A thought started with lunch, and lead to a sandwich, my first memory of a sandwich, the lady who made that sandwich, a customer she made meals for, that customer's inability to hold steady a cup of coffee, a waitress's jewelry clinking off of everything, and my dad taking off his wedding band when playing the guitar because it got in the way.

Through a chain of different memories, it lead to a realization of how capable our hands are. The question was how we got here, and I think I addressed that. To me and I believe to most artists, our hands are not just small limbs there to prepare food, hold a coffee mug, tap to a musical rhythm, or weigh down with adornments, but valuable tools. I don't want my hands to be wasted on mundane tasks of everyday. I don't want my life to be wasted on mundane regularity and repeated tasks and chores.

It was a hard thing to incorporate the weakness of athrisis that comes with age. It was hard to reference one of my parents when they are so different from the folksy, care-free jesus freaks they were when I was a child to now, with bifocals and regular haircuts. I am scared of the weakness of unsteady hands and I am scared to degenerate into a middle-aged parent.

I'm not sure if these are valid reasons for my being here, but they are what they are.

I did not want to incorporate the portraits of my classmates and I think it shows.

 

If I were born a middle-eastern female, my life would be drastically different. My father would have been disappointed at my birth.  I would have no identity. Would I really even be a person?

I am aware of the white space, honestly couldn't find what was doing it. Anyway, the thing itself didn't change, just some crap omitted.  

end.