Raspberry flecks of ageing
and cherry blossom thighs
Being edited professionally has been one of my greatest writing and thinking gifts. I know much of what I write weekly here wouldn't get past the keen eye of the person who first delved through my long, spirited sentences.
There was, however, a line I really liked in the drafts of my tattoo article for Vittles that I wrote that didn't make it to print:
‘My earliest consideration of tattoos came around 18, but despite sporting raspberry flecks of age, my pale body remained a blank canvas.’
I liked this line because it was very real, something someone ten years or younger may not yet have encountered on their body or on others. But those wee raspberry flecks1 of ageing are as important a marker of my being as the scars, tattoos, and piercings I have.
The flecks hold the pain of realising you are ageing, simultaneously slowly and quickly; your body smoking hot to some, unexpectedly repulsive to others. Simply, what it is. They're the sharp intake of breath when you first read that Miranda July line2, "The femininity we were instructed in was actually youth," and the affirmation upon hearing it again, thinking, 'Yes, yes, this is the feeling you've been dwelling on' - as you realise you haven't yet made an effort to paint your toenails with the neon pink nail varnish you bought three weeks ago. The flecks understand your hair - now the longest it's ever been - is more a signifier of your financial insecurity than your muliebrity, that the slippages of performance acknowledge that you are both too much and not enough, but this is unlikely to change now, as you are stubborn, imprinted.
The flecks also represent the joy you find in developing your purest expression of self, reasserting the deep pleasures of scrambling up hills for raspberries at this time of year, hedonistically eating them in situ, observing that each wild raspberry tastes markedly different. They hold faith in those who embrace your worst and forgive your best (gaffes), your contradictions; eavesdrop on conversations as you are branded with experiences that weave people, place, relationships and lessons about life and living together - revealing sometimes the most profound connections flourish in the dance of non-linear patterns3. The flecks bolster those moments in life when something resonates so deeply that you think: 'Yes, this is my next tattoo.'
I saw this graffiti in a tunnel in Fountainbridge, and it immediately struck a chord. It helped that I already had a tattoo of grafitti-inspired artwork.
I hadn't started following the Radical Graffiti account on Instagram at this point, but I knew the art on the wall was significant and important. At the end of the tunnel was the constituency office for MP Joanna Cherry, who, at the time, in her Twitter bio, describes herself as "SNP Candidate for Edinburgh South West, King's Counsel and Feminist". As my former MP, I had spent a lot of time sending letters and petitions to her in support of action for Palestine, though being soured every time I did this due to her reputation, and downright unpleasantness towards trans people and allies seeking better rights for queer people in Scotland. I once encountered her personally somewhere I worked. She was unpleasant and defensive, accusing me and my colleagues of taking down a poster about her local constituency clinics, something I did not do, and had no knowledge of ever happening.
As much as the tattoo is about this person and the importance of human rights for everyone, it's not really about her. It's about this moment of realisation, change, and a commitment to keep on fighting for what I believe in, even if it's difficult.
A week later, this particular graffiti in the tunnel was painted over. Ever since, there seems to have been a wee bit of a battle of graffiti layers; messages sprayed then painted over, swirls of blue, pink and white, words of love and even some pictures of plants.
Shortly after I got my tattoo, a general election was called. Joanna Cherry lost her seat. All my close friends in my community revealed they had voted for the plants, and for love, not hate.
For paid subscribers below: some excerpts from a piece about I started writing in 2022 about tattoos, a piece I will probably never complete (and that’s ok).
In the meantime, I’d like to share the following posts that inspired some tweaks to the above piece:
Some might say I'm a masochist…
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