I love/d my house in Glebe. I moved out this time last week and today I sat down and wrote. The only stimuli being memories of my home. I wrote stream of consciousness. No stopping, no editing.
“So sentimental. After I left, I was worried I didn’t have enough photos of my house. I do. I drank champagne from the bottle on my last night. It wasn’t until I moved into my own house that I started to wonder where all the eyebrow hairs I pluck out actually end up. It’s taken me two months to cull only a quarter of my books. I liked looking from the lounge room through the sunroom and onto the courtyard. The dust specks were always dancing when they were caught in the sun rays from that angle. I had so many doona covers. I’m amazed by how much I changed in my house. How much I learnt in my house. It was the first place I put spoons in the freezer to hold on my eyes the next morning so no one could tell if I had been crying. My desk used to be “organised” clutter full of photos and candles and hand creams and rubber bands and USBs and ….. now it needs to be clear except for my writing materials and whatever books I’m directly engaging with. It’s taken a few months but in my own way, in small ways, I’ve been living with less around me. I’m learning to let go in small ways. I listened to my first Spotify playlist in this house (yes, I was late to the game). I had just started to leave my windows open of a night time. I bought so many chips from across the road and the guy never even acknowledged that he knew me or the shit I’ve put in my body over the years. I had a whole film crew in my house. Whenever the upstairs neighbours were too loud, I’d throw my Kmart massage ball at the ceiling. I took the ironing board out maybe 5 times. I spent a lot of time in the shower. “Drink. Sad. Wash it off.” I had horrible art on the walls that I loved. My lounge housed heartache and laughter. All kinds of both. Amy told me I couldn’t keep the trolley. The trolley had signatures of some very important people. I loved watching everyone struggle in a comic joy to make their mark. Oddly enough, most would make the same noises as they manoeuvred between the legs and wheels, army crawl style. The light in my room wasn’t centered in the middle of the ceiling mould. It was just slightly off. I played annoyed when it was pointed out to me, but I remember being so happy to be where I was, with who I was with. I never had to look at bus timetables. The peach skirting boards had a calming effect on me. I always stopped and noticed the shadows on the side of the house. There is a wine bar across the road that my best friend and I spontaneously drank and cried at – usually too much of both. We always met on the corner between her house and mine. We have embraced on that corner many times. All my photos from “gin night” failed to develop, but I still have the haikus we all wrote on my lounge room floor. Once I went to bed early but my friends sat in my sunroom with cigarettes and music after tucking me in tight. My house introduced me to my 1am anxiety baths. So many people dipped on the end of my bed. It’s language with light was incredible.
My house was always infused with some combination of tea tree oil, alcohol, Emily’s shampoo, absorbed emotions, my housemates bananas that weren’t allowed in the fruit bowl, Amy’s cigarettes and Zara perfume, my caramel candle that was too rich for my room, Danen’s weed, my latest use for coconut oil, and too much Guess: Seductive.
I miss my home, but, like I said, I’m learning to let go in small ways.”