The Cerebral Mum

I’m still struggling through packing up my house but after months of procrastination I’m finally on the move.

I’ve become ruthless. After laboriously sorting through every tiny item and trying to decide what to keep, what to recycle and what to toss, I’ve had enough. 12 industrial strength garbage bags of clothes for goodwill. That’s enough. I’m throwing it all out the window.

Literally.

There is a huge pile of garbage on my back patio just waiting to be bagged and binned. I may never quite be Zen, but how on earth - Why on earth? - did I amass all that stuff? No wonder I feel so weighed down by the whole process.

There is one small joy in stripping all that clutter away though. The memories. Those odd little scraps amidst all the debris that make you recall things you thought you had forgotten.

That film script I started but never finished, entitled Triptych: A Road Movie which is almost a cross between Female Perversions and The Wizard of Oz.

That poor, bedraggled porcelain doll I named Molly in primary school, which my Opa bought for me on his one and only visit to Australia, a country he swore he would never set foot in. But that’s another story. I had the most wonderful Opa.

The longneck beer coolers from the Grand Final Party at La La Land. I didn’t work that night, and I loathe football, but we hung out there all day, drinking and talking. A sunny afternoon in a dark bar, with musicians and cocktail waitresses, bartenders and actors, sprawled over the sofas and the floor, surrounded by red walls, passionate about everything.

A price list from Little Matchgirl Muffins, my tiny business selling baked goods to the cafe next to my office. Up at4am making chocolate éclairs and passionfruit tarts and caramel and almond fudge before settling in to do data entry for nine hours, my clothes smelling like cookies.

That fax with the phone number that just said, For things to do with Baileys after a car accident… And more recollections of life in bars after closing.

Those scribbled notes on the back of the Tranny Bingo list from my 30th birthday, especially the one that simply read, Happy Birthday Rayette…, a reference to Five Easy Pieces, one of my favourite movies, from one of my favourite boys who is now a man I respect so, so much.

And there is a box of love letters and trinkets still waiting to be explored. I haven’t opened it yet. There is only so much you can fit into a smile and mine will already last all day. It is slightly Mona Lisa but I can feel it.

In my eyes.