I remembered you on trains ...

... so now you're on every train I hear.

It's amazing how places, smells, tastes can bring memories jolting back to your mind in 3D surround sound technicolour. Some fill me with a childlike nostalgia; others fill me with an adolescent dread. Here are some memories from the most recent mental stock-take, more or less in chronological order. They weren't necessarily life-changing; they are just what I have been thinking about this week while reflecting on my 23 years. They do shed some interesting light on some elements of my personality and/or self.

I remember being passed over the threshold of my grandmother's house, in the middle of the night, into Grandma's waiting arms. I was half-asleep and the house was dark. I was two and a half; it was the night my sister was born.

I hated preschool. I never wanted to go and cried every time mum dropped me off. My locker symbol was an orange, cut in half. There was a long slippery-dip that ran down a hill that I liked to play on.

I remember my orientation day at kindergarten. It was 1988 and I was four. Mum and her friend brought me and her daughter, Kellie, together. I cried. I didn't want to be left alone in the classroom, which had vivid green carpet, with all the strangers. The teacher, whose name I still remember, had tightly curled (probably permed) short cropped brown hair. Her skin was wrinkled and she smelt like an old lady. She invited me to join in on the craft project--making Christmas trees--with the other children. I reluctantly agreed. There were green pieces of brenex coloured paper, cut into triangles, strewn across the table. I took the a few green triangles and stuck them to the white cardboard. Then I stuck small red stickers on the points of the tree. I forgot all about my mum.

The elastic in my track-pants snapped one day in kindergarten, sending my pants to the floor without warning. Everyone laughed at me. I was wearing lemon-yellow superman undies. I was taken to the clothing pool for a pair of pants to borrow.

My head-lice shampoo smelt like oranges.

One day, my friends ran in front of a car on the way home. When I got into the house, my friends' mother (who had seen the whole thing) went off at me for not stopping them. I knew it wasn't my fault but was too intimidated to speak. We were all sent outside to play. Some time later, the mother called me back in and apologised for yelling at me, saying that her father had also seen the incident (he was visiting the neighbour at the time) and had returned and told her what had really happened--that the two children were a long way ahead of me and there was nothing I could do. She said "you should stand up for yourself, Daniel, although I admit I didn't give you much of a chance." I said nothing.

I hated my fourth grade teacher. She would always punish the entire class for the sins of one or two kids. She had shoulder length, straight black hair; it looked like a broom-head. I used to muck up a lot in class because I got sick of her disciplinary tactics of keeping the whole class in at lunch because one person spoke. She insisted on total silence in her lessons. My parents were called in for an interview (she sent a note home to them via my sister). When they got home they asked why I was acting up like that. I explained the situation and Mum said to me "Daniel, I understand why you're upset--what she is doing is unfair--but you have to find better ways of dealing with it. You can't just do those things to your teacher, no matter how unfair she is being." I felt relieved that Mum was taking my side.

After an assembly performance item I told the same teacher "that was stupid" to her face. I regret saying that. Although she was a bitch, I felt bad when I saw her face after I said that.

When I was in fourth grade, I thought the year six prefect was cute. The male prefect. There was no shame in it though.

I used to pick on a girl at school who was two years younger than me. One afternoon I was waiting for the bus by the gate after school and her mother came up to me and said "leave my children alone." I had few friends and I tried to make myself feel better by putting her down. I don't remember why I picked on her; she did nothing to me. To my knowledge, my parents never learnt of this incident.

I set the loungeroom carpet on fire, briefly, when I was thirteen. We have a gas heater that must be plugged in for the electronic ignition to spark. I pressed the ignition button but there was no spark so, while holding it down, I reached over and turned on the power point. The heater ignited. Unfortunately, the gas that had been spewing out of the heater this whole time also ignited and set the carpet alight. It wasn't much at all, and I quickly stamped it out, sprayed deodorant around the room to get rid of that burnt acrylic smell and then trimmed the carpet to get rid of the charred top part. I turned on the fan and opened the door. It was the middle of winter and I was freezing. I didn't tell my parents until after I turned eighteen.

They called me a faggot in seventh grade. They were relentless. I didn't understand why. I wasn't gay, you see.

I remember the sickening crunching sound that my Dad's car made when I scraped a brick wall. He was overseas at the time and I needed to use the garage so I decided to back his car out myself. The backing out went without a hitch but the re-entry proved tricky. He was not happy.

Every time I hear the song Old Pictures by Something for Kate, I think of a friend of mine in highschool. I was totally in love with him, although I didn't quite realise it at the time. It's weird looking back on those days; I remember the feelings and the thoughts that swam in my head with the detached knowledge of being gay--something that at the time I didn't acknowledge. The friendship ended badly. Everywhere I went I was reminded of him. The lyrics, particularly "I remember you on trains; so now you're on every train I hear", were the lyrics of my life. I remember the depression and the suicidalness. I remember the tears.

It all changed the first time I held Luke, my godson. He was a week old and I had just turned eighteen. I was depressed because I was sick and confused about my sexuality and could tell no one about it. I was suicidal. I looked down at his sleeping face and felt such a rush of love for him; I knew everything would be OK.

And it was.