1When I was like 3 or 4 years old, my aunt gave my parents some decoy ducks and for whatever reason they were given to me to paint. They ended up with layers upon layers of paint on them.

My parents both had their hobbies set up in the basement and had made a play area complete with carpet remnants, and when it was really hot we would spend a lot of time in the basement, since we didn’t have central air.

One hot summer evening I was in the basement at my desk with the paints and the decoys happily painting. My dad was in his computer room and my mom was upstairs. When my mom came down, presumably to get me to bed, she FREAKED out. When she came down the stairs she came face to face with me sitting at my desk with both of my hands and arms up to the elbows COVERED in paint. The desk and both of the decoys were equally coated.

She started scolding me because I had made a mess, but my dad interjected that I was just “expressing myself” (which is hilarious considering how he balked at me expressing myself later in my childhood).

I still remember the feel of the paint coating my skin, squishing between my fingers. It was soothingly cold against my hot skin. I’ve always run hot externally and cold internally, in spite of my more than adequate insulation.

The texture and the temperature… it was quite the tactile experience. But it made an impression. I’m a very tactile and olfactory sensitive person. I have to actively ignore my nose in situations where capturing certain smells will create memories that could be detrimental for any reason. And sometimes ignoring it and missing those opportunities is detrimental too.

Sometimes I have memories associated with things that I don’t even remember until I encounter the scent again and the memory (or an aspect of it) comes flooding back in a deluge of the sensations, and sometimes its just an emotion.

And on that note… I’m going to bed.