The scenes of desolation that are created in the process of moving house are ones which I, nor, at least I imagine, most other human beings on the planet don’t particularly enjoy. These scenes are two-fold: those created in the space that you have physically occupied and those that play out in the mind as you ponder the time spent occupying the space from which you are departing.
The scenes of desolation in the physical space are immediate and obvious, much of them caked in a sense of squalor and neglect. Dead cockroaches are uncovered behind couches that have lain in the same awkward position for years. Books and papers that have been long forgotten are found and boxed up, waiting to be transported somewhere else where they will resume a life of dormancy. Various knick knacks that should have been disposed of long ago create feelings of doubt as to whether they should be held on to, despite their obvious uselessness. Dust that you have been breathing in for years is vacuumed and disposed of. That pot that you haven’t used for God knows how long is stowed away with the others, its usefulness a thing of the past.
And then it is off to the tip, to be rid of those possessions whose use value is no longer recognised, a trip that marks the end of this stage of life. Amongst the piles of waste and detritus are items from other peoples lives, things that have now also been deemed to be of no use. Why are those children’s toys there? Who used to sit on that couch? Where did the carpet that the man next to us is dumping come from? Do these items, piled on top of one another, mark the end point of a certain stage of life for those who placed them there too? In its own strange way, the tip is a place of deepest melancholy and disconnection.
The scenes of desolation that play out in ones mind upon leaving an abode are much more confused and harder to decipher. What have I been doing for the past three years? Has living in this suburb meant anything apart from its position as a waypoint to accessing high quality Portuguese chicken? How often am I going to see those housemates who I’ve spent so much time with and what in the fuck am I going to do now?
At the end of it all, I will retire to bed and contemplate whats next. Each time I drive by the suburb or the house I’ll be reminded of the time spent there, like when you hear music for the first time in years, or you inhale a familiar smell after so long. Despite the mouldy ceilings and the cockroaches and the general shittiness of the place, I think I will miss it after all. So long, and fare thee well.