into another language.

The past few weeks have held times when I just needed to unwind. To de-stress. To calm down. What songs do I own that, no matter what my mood is, will seem to make me smile, to make me happy with how things are, make my mind go blank?

Well, on the way home a week ago, I heard two songs like that. I made a search to find some more. Right now where are four. Songs you must listen to to feel what I have felt. I promise you, they’re nice.

“Northern Sky” – Nick Drake

“Hoppípolla” – Sigur Rós

“Thursday” – Asobi Seksu

“Evaporar” – Little Joy (this one somehow finds it on all my lists…)


I don’t have a tattoo, but I have thought about the possibility of getting one for a long time. Nothing major, nothing grandiose, nothing flashy. Not one just to say I have one.

There was a moment in time where I really, truly, honestly believed a Celtic cross would look nice on my upper back, almost a representation of my upbringing, a faith that I had (and have) longed to pin down before it slowly slips away and melts completely. A vicious sunburn, rife with peeling and bouts of being uncomfortable, sidelined these dreams. They never returned, never were boosted back into the limelight, never saw another round of temptation. This might have been a good thing: I don’t think I’d want that now on my back, no matter how cool it might have looked.

That doesn’t mean that I haven’t had the urge to be etched again. Recently, there was a contest related to Melt, a grilled-cheese pub with amazing food and an unsettling beer menu that rivals the Winking Lizard yearly Beer Tour: If you got a tattoo with the restaurant’s logo, or something similar in nature, on yourself, you receive a lifelong 20% discount. It was tempting, but – if I were to live outside of the Cleveland area long-term – the tattoo wouldn’t be a smart investment on my part.

So that leaves three likelier tattoos. All pretty well thought out.

“Remember Sammy Jankis”: what the main character in Memento has tattooed on his left hand, always crystallizing his memory (with a lie), the desperate yearning for truth, the tragic clinging to memory, three simple words, just those three.

The Guinness harp: clichéd, probably worn by thirty thousand people, but representing my favorite beverage, it’s not ostentatious, not horribly pretentious, most likely not that expensive.

The infinity symbol: intangible written as tangible, my newly-exacerbated existentialism visualized, very small, but maybe too small, but still something important for me, something I keep trying to grasp.

So, for the future: these three at the top of the list. Shall I ever get one? Will it be done? Tune in next week. Or next year.