Our Eaves, Our Eaves, Oh Amphora Of Crap

My parents are collectors. They collect things, art, toys, past hobbies, and a standard ton of shit. I say this with no quality judgement. If you have read Do Androids Dream Of Electric Sheep?, you will understand my statement; in the ruined apartment blocks of an arid Earth, junk piles up like organic waste. Even though we have moved house three times, these things dig in hooks and join us. My mum states that she has thrown a lot away, though it only ever seems to be the stuff I need. In our latest abode, we have eaves rather than a loft, and so taking stuff out is as easy as opening a door in my brother’s room. I took it upon myself to sort it all. I have found some interesting things. 

What things? Well, mainly toys and paper. I used so much paper when I was at school and university, it is untrue. In fact, no - it is so utter verifiable as to be a problem. Every embarrassing, grinding mistake or generalisation I ever made as a child is set in stone. Fortunately, most of it is being recycled. I will keep the art and things that were really mine, and throw away the school work; I assume that my brain has filtered what I need into a daily spray of memory upon waking.

There are some things that can be sold, some things that can be used: an original Meccano set from the 60s; a working miniature steam engine; two Disney kites (these bad girls will be topographing within the week); a stack of Warhammer merchandise that are the broken remnants of so many birthdays. I could have sailed around the world for what I spent on Warhammer.

Some of the inventory stuck out, and I feel like sharing it.

Well this looks fucking amazing. Look at that artwork. I look forward to this. I was utterly brilliant as a child.

An Emmy the Great single that I got from a PR company when I was Music Editor on my university newspaper. I’m keeping this for my girlfriend.

The typeface on the back is equally excellent.

Apparently I wrote interactive fiction as a boy.

Miniature Meg [sic] certainly was my favourite, looking back.

I put this into a project, at school, on miner’s revolts.

This was in the margin of my notes on Charlemagne. I do not know why he is naked. He also looks like an angry stapler.

I don’t even remember Where The Wild Things Are before its recent resurgence.

This was my mother’s. I have a cool mother.

This… idol was given to me by a drunken co-worker. It was Christmas, I recall, but really it would be inappropriate on any holiday. Its organ is… chthulic.