Junk? Maybe. But it's memory to me. Full to overflowing, my house is memorable, perhaps. Messy, for sure.
The six-year-old who visits here claims that I should get organized, but his eyes light up when he ventures into one of the storage rooms. A room which can only be browsed by carefully following a tiny trail through myriad open boxes across a floor covered with just put it here for now clutter.
'It makes me feel creative,' he confesses while digging through art brushes, old paintings, a series of palettes and watercolors, assorted books, magnetic word kits that spell poetry on metal plates taped to old tile boards, paper of all sizes and colors, a paper cutter that's sharp enough to sever fingers (or slash a robe – I have proof), tiles, magnets, glues and tapes, acrylic paints, fabric paints plus fabrics, strings of beads, blank canvas bags waiting for magic, a spinning card rack, face paints, sidewalk chalk, rocks, spare swimming suits, blank t-shirts, CD's yearning to hold home-made movies, ribbons, mirrors, frames, glues, pipe cleaners and left-over dowel sticks that turn into a young neophyte drummer's magic when they coax rhythm from an oatmeal box plus a biscotti tin and several new cans of PlayDoh.
I try to look at the bright side. Yeah, it's junk. But it sometimes makes me, too, feel creative.
*The fractal was created in Apophysis, resized in Irfanview.*