When I finally placed my car into park, I thought I heard a long sigh from its engine, which was exhausted from the lengthy trip beginning in Boston, traveling North on 95 to the tip of Maine, then South again, finding the way to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, on the most redundant route possible. I stepped out of my vehicle and inhaled, tasting the water that I heard, milliseconds later, pounding against the assortment of wooden docks that I had spotted from the highway. Seeing these docks from the steel bridge that peered over the city's boundary had caused me to take the next immediate exit, which, in turn, led me to where I was standing. "It's a windy one today," a passing local said to me, regarding the weather, with a charm I hadn't encountered since leaving the Midwest. I nodded, though maybe more out of approval than agreement, because who was I to know what was and wasn't normal in this foreign city? I looked out beyond the light blue hood of my tired automobile, and it was like I had stepped into a modified world where tattoos and a Zen attitude were a requirement for living. As I began my stroll toward the watery smell, I encountered bright cartoonish illustrations, bold tribals, various names in script, and all types of crosses adorning arms and shoulders and shirtless backs. Earring holes were no longer a standard fourteen gauge, but rather quarter-sized two gauges with black buttons or hollow pipes filling in the open space. I passed a group of twenty-somethings who adorned identical blue t-shirts and were passing out free ice cream to advertise for a bank, a smile painted on each of their laughing faces because today they were the ice cream men they had loved as children. A set of adults were lined up on a church lawn engaging in what appeared to be a yoga class, their arms positioned above their heads (palms together) with their right sole situated on the inside of their left knee, each and every set of eyes closed. Despite my inkless torso and appendages and my wide-eyed, curious visage, I felt like I was at home, and I got the feeling that everybody else in the world would, as well, if they were so lucky to enter this town. The park that lay before me just a single block away was a scene from a movie with perfectly placed extras scattered about.
Didion paints uneasy and somber images when describing the Santa Ana winds. “There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air… some unnatural stillness, some tension,” starts the essay off with the image of Los Angeles people in a sense of stillness or tense. She further adds, “Blowing up sandstorms out along Route 66… we will see smoke back in the canyons, and hear sirens in the night,” propagating the uneasy and stark image of Los Angeles. “The baby frets. The maid sulks,” she adds, giving a depressing view into the effects of the Santa Ana winds on people. Didion, in an attempt to show the craziness associated with the Santa Ana winds, points out the Indians who throw themselves into the sea when bad winds came. At any rate, Didion attempts to show the negative effects of the Santa Ana winds through images of stillness, uneasiness, and sobriety.
Life is not something simple as we often prefer. There are many different approaches and in most instances we will not find the desired fulfillment in any of them. In the short story “Parkers Back” written by Flannery O’Connor we have a multi-faceted view into the life of the primary character O.E. Parker. In addition we see into the life of Sarah Ruth, Parker’s wife and possibly into the life of author Flannery O’Connor, who died shortly after completing this short story. The characters in this story deal with Tattoos from totally different perspectives and get completely different results. Tattoos are the focal point of the story and prominent on many occasions. Without purpose in life people often make bad decisions which impact the rest of their lives and those they interact with. How often do we pretend to be something or somebody we are not, and have to live with the unpleasant results?
(2014). The Artification of Tattoo: Transformations within a Cultural Field. Cultural Sociology, 8(2), 142. Retrieved from http://www.galileo.usg.edu.
This historically cultured area is a beautiful, yet expensive home for thousands of people. Hingham, Massachusetts generally remains quiet and free from any intense excitement and terror. While walking down the shores of Hingham one can hear the quiet crashing of the waves and look out and see the big lights of Boston. Hingham and the rest of the south shore act as a safe haven from the big city life.
The arrival to Manhattan was like an entry to a whole new world: from the sea, its breezes, color, and landscapes, to the heart of the city beating louder than ever at the Whitehall Terminal. I could smell New York’s bagels in Battery Park with a mixture of the most relaxing scents: the coffee people were holding while walking down the streets, the old walls of Castle Clinton ...
Firstly, Ocean City boasts an awe-inspiring appeal to our senses through its grace. I begin each visit standing stagnant; stunned by the beauty the city entails. Each time, I soak up the sensation of the grain beneath my feet, the way it appeared as though the waves
for the reader of the town and residents of this town on a normal summer morning.
“Each of us has our own inner concentration camp…we must deal with, with forgiveness and patience as full human beings; as we are and what we will become.” (Pattakos, 2004). Despite the negative social stigma behind tattoos, many are able to find significance within the concept. A permanent marking, that, can either be shared with the world as a public statement, or hidden away as a personal mark of identity; whether it’s an expression of family, culture or values, to a certain extent, tattoos are an assertion of individuality. In his autobiography, ‘Man’s Search for Meaning,’ Viktor Frankl identifies that within the complex diversity of the human race, we all share the common experience of suffering. From Ah Xian, a Buddhist artist who experienced
“The impact on the world today through the history and visual reasoning behind tattoos, lead to the inquiry of personal life changing experiences.
Looking at the world today there are many different traditions that have been passed down from generation to generation, but one tradition that seems to get overlooked and miss interpreted is tattoos. Tattoos have been a way of life for many years and have many different meaning to different countries, races, and social groups. Tattoos have been given to many different age groups of people in many different ways such as nails, sticks, bamboo, barracuda teeth, and many of other different tools that have been passed down throughout time. Most people think that tattoos only express people’s feelings in negative ways but there are many more important meanings for most people’s tattoos and it changes from culture to culture. This paper will discuss the history behind tattoos, and the cultural significance from several different cultures. It will address the American point of view in comparison with these other cultures.
...patronage to a belief. Through time the tattoo has been plagued with rising fear that those who receive them will automatically become an outcast of the social order. The fear of body art is calming in the general public’s eyes and whether it is a biker or a school teacher with one they are beginning to be looked at as the same. The rising population of those getting tattoos has directly leaded to the rising population of those accepting them. It took a while for cultural opinion of tattoos to swing from taboo to standard practices of people from all races, ethnicities, ages, and genders. Time has granted the sanctioned onslaught of bad looks, and snubbed noses to slowly die down and natural acceptance of body ink to be granted. It is not just the crazy neighbor next door with a tattoo but the respected doctor up the street or your Sunday school teacher at church.
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
As I walked down the sidewalk, my nose picked up the salty scent of the sea breeze. I looked ahead and saw the gleaming beach in the far distance. Before me, the tranquil city along with the endless blue sea sandwiched the golden beach that stretched across for miles. Then my eyes were grasped by the incredible beauty of the city skyscrapers that stood hundreds of meters tall, and they probably had also captured the sight of many other tourists. Some people were jogging and others were bike riding Just as the yellow sun rises from behind the buildings. It’s easy for many people t...
When you associate anything with New York City it is usually the extraordinary buildings that pierce the sky or the congested sidewalks with people desperate to shop in the famous stores in which celebrities dwell. Even with my short visit there I found myself lost within the Big Apple. The voices of the never-ending attractions call out and envelop you in their awe. The streets are filled with an atmosphere that is like a young child on a shopping spree in a candy store. Although your feet swelter from the continuous walking, you find yourself pressing on with the yearning to discover the 'New York Experience'.
The trend of tattooing grew rapidly as a rebellious act in the early 80’s, however, tattooing actually dates back much further. The earliest record of tattoos was discovered back in 1991 on “the frozen remains of the Copper Age Iceman; scientists have named ‘Ötzi.’ His lower back, ankles, knees, and a foot were marked with a series of small lines, made by rubbing powdered charcoal into vertical cuts,” (Barbajosa, 2004). Despite the change in meaning or purpose for receiving a tattoo, it seems that there is sentimental value and the expression of self regardless of how times have changed. Five-thousand years ago, when the Ötzi’s tattoos were discovered, anthropologists perceived the meaning of his tattoos to be a symbol of accomplishment and an earned position in the community or even population. When a young adult turns 18, it’s a rite of passage to receive a tattoo, so the purpose is still there; however, having a purpose for a tattoo does not make it art.