THE PERFECT CANVAS (updated)

Just TRY and tell me she isn't beautiful!

I've long-since gotten used to (and even comfortable with) the reactions of society and its occupants in regards to my appearance. Since the first hole was punched through my body, I've acknowledged that my decisions would be met with varied opinions, and that those opinions would not always be in my favor (let alone kind). Piercings and tattoos, as a lifestyle rather than a momentary fad, represent the wearer's acceptance that they're visibly separating themselves from the standards of a society that that has yet to see the relevance in the gesture (cultural or aesthetic).

So who's the antagonist in this tale?

Who is wrong and who is right?

This is, of course, where it is expected of me to veer off into a biased rant of the sheer and unparalleled awesomeness of taking needles and using them to force ink or metal into the skin. But since when have I been the predictable type?

While I may not agree wholeheartedly with it, the mass' standards for how one should look is based on an understandably primitive approach on naturalism. The human mind, on a subconscious level, is usually opposed to elements that go against a preset "grain" of what their senses are programmed to understand. Because many cultures approach physical appearance as one of "cleanliness" and symmetry, elements that contradict those notions of what is "attractive" conflict with their standards. Because those that are conflicted by such visuals will very rarely acknowledge that they're simply reacting on cultural brainwashing and push past their programming, it becomes the fault of the subject in question.

Wearing a smile... and some big-ass tunnels.

Long ago, this sort of response may have proved essential in one's survival (seeing a potentially questionable stranger with many scars or foreign markings may illustrate a dangerous individual that should be avoided). However, as societies have evolved, their citizens have not, and what we end up with are people trying to avoid an invasion/attack when there's no threat to begin with.

Others view piercings and tattoos as a sign of ignorance or a lack of education, but, while I feel compelled to ask if any would call me ignorant or poorly educated, I'd rather illustrate my point with a question:

Which is more ignorant: exploring other avenues of self-expression and cultural understanding... or ridiculing those that do?

The issue with the naysayers, however, is not that they express a desire to not get pierced or tattooed, but that they choose to project their opinions onto others who have chosen that lifestyle and label them as "wrong" or "ugly".

So is society wrong for not understanding the body modification community? Not at all. To be honest, it is not for the understanding of others that those who practice the lifestyle seek; it is for the understanding of themselves.

The beliefs of the masses have ALWAYS been true, not because they're factually accurate, but because it is what the majority claims to be so. If 99% of the world is POSITIVE that the earth is flat, it becomes an indisputable battle as to that fact (no matter the facts or reality of a situation, in the end it is which side has the greatest number of followers that will be written as "truth"). And, though we're still some ways away from society's total acceptance of an individual AS an individual, the tolerance for intolerance has most certainly diminished. Though the battle for equality wages, the understanding that it IS wrong for somebody to be made to feel inadequate for ANY reason has been instilled.

I have found a certain pleasure in playing with our culture's misconception of what sorts of people go under the needle by (*gasp*) being myself. When I go out, I hold the door for those coming up behind me (not to prove a point, mind you, but because I was brought up that way), and the confused looks I get from those I extend the gesture towards is nothing if not entertaining.

It has, however, on several occasions, illustrated to what extent a person's intolerance will take them.

More than once, when holding the door for a stranger, I've seen them look at me and stop--not pause or linger or slow; STOP!--in their tracks and, if there is not another set of doors to take, wait for me to step inside so that they can enter without a "freak's" kindness reeking up their sense of personal perfection.

Now, while I could be bitter and hateful towards such things, I've come to find a certain sense of justification in my own choices.

 Can I fit a finger through my earlobes? Yup. Does it look like I have facial shrapnel? Absolutely. Do I have five ADDITIONAL pairs of eyes littered across my body? Eerie-but-true. Am I a tapestry of nature, horror, art, and entertainment? You bet your ass I am! Do disposable plastic cups ever get hooked on the inside of my lip studs and make for embarrassing situations in public events?

*indecipherable garbling*

Vampire tattoo

BUT--and here's the part that makes me smile (cup hanging from my face or not)--though they have the pleasure of knowing their flesh is unmarred, I have the pleasure of knowing my mind is unmarred.

My body art is more than just an expression of "ooh! I want that in my body NOW". It is all connected to a personal philosophy of how to illustrate my exterior in a visual manner that parallels what I feel on the inside. I am a lover of language--it comes with the territory of being an author--and, as an enthusiast for speech, I adorn my lips (over 15 piercings in my lip ALONE over the course of six years). Because I like to listen to others' stories and take in wisdom from any source I can, I gauge my ears. As a lover of food I have worn nose rings in the past--the sense of smell having a strong connection to that of taste--and as an enthusiast for the visual I've had a dermal anchor near my right eye (sadly both have had to come out for some reason or another, but I would have both redone in the blink of an eye if given the chance).

Tattoo of Xander Stryker

Furthermore, all of my tattoos have AT LEAST two symbolic connections to important aspects of my life. The tiger on my left forearm--my first piece--represents beauty, grace, and strength as well as being my Chinese Zodiac sign, my childhood nickname, my favorite animal, AND symbolic relevance to my upcoming novel, Crimson Shadow: Noir, that I can't delve into here and now. The werewolf/therion bust on my left shoulder--a job I got done at the first Roc-City Tattoo convention--represents two sides of one entity: the tame man and the raging beast, a tie to nature despite any attempts to rip myself from it, and the obvious connections to my writing. My vampire bust--on my right shoulder, opposite the werewolf/therion--represents an insatiable thirst for life and an inescapable connection to darkness (and, of course, my writing). My Xander Stryker tattoo is... well, read book #1 on May 1st and you'll understand. Finally, and hardest to explain, is my (unfinished) Deadpool tattoo on my left leg: a symbol of relentless pursuits (no matter how crazy) and a refusal to do ANYTHING without being entertaining while doing it.

My views and my art are my own, and while I take pride in me and mine, I am hardly the face of the body modification community.

Allow me to introduce Tattboy Holden:

They don't get much more badass!

In late 2011, as my budding writing career was causing me to expand my networking reach, I came across this groovy Aussie with a tattooed eye for a lifestyle that he has LITERALLY defined himself with. Globally--and I do mean GLOBALLY--recognized by an ever-increasing following that spans beyond the tens-of-thousands, Tattboy Holden has spent many years transforming his body to mirror the complexity of his soul. A visual, musical, and literary artist with a unique-yet-familiar philosophy on life, love, and acceptance that is nothing short of a daily-dose of inspiration and happiness to any who follow him. My fortune in crossing paths with Tattboy has allowed for an understanding of what it means to alter your appearance to such extents, and, in doing so, has given me a greater understanding of my own motives; seeing every piece of jewelry and every layer of ink as a road map that will, in time, define ME as an individual.

Moreover, he's shown the world what it means to be who you want to be despite the cruelty--and even violence--that that self-expression can invite. While everyday life for an inked-up American may be inconvenient or irritating, Tattboy's life choices (and the misfortune of being in the wrong place to make those choices) have earned him constant harassment.

Despite being ostracized for his appearance, not a day goes by that Tattboy doesn't share a piece of himself, his wisdom, or his humor on his many networking sites that illustrate him as every bit the beautiful human being beneath the flesh as he's made himself on it.

Through all the bullshit--the good, the bad, and the ugly--this awesome Aussie plows through society's standards and expectations with a simple-yet-elegant motto: "Ink me up!"

Tattboy can be found on both Facebook and Google+.

Body modification may not be for everyone, but--for people like me and Tattboy Holden--it's a lifestyle that helps us to define who we are and feel at home inside our own skin; skin, as Tattboy would say, that is the perfect canvas to tell one's life story.

(RE-updated) WHY FAN(g)S? (a psychological dive into the global vampire phenomenon)

The ghostly glow of an evening mist dragging like a dying thing across the barren street that echoes with the lonely fallen steps of a solitary morsel. The melodic clacks give away a rising tension as their tempo increases; the urgency in the stride reflecting the racing of their pulse. A hushed murmur drifts by like a lingering thought—the already phantom memory of its call burning into every crevice of their terror-soaked mind—and a shadow washes over the towering and foreboding walls of the nearby building; the series of structures lining the night-bathed city quickly becoming a cage of iron and stone that closes in with every panicked breath. From behind: a chuckle—-the unmistakable tune of a predator's victory made all the more dreadful coming from an all-too-human mouth. Overcome with fear, the once-lone wanderer makes a mad-dash away from the voice, ignoring the ache of exertion and the burning of oxygen-starved lungs as they whimper and fight to form the words to call for help. Despite the effort, the futility of the attempt is made evident as the shadow falls upon them—consuming them in a whirlwind of darkness and enveloping them in a hungry abyss—and they finally find voice enough to shriek as the glow of inhuman eyes narrow on their own and a pair of glistening and dripping gore-stained fangs break past the veil.

Though the legends and myths that have existed since the dawning of human civilization always point towards the certain suffering and death of their victims, the popularity of vampires and creatures tied to their tales have flourished. Beyond that, the legends have warped and evolved to take monstrous and demonic beings that were in no way human and (more to the point) attractive in ANY way, shape, or form and turning them into a being of sensuality and beauty that has only served to take an already-compelling icon and add the element of sex and attraction to the mix. Despite the terror associated with the legends and the obvious dangers that such a being could present to our kind, the world's collective obsession with vampiric beings has escalated to points that define genres of media entertainment, motivate fashion and lifestyles, and even shape entire groups and communities.

But none of this actually boils down to the "WHY" of the phenomenon. What is it about these beings that so aggressively draws us in and sinks its metaphorical fangs into our jugulars and refuses to release.

Why are we so inclined to be fans of the fangs?

Past the inherent and two-dimensional fascination with the powerful and lustful creatures dwells a truth that, ironically enough, defines humanity. We, as people—as weak, soft, terrified, and mortal beings—will forever be compelled to idolize and focus on figures and symbols that our ever-growing minds hope will reveal some secret to their success in living, loving, and liberating themselves from the mundane and redundant. When we're young, we look up to parents, older siblings, fascinating members of the local community, and, of course, the characters we grow up loving that perpetually illustrate strength and integrity in television, movies, books, and comics. We dream and strive for the day when we'll find ourselves free of our youthful weaknesses and be free of doubt and confusion… but that day never comes. Months turn to years and then decades and, as we fall into the ever-famed adulthood that we've dreamt so long would mystically provide us with clarity and understanding of life, the universe and everything we discover we're just as frail and just as oblivious, but now cursed with the capacity to UNDERSTAND just how oblivious.

And so, with no magical age dawning upon us with rays of god-like understanding, we forever leap-frog from idol and icon in an ever-constant-yet-insatiable hope to finally feel that we're greater than we are.

Because, in the end, we're still only human.

Only human!

Our subconscious minds see the futility in the search for that one man or woman who can be a guru to cure us of our limitations, and they turn to the beyond; turn to that which transcends humanity; turn to mythology.

An obsession with our limited longevity and a fear of what lies beyond this life has been a motivator for theory-upon-theory-upon-theory. Death represents an inescapable oblivion—an eternal NOTHING—that eats away at our cores because, when all is said-and-done, "nothing" means EXACTLY that to us: nothing. How does one define something if there's nothing to define? We experience a cornucopia of REAL and TANGIBLE that to imagine nothing—no sight, no sound, no smells or tastes, nothing to feel, and no mind to recognize the void—is an incomprehensible notion. And if the history of mankind has taught us nothing else, it's that we HATE that which we cannot comprehend. We assign titles to everything to convince us we hold power over it and try to define the inner workings of this, that, and everything with a limited knowledge of what it is we're trying to define. And so, in an effort to combat the confusion and fear associated with death, we fabricate alternate realities that exist for us beyond this lifetime; theories of heavens or hells or limbos or hauntings or, rather than living an eternity elsewhere, being born as a new person and starting the cycle anew.

All because death and our impending nothing TERRIFIES us.

Enter the vampire. A being whose existence is defined almost unanimously with immortality; a being that represents no need for fear of what lies beyond. And though this eternity relies on a willingness to destroy the lives of others, the natural need to survive motivates us to take that step. If a building is on fire, the occupants' need to survive outweighs the sympathy of others' needs, and it's an all-too-common event that situations like that find people trampled and trapped so that others have the leverage to survive. Is it really such a stretch to see us as so monstrous as to literally steal the lives of strangers to sustain our own?

And what of those who find themselves at the bottom of the stampede? What of those who find themselves trapped within the inferno because somebody wanted to survive enough to lock away the threat of death with them still at risk? What do you think they would give for a body that doesn't break underfoot or the strength to take down any obstacle?

Enter the vampire. A being whose supernatural abilities make even the most able-bodied star athletes look like a joke in comparison. A being who exists in legends as capable of easily holding their own against armies and able to tear down buildings with their unbreakable claws. A being whose speed and reflexes make them a nearly uncatchable and un-killable force for any who stand in their way. A being who sees the threat of those who intimidate them in their everyday life as nothing more than an insignificant creature; no more dangerous or threatening than a newborn puppy—blind and defenseless and oblivious.

A being greater than man or beast but, at the same time, a enigmatic hybrid of the two.

A being capable of communicating and controlling and even BECOMING the animals that we eagerly and desperately struggle to understand.

A being that is not only unafraid of the darkness, but REVEL in it!

All the limitations and shortcomings of man encompass the strengths and traits of the creatures we idolize, because, at the root of it all, we crave a life that's free of fear and uncertainty.

And so we eagerly consume movies and literature and music and any-and-all forms of media and society that pertains to vampires so that we can lose ourselves in that tranquility. Men bellow and cheer as Blade and Selena take on hordes of the undead using vampire strength and cunning and women melt into the steely grip of Lothaire and Edward and Lestat in their paranormal romance novels because they represent total freedom from the normal and a sense of security (as well as cheering on Blade and Selena as they take on hordes of the undead; sorry, guys, but you gotta share the badass whether-or-not you're willing to dive into the romance).

Vampires are, body and mind and drive, what we can NEVER be, and that limitation—that hunger for a taste of what we'll never have—keeps us coming back for more of the fan(g)tastic creatures.

Is Disney's "Brave" heroine a lesbian?? ... WHO CARES?!

And The Literary Dark Prince stares… and blinks… and stares… and blinks… and as the words on this post refuse to alter their conveyed message he begins to see the error lies not with them, but the fact that—despite every iota of logical reasoning screaming and crying at lung-bursting degrees—there are ACTUALLY people out there that would CARE!! So-goddam-what if a Disney character is gay?! Snow White lived with SEVEN men who constantly bribed her with diamonds, Belle fell in love with a 10-foot GORILLA-DOG, Ariel pranced about with exposed genitals on a public beach several days prior to being married to Eric by a priest with an obvious erection, Jasmine all-but WHORED herself to Jafar to distract him from Aladdin, Jane fell for Tarzan when he was barely a coherent human being, and Mulan was a cross-dresser.
Society, get ready for a bomb-shell of a shocker: SEX EXISTS!! All elements associated with sex (nudity, arousal, exploration, experimentation, curiosity and—HOLY SHIT?!—homosexuality are a PART of the human condition that drives us to discover both other human beings AND ourselves)!
Ready for another world-melting revelation? KIDS ARE NOT STUPID!! They see Mommy and Daddy pucker up with pursed lips and—here comes “2 + 2”—if men and women can kiss one another, then who’s to say it stops there? The deductive reasoning of the minds society tries so desperately to cloud from every truth they deem unsuitable are more-than capable of rationalizing the facts for themselves. Hiding sexuality from children is not going to make them not realize that, if they cast their gaze downward, THERE’S SOMETHING BETWEEN THEIR THIGHS, and THAT alone is motivation enough for children to explore avenues of WHAT it is and WHO else has them.
If a Disney princess is gay, then I’m certain a perceptive child that gives enough of a damn to psycho-analyze the broad while she’s slinging arrows and being badass will be happy as a pig-in-shit to do so, but, seeing how the notion of BIGOTRY and HOMOPHOBIA—the only REAL lesson that all this song and dance teaches kids—have yet to enter into their minds, I severely DOUBT that they’re going to care one way or the other.
To the kids out there: stay young forever!
To the adults out there: grow-the-fuck-up!!