Day 173 - Old clock

I remember my parents' clock from my childhood. It used to resonate with a cold, steely echo which sounded desolate during the night. When I look at the clock I remember the laminex table and sideboard, the glass coffee table with the bowl of plastic fruit, the macrame decorative wall hanging, and the dried flower arrangement on brass scales. Takes me back.

Day 127 - Cuckoo

Still sorting old junk, this cuckoo clock comes from the Black Forest, Germany (Schwarzwald) and was given to my mother by her best childhood friend in Germany. My mother left Germany at the age of 12, and her friend came to visit her in Australia only 32 years later. My mother's childhood memories of Germany are frozen, sacred memories, and I think that if she ever went back to Germany now, these would either shatter in the face of the real, current Germany, or perhaps, she could find all her memories and bring them to life again.
Notice the antlers have disappeared. At one stage my father thought he was clever by sticking twigs into the head of the deer where the antlers should have been.

Day 111 - Decorated Easter eggs

Over the years I've collected decorative eggs which I display for Easter. Most of them are wooden, but some are real eggs, and others are beaded, cloisonnee and even marble. Usually the memory of where the egg was purchased, or who gave it to me as a present, remains with the egg. It's amazing how many memories are in this bowl.

Day 90 - Beautiful day

My day off. It's been one of those days when you feel invigorated by the sunshine and happy to be alive. After my haircut, which always takes a ridiculous amount of time, considering my scant amount of hair, I decided to buy flowers. These remind me of my primary school years, walking home from school and looking into front yard gardens in the northern suburbs of Melbourne.

Day 42 - Happy mustard

I have no idea why, but recently I bought this particular brand of mustard (Thomy), and every time I look at it I feel happy. Must be some kind of buried happy memory from my earlier years, like Marcel Proust's cake. Don't you wish you could trace those deja vu moments? Sometimes I can. Like when I smell petunias I'm transported back to walking home from primary school and passing the brightly coloured and slightly gaudy flower gardens in front of the orange brick veneers. Or when I smell diesel fuel I remember living in the small and picturesque German township of Blaubeuren, which had a steady stream of trucks driving through it.