art and ammo.

I wish I could explain away the reason I've neglected this blog, but I just...I wouldn't even know where to start. But here are some recent thoughts. I sent these to a friend, and realized I wanted to keep them. 

I turned 27 Monday. And this week has been filled with introspection, and reflection. Of course. And is it painful? of course. This is how I treat birthdays. I don't think that will ever change much. 

Something occurred to me tonight which may seem silly but I think says a lot about where I am in life....I got an expensive manicure for myself as a day-after-birthday splurge. And while my hands look great, they seem unfamiliar to me. Hours later I was invited to the pistol range by my boss, to try IDPA shooting (International Defense Pistol Association) which entails loading ammo into magazines, drawing from a holster, etc. I accepted the invite, nails unscathed. 

Tonight I had planned to etch for a while. A process I need to work on as I was accepted into an art fair in 2 weeks or so, and need to complete more work. I looked at my nails and thought, shit, those chemicals will strip this right off. 

And then it dawned on me. Recently I've made all these attempts to appear a certain way. Partially because I've fallen into this designer realm where everyone looks, and acts a similar way. And they're all so "put together" it's literally nauseating. But it's not really who I am. I grew up in the country. Pulling weeds, petting goats, running around barefoot. I learned that hard work and art were a way to a good life, and here I found myself hesitating based on some stupid paint on my nails. There was no art, here. I didn't feel connected to it. 

At 27, I realize, it's more important to me now to have the hands of an artist. The hands of a pistol shooter. The hands of someone who tries something. I'm not interested in being under any false pretenses. Sometimes I open the hood of my car, and I want to investigate something. I'm not sure the idea of chipping nails is something I want holding me back from that. 

I'm not sure when I thought the appearance of being privileged was more important than hard work, or trying something new. At the end of my life I don't think I want to add up the hours spent in manicure or pedicure chairs with aimless chit chat with a stranger I'll never encounter again. My values entail a scenario much more along the lines of hard work, dedication to an art. Having hands of a doer. Not an observer. I come from a family of workers. Laborers. I didn't earn this. 

I think that's just, where I need to be now. I fight it I think, because at 27 I imagined myself this polished designer. But, I'm not sure I care much about that, really. 

It may seem insignificant, but it's not. Not in my heart, anyway.