Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
I feel cold thinking about New York especially after seeing Lou’s photos on Instagram yesterday. Streets deep with white snow. Cars become Igloos and bicycles are held captive against lamp posts. I miss America. Mum asked me what I’d do if I won the lottery. I told her I’d buy a ticket to the USA and make my way straight back to Austin, Texas. I’d hire a car and collect Paul and together we’d drive to New Orleans. He always said that I should return and together we could take a road trip. Before I left Austin he gave me a weathered copy of The Witching Hour and said that one day he’d take me to the very house described in the Anne Rice story. I really miss the crazy heat of summer in the South. Plants come to life and seem to swallow the city whole. It is so different to the heat of an Australian summer. The grass isn’t green here anymore. The land is brown and grey and yellow and sunburnt. Everything is crisp and brittle and in need of a good long drink. Not like the overgrown grass and vines that swallow the houses and streets of Austin. The urban landscape is submissive there. The homes and power lines shrink beneath the swollen greenery of their summer months. The dry heat of this summer will soon be over and another winter will settle in. December, January and February always seem frantic and aggressive and the winter always takes its time, holding everyone hostage.
Today the sun is out and the sky is blue and cloudless, but the air is still cool. Melbourne is such a tease. It’s funny that Martin messaged me the other day and now I sit here in the bistro above his old terrace on Rathdowne Street. I miss him. He said he misses me too in his message. He was great company, relaxed and calm and very easygoing for an American. His house was crumbling but comfortable in that Carlton kind of way. I loved the tall ceilings in his room and the large window, always open and looking out to the courtyard. His bed sat in the corner wedged between the thick concrete walls and the smell of incense always lingered. We’d lie on the mattress without clothes, catching our breath whilst chatting, music always humming in the background. Sometimes his housemate would be home, but he was never a bother, quietly shifting from room to room, the floor in the hallway creaking beneath his steps. I never spoke with him much but I recall his dreadlocks and his wiry frame and his German accent. I’d marvel at Martin and his gentle outlook on life. He always wore a smile and spoke inquisitively, never judgemental. He worked in a cafe adjacent to his house and lived simply. An uncluttered existence. The transient life of someone just passing through. I’d ask Martin to tell me about life in Kentucky and he’d hint at tales of growing up in the States. He lives in New York now and I guess he’s dealing with that long icy winter. He says he’s happy but that he often misses Melbourne. I am also happy and I also miss Melbourne, but I always feel a warm welcome when I return.