Diary - Sunday, April 22nd, 2001

And more and more and more...

So, now I have some colour to my wings. Just on one side, which is slightly annoying, as I'd prefer it to be more symmetrical, but after last night I've realised I can't sleep on a more heavily inked side of my back. The 'afterwards' pain is more intense with colour. In fact, I barely slept at all.

I'm beginning to wonder what exactly my pain tolerance is after all of this, but I'm pretty sure it relates to exhaustion. I sort of need a break every forty minutes during the tattooing itself, and it goes like this.

"Claudia...I'm going to have to stop."

"Aw, just a little more," she wheedles.

"Um, please?"

Claudia dips her head in assent, chirps "Okay!" and wanders out for a cigarette. I start shaking violently. By the time she's come back, I've usually come down of whatever caused the twitching. It sometimes seems like it's so strong that I can't hold things in my hands, my fingers too uncoordinated for such delicate manouvers as holding a coffee cup. Brandt usually makes me sweet tea, to stave off the energy starvation, and then it starts again. I'll need a shower afterwards - I'm sweating like a horse. Enough to pool under the palms of my hands, and I don't normally perspire at all.

But the colour isn't so bad. It really isn't. I can feel the sharp difference between the broad brush, a row of eleven needles, and the finer detail brush, seven points, quite easily. Both are better than the outliner, three needles in a row that punch deep. When she's over a muscled area, it's no more painful than a light scratch and I talk with my artist and my partner. When she's over the hardness of bone, or the thickness of a spinal nerve, it sends sharp pains shooting in hard and I wince, going silent. My respect for Dr Zero grows - his work is a patch the size of a man's fist on the small of his back, and I wonder how he remained so stoic as she detailed him there.

This time, curious, I looked in the mirror at the colour appearing. So bright. Luminescent purples and reds, yellows, oranges. Claudia has been humming to herself, enjoying mixing the shades. She keeps commenting 'Oh, it looks so good,' and her confidence is infectious.

I watch her wipe down one newly finished golden feather. It lies there, gleaming, glowing with colour.

Then gradually it turns red as it fills with blood.

And it can fill, because she's outlined this small row with the slender needle, working in the dark shadows with purple and black so that they're a raised border of welt.

"Looks sore," I comment dryly.

"You're a bit bruised," she agrees.

She wipes again, and the blood streaks. Mostly, really, it's thin plasma, dyed red from the ink and the surrounding blood cells, but it's enough to make me stare.

But it's still easier, there's not the sense of exhaustion that the outlining gave. Partially it's because she has to continually take small breaks, ink, change colour, and wipe my skin with some slick, cold solution that both causes and alleviates pain. Those moments give me enough recovery time, and I remember to relax.

I'm okay. This session does not distress me like the other did. When she says 'I think that's enough', I feel a sense of relief, but it's not the overwhelming emotion of gladness it has been previously. She wipes my back over once more, and uses a dry towel. I wince. Then she covers it with a moisturising, antiseptic solution and stretches plastic wrap across it to protect it for a few hours.

Later that night we go to a good friend's house - some here know him as Asagwe. This wonderful personage, and his equally wonderful partner, has cooked us a roast. At the door he meets Brandt and myself.

"How was it?"

"It hurt, but it wasn't so bad," I say.

"I can tell," he says wryly "You're not deathly white like you were last time."

Then he opens the door, and we go inside to good food and good company.