snuggabee

There used to be a deli on the corner of your street. Then it was a yoga centre. Now it is a cafe.

You order a macchiato. The barista makes you a latte. It is so pale and milky you wonder if there is any coffee in it. The pattern in the crema is a curled fern leaf. White on cream. A watermark. An echo. 

You attempt to go north of the river, but you find yourself back on South Terrace. You shrug, and keep heading south. 

You head south until you reach South Beach. You take off your shoes and walk on the grass, past sunbathing tourists and Notre Dame students. A white guy with dreadlocks is playing guitar, a white woman with dreadlocks is reading tarot cards. The tourists are getting sunburned. 

You take the marked paths through the sand dunes. The signs say the dunes need to be protected from erosion. You know better. You’ve heard the stories. You’ve heard the rustles in the undergrowth. The tourists are oblivious, but tourists are always going places. No one notices when they’re gone.

You head toward the old power station, which looms, vast and empty at the end of the beach. C Y O’Connor calls you from his horse. “Come in!” He says, “the water’s warm.” You put in your earplugs and keep walking. 

At night, you try to go north again. When the moon is full, you can make it as far as Mojo’s. 

Your friends from the eastern states ask what living in Perth is like. “I don’t live in Perth,” you mutter. It’s not their fault. They don’t understand.

The Not-So-Subtle Racism Behind the Marie Kondo Criticism

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