I live in a Pig Palace

I don't remember how young I was.  Much too young, I'm sure.  I was probably caught between the trap of being a preschooler, an only child, having a "pack rat" father and a tidy mother, and never having been taught how to declutter and purge.

Inevitably I got to an age, probably 5 or 6 at most, where I was expected to have developed cleaning habits and skills in the face of a daunting amount of STUFF in a room much too large for someone my age to be fully in charge of.

I create, therefore I am

Inspiration informs creativity. Creativity informs creation.

I have been a creative person all my life, a dabbler in many arts, fine or otherwise. I've sculpted in clay, I've created jewelry with saws and sandpaper, I've built wood projects, I currently crochet, I write.

Our "Father"

Tomorrow is Father's Day, and I'm calling the day after our Other Fathers' Day. There's so many ways to honor our collective and individual "other Fathers".

Remembering

Memorial Day is a time of remembering, so I thought I would write about memory itself.

I have a particular psychological disorder that affects perception and memory. On the spectrum of this disorder, I am for all intents and purposes minimally impacted, but there are ways that my peculiar way of storing memories impacts my daily existence.