Hallelujah & The Heart Tattoo
Hallelujah & The Heart Tattoo
Episode 05:22:2023 - Prompt: Proof
Where proof took me…
In his song, Hallelujah, Leonard Cohen sings,
“Your faith was strong, but you needed proof…”
Until I discovered this documentary an hour ago, I felt solitary in my appreciation and understanding of the song’s theme of love & longing.
Like others in the film’s trailer…
I first fell in love with Jeff Buckley’s version on his 1994 album Grace.
Then John Cale’s, although it was released in 1991.
Then, Cohen’s, the original, released (after the record label’s rejection) in 1984.
Each version plumbs the song’s layered lyricism and chords (Buckley’s guitar, Cale’s Piano, Cohen’s Band + each artist’s distinct vocal range and soulfulness).
There are many covers of this song, from a 6-year old child at the Teatro di Parma to the winner of X-Factor and Shrek(!?!). All are proof of its emotional potency.
And of Leonard Cohen’s mastery as a poet/writer/vocalist… lover of meaning.
Which brings me to a heart tattoo that proved my faith.
I got my first tattoo when I was 19.
It was a safe tattoo. The two interlocking rings at the nape of my neck were hidden from my mother until my friend shaved the under layer of my hair. I presented this to my mother as a symbolic “lock” for her 50th birthday.
“Mich! Where did this come from?” she said in the restaurant.
I thought it was a meaningful gift, but it was a shock.
And she hadn’t even seen the tattoo yet.
Why did I get a tattoo in the first place?
I was poor at commitment. I would sometimes come through on what I’d set out to do. Sometimes not. For no reason other than I didn’t feel like it or I forgot.
The tattoo would be proof of a decision I had made and kept.
And so began a six-year period of getting tattoos by people I knew. I had never walked into a shop and asked a stranger for tattoo #6 on the wall. My tattoos were extensions of circumstances and scenes.
It was the very early 90’s: South Street, Lower Haight, NYC, and Baltimore.
I didn’t know any tattoo artists in Berlin until Gaga.
Gaga was an aspiring tattoo artist, and she was my friend. After ordering a kit in the mail, she practiced on herself for a number of months. She then asked if she could tattoo me.
I decided on the traditional sacred heart, but not a plump, rosy red, healthy heart. I drew my own with flames that looked like a woodcut.
The heart was fragmented, crude in its filling and chambers. Empty of love.
My tattoos were proof of my life’s path.
Then I met Keem in Los Angeles.
He was 8-years younger than me, still in his 20s.
A beautiful human being, gorgeous on the eyes, warm and cozy in the bed.
When we started seeing each other, there was no talk of commitment although it was clear we weren’t seeing anyone else… or going to.
One morning, I suggested we look at apartments together.
“Why pay two rents when we always sleep together?” I reasoned.
(This is classic NYC / LA relationship rationale).
As I remember it, he questioned my commitment. I think he meant it on an emotional level while I was talking address and zip code.
Later that day, I was driving down Sunset and saw a tattoo shop. Two hours later, my fragmented, pen & ink, heart tattoo was filled in with red, the flames with yellow and the name KEEM (his childhood nickname) emblazoned beneath it.
Seventeen years later, when people ask me “Who is Keem?” I point to my partner, Eric, who smiles and says, “She did it herself. I didn’t make her do it.”
His faith was strong, but he needed proof.
YOUR TURN: Where does PROOF take you? Is Proof necessary to justify belief or faith? A diagnosis or treatment? Does one need Proof to commit to a course of action? To prove they’ve been wronged? To prove they care?
There’s no wrong answer here.
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Happy writing!
Saturday, May 20, 2023: In Massachusetts, the class of 1973 marks 50 years since our college graduation—without me. Sunday, May 21, 2023: In Virginia, as our church celebrates the Ascension, the choir is one alto short; the flute microphone is off; the woman behind the music stand is missing. Monday, May 22, 2023: In New Jersey, my husband and I savor the weekend celebrations of my daughter’s and our granddaughter’s birthdays. Proof of priorities.
We loved this doctor, his big gray eyes steadying us through so many crises, new metasteses, ever shorter prognoses, new chemoes and radiation schedules. This time we were there because of a new pain, in R’s neck. Was it cancer or something else, and anything else would have been preferable at this point. While usually it took scans, somehow this time the oncologist was able to figure it out with a biopsy. He had the microscope out in the hall right outside his office.
“Come look!” He called out from the hallway.
“You can actually see the cancer cells!” He was clearly excited that they were so visible, like he had spotted a hard to see star through a telescope. R, looking faint, politely declined, but I obliged, mainly to please this kind doctor who was always there for us.
“See those red ones all bunched up on the side? Those are cancer cells, like regular cells but reproducing way too fast.” I had thought cancer cells would look ghastly, inky black splotches, not these bright healthy little berry bunches, whose main flaw, apparantly, was overproduction. Nevertheless there they were, proof of the source of his new pain.