Memories Fade

Sealed in Blood

As I begin this blog entry, I’m sitting on the couch at a friends house here in Colombia, receiving a tattoo. 2 actually. In memory of the unforgettable experience I’ve had here. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few months, is that memories fade with time. Even those of the people you love and care about the most in this world, in this life. 

I began collecting tattoos when I was 16 years old. My first tattoo being on a couch at a house my brother was living in in Durango at the time. 8th and 8th. The infamous party house amongst us brothers and friends of ours. I always knew the first thing I wanted was a tattoo that my dad and several of his buddies had. The blue oyster cult logo. That was my first. As all I ever knew of my dad were photos and stories, I saw the tattoo in almost every picture. 

Since then I’ve collected over 50 tattoos. Some of which have little to no real significance or meaning, but every tattoo, whether it’s thought out for years or a spur the moment decision, has a story; events leading up to it, the process of it. Is all part of the story. 

Tattoos are something that can never be taken away, broken, lost or stolen from you; they’re one of the few things you can take with you to the grave. Unlike the money spent on them, they will tout and decay with the rest of our body when we go in the ground. To some people, it’s a silly thing, there’s no reason for it, and in general, it just isn’t everybody’s thing. but for me, it’s almost a sacred ritual. Entrusting somebody to put their art, something they put their work and time into for many years, their love, and a part of them into your skin. A permanent souvenir to take with you until your last breath and beyond. 

Some are just for kicks, some resemble dreams, whether accomplished, lost or abandoned. Dreams of love, of life. Some resemble memories, experiences and lessons. For me they resemble all of the above. Tattoos in honor and memory of my friends and family that have left this world; often much too soon; and although with time the time spent together fades with an ever eroding memory, the tattoos remain, and always will. 

This is the second time I’ve gotten a tattoo in a foreign country on my travels. And although it’s not quite the environment that I would like it to be, or the setting, it’s part of the story part of the experience. A memory of this trip that will stay with me long after the memories fade. And God knows they will face, unfortunately. 

I spent 4 years with my previous partner. I loved her, more than I loved myself. I swore I’d do anything for her, and I did my best, the best way I know how to do. Somehow, for reasons maybe forever unknown to me, her love for me faded. You can read about my darkest hour in my earlier blog. But in a nutshell, I wanted to kill myself. I’ve lost a lot of friends and family in my life. I’ve known death for as long as I can remember. I’ve felt intense pain both physically, emotionally and spiritually; but I’ve never felt so awful in my life as when I lost my “true love.” I can’t tell you how many times on this trip I’ve thought to myself “I’m so happy I chose to stay here.” Looking out over beautiful oceans and landscapes, meeting new friends, feeling what it feels to love again and sharing that love with another human, then having to say goodbye, and knowing it’s all going to be ok. The experiences and emotions I’ve felt in my heart and soul over this time in Colombia, is something I could only attempt to put into words. The point is that, just like the memories, the feelings I felt for her, before during and after, have since begun to fade. The strongest feelings, the most memorable of times have begun to lose their shine, their significance, importance, and their presence in my heart, mind, body and soul.

for this reason, I knew I had to get a tattoo here. My friend Alex is currently (still) tattooing my arm; a phrase that sums up everything of my journey, and another piece too. Talking to Alex, I asked when he started tattooing. He said he started when he was 13 years old. He is 28 years old now. He is tattooing out of his house in his room, because being a tattooist in Cartagena is very hard. The rent for a studio is expensive in the good areas, primarily because of the tourism, and the fact that it’s difficult for a lot of people not born into any kind of wealth here, to save enough money to take the next leap or especially to open a store or studio of their own in a location that will draw business in. 

In any event, it makes me happy to support local artists in my own town and home country, but especially in other countries to support people doing what they love to do and are passionate about. I mean, who doesn’t want to be supported in doing what they love to do, what brings them joy, fulfillment, purpose and meaning? I know I want to be supported in these things. Especially on this journey, being able to support some of the people here, whether it be just rounding up to the nearest $10,000 pesos for a cab ride or restaurant, buying $350.00 USD worth of boards from the only guy who is selling skateboards in this entire city, out of his house because it’s extremely difficult to pay shop rent in a prime location, or the tattooist who has dedicated more than half of his life to his work, to his art. What may not be all that much to me, spending my money in USD, goes a hell of a lot farther for the people here.

The memories I’ve made here, the experiences, the friends I’ve made, and the perspective and appreciation for what I have compared to others, is powerful; and I am immensely grateful to have had the opportunity to spend this much time here, with the people here, getting to know their stories, their struggles and hardships, understanding the second face of the city and the reality within it. It’s something not everybody sees. Again, not that I’m special or better than anyone else, but it is the reality. I’ve been to a lot of places where “white people” don’t go, and most tourists (even from this country), don’t often go. Places where if I were alone, I may as well be asking to die. Coming back to the previous blogs about “The Darkest Hour,” and “Fear,” that is exactly the kind of experience I was seeking. Having already been in a state of mind, that I was potentially willing, and contemplating ending my own life, I thought, I’d much rather go out doing something, or being somewhere like the wrong part of town in a foreign country. Although, I have gained an entirely new appreciation for life, and all of the wonderful blessings and experiences it has to offer.

So now it’s time to go get some food. I’ve been spending the last several days with my brother Tom, who on a whim came down here using a flight credit he had. I’m very glad he did, and I hope that his experience here was as good as mine. I’ve been struggling a little bit with what to write about, so I’m sure over the next few days (especially the 12 hour overnight layover I have in Miami coming home), I will find the time to write more and catch you all up on the other experiences we have had.

1 of 2 new tattoos I got from Alex today. “Que Chimba De Vida,” which translates (roughly) to “How cool life is.” It stems from a Karol G song. Which expresses gratitude for hard work, pushing through hard times and making it to the better days, and celebrating the blessings that life gives when you don’t give up, despite what others say, or despite how much you want to.

2 of 2 tattoo. El corazon de barbwire, colored with the colors of the Colombian flag. This particular heart is also a reference to Karol G, as she has the tattoo, and also it is featured on many of the products and shirts and all of that.

Alex and I in his room tattooing.