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People
want to talk about current events.
Make your peace, I say (a good
idea anyday).
I have seen tattoos blur and fade.
Nothing is permanent but change. The old
bicycles hang from the ceiling at Anchor Tattoo in
Ballard. After dinner, we step in with
Charlie, Jim, and Denise to admire the
lowrider in the window. The guy at the
counter is lost in his work, perfect
universe, drawing designs to adorn the
skin--a pattern, a symbol, rolled-up
sleeve so eloquent. Back outside, Dave
calls from Hattie's Hat. We were just
there. How did we miss him? Up and down
the block we go, past a weedy lot with
large office
desks in two rows. The building is
gone, the walls are ghosts, metal rusts,
grass grows. |
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