Ever had one of those moments when you are suddenly overwhelmed with an idea. Out of the blue. Off the charts. No matter how hard you try, you cannot piece together a reasonable explanation of what induced the thought. Its randomness seems almost random.
We were at the Hooker-Dunham Theatre for a performance of gypsy jazz by a group called Fishtank Ensemble. The lead singer had a tattoo on upper arm ... right where Rambo would tie one of those black scarves to make his biceps look bigger. I couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like a name written in cursive. That is when the thought hit me ... and I couldn't let it go.
Sagamore! What if I had a tattoo in the same location that said Sagamore. Why ... why ... why? I read Last of the Mohicans. I know about the Sagamores of the tribes. I am not into Indian culture. I would not decorate my body with tributes to the Indian chiefs. Otherwise, we would be talking about Geronimo. I read Written on the Body. I do believe that our stories are written on our bodies. Except for a few scars, I'd have to say the novels we call our bodies is for all practical purposes internal journalism.
Not all mysteries are destined to be solved.