misstree it's supposed to be there. i know it is. all these bits of aleatoric_concinnity are fantastic reinforcement, but it's the Rightness of it that has me.

i should explain. it might even be far far back in these pages... right, then, that i tell the story here.

seven years ago, i went through a rebirth... it involved meat and magic and chaos, and was the proper start of mine own Path.

seven years ago, i went out one night with a plastic lizard tucked in my bra. when i returned to the realm of my demon_lover and disrobed, the little fella was clinging to my breast. when i peeled him off, an imprint, and one of the very very *very* few times i saw that companion surprised. he demanded that i go look in a mirror, and bring back a sharpie.

there he was, my leetle leezard, curling to complement the one he rested on, and looking for all the world like he was meant to be there. while a million things have passed from mind, that one image has stayed.

for seven years, i've carried this around, knowing that when it was supposed to happen, it would. because of the nature of the time and the image, i've known it was to be done with blade rather than needle, which complicates things. i've made many attempts, knowing that such things don't just drop into laps, but never come very close.

so lately i've been going through a lot of weird progressions. portland is a lovely place full of bizarre and brilliant people, and being in such fertile soil has blossomed me much, and having other souls as reference has allowed me much knowledge of the self... i am at a turn where i cannot but accept what and who and how i am, my blend of species and my way of doing things and the fire i can't keep quiet and the billion branches i can evolve along.

i am learning to own myself and own up to myself. one of the biggest labels in this fit of finding is "shaman". i buck and kick at any labels, and am most properly simply "mutt" in such arenas, but i cannot deny its accuracy, and only recently am coming to realize that i should not feel the need to, learning to not just accept but honor the particular lovely mishmosh i have made.

so back to the lizard.

so there was this show, a week ago exactly i believe. an amazing local theatrical suspension group and three finnish entertainers best described as blood_clowns... *sighs heavily* i suppose i should explain a bit of that, at the very least their part of the show. it's a bit of a modernization of geek tricks, with some of the old staples thrown in (beds of nails, blockhead and other things through sinuses), but a lot more of needles being shoved through tongues and throats, pony kegs being swung from cock_and_balls, things like that. that's the what, but it was the how that was impressive. there was this funness, this grin, this audience-grabbing charisma, mwah, bootiful.

i got to talk to the gents later, and got to ask one of them for tips with sinus tricks, spent a piece of time talking. then, lo and behold, i find out that he is lagging behind in portland to do body mod work, specifically cutting scarifications.

my hands were shaking as i wrote the letter of inquiry. i pored over every word, hoping he'd say yes, and hoping that somehow, somewhere, i'd go from having no money to having enough, and that he'd work for what i could get. he answered back, and in our phone conversation, he took a vague little description and elaborated on it in just the right way, knew without me saying what should be done.

there was communication back and forth, culminating with a coffee house meeting. the first comments between us there were about the weather, but quickly devolved into gleefully prattling on about the different ways the world might end. when we got to talking about mods, not only did he have a good knowledge of that one, but he gave me answers about an ear mod that had eluded everyone else i spoke to. this is the person that i want to do this, after seven long god damned years i found the artist.

and though i've been mystified until now why it's here, i realize now. knowing that i had to come up with the money, i started talking, asking the crows to carry the message, begging and bargaining with every spirit, deity, and concept i could lay hands on. it's what i do. i'm a shaman, god dammit. this leetle leezard, he's my diploma, my hancock on the dotted line. i'm going through the final tests right now, jumping down rabbit holes on an hourly basis, slowly getting more temporarily insane, trying to believe nothing but that this will happen, and 50 hours away and i still only have half the cash.

it'll happen, and i'll tell marvelous stories about how it hurt to get it done, but i discovered nine levels of hell with my first shower, and i will crow and crow and crow.

and in the meantime, i've finally blurted out the why, all in one breath, and that is another page in the test.

thankyou, tip your waitress.
ANGRY oh, if i had some more money i would, but if she is rude then i won't thank you.

people become bitchy because they are sick of their jobs... so thats where one negative flow starts... people become more and more bitter.. and it's like catching a bug.... thats why people aught to wear more colours and the customers should be less demanding.

i tip myself mate ! especially if you are fucking rude to me ! it can't be so bad to leave a cork screw on a table- they didn't mind trust me - i was having a laugh with them. i think it is a lot worse if dip your finger in the butter and flick it on the food with no love at all. you can taste the difference when something is made with love. i will go home sit on the floor and count the money i made... and feel completely depressed that i have to work for someone like YOU to pay for my keep. i'm not trained because noone will fucking train me... it's my Daddy that suffers.
misstree there he is, muttering away. already i miss the experience of it, though i am soverythankful for the pictures that accompanied the event; being able to see for always strips of flesh being pulled off keeps memory close at hand.

now is a new kind of trial. scars of his kind are notoriously hard to heal, what with the first and best layer of defense being at the bottom of a container of rubbing alcohol. infections are common, and i'm not famous for my cleanliness or consistently being good to my body. also, the healing will vastly affect the outcome, with the story told not with ink but knitted flesh, a seed planted that hasn't even begun to sprout.

i remember what the artist told me about aftercare, but there are so many ways for it to go awry; my tattoo is slightly blotchy because no one told me not to overmoisturize, and that's a simple and common mod. with this, well. the lizard will be talking for a long while, and i will worry like a new mother for a long while, but what matters more than how he looks is that he is there.
Lemon_Soda My dear, there are no proper words.

*is grinning and glowing*
misstree if any are interested, not squeamish, and not allergic to bewbies, pictures and commentary are hereabouts:

this moment has been brought to you by the fine art of shameless_self_promotion.
thorn it looks amazing dear.

i love it.
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