Megan Stielstra's Blog

Years ago, I was dating this guy with lots of tattoos. One day, at some show, he met another guy who had the same tattoo he did, so he made an appointment to get his covered up due to this theory he had about blah blah they can’t be replicated ‘cause then they lose their magic blah the meaning behind the ink is the meaning behind the man and I’m nothing if not unique, baby blah blah blah (thinking about this now, I wonder how he’d of reacted if it was a woman who had the same tattoo. Probably would’ve dumped me to pursue her, since they were meant to be and all). Back then, I didn’t have much of an opinion about this because I was twenty years old and he got me my first fake ID (it was for a five foot tall Mexican girl named Juliana and it worked EVERY TIME) and furthermore, I didn’t have any of my own tattoos yet because of Henry David Thoreau.

My dad is really into Thoreau. I was brought up reading Walden and, as with me and most philosophies, I ascribe to some of the principles—

• If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.

• Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.

• Things do not change; we change.

• How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.

—while doing my best to ignore some others—

• Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.

• [Water is] the only drink for a wise man.

Anyhow, he has some very specific ideas about respecting nature and subsequently your body, which, when I was a little girl translated into my not being allowed to get my ears pierced (which is a problem because, when someone doesn’t know what to get you for a gift, earrings are always a safe bet. Doesn’t matter if you’re ten or thirty [this applies only to those people who don’t know you’re a writer. If they know you’re a writer, they get you On Writing by Steven King or an Indian-fabric journal from Urban Outfitters. The kind with homemade paper that your pen leaks through], they get you earrings, and you say, “They’re beautiful!” because you’re polite, but there’s always someone at the party who’ll notice and say (loudly), “You don’t have your ears pierced!” and then the gift-giver feels bad, and everybody else wants to know WHY you don’t have holes in your ears, and if you feel like going into the whole Thoreau/Dad thing you tell them, “Because of Henry,” and if you’re too tired for all of that you say you’re scared of needles) but, when I grew up and wanted tattoos of my own, I knew I had to wait until I was one hundred percent sure of what I wanted. Out of respect for Henry—I felt I owed him that much. So I waited until I was twenty-seven years old and, after much thought and experience and a particularly emotional night, I decided: a Ouija board across my lower back.

So today, my sister-in-law Mary sent me this, and the first thing that crossed my mind was, “Wow, that’s beautiful,” and then, “That’s his stomach, that musta hurt like crazy!” and then, “I wonder what his story for getting it is?” and then, “I wonder if he ever gets the line, ‘Hey, baby, you need someone to play that Ouija board with?’ like I do every time my shirt rides up in the back,” and then I think about that guy I knew who got his tattoo covered up and I know that’s the last thing I’d ever do. It’s such a part of who I am now—all of them are.

Including the two new ones I’m getting next month.

I know, Henry. I know.