Monday, 27 August 2001 | Pink stuffed pig

There's a pink stuffed pig in the door of the freezer. In the living room, there's a painting hanging on the wall that I'm told has been there since the sixties. I'm not sure what it is, but I think it might be an abstract picture of Jesus. Just beneath the painting, there's a red-and-blue swirled bowling ball shoved in the middle of a mystery three-pronged floor lamp, and, until recently, there was a small motorcycle helmet in the living room closet, decorated with pink raised paint, drawn in swirls and flowers. There's a purple dragon puppet fitted over the antique soap dispenser in the bathroom, its mouth fixed wide open to greet each visitor with a silent scream. In the attic hangs a homemade Ouija board, made from a white piece of poster board and black marker, dangling by a string from the center of the ceiling. Glued in the bottom right-hand corner of the board is a black-and-white picture of a cat pawing at a sock monkey.

I don't know where any of this stuff came from. That's what happens when you live in a house that's been on a continuous lease for five years, a lease that eighteen different people have exploited, officially or not. It's as if eighteen people have eaten off the same plate, but that plate has never been completely emptied, just washed off here and there as parts are cleared. Naturally there will be a few crumbs left over, staining the plate, adding flavor and dirt.

On Saturday Martin and I spent seven hours trying to differentiate the flavor from the dirt, making trips to the dumpster and the thrift store, neatly packing away the ghosts worth keeping and getting rid of a lot of the clutter. Since I moved in more than three years ago, I've painted all the rooms in different colors, added a screen door, my own furniture and wall art, and I've learned (contrary to my pack rat tendencies) how to throw things away. Now the plate looks as if it's been freshly washed, with a new meal sitting attractively on top of it. It's clear to me, though, that the plate has merely been sponged off, and that I'm responsible for only a fraction of the flavor.