This is an old window, but itβs still new to me. Iβve only cleaned this window twice β once when I moved into the apartment, on Christmas Eve β and again for this piece. The view is of a solid, off-white brick wall, part of the John Swan engraving company that has been there since 1878. Some sky, sometimes pigeons. Dunedin isnβt so much an apartment city, but after I separated from my long-term partner Josh last year, we sold the suburban house we shared and moved into this place in the centre of the city. I like how it wouldβve been flash in the 1990s, and now feels just the right amount of worn-in.
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Together, Josh and I run a bar called Woof!, and this apartment is in the same building. Living so close to work makes it easy to roll down the hall and fall into bed at 2am.
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Iβm still getting to understand this new life, moving forward on my own, and living with Josh as a close friend. Occasionally people are surprised that weβre living together. If weβd broken up with animosity or betrayal, or something ugly, I guess this wouldnβt be possible. But as queer people, there are always paths available to us that arenβt considered from a heteronormative perspective.
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To me, the view from this window is powerful in its unshakability. The John Swan brick wall ainβt going anywhere, and I like that. I need heavy, immovable things in my life at the moment. Joshβs collection of carnivorous plants that frame it are slightly more threatening β beautiful, ball-shaped, ribboned with veins, and they do catch flies. Thereβs always the buzz of death playing as a soundtrack to the wall. But itβs these simple contrasts that IΒ find reassuring β the white brick and the neon tissue, the enormous and the tiny, the stubborn refusal of grief and the urge to grow through it somehow.
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Dudley Benson
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