When you think like a creative, the world is completely and constantly alive. Inspiration and wonder can be found in literally anything. Lines. Shapes. Colors. Textures. Angles. Reflections. Sizes. Shadows. Sounds. Writings. Music. Compositions. Patterns. 

When I attended Weaver Academy for high school with a concentration in visual arts, my teacher took us on a field trip to the salvage yard. If you've never been to a proper salvage yard, it's kind of a cross between a dump and a recycle center. Things are somewhat sorted into piles based on the material. You can find anything from cars to toilets to scrap metal to building materials and everything in between. You can purchase items based on the type of material and its weight. 

I remember taking in the artistic complexity and the lost history of the towering piles of refrigerators and car parts as I explored the winding paths. So much design lived in that salvage yard. And so many personal stories linked to each piece of "trash."

Thousands of Thanksgiving leftovers had been stored in those refrigerators. Leftovers from a loving, or perhaps, lonely meal. So many butts had sat on those toilets. Young. Old. Black, white, brown. Immigrant, refugee. Even white supremacist butts (hope they had a rat crawl through their pipes and bite 'em in the ass). I wonder how many Archie or Garfield comics were read (this was before smart phones were a thing). How many wanted ads were circled and local tragedies were learned. My imaginative ghosts were everywhere, and it made me feel alive and connected to a world bigger than my own.

I picked out some materials to purchase - an industrial light cover; a few round, brass attachments; some random colorful wires, and a few other industrial-looking plumbing parts. I went home and laid out my materials. I arranged and rearranged and finally reached my design. It was a human silhouette, outlined on the smooth side of the light cover. The brass pieces served as the valves in the heart. The wires cascaded out, snaking their way through the body's outline, pumping imaginative blood to its arms and head. It was a generic human made from generic human materials. But it had life. Just like each thing in that salvage yard.