i do not remember being born. i remember the colour yellow the smell of must, a sombre drab yellow like a mouldy curtain like false light like fuzz. something and then something a birthday party thrown in with 1 candle and in between all that there was a lot of television.
ballet shoes fat cheeks ernie and bert a pink barbie doona facing the wall being quiet reaching the cupboards a persian cat. panadol crushed up with honey on a spoon, sleeping on the floor with a fever

my father my real father my blood with red hair sitting on the pink leather chair gave me a watch.
he didnt feel like my father i didnt want to hug him cos i didnt know him.
his crumpled red face. shaking hands, old sad eyes.

fraser island . the best days of my life.
road trips. my brothers being funny pretending to make documentaries with microphones singing songs we've hit the beach now and then into the open being hit with the dazzling blue blue blue and yellow and you are so sure that life is going to be wonderful. sand bumps, hitting the roof with your head saying weeeee.
yidney rocks the bypass the look out seat nanna's worming bags hanging up full of fish heads made from fruit bags. the fridge running on blue kerosene, making jelly by the window, copper taps, the taste of the water, lighting a fire to heat it up washing your clothes in the bath scaling fish eating coconuts. the smell of mum cooking pippies in red wine.
bunk beds trixie belden books readers digest
the path down to the ocean full of overgrown vines, damp mud, getting buckets of fresh sea water for the pippies, running so fast because i was afraid of snakes.

its amazing how memories trigger off every sense.