Are these Christian tattooists in the paper any stranger—Simon Stylites spent a life standing on a stone pillar, sixty feet up— did not come down for cramps or winter rain.
Could I survive the Sacred Heart with “Hail, Mary, Full of Grace” across my arm, or the crucifixion in three colors against my sternum between my breasts. Needles to skin over soft tissue is less painful, but flesh is grass and sags— art lasts best close to bone.
No stranger than hair shirts, hundreds of needles for hours, for days, even years, to get the complete St. Michael on my shoulder to the writhing, twisting dragon down my leg. Or my whole life to get the Last Supper with Stations of the Cross, and the proper text— Jesus’ words in red— covering every inch of skin, eyelids, lips, nose, between fingers and toes, while invisible capillaries under the skin carry the images molecule by molecule into the living catacombs of bone.
The name Roman Polanski conjures up different responses. To many film buffs he is the Polish wunderkind who rocketed out of the Lodz film school in Poland to direct the dark and mysterious Knife in the Water (1962), a tale of fear and betrayal on the high seas heralded for its thematic complexity and perfect camera placement.
The makers of Hellboy II: The Golden Army must have had the time of their lives. The director, Guillermo del Toro, and his team of set, costume and special-effects designers provide a cornucopia of visual splendors.
Maggie, her grandparents’ dog, can’t come with us to the zoo, we say she’s not feeling well and try to leave it at that, bring up tigers and polar bears, offer Twizzlers and juice, but all she wants is the dog, asks if we gave her medicine, when will she come back so we can fix her with a screwdriver, today’s new word, so many new sounds, so much new these days we can’t keep track of all the people and places she knows, and the names of things, reminding us we cannot save her from the word, or save ourselves from having to explain what dead means, as if we’ve waded through all we were taught and emerged on one side or the other, unable to dismiss or believe there’s one true voice that could reveal a pattern we’ve never picked up on in the sunlight and trees, some force behind why that could lead us beyond our parents’ loving euphemisms, beyond we simply don’t know.
The kindergarten bus bounces past me this morning as I shamble out to my car and a little cheerful kid waves To me shyly and whatever it is we are way down deep Opens like a fist that’s been clenched so long it did not Think it would ever open again and for a moment I am That kid and she is my daughter and I’m waving to her Hoping she will wave to me and we think that we can’t Write that for which we do not have words but actually Sometimes you can if you go gently between the words
Bill Haslam, Republican governor of Tennessee, recently vetoed a bill that would have made the Bible the official state book. Haslam is a Christian who says his favorite authors are the popular Christian writers Philip Yancey and Eugene Peterson. The governor said the nation’s founders “recognized that when the church and state were combined, it was the church that suffered in the long run.” Treating the Bible as a cultural artifact trivializes it, he argued. The two Republican sponsors of the bill said they would try to override the veto, which can be done with a mere majority of votes in the two chambers of the state legislature (Los Angeles Times, April 17).