In The Bin

In response to

Dustman by Michael Rosen

I said to the dustman, 'You're taking my stuff.'

'Yep,' he said.

I said, 'Everything in this bin matters.'

He said, 'C'mon pal, we're on a tight turnaround here.'

I said, 'You're taking my stuff.'

He called to his mates, 'We've got one here.'

I said, 'That's my past you're taking.'

He said, 'Uh-huh.'

I said, 'I haven't got any other past. I can't go out and

buy someone else's past and pretend it's mine. All

the stuff in here happened to me.'

He said, 'Am I taking it or not?'

I said, 'Why are you asking me? This is all much

bigger than a yes-no thing. It's about identity. And

culture.'

'And bins,' he said.

'We are what we throw away,' I said, 'and you're

a cog in a machine that is cutting us down to

size. The machine doesn't want us to know who

we are. And the way it's doing this is to cut us

off from our pasts. It's not your fault,' I said, 'you

have to earn a living, but you've become a tool

in their hands.'

He said, 'I'll just do next door's. If you change your mind

in the meantime, I'll come back and get yours.'

Very recently I made the firm decision to declutter my bedroom.

It had become the bin into which everything of sentimental or passing value had been dumped.

With the help of a friend, who had no emotional attachment to my belongings, items were objectively examined.

If I declared them redundant, into the bin they went.

As with the poet, Michael Rosen, I viewed each deposit into bin as the loss of a link with my past.

I remembered where, when and why each had been acquired.

Parting with certain objects was like waving goodbye to meaningful friends.

There were moments of tension as my helper, who was anxious to complete her voluntary task, held these links up for inspection and pressed me for a decision, to keep or not to keep.

In the forefront of my mind, I had to hold on to the main reason for this activity. The necessity to open up space for movement within the room.

The tension occasionally provoked painful indecisions which strained our working relationship.

Eventually we finished. The charity, to whom I donated some of my past, was contacted, and collection arranged of what I had heartbreakingly put in the bin.

One A place for discarded unwanted things, unwanted thoughts. Put it in the bin. Forget about it. So much, I've thrown away so much. So many incidents, anecdotes, people I needed to discard, but never wanted to retrieve.

Standing outside in my dressing gown and slippers, dog barking behind the door, arguing with the bin man over a bin full of hurt, madness, arguments, depression. That's never going to happen. A bin full of photographs, empty bottles of wine, stained clothes, train tickets, plane tickets, beer castors... That could happen. Throw away any unsavoury association. Out of sight, out of mind. Cut myself down to the shape I want to be. Cut off betrayal – it's no longer there, it never happened. Cut off bits of the past, not the whole history, just enough to CORRECT myself. To correct this trait and that trait, clip it down, like a well loved lawn in a well loved garden. What kind of person am I now? Am I still as sensitive? Do I still connect? Am I happy? What difference does it make?

A life in the bin. A past forgotten, while the person standing outside with the dressing gown and slippers and the dog barking behind the door is still alive.

...Now that's a thought.

Who owns our feelings once we speak them out loud? Who owns our opinions? If we speak them out loud and affect someone else, are those opinions and feelings still only our own?