Well, one month into 2011, and things are looking good so far. 2010 held a lot of great greatness for me. Began working on an important personal connection (which I'll just keep vague) and an important personal reconnection (which I'll also keep as vague, not because I don't feel deeply about either, it's just naming names feels a little odd in this venue for me...moving on). I've started drawing more, got a studio space, been in three shows in two months and have more on the way. It just started spinning and I hope that it doesn't stop. It seems the best way to get things done is to do them...weird right, I know.
I have been many things. A carpenter, a cook, landscaper, bartender, high rise window washer (that one almost killed me twice), a grip, dishwasher, truck driver, warehouse manager, door to door vacuum salesman (never actually made it to any doors to try to sell any of those shady little vacuums though), store clerk, store owner, worked at a homeless shelter, was homeless for a short time (but never without a place to be). I've been sure, afraid, doubtful, pleased, arrogant, ignorant, asleep and then awake again.
In the last couple of years there is another thing that I've been, proud. Not an ego ballooning self-loathing kind of pride. No. I've been proud of the three women in my life, my lady, my sister, and my mother. All strong, all creative, all inspiring, and all in different ways the loves of my life. I am proud to know each of them. Hey, maybe that makes me a mama's boy, but you know, lucky me.
I really have no idea why I started this rambling, but think it was about being proud. How does one enjoy the things that he has and creates without being proud? Even though I am not religious, why do I feel this religious like weighty guilt when it comes to such things? When did being proud get such a bad rap anyway?
One thing I've never been proud of is my grammar, that's for damn sure. I digress.
This was recently written about on the Seaworthy blog, but when I was young, not sure how young, and my sister was younger, we were walking along the Oregon coast, not even sure which beach it was but I know she was closer to the water than I. It was hoody weather, as Oregon usually is, and the waves were lapping at the sandbank we were on. The sandbank was being eroded ever so slightly making a tiny cliff over the ocean that could be huge if you looked at it right. My name is Welsh for son of the waves, and the Latin root of my sisters name means of the sea. And then, she was. A sneaker wave came and in a moment she was gone. She was the ocean's. In the next moment, we were both soaked and she was in my arms. I don't remember exactly how these moments went, but the Pacific took her and I took her back. I have never stopped being happy to have her in my life. This is always faintly on my mind.
Now more often then not, when I am walking with people down the sidewalk, I try to stay closer to traffic than them. I think its still that damn wave.
So I am proud...a little scatter brained sure, but proud.
Most the things I draw have waves or rabbits or both as their subject matter. I was born in 1975, according to a 2500 year old calender, the year of the rabbit. On February 3rd 2011 begins a new year according to this old calender. The year of the rabbit. My year. I think it's going to be a good one.
Love,
Dylan
