In storage, one card­board box filled with pho­to­graphs.
I know one grey envelope con­tains: Peppy, full name Pep­per­mint,
Aged 2 or so, inspecting one minus­cule ball of black kitten fluff,
Two weeks old, soon to be Nemesis, by name if not by nature.

In storage, sev­en­teen wooden crates, marked by year, filled with:
Con­cert pro­grams; tickets; Neil Finn’s blue biro from the last
Split Enz con­cert in Sydney; diaries; a col­lage of my father and mother
From when I was five; a poster for the band Itchy Feet (star­ring one
Tim Freedman), pink and black, pulled from a tele­graph pole
Near the Tivoli; high school essays about Trotsky and the Cheka,
Mao Zedong and the cul­tural revolu­tion, and the floating of the dollar;
a blue folder covered in black pen and a blonde ser­ious moon­light David Bowie
Covered in con­tact; the ini­tial art­work for my first ‘novel’, The Cat Lady,
By Ros­anne Ber­sten, aged 10 or so, the full draft of which
Nigel Wilby, teacher, never returned.

On an aban­doned Live­Journal, 4,799 com­ments on
who knows how many posts, broken links to pic­tures
once stored else­where, last post dated 2006, a poll
On what journals should con­tinue and where
Answered by pseud­onyms that echo eph­em­eral:
qamar, ozgenre, antho­logie, azahru, dai­synerd.
Prob­ably poems, def­in­itely stories and tall tales,
Half-hearted attempts at essays and impas­sioned polemics
Railing against cap­ital, class and cor­rup­tion.

On a server whose domain name has expired:
Dir­ectory after dir­ectory of low-res JPEGs,
Ori­ginals who knows where, and gifs with names like
Redball.gif for fancy lists; a two-part archived Hyper­Card stack —
Inter­active pro­ject about Hyper­Text, written in 1993, couldn’t
Fit it onto one floppy, don’t ask; an essay about sites of res­ist­ance —
Spe­cific­ally, the WEF protest on September 11, 2000, before
S11 became 9/11, com­plete with: a list of all graf­fiti found on site,
Video inter­views with Afghani anarch­ists and the first hints
Of the head­long dive I will later take into Mor­eiras and Zizek;
A hyper­text poem about min­strels and mis­chief, started as
An exer­cise to show Mel­bourne Uni stu­dents how to code
And com­pleted as an ode to three people I’d fallen head over heels for:
A fire dancer, a mask-maker and an astro­phys­i­cist with a Ducati —
What can you do in the face of all that but write poetry?

In various boxes, scattered who knows where: video and audio tape,
Of, in no par­tic­ular order: me, on Good Morning Aus­tralia, aged 17,
My first per­sonal revolu­tion; my voice, arrogant beyond belief, aged 8,
Reviewing a series of books on ABC Radio for the Year of the Child;
Me, wearing far too much make-up, step­ping off a purple Vespa
In Newry St, Fitzroy North, taking off a helmet and shaking my hair out
Like a parody of a shampoo ad (intended for a showreel pitch; tragic);
Me, in an ABC panel show, arguing for cyborgs and wings; me, uni stu­dent,
Occupying the Vice-Chancellor’s office and my proud mother recording the news.

Some­where in all of this is a life. How you stitch it together into this now,
I have no idea. How do you col­lect it, lay it out, curate it into a seam­less self?

In storage, one card­board box. It is del­icate. The neg­at­ives are fading.
Hurry.