black ink of a butterfly black and white. it was torn at the edges, one wing was almost dislocated. this was in the time of not being able to speak of what had happened to me. i showed it to my dad, and he seemed to know. he took my template and created something like a moth, with swirling edges in the wings, but still devoid of color or anything in the backround.
as a testement to my father, who had lived an unfullfilled life due to circumstances of genetics and hardship, who i loved, and as a testement to my rising above circumstances,i want to design a tattoo that incorperates all of these things into one. my body tells a story, of scars and depth and beauty that i want to be etched into clear pictures and print one day. all of these experiences have made me, and what better way to share a story?
i dont know why im sharing this. i guess ive thought about it, but wanted to write it out.